for my friend makingfists, via booze: a little new year’s destiel fluff.
they’re supposed to go out, to sam’s, but cas has a cold.
won’t admit it, of course. just pads around all day looking miserable and pulling tissues from his sleeves like a freaking old man. curls up on the couch in dean’s ratty sweater and watches home shopping network on mute.
but he’s fine.
“i’m fine,” he whines every time dean touches his forehead. “dean. leave me alone. i’m fine.”
dean rolls his eyes and feeds cas popsicles—“i don’t like the grape ones, dean”—and tries not to wince every time he coughs.
cas finally passes out around 10 with the cat in his lap and dean sneaks out to the kitchen to call sam, to cancel. “yeah,” dean says, soft. “i’m sorry, dude. but drink some champagne for me, yeah? ok. i’ll tell him. thanks. and hey, good luck popping sarah’s cork tonight, sport.” he hangs up while sam’s still swearing and smirks his way back to the couch.
they stay there all evening: dean’s fingers on cas’ neck, slow; the cat shooting dean looks from cas’ lap like: “can’t you see i’m working here, human?”; cas snoring hoarse and drooling on a pillow.
and maybe dean sleeps a little there, too.
he wakes up just after one disoriented and dry-mouthed to see cas’ face in his, his weight sweet heavy full in dean’s lap and those blue blue eyes that dean would know in any darkness staring right down to his soul.
“um,” cas scratches. “dean. happy new year.”
and dean grins and leans up for his kiss because that’s what’s supposed to happen now, right? but cas just leans back and pushes a glass of—what? orange juice? into his hand.
clinks his cup into dean’s and says: “salud.”
they drink and dean laughs and catches cas’ face with his free hand.
“baby,” he breathes. “cas. happy new year.”
cas’ kisses taste like nyquil and tea and they’re sweeter than any champagne.