I’ve been sick for the last few days and, for me, something about being sick screams bad TV movies and tea. So one night in a Vicks Vapor Rub huff, I wrote this, some post-season eight Destiel bunker fluff.
His first month in the bunker, Cas won’t stop watching Lifetime. Television for women, the promos proclaim, but Cas doesn’t seem to care.
At first, they think it’s because he’s lost the remote. but then he starts name-checking Meredith Baxter Birney at the dinner table. Lynda Carter and Jaclyn Smith. Heather Locklear and Tori Spelling and that’s a little weird, sure. Earns him an eyebrow over the green beans but hey, you know, whatever.
“Guy’s only been earthy for awhile,” Sam says low while they’re doing the dishes. While Cas is settling into Love’s Deadly Triangle. “Give him a break, ok?”
“Yeah yeah,” Dean sighs. “Still.”
He leaves it hanging there, the whatever it is he’s implying, and takes his frustration out on the stemware.
Sam goes to bed before ten, still gaunt and dark-eyed in ways that make Dean quake but better, clearly better, than before.
So if he sleeps 12 hours at a stretch, well, Dean thinks, we’ll let him.
Dean ends up in the den, fighting with a book of crosswords while Cas drowns himself in rhinestones and champagne and deep 80’s cleavage and it’s fine, he can totally ignore the tv but Cas, it seems, ain’t as good at ignoring him.
“This Danielle Steel,” Cas says, frowning at the set in the dark. “She is—one of your literary greats?”
“What?” Dean barks, too loud, damn it, so he tries again. Drops his words to harsh whisper. “Why would you think that?”
Cas shifts a little, just enough to rattle the cushions on Dean’s side of the couch. “Many of her works have, it seems, been adapted for presentation on television. On this channel. Thus, I can only assume that her writing is revered or—”
Dean’s mouth gets ahead of his manners. “No, dude. no,” he snaps. “She writes, like”—his lips go lemon—“romance novels or some shit.”
“Oh,” Cas nods. “Yes. i see.”
Dean shoots him a look through the shadows. “Really,” he says, dry. “You do.”
“I—” Cas starts. Swallows, it sounds like, then powers through. “I do.”
He waves a hand towards the screen, where some chick in a power suit is storming through a boardroom, all righteous anger and stiletto cruise. “I mean. Romance as a genre is quite popular among humans, I understand. Which is quite logical, when you consider that so much of your energy is consumed by the search for, and subsequent maintenance of, love.”
He looks at Dean expectantly, waiting to have his assumption validated.
He’s doing that a lot, these days. Waiting for Dean’s approval. Expecting Dean to point his needle towards human, as if dean’s the freaking expert or something and maybe Dean’s not dealing with that kind of pressure as well as he thought.
“You?” he mimics. “Hey Cas. Newsflash. You’re one of us now, remember?”
He shouldn’t have said it, he knows that, sure, but he’s tired and Valerie Bertennelli’s character is really pissing him off because she shoudn’t have slept with her ex-husband in that last scene and what kind of a first name is “Maxie,” anyway? And he’s totally hurt Cas’ feelings what the dude wanted was a pat on the head, that’s all, a little “go team frailty” and maybe a letter jacket with their logo and—
“Yes,” Cas says, way the fuck closer than Dean remembers him being ten seconds ago. “How could I I forget? I should have said, ‘we,’ shouldn’t i? We spend so much energy searching for love.”
His fingers chase gentle over the back of Dean’s hand. Rest there for a moment. Then flee.
“But,” he sighs, “that too would have been inaccurate. Or, at the very least, a misstatement.”
“I, um,” Dean says helpfully, not pulling his hand away, ok, but not looking at Cas either. Taking refuge in the Downy commercial instead.
Cas makes a weird noise and it takes Dean’s brain a second to put sound to spec in his head because—Castiel is laughing.
Dean’s not sure he’s ever heard that sound before, not really, and it’s half confusing and half amazing because Cas is really going for it, his head fallen back, his eyes closed, his body shaking under his t-shirt just a touch away from Dean.
So he watches Cas feel or whatever, which sounds creepier than it is, right then. Just seeing Cas be happy. Be human in one of the ways that doesn’t suck. It makes his heart flush a little, no doubt.
When Cas opens his eyes, still brilliant blue in all that dark, Dean grins at him, right back. and that must be right, or at least the response Cas was expecting, because he stretches his hand up and touches dean’s face. His fingers skittering over, like before.
“Yes,” he says, his breath curled up there in his voice. “It would have been untrue because I have no need to search for love. I already have you.”
They’re kissing before Dean has time to be outraged at just how much of a line that was and how easily he fell for it—or, um—because Cas’ smooching lessons with demons and housewives and god knows who else have paid off big time and Dean is in Cas’ lap before he can think better of it, hovering over that dark head like a freaking thundercloud
and Cas is loud, this low hot roar of sound that make Dean’s hips twitch and his tongue determined to find the volume switch which is surely at the back of Cas’ throat. Cas’ arms wind around his neck and that’s great but it makes it hard for Dean to move like he fucking has to so he’s impolite yet again
grabs Cas’ wrists without asking and tugs them up above Cas’ head, holds them hard and cas adds a new noise to his repertoire, jagged and ripped and so full of want that dean just goes with it, grinds down into his lap, biting curse words into Cas’ lips, his neck, his throat
and when Cas comes, it’s awesome and shocking and so not loud, just this little shard of sound that makes Dean’s whole body go lava even as he’s crooning in Cas’ ear and kissing him back down to earth, to Dean, which is exactly where he belongs, damn it
and this time Dean’s the one who flies when Cas gets a hand around his dick clumsy and awkward like it’s the first time he’s ever touched Dean and it is and that’s enough kindling for a thousand fires and so it’s ok that Dean comes from just that. really, it is.
“Next time,” he tells Cas, chucking his spunked-out shirt on the floor. “More skin, next time. Ok? Maybe even a bed.”
Cas snorts, lost in the folds of his t-shirt. Reappears with a smirk and leans down, tosses the thing somewhere into the dark. “A bed,” he repeats, his hands Lewis and Clark-ing over Dean’s chest.
“Um, yeah,” Dean yips as Cas’ mouth trails after his hands, all Sacajawea and shit. “You know, next time. right?”
“Why is it necessary to change locations in order for us to engage in additional sexual activity?” Cas asks, serious somehow, even with his tongue doing gorgeous things to Dean’s nipples, which makes it a little harder than usual for Dean to get huffy at Cas’ clueless human crap.
So he just wheezes “Forget it!” and yanks Cas’ hair in a pretty universal sign, he thinks, of get the fuck up here, and goes for showing, not telling, captain literal the error of his interpretive ways.
In the morning, he makes waffles and ignores Sam’s little smirks behind his OJ, the oh-ho nods he keeps shooting at Cas whenever Dean meets his eye.
Then Cas kisses him when he sits down at the table, one mouth to another like it’s normal, the human thing to do, and hey, Dean realizes. it is.
“Man!” Sam says, rolling his eyes and reaching for the syrup. “Finally. Took you long enough. Hey, pass the butter over here, Cas.”
And if, after, Dean thinks of Danielle Steel as their song, that’s understandable, too.
On their first month anniversary, he gives Cas a copy of Jewels, which was totally the thing playing that first night, the first time they were kissing, when Cas’ hands were in his pants, when he was sucking the hell out of Cas’ pretty dick, right, but—
“No. It was Judith Krantz,” Cas says with a frown. “That was playing. It was I‘ll Take Manhattan, Dean. Adapted from a book by Judith Krantz, not Danielle Steel.”
“What? No, dude, it was—”
“Lifetime,” Sam chirps from the front seat. “Just tell people that your song is Lifetime.”
“You both suck,” Dean grumbles. “God. That’s the last time I try and do something romantic. Jesus.”
But later, Cas uses Palamino for starters and then Mother May I Sleep with Danger? as a chaser and the look on his face when he comes with Dean shoved up inside him, the way he blooms when Dean flips them over and fucks into him wild—all that goes a long way to say that hey, romance is what you make it, right?
“Huh,” Dean sighs into Cas’ ear. “Television for women my ass.”