trinityofone (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trinityofone) wrote2010-01-02 12:15 pm
trinityofone) wrote2010-01-02 12:15 pm
Fic: Fair Is Fowl (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Fair Is Fowl
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General S5, specific through 5x04
Length: 1,000 words
Summary: Dean and Cas resolve to stop being chicken.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
picfor1000. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siriaeve for encouragement. Also, I promise I got all the bad puns out of my system with the title and summary.
Fair Is Fowl
Dean’s only taken a few steps before he realizes that Castiel is no longer with him. He turns, and there’s the familiar trench-coated figure, standing frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. “Cas?” Dean says, striding back. There’s something odd about the angel’s expression: a little wide-eyed, a little slack-jawed. “You okay?”
When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean follows his gaze to the shop window. If they’d arrived at the bookstore where Sam’s waiting, Dean could understand Cas becoming entranced, but this is a BBQ chicken joint whose mascot looks a little too enthusiastic about the prospect of being eaten. The window’s filled with rows of metal spits and a selection of much deader chickens, their flesh roasted to golden-brown perfection, turns slowly upon them. “Kind of hypnotic, isn’t it?” Dean says, before realizing that Castiel still hasn’t answered him. After a moment’s hesitation, he touches the angel on the shoulder. “Cas!”
“Dean,” Cas murmurs. And he does sound hypnotized; he sounds drugged.
“You okay, man?” As is often the case, Dean can’t tell whether he should be frightened or amused.
“Chickens, Dean,” Cas says.
Dean knows Castiel can go from seeming ancient to childlike in the space of a breath, but he never thought he’d regress to pointing at and naming random objects. It was cute when Sammy used to press against the Impala’s window and declare, “Train! Train!” but this is just...creepy.
Dean’s considering the possibility that this is a cursed BBQ chicken establishment when Castiel draws his shoulders up sharply, his gaze focusing. He raises the back of his hand to his mouth and unselfconsciously wipes away the dot of drool that’s accumulated there.
“Dean,” Cas says, his voice serious and purposeful again. “I think I’m hungry.”
“Oh.” Dean’s own shoulders relax. “That’s cool. Sam and I were gonna grab lunch once he’s done. We can even come here if you want.”
But Cas doesn’t mirror Dean’s smile—as lately he’s begun, tentatively, to do. Instead Castiel turns and regards Dean, silent and solemn. Dean blinks and then all at once he gets it, sharp as a blow to the stomach.
“Oh,” Dean repeats, in an entirely different tone. “Are you... Do you feel okay?”
“I feel empty,” Castiel states without inflection.
I can fix that, Dean wants to say. But he can’t, not really. And anyway: it’s his fault.
“Let me,” Dean tries, then changes tacks again. “Can I buy you something to eat?”
He watches Castiel swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in the slender column of his throat. Dean used to have to remind himself that the man in front of him—with his rumpled hair and wide blue eyes—wasn’t really Cas. Now he has to force himself to remember the opposite: what he sees is increasingly what he’s got.
And what he has seems increasingly precarious. He doesn’t want to end up with that hollow-eyed ghost he met in 2014. He can’t let that happen. He won’t.
He leads Cas inside, buys him a BBQ chicken basket, fries, and—his parental impulses making themselves known—a carton of milk. Cas folds himself awkwardly into the booth, and Dean watches his eyes flicker closed, lashes dark strokes against his flushed cheeks. “Good?”
Castiel mumbles something inarticulate and licks BBQ sauce off his fingertips. Dean feels himself start to flush as well. Is this a happy moment or a sad one? Castiel appears to be enjoying himself, and yet—
“Do you want some of my fries?” Cas asks, setting down his milk carton. The liquid’s left a perfect white mustache across his upper lip, and Cas is of course oblivious, watching Dean earnestly, trustingly, and it’s all him, here, in the booth across from Dean. Elevated or reduced to this.
“Cas,” Dean says, and then he...moves, he guesses—lunges forward—because the next thing he knows he’s gripping Castiel’s coat by the collar and kissing the milk right off his lips.
“Right, so I’m not quite sure why I did that,” Dean says a moment later, his ass thumping back against the booth. Cas’ taste has engulfed his mouth, spicy and sweet and electric. Dean fights the urge to touch his lips, make sure they’re still there.
Castiel regards him. His mouth looks wet and messy, and his eyes seem neither ancient nor childlike. There is a knowing to his expression, an entirely earthly knowing.
“You were hungry,” he suggests. “You had a craving you needed to sate.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Once again, Dean doesn’t know whether he should be scared or amused, excited, hopeful. Until he figures it out, he’s gonna try to play it cool.
“Sometimes it’s best to acknowledge these things,” Cas says, his head taking on a contemplative tilt. “I tried for a long time to ignore what I was feeling, but eventually I had to...”
Dean swallows. “Give in?”
“Embrace it.”
Cas sounds sure of himself, his confidence apparent in the new way he’s lately begun to hold his body—the body he carries and nurtures as his own. Dean would like to believe it’s that easy: a simple matter of resolve. But he’s seen things Castiel hasn’t. He’s felt things of which Cas has of yet no knowledge and he knows that hunger is the least of it.
“This is a lot of stuff for you,” he says. “A lot all at once.”
But Cas just shakes his head. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m ready.”
Dean’s heart thumps. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation here.”
“They have chicken,” Castiel points out, making it clear that refraining from adding duh is a work of angelic restraint.
Dean feels himself wanting to smile, so he does. Smiling, he repeats, “You’re ready?”
“Yes,” says Castiel, seriously. “Just as soon as I finish my milk.”
He’s still new enough at this that he can’t seem to drink it without smearing it all across his mouth. It’s a good thing Dean’s there to help him clean it up.
My photographic inspiration.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: General S5, specific through 5x04
Length: 1,000 words
Summary: Dean and Cas resolve to stop being chicken.
Notes: Written for
picfor1000. Thanks to siriaeve for encouragement. Also, I promise I got all the bad puns out of my system with the title and summary.Fair Is Fowl
Dean’s only taken a few steps before he realizes that Castiel is no longer with him. He turns, and there’s the familiar trench-coated figure, standing frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. “Cas?” Dean says, striding back. There’s something odd about the angel’s expression: a little wide-eyed, a little slack-jawed. “You okay?”
When Castiel doesn’t respond, Dean follows his gaze to the shop window. If they’d arrived at the bookstore where Sam’s waiting, Dean could understand Cas becoming entranced, but this is a BBQ chicken joint whose mascot looks a little too enthusiastic about the prospect of being eaten. The window’s filled with rows of metal spits and a selection of much deader chickens, their flesh roasted to golden-brown perfection, turns slowly upon them. “Kind of hypnotic, isn’t it?” Dean says, before realizing that Castiel still hasn’t answered him. After a moment’s hesitation, he touches the angel on the shoulder. “Cas!”
“Dean,” Cas murmurs. And he does sound hypnotized; he sounds drugged.
“You okay, man?” As is often the case, Dean can’t tell whether he should be frightened or amused.
“Chickens, Dean,” Cas says.
Dean knows Castiel can go from seeming ancient to childlike in the space of a breath, but he never thought he’d regress to pointing at and naming random objects. It was cute when Sammy used to press against the Impala’s window and declare, “Train! Train!” but this is just...creepy.
Dean’s considering the possibility that this is a cursed BBQ chicken establishment when Castiel draws his shoulders up sharply, his gaze focusing. He raises the back of his hand to his mouth and unselfconsciously wipes away the dot of drool that’s accumulated there.
“Dean,” Cas says, his voice serious and purposeful again. “I think I’m hungry.”
“Oh.” Dean’s own shoulders relax. “That’s cool. Sam and I were gonna grab lunch once he’s done. We can even come here if you want.”
But Cas doesn’t mirror Dean’s smile—as lately he’s begun, tentatively, to do. Instead Castiel turns and regards Dean, silent and solemn. Dean blinks and then all at once he gets it, sharp as a blow to the stomach.
“Oh,” Dean repeats, in an entirely different tone. “Are you... Do you feel okay?”
“I feel empty,” Castiel states without inflection.
I can fix that, Dean wants to say. But he can’t, not really. And anyway: it’s his fault.
“Let me,” Dean tries, then changes tacks again. “Can I buy you something to eat?”
He watches Castiel swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in the slender column of his throat. Dean used to have to remind himself that the man in front of him—with his rumpled hair and wide blue eyes—wasn’t really Cas. Now he has to force himself to remember the opposite: what he sees is increasingly what he’s got.
And what he has seems increasingly precarious. He doesn’t want to end up with that hollow-eyed ghost he met in 2014. He can’t let that happen. He won’t.
He leads Cas inside, buys him a BBQ chicken basket, fries, and—his parental impulses making themselves known—a carton of milk. Cas folds himself awkwardly into the booth, and Dean watches his eyes flicker closed, lashes dark strokes against his flushed cheeks. “Good?”
Castiel mumbles something inarticulate and licks BBQ sauce off his fingertips. Dean feels himself start to flush as well. Is this a happy moment or a sad one? Castiel appears to be enjoying himself, and yet—
“Do you want some of my fries?” Cas asks, setting down his milk carton. The liquid’s left a perfect white mustache across his upper lip, and Cas is of course oblivious, watching Dean earnestly, trustingly, and it’s all him, here, in the booth across from Dean. Elevated or reduced to this.
“Cas,” Dean says, and then he...moves, he guesses—lunges forward—because the next thing he knows he’s gripping Castiel’s coat by the collar and kissing the milk right off his lips.
“Right, so I’m not quite sure why I did that,” Dean says a moment later, his ass thumping back against the booth. Cas’ taste has engulfed his mouth, spicy and sweet and electric. Dean fights the urge to touch his lips, make sure they’re still there.
Castiel regards him. His mouth looks wet and messy, and his eyes seem neither ancient nor childlike. There is a knowing to his expression, an entirely earthly knowing.
“You were hungry,” he suggests. “You had a craving you needed to sate.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Once again, Dean doesn’t know whether he should be scared or amused, excited, hopeful. Until he figures it out, he’s gonna try to play it cool.
“Sometimes it’s best to acknowledge these things,” Cas says, his head taking on a contemplative tilt. “I tried for a long time to ignore what I was feeling, but eventually I had to...”
Dean swallows. “Give in?”
“Embrace it.”
Cas sounds sure of himself, his confidence apparent in the new way he’s lately begun to hold his body—the body he carries and nurtures as his own. Dean would like to believe it’s that easy: a simple matter of resolve. But he’s seen things Castiel hasn’t. He’s felt things of which Cas has of yet no knowledge and he knows that hunger is the least of it.
“This is a lot of stuff for you,” he says. “A lot all at once.”
But Cas just shakes his head. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m ready.”
Dean’s heart thumps. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation here.”
“They have chicken,” Castiel points out, making it clear that refraining from adding duh is a work of angelic restraint.
Dean feels himself wanting to smile, so he does. Smiling, he repeats, “You’re ready?”
“Yes,” says Castiel, seriously. “Just as soon as I finish my milk.”
He’s still new enough at this that he can’t seem to drink it without smearing it all across his mouth. It’s a good thing Dean’s there to help him clean it up.
My photographic inspiration.