blessyourhondahurley
We kinda liked it
Fanfics by VeraBAdler, aka beanmom, deancas, bibibideanbaby, and yourspecialeyes.
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Sometimes when he and Cas are walking somewhere with their arms around each other's waists, Dean gets this sudden little thrill of bubbly happiness in his chest and he has to give his husband an extra little squeeze against him because he just feels so golden and fizzy inside. He would rather shoot himself in the nuts than ever say any of that out loud, but Cas knows anyway so it's cool.
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Fic is now complete!
@screamatthescreen as requested you are tagged! ☕
The First Language We Speak by VeraBAdler
A news article about the importance of touch leads Castiel to realize some uncomfortable things about himself and his life. These realizations lead him to Dean, a masseur, who becomes his friend and then more.
Excerpt:
On the bus, bored, restless, and not even halfway to work yet, he picks up a discarded newspaper from the seat beside him. He lets his gaze drift over the headlines until one of the articles catches his eye. It's a story about the vital importance of touch, about cloth mothers and wire mothers, and how babies who aren't touched never develop properly. The article goes on to explain how crucial touch is to adults as well, and the way a lack of physical contact increases levels of cortisol, raises resting heart rate and blood pressure, and decreases the body's immune response. There's a pull quote in the center of the article, in triple-size font, that reads, “We need four hugs a day for survival. We need eight hugs a day for maintenance. We need twelve hugs a day for growth.”
Castiel tries to remember the last time he was hugged, or even intentionally touched by another person beyond a cursory handshake in a business meeting. It's been months. Maybe years. He's thousands of hugs below “survival” level. He wonders absurdly if he's going to drop dead from skin hunger before the bus makes it to his stop.
[Read on AO3]
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The First Language We Speak by VeraBAdler
A news article about the importance of touch leads Castiel to realize some uncomfortable things about himself and his life. These realizations lead him to Dean, a masseur, who becomes his friend and then more.
Chapter 3 is now up! Read it here or start from the beginning!
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The First Language We Speak by VeraBAdler
A news article about the importance of touch leads Castiel to realize some uncomfortable things about himself and his life. These realizations lead him to Dean, a masseur, who becomes his friend and then more.
Chapter 2 is now up! Read it here or start from the beginning!
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The First Language We Speak by VeraBAdler
A news article about the importance of touch leads Castiel to realize some uncomfortable things about himself and his life. These realizations lead him to Dean, a masseur, who becomes his friend and then more.
Excerpt:
On the bus, bored, restless, and not even halfway to work yet, he picks up a discarded newspaper from the seat beside him. He lets his gaze drift over the headlines until one of the articles catches his eye. It's a story about the vital importance of touch, about cloth mothers and wire mothers, and how babies who aren't touched never develop properly. The article goes on to explain how crucial touch is to adults as well, and the way a lack of physical contact increases levels of cortisol, raises resting heart rate and blood pressure, and decreases the body's immune response. There's a pull quote in the center of the article, in triple-size font, that reads, “We need four hugs a day for survival. We need eight hugs a day for maintenance. We need twelve hugs a day for growth.”
Castiel tries to remember the last time he was hugged, or even intentionally touched by another person beyond a cursory handshake in a business meeting. It's been months. Maybe years. He's thousands of hugs below “survival” level. He wonders absurdly if he's going to drop dead from skin hunger before the bus makes it to his stop.
[Read on AO3]
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I realized last night that I have 365 works on AO3! One for every day of the year!! 99.425% destiel, by the way!!
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Suptober day 31 - This Bliss
A fluffy domestic day in the life of a happy, settled, married, post-hunter Dean Winchester and family.
Suptober prompt: Trick or Treat
(Read on AO3)
As the coffeemaker blurts out its last few brewing burbles, Dean snags the pot and pours himself a tall, fragrant cup. They've been experimenting with flavored blends recently, a project that Cas has gotten really into after Charlie sent him a gift basket of assorted coffees and teas for his “birthday” last month. Thanks to four decades of sludgy diner joe, Dean maintains pathologically low expectations for his morning cuppa, but he's finally comfortable enough in his masculinity to admit that the salted caramel spice variety they're drinking this week is fucking stellar, especially with a dash of cream. He adds that dash now, then shrugs and stirs in a little sugar as well. Why not treat himself?
There's a scuffle behind him, and he turns just in time to see Sam and Eileen stalking through the kitchen, arguing silently. He hasn't yet mastered the finer points of sign language, but somehow he catches “screwdriver”, “watermelon”, and “recycling bin” and decides not to inquire further. They disappear together through the door to the garage, still gesticulating furiously at each other.
Dean smiles at their backs and takes a seat at the kitchen table, He has another sip of his coffee and unlocks his phone. The villagers in his Animal Crossing town need his help with a fishing tournament today. He casts his line and waits.
“–en we'll ask Dean!!” is the only warning he gets before his kids burst into the room. Jack's in the lead, looking distressed. Claire is half a step behind, sporting the world-weary smirk she likes to wear like armor.
As soon as they're in front of him, they both start talking at once, and it's impossible to understand anything they're saying. Dean puts out his hands above the table, palms facing down, and lowers them slowly, a sign for calm down. Their voices trail off in perfect sync.
“Okay, let's try that again, only maybe this time actual communication can occur?” Dean points at his son. “Jacky, you go first.” Claire jolts, her mouth falling open like she wants to protest, but Dean turns his pointing finger upwards to indicate wait. “You'll get your turn, hon. I promise.”
“Claire says I'm too old to trick or treat tonight!” Jack says plaintively. “I'm only five!”
“Yeah but you look twenty-f–” his sister butts in.
Dean cuts her off with a barked “hey!” Mollified, she makes a zip-it gesture across her mouth, crosses her arms, and waits.
Jack continues. “Am I gonna get in trouble if I go out tonight? I don't want anyone to be mad at me! You and Dad said I could, though! My costume's all ready!!” He's giving the most puppiest of puppy-dog eyes, and as he finishes speaking his piece, a single perfect tear wells up and runs down his cheek.
Dean reaches for his son's hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Claire-bear?” he prompts.
“I just don't wanna see the kid get his hopes up for nothing,” she says grimly. “He doesn't exactly look like your average first grader. People don't take too kindly to grown-ass men tryin' to scam them out of their Kit-Kats.”
“I get it,” Dean acknowledges, giving her a nod.
At this apparent confirmation of Claire's point, Jack looks like his heart is crumbling to bits in his chest.
“Hang on now, buddy,” Dean continues before the kid can work himself up to a full-blown meltdown. “Your sister's just looking out for you. But she hasn't spent as much time in Lebanon as we have, so she doesn't know that everybody's gonna be expecting you at their houses tonight. I saw Marta at the post office the other day and she said to tell you she's got a jumbo-size 3 Musketeers with your name on it.”
Jack is smiling so wide now it looks like his face is gonna split in half. Dean turns to Claire. “In fact,” he says, eyebrows raised, “I'm absolutely certain no one would mind in the least if Jack brought his big sister out with him this year. Whaddaya say, kiddo? You wanna scam some Kit-Kats with us tonight?”
His daughter likes to think she's a hard-ass, a firmly closed book, but Dean watches the emotions play across her face as she tries and fails to suppress her excitement at the prospect. She's still adjusting to peacetime, to post-hunter life. They all are. He and Cas like to grab every opportunity they can find to let their kids be kids for a change.
Claire is still struggling to find the words that will simultaneously convey both I don't give a shit about anything because I'm a stone cold bitch and yes please please please take me trick or treating tonight but Jack doesn't bother waiting. He grabs his sister's hand and starts tugging her down the hall, free-associating ideas for her costume as they go.
As their voices fade from his hearing, he gets up to freshen his cooling coffee. While he's at the pot, he reaches into the cupboard overhead and pulls out Cas's favorite mug, the sky-blue one with the cartoon bees all over it. He's just tipping a dollop of cream into each cup when his husband shuffles in, looking rumpled and delectable in his bathrobe and ratty slippers.
Dean presses the warm mug into his seeking hand and wraps an arm around his waist.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a soft smile. He nuzzles Cas's extravagant bedhead and breathes in the warm smell of the skin behind his husband's ear.
“Good morning, beloved,” comes the rumbled reply. “What were the kids talking about? They seemed agitated about something.”
“Claire's gonna come out with us tonight. Jacky's helping her figure out her costume.”
Cas takes a deep drink of his coffee and hums happily. “That's nice.”
“Mm-hmm. She's super excited about it, but she'd never admit that. Gotta keep up the tough cookie facade.”
“She reminds me of you at that age,” Cas says with a grin.
Dean snorts a laugh. “Yeah, I was a tightly-wrapped little basket case back then. Closet case, too, I guess. Took me a lotta years to become who I really am.”
Cas finishes off his coffee and sets his mug on the counter, freeing his hands to pull his husband close. “Indeed,” he rumbles as he starts to trail a line of kisses up Dean's neck. “You've matured into an exemplary father, a wonderful husband, and a magnificent man. And on that note...” Cas's morning stubble rubbing against the thin skin of his throat gives him the shivery tingles, like it always does.
“On that note?” Dean prompts, his voice breathy and tremulous.
“The children will be occupied with their costumes for the next hour or two,” Cas observes. His hands move down to gently cup his husband's ass. “I think you should take me back to bed.”
Dean flashes back for a moment on all of those basket-case years when he was too scared, too exhausted, too repressed, too busy expecting to die at any minute to bother dreaming about a happily ever after for his story. He never could have imagined anything this good, anyway. Safe in his home, warm with the knowledge that his family is nearby, he walks hand in hand with the love of his life back to their room.
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Suptober day 15 - Take Good Care of Yourself
A near-miss on a hunt pushes Dean's patience to its limit.
Suptober prompt: Abstract
Flufftober prompt: Emergency, Confession, Adventure
Fictober prompt: "Fine, explain it to me."
Inktober prompt: Dagger
(Read on AO3)
“Because it's not a fucking abstract concept, Castiel!!” Dean was red-faced, shouting, his emotions a welter of anger and frustration and fear. He was holding his friend by the lapels of his trench coat in a white-knuckled grip, rattling him back and forth like a rag doll. “It shouldn't be that hard for you to understand what my problem is here!!!”
Cas allowed Dean's grip to move him, his mouth set into a grim line. He could have been carved from stone for all the reaction he was showing to the hunter's outburst. “Fine, explain it to me,” he growled.
It had started as an adventure but it had turned into an emergency.
The dagger, dipped in squid ink, should have felled the monster with a touch. But Dean had stabbed it three, four, half a dozen times without slowing it down. He'd dropped the useless weapon then and turned to run. He'd assumed Cas was following, that they would fall back together and regroup, make a new plan. But no sooner had he reached a safe hiding place than he'd realized he was alone in it. He'd peeked his head around the corner and felt his heart stop in his chest at the sight of Cas, human Cas, mortal Cas, breakable Cas, grappling hand-to-hand with the monster like he was still a bulletproof angel.
Adrenaline had flooded him then, his heart jackhammering behind his ribs. He'd circled around the struggling pair, grabbed the monster from behind, and twisted its head clear off its shoulders in a burst of terrified strength. No sooner had the monster's twitching body hit the floor than he was stepping over it and grabbing Cas, screaming in his face, trying to shake him into understanding.
“You can't pull that hero shit any more, man! You can die now!!!”
“And if I do?” Cas asked with a shrug. “My life is mine to use as I wish.”
“Wrong, asshole!” Dean roared. “Your life is mine. And mine is yours. Haven't you figured that out yet??”
As love confessions go, it was more Bukowski than Shakespeare. If the sudden perfect feeling of Cas's mouth on his, hungry, desperate, was any indication, Dean had gotten his point across at last.
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Suptober day 14 - I Call This One “The Tarantino”
Dean cares for his sicky-poo hubby.
Suptober prompt: Fever
Flufftober prompt: "I hate it" - "No, you don't"
Fictober prompt: "If you don’t stop now —"
(Read on AO3)
On his way into the room he gives a little tap on the door frame.
“Knock knock, babe, you feelin' any better?” he calls softly.
In the dim glow of their nightlight, Cas is nothing but a mounded shape on the bed. The shape doesn't move, but a muffled, guttural groan issues forth.
“Okay, I'll take that as a no,” Dean chuckles.
“Fuck you,” his husband replies hoarsely.
“Awwww, grumpy pants.”
Peeling the blankets down a bit, he touches the back of his hand to the patient's forehead. “Mmm, nope, that fever's still cookin'. Sit up a little, I'll give you another dose.”
With much grumbling and an impressively multilingual array of swear words, Cas allows himself to be muscled into a sitting position. Dean administers a couple of pills and a tall glass of water, which he refuses to take back until its contents have been drained. “I know it hurts to swallow, bud, but you gotta stay hydrated.”
Cas cracks open a bleary eye and glares at him resentfully. “Why won't you just let me die?” he rasps.
“Well,” Dean explains as he helps his husband reposition himself back down in the bed. “I'm kind of fond of you, for one thing.” He drops a kiss on Cas's messy hair. “For another thing, I hate to break it to you, but this is not a fatal illness. You will feel like shit for another couple days, and you will be denied the sweet release of death about it. Sorry, but very much not sorry for that.”
As another rasping growl erupts from his patient, Dean sighs.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I know. Bein' sick is the worst. You want me to rub your back?”
“No,” comes the mournful reply. “My skin hurts.”
“Okay, well, how about this?”
Moving down to the bottom of their bed, he throws the blankets back to uncover Cas's feet, and runs a tickling finger up one sole.
Cas flails and almost kicks him in the face. “Dammit, Dean, if you don't stop now–”
“Okay, okay, sorry. I couldn't resist. But here, let me just...”
Taking one foot in each of his hands, he digs his thumbs into the meat of his husband's arches and pushes in a rolling circle.
Cas groans again, but it sounds less sepulchral this time.
“Good, huh?” Dean says with a grin.
“...I hate it,” comes the faint reply.
“No, you don't.” He shifts his grip and starts stroking from Cas's heels up towards his toes.
“Mmmm no, I don't. Keep going.”
“As you wish.”
Dean busts out all his best moves, massaging from his husband's ankles all the way up to the tips of his toes. Cas moans and sighs, desperate to soak in some pleasant sensation after feeling full-body lousy for the past few days.
“How are you so good at that,” he asks dazedly after Dean finishes and tucks the blankets back in around his poor patient's tootsies.
“Hey, you think I spent my twenties picking up waitresses all across this great nation of ours and I didn't level my foot rub game up to immaculate? The American service industry runs on aching feet and tired legs. Those moves got me laid more times than I can count.”
Cas hums. “Well, I'm afraid I can't pay you back in the manner to which you are accustomed.” His voice fades as he starts drifting off for another fever nap.
Dean gets up to leave again so his husband can rest, but he pauses on his way out the door. “It's okay, baby,” he says with a soft smile. “I take rain checks.”
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Suptober day 13 - Do I Dare?
Jo pushes Dean to approach an attractive stranger.
Suptober prompt: Flirt
Flufftober prompt: Wrong (…)
Fictober prompt: “Come with me, hurry.”
Inktober prompt: Rise
(Read on AO3)
“Josephine, come on, please do not make me do this.” He turns his best puppy-dog eyes on for her, but his sister from another mister is unmoved.
“A dare's a dare, Deanie weenie,” she replies loftily, sloshing her beer at him. “And you, my chickenshit friend, have been dared. Rise to the challenge! You've been staring at that guy all freakin' night but you don't have the balls to go talk to him on your own, so now I'm taking charge. Make sure you do it exactly like I told you to.”
Grabbing his shoulders, she forces him to turn and face the bar. Then she slaps him on the back hard enough to propel him forward a couple steps without his permission. Dean looks back over his shoulder and gives her a glare hot enough to peel the skin right off her face if she had any sense of shame or self-preservation. Unfortunately, Jo Harvelle's always been in very short supply on those two characteristics, as well as the quality of mercy. He grits his teeth and marches the remaining few feet from their table to the bar where his unsuspecting (and incandescently attractive) target sits.
He takes a deep breath, blows it out, then takes hold of the man's firm bicep and hisses, “Come with me, hurry,” in his ear, precisely as he'd been instructed.
Shocked by the intrusion, the man turns a pair of brilliant blue eyes on him. “I'm sorry, do I know you?” he asks in a gruff voice that makes Dean's knees tremble a little.
Having completed the dare, Dean is now free to attempt damage control. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he says, blushing. “Wrong person. Thought you were my, umm...” His mind goes blank. “...Brother...?” he finishes, voice trailing off halfway through the word. It's a performance that wouldn't convince a goldfish, and the man he's talking to is having none of it.
“Really?” he asks, one eyebrow cocked in challenge.
Dean rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “Uh, no. It was a dare... To get me over here, 'cause I didn't have the guts to come talk to you on my own.”
The man takes a long pull off his beer bottle and looks Dean all the way over, a slow journey of those striking eyes from his dusty boots up to his gel-spiked hair. He must like what he sees because he gives a flirty, quirked grin and leans in. “Well, now that you're here,” he whispers in Dean's ear, “what are you going to do next?”
“Can I start by buying you a drink?” he asks, taking a seat on the next bar stool. At the man's nod, Dean lifts his hand to get the bartender's attention. A chorus of whoops and bangs starts up from Jo's table, and he reaches the other hand around behind his new friend's back and flips her the bird. She's never going to let him live this down, but maybe, if he plays his cards right, this guy's gonna make the aggravation worth his while.
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Suptober day 12 - Unstable
Dean blows something Cas says all out of proportion in the middle of a Red Circle Boutique
Suptober prompt: Swap-Meat
Flufftober prompt: Fire & Ice
Fictober prompt: "I'm not saying I didn't like it"
Inktober prompt: Spicy
(Read on AO3)
After forty-five minutes and three complete rounds of the store, they're finally done with their Target run. Dean double-checks his shopping list for the fourth time and nods in satisfaction.
“Okay, that's the last thing. We should be good to go,” he states firmly, closing out the notes app on his phone with a decisive flick. When he looks up again, an odd movement from his husband's side of the cart draws his eye. “What's up, babe? You're actin' all kinds of twitchy over there.”
Cas gives him a worried look, brows furrowed and hands aflutter. “Dean, are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks plaintively
Dean clutches at his chest as if he's been wounded by the very question. “What, you don't think I can win? You told me my Spicy Fire & Ice Grilled Pork Loin was the second-best thing you ever put in your mouth! Now you're saying it's no good?”
“I’m not saying that at all, love. It was delicious. I just–”
“Then why don't you think I should enter the Swap-Meat? You're supposed to be my cheerleader here, babe!”
Cas tries again with a weak “I'm not trying t– ” but Dean cuts him off again, volume rising and arms waving as he warms to his subject. “We promised to love and support each other, man! Why can't you have my back on this? I'm puttin' myself out here, tryin' something scary and new, and you're second-guessing me? In the middle of Target? That's not–”
A large hand clamps down on his shoulder, and a voice thunders, “DEAN.”
“...Yeah, Cas?” Dean asks sheepishly.
“I have every confidence in your abilities as a chef, but I am deeply concerned about the safety of this cart. Can we please ask an employee for assistance in getting this up to the register before we injure someone?”
Sorry, sorry, this one was so dumb but I had to do it! I took that picture at my local Target back in June because as soon as I saw it I knew it was about domestiel.
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Suptober day 11 - Working the Door
Dean goes to his very first frat party, but he doesn't get very far…
Suptober prompt: Epic
Flufftober prompt: Sweet Tooth
(Read on AO3)
“Deannnn!”
“C'mon, man!! You look fine.”
“Quitcher primpin' and let's go, already!!!”
Tired of waiting for him to come down, his friends have started hollering up the stairwell across from his dorm room's door. They know this is a surefire way to piss off Michael, his RA, and Dean is deeply not interested in having any more disciplinary meetings with that dick. He runs his hand through his hair one more time, grabs his wallet and keys, and books it out of his room.
“Okay, jackasses, I'm coming, jeez,” he yells down. Aaron, Victor, and Benny are at the ground floor exit, two flights down, howling up at him like starving animals. “Shut the fuck up, guys, or you're gonna get Mikey on me again!”
“Well, get a move on, then! This party's gonna be epic, if we ever fuckin' get th– oof!!”
Dean scurries down to the last flight of stairs, then sits on the banister and rides it straight into Victor, almost knocking him off his feet.
“Oh, sorrrrry,” Dean sings in the least sincere voice imaginable. He ignores Vic's irritated glare in favor of basking in Aaron and Benny's braying laughter. “Anyway, I'm here now, so why are we still standin' around? Let's do this!!”
They've been angling for an invitation to one of Omega Eta Alpha's parties ever since they got to KU six months ago. The frat's legendary on campus, not only for their massive weekly ragers but also for their gorgeous mansion of a house and the illustrious history of their alums. To get into one of their events as a freshman requires connections, persistence, and dumb luck, and the four of them finally hit the jackpot a few days ago when Aaron realized he knew a guy who owed him a favor he was willing to pay up in ink. Now their names are on the guest list, and they are on track for the most raucous and amazing night of their lives.
After all the bitching his buddies did about having to wait for him, Dean's pretty irritated to discover that the party is just ramping up when they walk in.
“Things don't really get going until closer to ten,” the man checking ID's right inside the door informs them after verifying they're all under 21 and giving them neon-green wristbands which make that fact impossible to hide. “You can go on inside, though. Pizza got delivered a few minutes ago, there's about fifty pies, so enjoy! Watch out for the non-alcoholic punch. Brother Gabe's got a massive sweet tooth, and he put so much rainbow sherbet in that bowl you're gonna die of diabetes if you have more than two glasses.”
His buddies whoop and shove their way into the house, but Dean stays behind. The man with the wristbands tilts his head, a look of confusion on his handsome face. “Aren't you here for the party?”
Dean gives the guy his best panty- (and brief-) dropping grin. “Y'know, I'm actually in no rush,” he replies. He holds out his hand. “I'm Dean, by the way.”
“Hello, Dean,” the man replies, giving him a firm, lingering handshake. “I'm Castiel. You can call me Cas.”
“Hey, Cas.”
A group of giggling, chattering girls walks in, and Cas turns to greet them and check their ID's. Dean leans against the wall beside him and watches him work, ogling his fill. Cas is around his height, but probably has a good fifteen pounds on him – his shoulders are deliciously broad, and the muscles in his arms and thighs bunch and bulge as he passes driver's licenses back and forth and waves the girls through one at a time. His hair is dark and artfully mussed, his lips are full, and the gravel of his voice gives Dean goosebumps.
There's another lull then, just the two of them standing in the entryway.
“So, what's your major?” Dean asks.
Over the next couple of hours they carry on a fitful conversation. Whenever Cas isn't busy checking arrivals against the guest list and verifying who can drink and who can't, they chat about their classes, their families, their interests, their goals. The thumping noise of the party filters through the wall, but neither man seems to care as the attraction between them sizzles.
Midnight comes and goes, and everyone who's going to be here tonight has already arrived. Cas could rightfully abandon his post and go hit the keg, but instead he offers Dean a hand and tugs him outside. They walk, still hand in hand, to the 24-hour diner down on Main Street for burgers and shakes, and they stay there talking until the sunrise.
“Are you sorry you missed your very first frat party?” Cas asks him after kissing him stupid by his dorm room door.
“Not in the slightest,” Dean replies, leaning in for more.
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Suptober day 10 - Hands on Me
The concluding second part of The Liminal Moment, in which Dean gets his massage, and maybe changes his life?
Suptober prompt: Close Shave
(Read on AO3)
“Welcome to The Liminal Moment. My name is Castiel. I'll be your masseur today.”
Dean's head, muzzy from days of pain and bad sleep, spins in place. Bobby sent me over here for a massage? Like, a massage-massage, or like a “massage”? Nah, he wouldn't have sent me here if this was a happy-endings kind of place, would he? I mean, I would be one hundred percent okay with getting a happy ending from this guy, look at him, damn. Those eyes, those lips, that hair... That stubble! I usually like a fella with a close shave but wow I kinda wanna rub all up on him! Oh shit, what if I get a boner while he's working on me? Would he freak out? Yell? Call the cops? Fuck. This is crazy, I should go. I don't belong here. But... God, a real, actual massage sounds amazing. If he could fix my back, or even just make it hurt a little less... It's not getting any better on its own, that's for sure...
He's so up in his own thoughts that it takes him a moment to realize that they've walked into a different room, and Castiel is speaking to him.
“... right here and I'll be back in a few minutes,” he's saying. Oops.
“Um, sorry, I was kind of freaking out internally and I didn't hear anything you said. Run that by me again?”
The man gives him a kind smile. “Let me guess, this is your very first massage?”
“Yeah, and ten minutes ago I didn't know I was gonna be doing this, so... I'm pretty lost here.”
“Got it. Don't worry, I'll talk you through the whole process. Feel free to ask any questions you have, at any point. I want you to feel totally comfortable.”
His voice and his manner are so soothing, so patient, that Dean lets his guard down. “What if I–” Then he stops himself, too embarrassed to continue.
Castiel cocks his head and gives him a considering look, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
Shit, that's hot, Dean thinks, which only makes the question he'd been about to ask more urgent. Oh, fuck it. “What if I get, um, excited on the table? I'm not tryna be a perv here but you're a really good-lookin' guy, and I'm not used to bein' touched if it's not for, y'know...” He shrugs and trails off, mortified.
“Sex?” Castiel finishes, and Dean's palms start to sweat. He nods dumbly.
“I can assure you, you're not the first person to be concerned about arousal during a massage. Our bodies can react in so many unpredictable, uncontrollable ways, and you're right that most of us only ever experience focused touch during intimacy. You may have an erection at some point during the next hour, you may not. If it does happen, I promise that I will not be shocked or offended. You also might fart, or burp, or cry. I've been a masseur for many years, and I'm not afraid of anything a body can do. You don't need to feel shame or worry here. This is a place to relax and let yourself be cared for. Do you have any other questions before I give you my little spiel again and we get started?”
Dean shakes his head. He's already starting to tear up a little bit from the aura of calm, peace, and acceptance that radiates off of this lovely man. He makes a mental note to thank Bobby profusely for sending him here.
Castiel continues, “Alright, so, this is the room where I'll be giving you your massage. In a moment I'll step outside, and you can disrobe to your level of comfort. You can strip down all the way if you like, or if you prefer you can leave your underwear on. Since I need to work on your back I do ask that you take off your shirt and pants. If your feet tend to get cold, you can keep your socks. Once you've undressed, please lay tummy-down on the table with your face centered here in this padded hole, and cover yourself with the sheet. You can leave your clothes on the chair over here and I'll be back in a few minutes. Sound good?”
Dean nods, already toeing out of his boots. Castiel turns to a small table in the corner. He lights a cluster of honey-colored candles there and clicks a small remote. Soft music begins to play from unobtrusive speakers set around the room. On his way out the door, he dims the lights.
Pain slows him a bit, but soon he's down to his socks and briefs, and climbing gingerly onto the table. Once he's laying face-down, there's no way he's going to be able to twist himself around to grab the sheet, so he holds the thing around his shoulders like Superman's cape as he goes.
Then he's prone on the table, and just this, just being able to lay completely flat like this without suffocating himself in a pillow, makes the tightness in his back start to ease. He lets his arms hang down off the sides of the table and something in his spine shifts a little. He sighs and updates his mental note to include buying Bobby a six pack.
There's a soft knock at the door, and Castiel comes back in.
“Ready?” he asks, and Dean gives an affirmative grunt. “Oh, before I begin, do you have any preference on fragrance? I like to use a scented oil, but I can do unscented if you are sensitive?”
Dean makes a little “whatever” gesture with his dangling hands. He hears the sound of a cap being snapped open, then skin rubbing on skin as Castiel oils and warms his palms.
Then the massage begins. It's a revelation.
Castiel starts with broad strokes down his back. He's just spreading on the oil, not even digging in to the muscle yet, but it's like every nerve in Dean's body fires at once, and he realizes how skin-hungry he's let himself become. He wasn't lying when he said he's not used to being touched outside of the bedroom. And maybe, as he's gotten older and the hookup scene has lost its enticing glow, he hasn't really “entertained” any callers in a while, bedroom-wise. Endorphins flood into his system and he feels like his body starts floating off the table.
As the hour goes on, Castiel works the muscles in his back and shoulders in a firm, steady pattern. Time passes in a patchouli-scented blur. Maybe he gets hard, maybe he doesn't. It's not anything worth noticing, for either of them. He definitely makes some weird noises. Grunts when Castiel hits a particularly sore spot, moans when he works it loose, little huffs and snuffles when he applies extra pressure and pushes the air right out of him. Dean doesn't have it in him to be embarrassed, and Castiel doesn't draw attention to any of it.
The pain drains away, and Dean melts down onto the table like butter. Screw thea six pack, he's buying Bobby a goddamn pony.
He's close to dozing off when he notices that Castiel has gone from deep massage back to long, light strokes of his skin. At last, he rests his broad palms on the middle of Dean's lower back, right where the pain used to be the worst, and just holds them there for a minute.
“We're done,” he says softly. “How do you feel?”
Dean gives a long, low moan, too blissed to make words.
“That's what I like to hear,” Castiel says, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice. He feels the sheet being tugged up over him again, all the way up to his ears. “I'm going to go out now, but you can feel free to lay there until you're ready to get up. If you want to rest, or even take a little nap, go ahead. When you're up and dressed, come out to the reception area again.”
There's the sound of the door opening and closing, and then there's just soft music and the smell of patchouli, and Dean lets himself float for a while.
Eventually, he rolls carefully to his side, and he's amazed to feel no pain in the movement. He sits up, and his back gives no complaints. There's a bit of residual tightness when he bends to pick up his boots, but compared to the agony he was in before he's basically been the recipient of a genuine miracle.
When he exits the room, Castiel is sitting behind the reception desk with his phone in his hand. He types something, then smiles up at Dean and reads from the screen. “Bobby says, and I quote, 'don't bother showing your Ken doll face around the shop the rest of today, idjit. Go home and take it easy.' I would only add that you should have a snack when you get home, drink extra water tonight, and stretch a little before you go to bed.”
Dean nods and reaches for his back pocket. “Will do. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. This one's on your boss. He's been a regular customer of mine since I opened, so I gave him a deal. I do hope I'll get to see you again sometime, though?”
The look Castiel gives him then holds hunger, a spark. It's clear he's not only asking if Dean wants to make a followup appointment. Maybe Dean wasn't the only one thinking about erections today. He grins and leans on the desk. “Cas, I would love that.”
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Suptober day 9 - Reminiscences and Repairs
Back in the present, we tie up our little story as the sun sets over the mailbox...
Suptober prompt: Starlight
(Read on AO3)
Dean held the yellowed piece of paper carefully, like the treasure it was. With a fond smile, he traced his finger over the indents where he'd circled YES about a dozen times before handing it back to Cas the following Monday.
“I still can't believe you made a move on me, you rebel,” he teased. “You sinner.”
Cas snorted and rolled his eyes. “Well, it was obvious you were never going to.”
“Didn't think I had a chance,” Dean said with a shake of his head. “You were way out of my league, sunshine. Still are.”
“I like to think we're in a league of our own at this point.”
“Just you, me, and Licorice?”
At the sound of her name, the little cat popped her head up and blinked over at them sleepily. Cas reached across his husband and gave her a skritch behind her ear, then pulled her over Dean's lap and into his own for more pets. She rewarded his efforts with a raucous, throaty purr like a tiny jet engine. The rumble faded out gradually as she dozed off again.
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, rocking the porch swing back and forth to the rhythm of their heartbeats, just enjoying the sunset and each other's company.
“Oh, did you find the leak?” Cas asked as the dusk crept in and the first pinpoints of starlight began to appear.
“I did, and it's all patched up. I took a nice long shower afterwards, and every single drop of water behaved itself.”
“That's the last of the structural issues, right?” Cas said softly, snuggling up against him.
Dean pulled him closer still and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Yup, now we get to start on to the fun stuff – new cabinets, new tile, new paint on the walls...”
“Not tonight, though.”
“Nahhh, tonight's for this. Just this.”
He started to hum, the beat of the song matched to the motion of the swing. Cas recognized it immediately as the song they'd shared their first dance to, at the spring formal all those years ago.
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Suptober day 8 - Memories Are Made of This
As the screen goes all wiggly after How Could I Forget? we cut to a high school flashback. Will our star-crossed lovers beat the odds?
Suptober prompt: Satanic Panic
Flufftober prompt: Rainy Day
(Read on AO3)
“Dean. Hey. Dude, are you drooling?”
Charlie's voice cuts through his gauzy daydream like a hot scalpel. He shakes himself alert, blinking rapidly as his eyes and his mind struggle to refocus on his dreary surroundings. Third period biochem. Rainy day. Middle of nowhere, Kansas. Ugh.
His bestie continues to lay into him in a hissed whisper. “You need to wake up! You haven't been paying attention to anything Mr. Singer has written on the board, and he already told us it's all gonna be on the test next week!! Where's your head today?” She narrows her eyes and gives him the look that always makes him feel like she's corkscrewing right into his brain. “You're not still thinking about that Novak kid, are you?”
He tries. He really does. He doesn't flinch, doesn't fidget, doesn't drop his eyes. “Nah,” he drawls, putting what he hopes is the exact right amount of casual disinterest into that single lying syllable.
She doesn't buy his act for a second. “Bull. Shit,” she replies, smacking him on the shoulder. “You are. Dean! I told you, that one is not for you! Between your Led Zep shirts and our weekend D&D games, his parents would call an exorcist if they found out he was even talking to you!”
“Oh come on, Red,” he protests weakly. “The Satanic Panic died out in the 80's.”
Charlie gives him a dark look. “Not in the Novak household, it didn't. I'm serious, Dean. Those blue eyes may be super dreamy, but he is more trouble than he's worth. Trust and believe. Now settle down, focus, and catch up!” She points furiously up at the whiteboard, which Mr. Singer is continuing to fill with blocky, crabbed lettering, and then down at his blank notebook.
Dean sighs and picks up his pen.
~~~~~~~~
Everybody at the school knows about the Novaks, Lawrence High's very own pack of homegrown Cullens. They're an unwieldy gaggle of siblings, almost too many to count. Well-dressed, God-fearing, condescending little pricks, the lot of 'em. They keep themselves to themselves, and everyone else appreciates the favor. Nobody in their right mind would ever try to date one of them.
Except.
Except...
Except Castiel Novak, the baby of the family, with his eyes as blue as the sky and his messy black hair and his voice like a rake being dragged across concrete? He smiles at Dean, laughs at his jokes. They sit side-by-side in fifth period study hall now, and Dean's grades have dropped almost half a point since the new seating charts were drawn up, because he doesn't get a damn bit of studying done in that hour.
He's completely fucking smitten, is the thing. It's disgusting. But Charlie's right: he doesn't have a chance with someone like Castiel. The Novaks are bible study, violin lessons, honor roll. Dean's cheeseburgers, greasy carburetors, ripped jeans. So what if they have a blast hanging out every afternoon when they're supposed to be doing their homework? So what if Dean shakes sometimes with how much he wants to take Cas's hand, kiss his lips, touch his skin? It'll never happen, and that's a fact.
And then one Friday in March, just as they're all gathering up their books and backpacks to head to sixth period, Cas hands him a folded-up piece of notebook paper and runs out of the room. When Dean opens it up, he sees the question that will determine the course of the rest of his life:
DO YOU WANT TO GO TO SPRING FORMAL WITH ME
YES NO
This fic concludes here...
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