.fic: The Beginning of Wisdom (Dean/Castiel) PG13
The Beginning of Wisdom (PG13) Dean/Castiel | ~1900
A sequel to my Porn Battle fic, What Is Next to Godliness. In which Dean introduces Castiel to one of mankind's greatest inventions.
The Beginning of Wisdom
Dean needs a whole lot more towns, two months, and what's probably one huge coincidence, until he finds what he's looking for. At last, at long fucking last, he pulls into the Irish Hills Inn over Sammy's protests that there's a nicer motel ten minutes away - and yeah, the leprechauns in the rock garden outside reception freak him the hell out, and the decor looks like the inside of someone's gall bladder, but still, the place has what he needs. He can't keep from rubbing his hands together, and his grin is probably a bit deranged, but he can't help that either.
Sam only needs one look inside their room to render judgment, Dude, intervention, and vanish back to the car.
"Getting food," he hollers over his shoulder. "You two can have some time alone."
"Get some quarters!" Dean hollers back. He slams the door on Sam's irritated whatever handwave and turns back to the room and the inviting, paisley-covered, queen-sized expanse of his bed.
"Hello there," he purrs. Just the two of them, because it does get a bit weird with Sam watching, and okay, he's really hoping for three, but he has no idea how to summon Castiel. He can't remember the ritual Bobby had done in that farmhouse, and even if he could, Dean has the feeling that Castiel had only come because he wanted to, not because Bobby had compelled him. The same thing for Pam, and look what had happened to her.
Dean considers, and then rejects, closing his eyes and wishing really, really hard.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean's heart does something acrobatic and life-threatening in his chest, jackknifing up against his ribs almost hard enough to hurt. It settles back into place right at the moment he registers that he's heard the peculiar sound of Castiel's arrivals, the hmmm-hush like the low, vibrating hum of the wind through power lines. When he turns around (with what he's sure is a completely freaked-out look on his face), Castiel's standing right there behind him, in the spill of faint light that the window provides.
"Cas," Dean breathes. "Jesus."
"He isn't here," Castiel says calmly. "But if you would like, I can get him for you."
That's either a joke or a sincere offer, and glaring narrowly at Castiel doesn't help Dean figure it out. Castiel gazes back at him, disheveled and serene, like maybe he's figuring out a hell of a lot more about Dean Winchester than Dean's figuring out about him. "I didn't invite you here to read my god- - my freaking mind," Dean says, when Castiel looks a bit too long and a bit too deep, and Castiel just tilts his head, a silent okay then, why?
"For this," Dean says, takes a step back so Castiel can see the bed and the small beige-painted metal box affixed to the wall next to it. Anticipation kicks around in his gut as Cas steps closer to inspect it. Cas's coat rustles, improbably loud, in Dean's otherwise silent room.
"You were speaking of this one time," Castiel says, like the time Dean had spoken of it hadn't involved the two of them working each other off in a laundry room.
"'This' is fucking Magic Fingers, Cas. It's one of the few things that make life worth living." Dean holds up a hand to head off the theological argument he can see brewing in the suddenly testy set of Castiel's mouth. "I'm serious, man. It's as close as we mere mortals will ever get to heaven on earth. It's why God gave us opposable thumbs."
"Really."
"Yes, really." Dean takes a breath for patience. Usually, patience isn't something he bothers with when Castiel comes around. Likely that's a bad policy, considering Castiel can burn him to dust while in his true form, or make his head explode by saying "hello" in his angelic voice, but something about Cas makes it hard to play nice. "C'mon, I'll show you."
He kicks off his shoes and flops down on the side of the bed closest to the coin slot, and motions for Castiel to go around the other side. Castiel does this wordlessly, despite the vaguely bemused look on his face. He sits down hesitantly on the bed, the cheap mattress dipping under his weight, and Dean remembers another bed, a lot like this one, and a trip back in time.
"No, wait, take of your coat. You have to... you have to be relaxed, see? It's like," Dean tries to think of something Castiel might understand. "Like a ritual. An exorcism, but instead of demons, you're exorcising all that tension." And there's tension all right, in the lines under Castiel's eyes and around his mouth. He hasn't shaved, so his chin's rough, but how much of that is fatigue and how much is Castiel not caring, Dean can't say.
Castiel shrugs out of his coat agreeably enough, and even pulls off his tie without prompting. Not, Dean supposes, that he really needs the tie off, it's that loose. He loses the shoes as well, and Dean is seized with the bizarre urge to laugh at sensible black dress socks. The next thing to do, persuade Castiel to lie back and relax, is accomplished without too much trouble, and Dean decides that Castiel's secretly intrigued and trying to play it off with all that zen-like angelic coolness. It's a pretty damn gratifying thought.
"Get ready to experience tingling relaxation and ease, my friend." Dean drops a quarter in the slot, ka-chink-chink-thunk, and there's that too-long heartbeat of wondering if the thing's going to work. But even as he asks himself if machine's going to start up, the gears turn over with an arthritic creak, something groans ominously, and the bed lurches into rumbling, resonant motion.
"Ohhhh, yeah." Dean can feel himself go boneless, his skull suddenly weighing three hundred pounds and his entire body transformed into a mass of I'm not fucking moving any time soon. "Feel that? That is heaven, my man."
He can't feel Castiel move, unless it's in the slightest changes to the bed's racketing thrum-thrum-thrum vibrations.
"I don't - " Castiel says something Dean can't make out. " - is relaxing?"
"You better believe it." Dean cracks one eye open and tries to look at Castiel without moving too much; Castiel looks, well, severely out of place, and not very relaxed, staring straight up at the ceiling and every line of his body shouting tension. "Just lie there, okay? Lie there and just, you know, let yourself feel it. Or whatever. Deep breaths, in and out. Tingling relaxation and ease, remember."
Castiel takes one deep breath and then another, like he's steeling himself for battle. For all Dean knows, he is. He adds in some stuff about "in and out" and how sometimes you can hear the bassline to "Enter Sandman", and somewhere between his own words and the soothing magic of the Magic Fingers, he loses track of time, and the fifteen minutes blurs into five seconds and an hour, the weird timeless space of just existing and letting that sweet, sweet humming fill his head.
The bed jostles to an abrupt stop, and the only thing that snaps him out of it is Castiel asking him if it's over. Cas is peering at him with a confused expression, line between his brows and everything, like he can't quite figure out if this is enjoyable or not.
"Oh, not by a long shot; I still have three quarters left," Dean tells him. He makes himself move, leaning up on one elbow to drop another quarter in the slot. The bed starts up again, a bit less dramatically. Dean sighs and flops back down, and is gratified - maybe too gratified - when Castiel resettles on the pillow.
Thrum-thrum-thrum goes the bed, only now Dean can't completely divorce his brain from the awareness that Castiel is in bed with him, right next to him, in fact. They're in some whole new region of weird now, because he and Cas don't - they aren't like this. Whenever they see each other, they either have philosophical disagreements over more of Castiel's orders or, if it's seal-related (meaning three times now), Castiel tracks him down after victory or defeat and it's either an hour of exhilaration or feeling like he's slowly, slowly being washed clean of every failure in his life. They don't lie next to each other on a slightly-too-small bed, completely silent because the motor is too noisy for talk.
Dean risks a glance at Castiel's face, and his heart, which has settled into the same rhythm as the bed, stumbles out of gear for a moment. Because Cas looks… His eyes are shut, and his face has gone loose with pleasure, and one hand is resting carelessly across his stomach, like maybe he was rubbing at an itch on his side but had forgotten, and that might be - no, it is, it is, the faintest smile, on Castiel's lips. And maybe Dean looks too long, or maybe the Magic Fingers are messing with his brain, but Castiel looks brighter somehow, not in a scary angel sort of way, but like he's happy or content and maybe this is kind of how he's supposed to look when he isn't going around smiting people and exorcising demons.
He doesn't really register his eyes closing, not even drifting off to the tune of the hum-buzz-thrum up and down his muscles and in his bones. Eyes are closing, he thinks, which is a totally screwy thought to have, but time's doing that crazy oozing-flowing thing where it goes all slow-motion and he has time to think about how his eyes are closing and yet he can still see Castiel lying there, face saying that he's drifting and peaceful and back in heaven.
The next thing he knows, the bedside clock says it's an hour and fifteen minutes further down the road, and there's absolutely no memory of sitting up to drop more quarters in the slot. Dean knows for a fact he didn't have enough quarters on him for more than forty-five minutes, and they're all still there, small flat discs in a back pocket.
"Uriel would lecture me for using my powers in the pursuit of human pleasure," Castiel's saying. Dean has the sense of coming into the middle of a conversation; Castiel's sitting up, tie around his neck. His fingers tie the knot with surprising gracefulness, but immediately tug the tie loose again.
"You… you Obi-Wan'ed the Magic Fingers." Dean stares at the box and then at Castiel, who shrugs and actually looks embarrassed. "I think that's the coolest thing you've ever done."
"If only Uriel would agree," Castiel says dryly. He stands, and so does Dean - he can't stand having Cas look down at him, too much a reminder of what Castiel is, what Dean is, not that looking down at Cas from his two extra inches of height make any difference. Castiel still dwarfs him.
"I must go now," Castiel says with angelic formality. The smile he offers Dean, though, is less stiff, more honest, and Castiel even looks surprised by that. "Thank you, though."
"Don't mention it," Dean tells him. "At least, not to Uriel."
Castiel laughs his soft huff of a laugh, raises one hand - it might be a benediction, or a gesture of reaching, started as one thing but turning into something else - and disappears, slip-rustle-hush of wings back to wherever it is he goes.
Probably, Dean decides, it isn't as awesome as right here, and he reaches into his pocket for one more quarter.
-e-
A sequel to my Porn Battle fic, What Is Next to Godliness. In which Dean introduces Castiel to one of mankind's greatest inventions.
The Beginning of Wisdom
Dean needs a whole lot more towns, two months, and what's probably one huge coincidence, until he finds what he's looking for. At last, at long fucking last, he pulls into the Irish Hills Inn over Sammy's protests that there's a nicer motel ten minutes away - and yeah, the leprechauns in the rock garden outside reception freak him the hell out, and the decor looks like the inside of someone's gall bladder, but still, the place has what he needs. He can't keep from rubbing his hands together, and his grin is probably a bit deranged, but he can't help that either.
Sam only needs one look inside their room to render judgment, Dude, intervention, and vanish back to the car.
"Getting food," he hollers over his shoulder. "You two can have some time alone."
"Get some quarters!" Dean hollers back. He slams the door on Sam's irritated whatever handwave and turns back to the room and the inviting, paisley-covered, queen-sized expanse of his bed.
"Hello there," he purrs. Just the two of them, because it does get a bit weird with Sam watching, and okay, he's really hoping for three, but he has no idea how to summon Castiel. He can't remember the ritual Bobby had done in that farmhouse, and even if he could, Dean has the feeling that Castiel had only come because he wanted to, not because Bobby had compelled him. The same thing for Pam, and look what had happened to her.
Dean considers, and then rejects, closing his eyes and wishing really, really hard.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean's heart does something acrobatic and life-threatening in his chest, jackknifing up against his ribs almost hard enough to hurt. It settles back into place right at the moment he registers that he's heard the peculiar sound of Castiel's arrivals, the hmmm-hush like the low, vibrating hum of the wind through power lines. When he turns around (with what he's sure is a completely freaked-out look on his face), Castiel's standing right there behind him, in the spill of faint light that the window provides.
"Cas," Dean breathes. "Jesus."
"He isn't here," Castiel says calmly. "But if you would like, I can get him for you."
That's either a joke or a sincere offer, and glaring narrowly at Castiel doesn't help Dean figure it out. Castiel gazes back at him, disheveled and serene, like maybe he's figuring out a hell of a lot more about Dean Winchester than Dean's figuring out about him. "I didn't invite you here to read my god- - my freaking mind," Dean says, when Castiel looks a bit too long and a bit too deep, and Castiel just tilts his head, a silent okay then, why?
"For this," Dean says, takes a step back so Castiel can see the bed and the small beige-painted metal box affixed to the wall next to it. Anticipation kicks around in his gut as Cas steps closer to inspect it. Cas's coat rustles, improbably loud, in Dean's otherwise silent room.
"You were speaking of this one time," Castiel says, like the time Dean had spoken of it hadn't involved the two of them working each other off in a laundry room.
"'This' is fucking Magic Fingers, Cas. It's one of the few things that make life worth living." Dean holds up a hand to head off the theological argument he can see brewing in the suddenly testy set of Castiel's mouth. "I'm serious, man. It's as close as we mere mortals will ever get to heaven on earth. It's why God gave us opposable thumbs."
"Really."
"Yes, really." Dean takes a breath for patience. Usually, patience isn't something he bothers with when Castiel comes around. Likely that's a bad policy, considering Castiel can burn him to dust while in his true form, or make his head explode by saying "hello" in his angelic voice, but something about Cas makes it hard to play nice. "C'mon, I'll show you."
He kicks off his shoes and flops down on the side of the bed closest to the coin slot, and motions for Castiel to go around the other side. Castiel does this wordlessly, despite the vaguely bemused look on his face. He sits down hesitantly on the bed, the cheap mattress dipping under his weight, and Dean remembers another bed, a lot like this one, and a trip back in time.
"No, wait, take of your coat. You have to... you have to be relaxed, see? It's like," Dean tries to think of something Castiel might understand. "Like a ritual. An exorcism, but instead of demons, you're exorcising all that tension." And there's tension all right, in the lines under Castiel's eyes and around his mouth. He hasn't shaved, so his chin's rough, but how much of that is fatigue and how much is Castiel not caring, Dean can't say.
Castiel shrugs out of his coat agreeably enough, and even pulls off his tie without prompting. Not, Dean supposes, that he really needs the tie off, it's that loose. He loses the shoes as well, and Dean is seized with the bizarre urge to laugh at sensible black dress socks. The next thing to do, persuade Castiel to lie back and relax, is accomplished without too much trouble, and Dean decides that Castiel's secretly intrigued and trying to play it off with all that zen-like angelic coolness. It's a pretty damn gratifying thought.
"Get ready to experience tingling relaxation and ease, my friend." Dean drops a quarter in the slot, ka-chink-chink-thunk, and there's that too-long heartbeat of wondering if the thing's going to work. But even as he asks himself if machine's going to start up, the gears turn over with an arthritic creak, something groans ominously, and the bed lurches into rumbling, resonant motion.
"Ohhhh, yeah." Dean can feel himself go boneless, his skull suddenly weighing three hundred pounds and his entire body transformed into a mass of I'm not fucking moving any time soon. "Feel that? That is heaven, my man."
He can't feel Castiel move, unless it's in the slightest changes to the bed's racketing thrum-thrum-thrum vibrations.
"I don't - " Castiel says something Dean can't make out. " - is relaxing?"
"You better believe it." Dean cracks one eye open and tries to look at Castiel without moving too much; Castiel looks, well, severely out of place, and not very relaxed, staring straight up at the ceiling and every line of his body shouting tension. "Just lie there, okay? Lie there and just, you know, let yourself feel it. Or whatever. Deep breaths, in and out. Tingling relaxation and ease, remember."
Castiel takes one deep breath and then another, like he's steeling himself for battle. For all Dean knows, he is. He adds in some stuff about "in and out" and how sometimes you can hear the bassline to "Enter Sandman", and somewhere between his own words and the soothing magic of the Magic Fingers, he loses track of time, and the fifteen minutes blurs into five seconds and an hour, the weird timeless space of just existing and letting that sweet, sweet humming fill his head.
The bed jostles to an abrupt stop, and the only thing that snaps him out of it is Castiel asking him if it's over. Cas is peering at him with a confused expression, line between his brows and everything, like he can't quite figure out if this is enjoyable or not.
"Oh, not by a long shot; I still have three quarters left," Dean tells him. He makes himself move, leaning up on one elbow to drop another quarter in the slot. The bed starts up again, a bit less dramatically. Dean sighs and flops back down, and is gratified - maybe too gratified - when Castiel resettles on the pillow.
Thrum-thrum-thrum goes the bed, only now Dean can't completely divorce his brain from the awareness that Castiel is in bed with him, right next to him, in fact. They're in some whole new region of weird now, because he and Cas don't - they aren't like this. Whenever they see each other, they either have philosophical disagreements over more of Castiel's orders or, if it's seal-related (meaning three times now), Castiel tracks him down after victory or defeat and it's either an hour of exhilaration or feeling like he's slowly, slowly being washed clean of every failure in his life. They don't lie next to each other on a slightly-too-small bed, completely silent because the motor is too noisy for talk.
Dean risks a glance at Castiel's face, and his heart, which has settled into the same rhythm as the bed, stumbles out of gear for a moment. Because Cas looks… His eyes are shut, and his face has gone loose with pleasure, and one hand is resting carelessly across his stomach, like maybe he was rubbing at an itch on his side but had forgotten, and that might be - no, it is, it is, the faintest smile, on Castiel's lips. And maybe Dean looks too long, or maybe the Magic Fingers are messing with his brain, but Castiel looks brighter somehow, not in a scary angel sort of way, but like he's happy or content and maybe this is kind of how he's supposed to look when he isn't going around smiting people and exorcising demons.
He doesn't really register his eyes closing, not even drifting off to the tune of the hum-buzz-thrum up and down his muscles and in his bones. Eyes are closing, he thinks, which is a totally screwy thought to have, but time's doing that crazy oozing-flowing thing where it goes all slow-motion and he has time to think about how his eyes are closing and yet he can still see Castiel lying there, face saying that he's drifting and peaceful and back in heaven.
The next thing he knows, the bedside clock says it's an hour and fifteen minutes further down the road, and there's absolutely no memory of sitting up to drop more quarters in the slot. Dean knows for a fact he didn't have enough quarters on him for more than forty-five minutes, and they're all still there, small flat discs in a back pocket.
"Uriel would lecture me for using my powers in the pursuit of human pleasure," Castiel's saying. Dean has the sense of coming into the middle of a conversation; Castiel's sitting up, tie around his neck. His fingers tie the knot with surprising gracefulness, but immediately tug the tie loose again.
"You… you Obi-Wan'ed the Magic Fingers." Dean stares at the box and then at Castiel, who shrugs and actually looks embarrassed. "I think that's the coolest thing you've ever done."
"If only Uriel would agree," Castiel says dryly. He stands, and so does Dean - he can't stand having Cas look down at him, too much a reminder of what Castiel is, what Dean is, not that looking down at Cas from his two extra inches of height make any difference. Castiel still dwarfs him.
"I must go now," Castiel says with angelic formality. The smile he offers Dean, though, is less stiff, more honest, and Castiel even looks surprised by that. "Thank you, though."
"Don't mention it," Dean tells him. "At least, not to Uriel."
Castiel laughs his soft huff of a laugh, raises one hand - it might be a benediction, or a gesture of reaching, started as one thing but turning into something else - and disappears, slip-rustle-hush of wings back to wherever it is he goes.
Probably, Dean decides, it isn't as awesome as right here, and he reaches into his pocket for one more quarter.
-e-