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Because angel/cream bun apparently is my new OTP, and because Castiel really has the most gorgeous hands. *shrugs helplessly* Pointless little thing, really.
Title: Cream
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Castiel, little bit of Sam. Dean/Cas.
Summary: So there had been this diner, right. And there had been these pastries. And there had been this angel ...
Wordcount: 1384
Spoilers: None, really. Probably set S5, but really vaguely
Disclaimer: Not mine
They'd had those pastries. And Cas had been with them. And Cas was still wearing Jimmy's same white shirt, same tie knotted down around his ankles somewhere because ties were apparently arcane instruments on a level with cellphones in his angel's eyes. That same tired, white shirt, just begging for a little bit of jelly and cream to fall on it. Begging for a little stain that might, just might, convince the angel to change the frikking thing already.
Hopefully in company. Dean's company, to be precise.
So he'd bought the angel a damn cream pastry. It had seemed like such a good idea, at the time. Such a good plan.
Dean should have known how that kind of plan always ended up, with him.
There were ... there had been ... Noises. There had been noises. Cas, it turned out, didn't sigh when he was happy, or make little mmmm noises, or anything like that. No. When Cas was happy, he growled, little grizzly-bear rumbles in the back of his throat. The first bite, there had been this little shocked hum, this little blink of surprise. And then ... growling. Almost purring, except no cat had ever sounded so deep and rough and, and ...
The angel growled, okay? It ... did things. Lots of things. Dean still wasn't quite able to catalogue what things, exactly, but boy oh boy, had it ever done them to him.
Then there had been the hands. Because Cas was also, apparently, a really dainty eater. Except dainty was the wrong word. Skilled, maybe. Smooth. Controlled. Not a damn drop had escaped him to fall on that shirt, in the end, but by that point Dean had been too far gone to care. Those hands ... Had he ever realised, before, how long and graceful Cas' fingers were? How strong? He'd seen those fingers do awesome things, seen them bring men to their knees with a touch, seen them throw men across the continent with a flick.
Seen them catch a drop of falling cream, and bring it delicately up to cracked lips.
Seen them, once the pastry was finished, and all that remained were the little flecks and globs of cream scattered over knuckles ... seen them shiny and glistening as Castiel popped them one by one into his mouth, sucked them clean, and slid them shining back out again.
He'd been staring. He knew that. He'd been on the verge of out-and-out drooling, just watching that display, just watching Cas lick and clean and grumble happily to himself. He'd been staring, counting down fingers from ten to one, and just on the last, just watching that last knuckle slid in ... Cas had looked up, and caught him.
The angel had frozen, finger still in his mouth, forehead wrinkling in that confused, almost-concerned glare he had, the one that looked like he was torn between being worried about you, and wanting to kick your ass for making him be worried about you. Sarcastic blue eyes had bored a hole in Dean's skull, and Castiel had pulled that last finger slowly out with a smooth, almost silent 'pop'.
Whatever the hell Sam said, the sound Dean had made then had not been a squeak. It had not.
"Dean?" Cas had asked, all gravelled confusion. "Are you unwell?"
He'd managed a sort of high-pitched mm-hmm in response. Sam had snickered beside him, allowing Dean to momentarily distract himself from Cas' shiny fingers in order to kick his brother in the shin. Sam had retaliated with an elbow in the ribs, and Castiel had stared between them in suspicion, all squinty-eyed and flat mouth, and then Dean had made his final, fatal mistake.
He'd noticed the little curl of cream painting Cas' cheek, just a little splash at the corner of the angel's mouth. And then he couldn't help himself. He couldn't.
He'd reached out, fighting a little smile as Cas tugged his head rapidly backwards in suspicion, eyeing Dean's hand like it was one of those angel-killing swords and glaring at Dean, daring him. Dean had grinned at him a bit, gesturing with his free hand towards his own mouth, watching while one eyebrow arched in exasperated confusion at his pantomime and, while the angel was distracted, reached over and brushed his thumb across the corner of Cas' mouth. Across rough, damaged lips, and the scrape of stubble, and the cool wetness of cream.
Castiel had stared at him like he had a second head, all affronted bewilderment, and then his eyes had caught the gleam of white against Dean's fingers, caught the glimpse of cream. And then, with that singular, other-worldly Cas logic, the angel had apparently decided waste-not, want-not, and leaned back in to suck Dean's finger into his mouth.
Dean's knee had hit the underside of the table. Violently, knocking half their breakfast onto the floor in the process. Plates had shattered and, in one case, exploded, coffee had gone flying everywhere, a slice of bacon had done a graceful, greasy slide over to the owner's feet, and half a container of mustard had oozed its way onto Cas' shirt. Which, along with the finger-licking in public, had got them thrown out in very short order.
At least he'd gotten what he'd wanted out of it, he supposed. Or he thought he had. Cas had flashed off almost immediately, stained shirt and all, so Dean never did get to see him change the thing.
Three days later, Sam still hadn't stopped laughing hysterically about the 'incident'. Three days later, Dean was still too mortified to call him on it.
Three days later, Cas still hadn't come back from wherever he'd flashed off to.
Dean was really, really starting to miss him. In between having horribly satisfying dreams about vats of whipped cream, and long, shiny fingers, and vivid blue eyes staring at him in confusion and growling desire. And if he hadn't already probably earned himself another one-way ticket to hell about a thousand times over, he was pretty sure this was going to seal the deal.
Sorta hard to care, though, when he had the memory of those little happy growls ...
On the heels of that thought, he felt the rush of disturbed air against his back, the nearly-silent whoosh of incoming angel, and when he turned there was Cas. New shirt, white and shining, looking sort of odd against the terminally rumpled suit and the grubby beige of the coat. Dean found his lips quirking up into a smile even before he saw what the angel had in his hand.
Cas hefted the paper bag thoughtfully, eyes all crinkled and sneaky and, maybe, a little nervous, and opened it up to reveal his treasure. Two cream pastries, filled to bursting, and oozing a little in the bag.
"Cas?" he asked, moving forward hesitantly, hopefully, hands already reaching for fistfuls of new, crisp shirt. His angel shrugged slightly, head tilting away so that he was watching Dean almost out of the corner of his eye, and bit his lip.
"They taste better ... from fingers," he said, stiff and nervous, but his eyes were shining. Hopeful, and it had been a long time since Dean had seen that look in those eyes, and hell. When it came down to it, who was he to deny his angel the simple pleasures in life?
"That they do," he grinned, taking one corner of the bag carefully, feeling his fingers brush over Castiel's, curl around them. "And maybe from other things, too." Cas blinked at him in confusion, and Dean laughed. "Come on. Sam's out, will be for a while. How about I show you all the good things you can do with cream, eh?"
Cas tilted his chin, glaring at Dean, suspicion and cunning and gleaming delight, and nodded slowly.
"Yes," he said. "I think I would like that, Dean."
And he did. Oh boy, did he ever.
Title: Cream
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Castiel, little bit of Sam. Dean/Cas.
Summary: So there had been this diner, right. And there had been these pastries. And there had been this angel ...
Wordcount: 1384
Spoilers: None, really. Probably set S5, but really vaguely
Disclaimer: Not mine
Cream
So. There was this diner. Just your usual, everyday kind of diner, with your usual, everyday kind of food, and your usual, everyday kind of pie. That was all fine. But for some reason, this diner had also had those little cream pastries, the doughy ones that always seemed to spill over a bit when you ate them, the ones with the cheap strawberry jelly in the middle that made a mess of your shirt when you squeezed the thing that little bit too hard. Those ones.They'd had those pastries. And Cas had been with them. And Cas was still wearing Jimmy's same white shirt, same tie knotted down around his ankles somewhere because ties were apparently arcane instruments on a level with cellphones in his angel's eyes. That same tired, white shirt, just begging for a little bit of jelly and cream to fall on it. Begging for a little stain that might, just might, convince the angel to change the frikking thing already.
Hopefully in company. Dean's company, to be precise.
So he'd bought the angel a damn cream pastry. It had seemed like such a good idea, at the time. Such a good plan.
Dean should have known how that kind of plan always ended up, with him.
There were ... there had been ... Noises. There had been noises. Cas, it turned out, didn't sigh when he was happy, or make little mmmm noises, or anything like that. No. When Cas was happy, he growled, little grizzly-bear rumbles in the back of his throat. The first bite, there had been this little shocked hum, this little blink of surprise. And then ... growling. Almost purring, except no cat had ever sounded so deep and rough and, and ...
The angel growled, okay? It ... did things. Lots of things. Dean still wasn't quite able to catalogue what things, exactly, but boy oh boy, had it ever done them to him.
Then there had been the hands. Because Cas was also, apparently, a really dainty eater. Except dainty was the wrong word. Skilled, maybe. Smooth. Controlled. Not a damn drop had escaped him to fall on that shirt, in the end, but by that point Dean had been too far gone to care. Those hands ... Had he ever realised, before, how long and graceful Cas' fingers were? How strong? He'd seen those fingers do awesome things, seen them bring men to their knees with a touch, seen them throw men across the continent with a flick.
Seen them catch a drop of falling cream, and bring it delicately up to cracked lips.
Seen them, once the pastry was finished, and all that remained were the little flecks and globs of cream scattered over knuckles ... seen them shiny and glistening as Castiel popped them one by one into his mouth, sucked them clean, and slid them shining back out again.
He'd been staring. He knew that. He'd been on the verge of out-and-out drooling, just watching that display, just watching Cas lick and clean and grumble happily to himself. He'd been staring, counting down fingers from ten to one, and just on the last, just watching that last knuckle slid in ... Cas had looked up, and caught him.
The angel had frozen, finger still in his mouth, forehead wrinkling in that confused, almost-concerned glare he had, the one that looked like he was torn between being worried about you, and wanting to kick your ass for making him be worried about you. Sarcastic blue eyes had bored a hole in Dean's skull, and Castiel had pulled that last finger slowly out with a smooth, almost silent 'pop'.
Whatever the hell Sam said, the sound Dean had made then had not been a squeak. It had not.
"Dean?" Cas had asked, all gravelled confusion. "Are you unwell?"
He'd managed a sort of high-pitched mm-hmm in response. Sam had snickered beside him, allowing Dean to momentarily distract himself from Cas' shiny fingers in order to kick his brother in the shin. Sam had retaliated with an elbow in the ribs, and Castiel had stared between them in suspicion, all squinty-eyed and flat mouth, and then Dean had made his final, fatal mistake.
He'd noticed the little curl of cream painting Cas' cheek, just a little splash at the corner of the angel's mouth. And then he couldn't help himself. He couldn't.
He'd reached out, fighting a little smile as Cas tugged his head rapidly backwards in suspicion, eyeing Dean's hand like it was one of those angel-killing swords and glaring at Dean, daring him. Dean had grinned at him a bit, gesturing with his free hand towards his own mouth, watching while one eyebrow arched in exasperated confusion at his pantomime and, while the angel was distracted, reached over and brushed his thumb across the corner of Cas' mouth. Across rough, damaged lips, and the scrape of stubble, and the cool wetness of cream.
Castiel had stared at him like he had a second head, all affronted bewilderment, and then his eyes had caught the gleam of white against Dean's fingers, caught the glimpse of cream. And then, with that singular, other-worldly Cas logic, the angel had apparently decided waste-not, want-not, and leaned back in to suck Dean's finger into his mouth.
Dean's knee had hit the underside of the table. Violently, knocking half their breakfast onto the floor in the process. Plates had shattered and, in one case, exploded, coffee had gone flying everywhere, a slice of bacon had done a graceful, greasy slide over to the owner's feet, and half a container of mustard had oozed its way onto Cas' shirt. Which, along with the finger-licking in public, had got them thrown out in very short order.
At least he'd gotten what he'd wanted out of it, he supposed. Or he thought he had. Cas had flashed off almost immediately, stained shirt and all, so Dean never did get to see him change the thing.
Three days later, Sam still hadn't stopped laughing hysterically about the 'incident'. Three days later, Dean was still too mortified to call him on it.
Three days later, Cas still hadn't come back from wherever he'd flashed off to.
Dean was really, really starting to miss him. In between having horribly satisfying dreams about vats of whipped cream, and long, shiny fingers, and vivid blue eyes staring at him in confusion and growling desire. And if he hadn't already probably earned himself another one-way ticket to hell about a thousand times over, he was pretty sure this was going to seal the deal.
Sorta hard to care, though, when he had the memory of those little happy growls ...
On the heels of that thought, he felt the rush of disturbed air against his back, the nearly-silent whoosh of incoming angel, and when he turned there was Cas. New shirt, white and shining, looking sort of odd against the terminally rumpled suit and the grubby beige of the coat. Dean found his lips quirking up into a smile even before he saw what the angel had in his hand.
Cas hefted the paper bag thoughtfully, eyes all crinkled and sneaky and, maybe, a little nervous, and opened it up to reveal his treasure. Two cream pastries, filled to bursting, and oozing a little in the bag.
"Cas?" he asked, moving forward hesitantly, hopefully, hands already reaching for fistfuls of new, crisp shirt. His angel shrugged slightly, head tilting away so that he was watching Dean almost out of the corner of his eye, and bit his lip.
"They taste better ... from fingers," he said, stiff and nervous, but his eyes were shining. Hopeful, and it had been a long time since Dean had seen that look in those eyes, and hell. When it came down to it, who was he to deny his angel the simple pleasures in life?
"That they do," he grinned, taking one corner of the bag carefully, feeling his fingers brush over Castiel's, curl around them. "And maybe from other things, too." Cas blinked at him in confusion, and Dean laughed. "Come on. Sam's out, will be for a while. How about I show you all the good things you can do with cream, eh?"
Cas tilted his chin, glaring at Dean, suspicion and cunning and gleaming delight, and nodded slowly.
"Yes," he said. "I think I would like that, Dean."
And he did. Oh boy, did he ever.
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