“Look Dean, I truly appreciate this,” says Sam on the phone, his voice accompanied by hopeless high-pitched howling and clawing at the door in the background. “I will just be gone for a few hours, but this puppy really doesn't like to be left alone.”
“You don't say,” says Dean. “Based on what I'm hearing, I never would've guessed.”
On the other end of the line, the door opens and the howling gets louder. “Hey, hey,” soothes Sam as the wailing changes into barking and panting. “I was just in another room, bad idea, I know, I know. Dean, hurry up.”
“OK, jeesh,” Dean grumbles, already putting on his jacket. “I'll be there in two shakes.” He hangs up and yells in the direction of the ceiling: “Cas! Sam needs us to babysit his little furry air raid siren! You wanna come?”
“That does not really sound like a job for two people,” says a rough, grave voice behind his back, making Dean jump. He turns around. Castiel is wearing his trenchcoat and a serious expression. His tie is askew. Dean kinda itches to fix it; then he remembers that he actually can do that now and he steps closer to Cas and straightens it up. Then he rubs his thumb and the backs of his fingers along the line of Castiel's jaw. It is little scratchy.
“Well, duh. But: I thought it could be worth our time it if we fooled around a bit on Sam's sofa, yaknow?” Dean murmurs and then he thinks, in for a penny, and leans in to press his mouth gently, tentatively against Castiel's. It still amazes him that he is allowed to do this.
Odd, how simple can things get when you actually talk them out for a change.
They have survived yet another apocalypse, saved the day and the damsel in distress and decided to take some time off. They also, on account of almost dying (again), had a little heart to heart about...stuff. Stuff they want, for example. Stuff which they thought they could never have. Luckily, it turns out when you´re almost dead (again), it kinda changes your perspective.
As a consequence, Dean has an angelic boyfriend and Sam has a human girlfriend. The girlfriend happens to have a dog and the dog happens to have a whole set of mental problems, including the fact that it apparently cannot stay alone in a room for five seconds without going completely batshit.
And for now, just for a short time, instead of chasing monsters, Dean can kiss Castiel and babysit small animals and have a little time off like a normal person.
Cas's lips are soft and sweet and he makes a gentle ah of surprise, but quickly recovers and enthusiastically melts into the kiss. Dean gets a little lost in the moment after a while and when he comes back to reality, they are seriously making out, Cas's hands pressed firmly on his back and swell of his ass and Dean's hands buried in handfuls of wild dark hair.
“I think,” rumbles Cas and kisses corner of Dean's mouth, then his cheek and his mouth again, “that it is an excellent plan.” And before Dean can blink, they are standing in Sam's living room, in front of an audience of one dog and one man.
Sam gives a surprised yelp like the girl he is and then - after he sees where their hands are - blushes furiously.
“Hi guys,” he says, looking at the ceiling, “nice of you to pop in. Hello, Cas.”
“Hello, Sam,” says Castiel and his gaze shifts to the dog. “Hello, dog.”
“Woof!” says the dog. It is a tiny little thing, a miniature Siberian husky puppy. Its fur is sticking out every which way and its paws are too big for the rest of it. Its name is *FANG!*. It is written on its collar in optimistic blocky font with an exclamation mark, flanked by little brass stars. When Castiel leans down to inspect it, *FANG!* licks his hand.
“I will be back in like, five hours,” says Sam, inching towards the door. “Thanks, guys.” *FANG!* immediately straightens up and inhales deeply, preparing to start raising the roof again. Sam freezes mid-step.
Dean clicks his fingers. “Here boy,” he says. “Your mother Samantha is popping off, but we ain't going nowhere. You get two instead of one, and with way cooler haircuts! That's a plus, right?”
*FANG!* looks back and forth between them for a while, uncertain. Eventually...he...relaxes. Inches...back...towards the odd-but-nice-smelling-strong-and-present-humans-in-charge and starts dancing around Dean, wagging his tail furiously.
“Treacherous unfaithful breed,” says Sam, relieved, and scrams.
As it turns out, snogging is considerably more difficult when a small animal keeps staring at you from a few inches distance, apparently utterly fascinated.
Dean is very persistent man who is committed to his goal, but too much is too much even for him.
“Ugh,” he says eventually, distracted yet again by the concentrated soulful puppy-stare, “you know, for some reason, I have a feeling this would be much easier if it were a cat.”
They are on the sofa, entangled but still fully decent. (Dean sighs a bit internally.) The puppy sits right next to them, his eyes riveted to their movements.
“The small creature fears abandonment,” rasps Cas, laid back below Dean like a feast. He is in his shirtsleeves, tie laying abandoned on the carpet. His lips are bitten red, debauched and completely delicious. It's just not fair, really. His hand is still rubbing circles on Dean's back, warm fingers slipped beneath the softness of his t-shirt. “I understand that he came from the shelter, is that correct?”
“Yep,” says Dean. He flops down on Cas's chest in defeat, watching the dog. It wags its tail harder. “Couldn't find better guys than Sam and Stacy, that's for damn sure.”
“Very true,” says Castiel gravely, tightening his arms around Dean, “They will give him all the love and care his soul needs to heal. He shall get better soon.”
Dean raises his head, propping his chin on Castiel's chest. They look at each other, silent. Castiel raises his hand, runs his fingers through Dean's hair and smiles at him. Then he kisses his nose. Dean makes a vague offended sound but does nothing to prevent Castiel to do it again. And again.
Dean is in the middle of a chick-flick moment and he doesn't even care.
At that moment, the puppy decides to join in on the fun. He backs away, dashes forward and makes a daring jump, which would end with nose squished against the side of the sofa, if Cas and Dean did not reach out simultaneously and save him. Elevated by two broad, steady palms, he ends up curled against Cas's chest next to Dean, happy and trusting, eyes growing heavy, until they both fall asleep.
Castiel watches over them.
Eventually, they relocate into the kitchen. Cas recently discovered cooking shows and is determined to make dinner. Dean, who could not be more ok with this development, is assisting.
The puppy is constantly underfoot, butting into their legs. After it gets almost stepped on for the fifth time, Dean puts on an apron, picks *FANG!* up (making him bark in delighted enthusiasm) and puts him into its sturdy front pocket. The puppy wriggles around, eventually settling in with his head sticking out. It blinks up at Dean, content.
Castiel looks at them fondly, tilting his head.
“What?!” says Dean.
“Nothing,” replies Castiel lightly and turns to the counter again, chopping apples. He starts to whistle a tune, which sounds suspiciously like Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.
“You better not be thinking what I think you're thinking,” grumps Dean. He reaches around Cas to steal a slice and gets his hand slapped. “Thief,” says Castiel and continues chopping. Dean sidles closer and kisses him, careful not to squish the little dog between them. Castiel hums. He reaches for a lemon, slices it in half and strains the juice through his fingers, deftly catching the seeds.
“Dry them and coat them,” he commands after a moment. “I have to roll the pastry.”
“Bossy,” murmurs Dean but does what he's told In The Name Of The Pie, patting the apples dry and coating them in a bowl with mixture of sugar, flour and cinnamon. Cas watches him with one eye, rolling one third of his pastry into a circle. The little husky in Dean's apron pouch is drinking all the action in raptly.
"Thank you," says Castiel. "And now we sprinkle it with brandy and vanilla extract,"
“What?” Dean says, appalled. “That's not how it's made.”
"I am older than both brandy and vanilla beans," says Castiel, "so feel welcome to stick your opinion into your twelve-inch cigarette-holder and smoke it."
"I rue the day you have learned all those culture references," says Dean, "Although I am glad you're respecting the length of my...cigarette holder."
"It is very respectable," Castiel replies, his expression focused and serious.
"Woof," says the dog.
It is evening and the whole house smells like sugar, spices and home. Dean and Cas are sprawling on the sofa, blissed out and full of love and pie, *FANG!* is sprawling on Cas's lap, blissed out and full of love and kibble (and pie), and Sam is back.
"Hi guys!" yells Sam from the hall. "For the love of God, tell me you're decent or I'm coming in with my eyes closed."
"Harder!" yells Dean back from the sofa. "Harder Cas! Right there, baby! OH YEAH!"
There's a muffled thump and an "Ow," and as Sam inches into the room, distrustful, he is greeted by a pile consisting of an angel, a puppy and - thankfully - clothed Dean on the floor.
"My brother is an idiot," announces Sam to the universe. "Hi, Cas. Can you guys come help me to unload the tree and stuff?"
Sam and Dean argue all the way to the car, while Cas watches them affectionately. When they come back into the house, they freeze in astonishment. The puppy is playing on the floor, quiet and content, chewing the crap out Cas's tie forgotten on the floor. No hysterical wailing, not a howl, zilch.
"It is a Christmas miracle," exclaims Sam, his eyes suspiciously damp.
"It is the power of my charisma," corrects him Dean.
"You are both mistaken," says Castiel loftily, looking at *FANG!* with an air of immense satisfaction. "It was clearly my home-made apple pie."
- HAVE A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR 2015, Chef_Geekier! :-) -