A/N: I promised the readers of my (somewhat) dark and moody fic "Troubled Water" that I would write a piece of Dean/Cas fluff about snuggling and ticklefights. This is that fic. It's slight AU - it's basically the canon world except instead of the finale happening, the apocalypse ended, everybody was fine, Cas decided to stay human, he and Dean got together, and Chuck published a few more books. Most of that isn't mentioned in the story. What's relevant to the story is A) Dean and Cas established relationship and B) the fans know about Castiel. It contains dangerously high levels of endearing sweetness - may cause cavities. Read at your own peril.
"Aw, this is jus' wrong!" Dean exclaimed, slurring slightly, leaning back in his chair and averting his eyes from Sam's computer.
"Well then, click on another one." Sam was sprawled on the bed, trying to keep the room from spinning. "And do a shot, man."
"I only read the summary," Dean protested.
"Still counts," Sam maintained.
The two Winchesters were playing what had to be the world's worst drinking game. Both denied being the one to come up with it, and both refused to give it a name because that would be like admitting responsibility. The game went like this: go onto a Supernatural fanfiction site. Find the romance stories. Take turns picking one. Read it at the same time; first person to stop reading and avert their eyes does a shot. If you both make it to the end, the picker does a shot. The way to win is to pick a story you think you can stomach, but will totally freak out your opponent. It was a horrible, horrible game, because really, everybody lost. Dean liked to pick the Dean/Cas stories, because – well. That sort of thing was their MO, and it made Sam's skin crawl to hear about it in depth (although Dean had drunkenly admitted most of the authors were much more creative than he and Cas, not to mention that they endowed them with way more stamina than either of them had). Sam liked to pick the Wincest stories, because even though they were really super gross, they had the brothers saying the cheesiest things to each other, and that kind of stuff got to Dean a lot faster than sheer bodily functions. Occasionally they'd each pick heterosexual stuff about themselves, but you'd be surprised at the number of times they'd lost on their own pick that way. Mary Sues were sneaky little bastards.
It was Dean's turn to pick, and since he averted his eyes before the round even started, he was grudgingly doing a shot of Jack.
"Wincest?" Sam asked, wondering why Dean had veered from the norm.
Dean shook his head. "Destiel. Oh, man, it's horrible."
That made Sam sit up.
"The entire story is about me and Cas having a tickle fight. A tickle fight!" he groused. "I mean, are former angels even ticklish? And then - then I teach Cas how to Eskimo kiss, and then we friggin' snuggle for two straight hours. Oh, God, kill me now."
Sam laughed. "Isn't that kind of what you do anyways? Snuggle?"
"We do not snuggle," Dean asserted. "We spoon manfully. For warmth."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Riiiight."
Dean ground the heel of his palm into his forehead. "It's gotta be Chuck's shitty writing, but seriously. All these fans think me and Cas are just a couple of chicks in front of a goddamn roaring fire, watching Brokeback Mountain together and sobbing into each others' arms and shit. All th' slash about us is so freakin' GAY!"
Sam closed his eyes and sighed. "You're too drunk, Dean. You're not even hearing what you're saying anymore. Go back to your room and go to bed."
Dean grumbled and closed Sam's laptop, put the cap back on the Jack and clutched it to himself, glaring at Sam as he walked out and mumbling something about, "Not leavin' my booze with you then see how it is kickin' me out then I take the party with me…"
Dean woke up the next morning surprisingly un-hungover and spooning manfully with Cas. And yeah, he could kind of see how it could be misconstrued as snuggling. His arm was curled around the guy kinda tight, and his hand had wandered up under Cas's shirt to splay on Cas's chest, and he'd twined his legs around Cas's in his sleep. But they were men, dammit, manly men who killed stuff and stitched up their own wounds and smelled like forty-weight, whiskey and leather.
Okay, so Cas didn't smell like a boozy car. Cas always smelled nice. Not like in those stupid stories, wafting of lilacs and rose petals and unicorn farts. He smelled like… okay, it sounded weird to say it, but Cas smelled like skin. Pure, clean, soft human skin, like fresh out of the shower, only not a hint of soapy scent and all the time. Didn't matter if he borrowed Dean's Old Spice or fell into sewer – the smells all rolled off him and would only stick to his clothes. It had to be that little bit of angel left in him.
Dean liked it, of course. He friggin' loved that smell.
Cas's eyes squinted open, and his hand immediately went to the one Dean had up his shirt. He smiled groggily. "You get possessive when you drink," he commented.
Dean just kissed the crook between his neck and his shoulder. "Good morning to you, too."
Cas yawned and turned to lay on his back, stretching out his arms and groaning a little.
See, that right there. Thatwas what was misleading people. Cas did little things, like that little scrunch of his face as he stretched, that were so ridiculously, abso-frickin'-lutely adorable that Dean actually wanted to cuddle him and give him Eskimo kisses and all that cheesy chick-flick shit. But these were momentary lapses, see? Most of the time, Cas was stoic and straightlaced and serious, and while it was attractive as all hell it didn't make him cute by any means. He was fuck-against-a-wall, hotter-than-the-Sahara sexy, and it didn't get manlier than that. But at certain times, especially right when he was waking up, the dude was cuter than anybody had a right to be, and those girly squeal-inducing actions started to look more and more appealing…
That reminded Dean. "Hey Cas," he asked, "Are you ticklish?"
Cas blinked slowly. "I don't know."
Of course he wouldn't know. Dude had never been tickled. Dean cleared his throat and tried to approach this with a purely professional perspective. "Well, maybe we should find out."
Cas's eyes grew nervous. "Is it… enjoyable?"
Dean shrugged. "Some people like it, some don't. It's mostly for kids."
Cas gave Dean a pointed look. "If I don't like it, you'll stop." It wasn't exactly a question.
Dean grinned. "Maybe."
Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, of course my delicate flower blossom, only if it should please you to do so, I live to serve you, blah blah blah." Then he pushed up Cas's shirt and began his experiment in a lofty, professional tone. "The first traditional area of ticklishness is the stomach. Doctor Winchester will examine the patient for susceptibility in the abdominal region." And then he brushed his fingers very, veeery lightly over the skin of his stomach.
Cas looked pained.
"Anything?" Dean asked.
"That – was strange," Cas answered in a strangled tone.
"Hmmm," Dean mused. "Doctor Winchester will repeat the test at full strength." And he clambered onto his knees, snapped his imaginary gloves, launched in, and full on tickled Cas.
Two seconds later, Cas was doubled over, laughing uncontrollably, flailing his legs and trying to fend off Dean and gasping, "Deea-ahahahaha – Dean, stop – ahahaha – stah-ahahahaha!"
Finally Dean relented and let Cas catch his breath. "Apparently, you are ticklish," he declared. "Examination concluded."
Cas seemed to have come back down, and he was clearly struggling to straighten the lingering smile on his face. "Are you ticklish?" he asked.
"Yeah," Dean replied without thinking.
A distinctive gleam shone in Cas's eyes.
"Cas," Dean said in a warning tone, scooting backwards and raising his hands defensively, "let's just hang on a minute here, let's not do anything we might regret later –"
Cas sat up slowly, smoothly, never taking his eyes off of Dean's, like a cat stalking its prey.
"Cas," Dean repeated, growing nervous, "Caaaas."
Cas crawled forward deliberately, lithe and intent, muscles tensed.
"Cas! Don't you dare!"
Sam woke up with a killer hangover, which was completely unfair since he hadn't even gotten that drunk. He slammed the alarm clumsily with one hand, knocking the clock off the nightstand, and wished that someone could just put him out of his misery already.
After a shower, two ibuprofen and a few cups of coffee, he was feeling a little less like a zombie. He dragged on his clothes, slipped a pair of sunglasses in his pocket, and shuffled out the door, hoping that Cas and Dean were a little more alert today than he was. As soon as he got the opportunity, he was going to spend a few hours moaning softly in a dark corner.
As he headed down their corridor, muffled hyena-like laughter emanated from a nearby room; the closer Sam got, the more apparent it became that it was coming from their room. He stopped at the door and did a mental double take. What the fu…?
"I AM – HAHAHAHA – I'M GONNA MURDER – HAHAHAHA…"
"NOT IF I – HA HA HA – AHAHAHA – KILL YOU – AHA…"
Sam knocked loudly three times.
The laughter faded down to a trickle, and then twin spells of wheezy coughing, and then silence. A moment later, Dean opened the door, totally composed but still slightly red. "We'll be out in a sec," he told Sam.
Sam just raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin, trying to stay straight-faced. "Will that be before or after the Eskimo kisses?"
Dean flushed. "Shut your cakehole!" he retorted hotly, and he slammed the door in Sam's face.
Sam winced at the noise and then grinned to himself. "No snuggling!" he called through the door. "We're on a schedule!"
"WHAT PART OF CAKEHOLE DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?"
Sam heard Cas say something, and Dean replied in voice too low to make out. He knocked again. "I said no snuggling!"
"I'MA BE IN THE SHOWER, PRINCESS!" Dean bellowed. "I'LL BE OUT WHEN YOU'RE DONE PMSING!"
Another muffled conversation between Cas and Dean. Sam could just barely distinguish Dean's exasperated "just said that so Sam…" And then the faucet (which was ridiculously loud) turned on.
Sam just grinned to himself. He somehow doubted that Dean was showering alone.