tiptoe39

The Gift of Relaxation

"I don't understand. Alcohol is a relaxant. It should be enough to--"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Except for you get even tenser when you drink, Cas. C'mon. Just turn the hell around already."

Castiel eyes him suspiciously. He shuffles a step away.

"What's the problem?"

"Our previous expeditions to massage parlors have been--"

"Oh, for crap's sake, not that kind of massage! I'm just gonna rub your shoulders a little bit, not molest you!" Dean's about ready to give up. This is what he gets for being a nice guy.

Castiel gives up, then, and turns around, but he's still stealing little suspicious glances backward as Dean rolls up his sleeves and places his hands on Cas' shoulders.

"This isn't weird," he informs Castiel, but he might be telling himself. "I'm just trying to help you relax, OK? You're stressed out. Angel or no angel, it's gonna be hell on your blood pressure."

"My blood pressure is-- ooh!" Castiel squints and his neck cranes as the first of the pressure bears down on his shoulders. "Oh. That's--"

"Too hard?" Dean can't imagine, since Castiel feels like he's made of warm bricks, and it's surprising Dean's hands haven't broken off at the wrist. "Not enough?"

"No-- it's-- it's perfect, Dean," Castiel says, with that rough rumble of desperation in his voice that Dean only ever hears when he's pissed or piss-drunk. "That's good. Very-- ah-- very good."

"Good." Dean smirks a little. He can't do much for Cas, but it's nice to be able to give him the gift of a little relaxation. God knows the poor guy needs it. He doesn't deserve all the shit he's been through, especially not for Dean's sake.

Now if only he can get Cas to stop moaning like he's in fucking heat, this whole thing might just be a little more comfortable.

To Be Close

Soft and warm. Skin brushing against his mouth. Did he take a girl home last night? This is the kind of warmth he gets when he wakes up next to a girl. He must have been drinking, too, because he can't think of her name. Only that he woke up in the middle of the night and felt a body close but not close enough. The memory's faded, halfway out of reach, as midnight wake-ups often are. It's all about magnetism and a half-conscious desire to be close. The specifics aren't the important part, so they fade.

But even as his hands shift against a bare stomach, sliding beneath a shirt that's been pulled away sometime during dreaming, he's realizing that something's different, something's wrong. He drank last night, yes. His mouth is dry enough. But this warmth is different. This isn't the soft body of a woman. When his hand slides up an arm, the hair on it is too coarse, the muscle too hard.

He remembers now, drinking and laughing, watching Castiel's nose wrinkle as he peered at the tiny television. Together on the hotel bed, watching cheesy horror flicks. Occasionally protesting that vampires don't work that way (Dean) or that such a girl should really not dress in such a manner when visiting an abandoned house with no central heating (Castiel). And then, drunk, happy, falling asleep side by side, rumpling motel sheets, Castiel curled around the blanket like a kid. Dean still chuffing out little chuckles as he lay his head down and let the dizziness take him down to sleep.

And then awakening in the middle of the night and feeling like he needed that warmth next to him now.

And now...

Now Dean's eyes are open, and he can see the curve of Castiel's neck dipped in copper sunlight. In places the flesh itself seems to disappear, melting into brilliance. A bead of sweat rolls down on one side, shimmering and then sliding into the folds of the sheets below. Dean's mouth waters.

He doesn't know where the thought comes from but all of a sudden he can think of nothing but the salt taste of skin. His fingers twitch and he's acutely aware now that sometime last night he must have pulled Cas' shirt aside. Wanting more warmth, wanting to be closer. He'd chalk it up to drunken fumbling, but the urge hasn't gone away and oh God if he presses his mouth to Cas' neck right now he'll be so far gone, he won't even know himself.

Cas is moving, starting to stir and make little almost imperceptible movements against Dean's body. Christ, they're really locked together head to toe, and Dean's aware of it in every way now, to the extent that he's terrified of what happens if Cas wakes up, but he can't move because his whole body is craving more, not less. More skin. More heat. More Cas.

He's this close to giving in when Castiel rolls over in his arms, opens painfully blue eyes, and says in a guttural scrape of a voice, "Good morning."

Dean can see the shape of the sun in his eyes. It's not Cas' neck he tastes first.

Take It Off

The coat.

The motherfucking goddamn coat.

It was in the way. Every single time. It got stuck in doors. The belt came loose and tripped them up. The collar ended up in Dean's mouth. The cuff got caught on the bedpost.

Enough already with the coat.

Like any other night, things were starting to get hot and heavy, and then Dean tasted unwashed fabric and that was it.

He pushed back from Castiel and frowned. "Take that thing off right now," he ordered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Castiel did.

Very slowly.

Very, very slowly.

With fingers trailing down his own chest and blue eyes boring into Dean's and buttons popping on the shirt beneath one by one and tan sliding against white skin and...

Next time Dean was going to take his pants off before they started.

You Can't Always Get

Castiel has a song stuck in his head.

It's come on once in a while in Dean's car, and Dean's no more fond of it than any other classic-rock -- there's not nearly enough wailing guitar in it, for one -- so Castiel never took note of it when he was on Earth. But now that he's busy chastising his fellow angels and sentencing them to hard heavenly community service for their speeding along of the apocalypse, it keeps echoing in his head.

You can't always get what you want

The seraphs are in a turf war, and Castiel doesn't really want to get between them, but someone needs to. He's had to admonish a whole league of minor cherubs who wanted to rebreed the vessels' bloodline and start all over. Zachariah's minions are becoming a real problem. If Castiel had a penny for every time he had to remind someone that ending the world clearly hadn't been God's will after all, he'd be rich enough that even he couldn't enter heaven. And he ends up quoting the damn song to a pair of rebels he'd caught vandalizing the Garden with flaming swords, carving messages like "We want Paradise now!"

You can't always get what you want

He peeks downward to see Dean living his white-picket-fence, more-of-the-same life. The life Castiel enabled him to have. And there's a sort of prickle of vindictive happiness that goes through him when he sees how very unhappy Dean is, how he's going through each day reminding himself of the very same thing Castiel had told him: "This is what you wanted." And Castiel wants to throw back at him a satisfied hiss of a cliche he heard once during his time on Earth: "Be careful what you wish for."

But when that surge of satisfaction is past, Castiel feels bad. Because he gave Dean what he wanted, but what Castiel himself wants? Is for Dean to be happy.

You can't always get what you want.

He ends up on a street corner before dawn, waiting for Dean to come around in his morning jog. It's dark. Dean doesn't see him at first, just sweats and huffs and runs past. The twinge that goes through Castiel's body is the first sign of the clarity that's about to break through him. It's too powerful to resist. He steps forward, calls Dean's name. The streetlights flicker with the force of his will.

But if you try sometimes

Dean turns. The earbuds fall from his ears, still blasting those trademark wailing guitars. His shirt is soaked with sweat. He rubs more perspiration out of his eyes, stares. His jaw hangs open. It takes him a good minute to reach out, opening a damp palm.

You just might find

And there's no denying the rush into Dean's arms, there's no holding it back. Because this isn't just what Castiel wants. It's not just some fleeting desire. It's what he has been denying himself since this frustrating, brilliant, righteous, utterly human man entered his life. And the song plays out loud and radiant in his mind as ignoring sweat and taboo, he pulls Dean's mouth to his.

You can get what you need.

the drama llama

September drabble dump, Dean/Cas edition

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