Tower | SPN - Dean/Castiel | G
Dean hears their office chair roll across wood, and after a moment, Castiel’s head appears over the sill. “What is it now, Dean?”
Though the day is dripping sunshine, every so often a chilly breeze comes off the water and threatens to scatter Dean’s carefully mounded pile of leaves. One comes now, he uses the rake to cage them in. “Nice day out,” he says offhandedly.
Castiel’s frown turns into an outright scowl.
“Think I left my phone on the nightstand,” Dean says, trying not to smile too hard in the face of his obvious irritation. “Could you grab it for me?”
“No,” Castiel says shortly.
“Please?”
Castiel glares. “I am trying to work, Dean. Get your own phone.”
“It’s Saturday, Cas,” Dean wheedles. “It’s beautiful out here. Come down for just a couple minutes?”
“No,” Castiel says stubbornly. “If I come down there, you’ll- you’ll have made something amazing for dinner, and there will pumpkin pie, and I’ll eat too much and then a cat will sit in my lap and I’ll get nothing done the rest of the evening.”
“That’s an oddly specific chain of events you’ve got worked out, there,” Dean says with a slow grin. “You want pumpkin pie tonight?”
“No,” Castiel says, and disappears from the window.
Dean looks down at Nabokov, who’s sitting with her tail curled around her feet, closely supervising her brood’s exploration of Dean’s leaf pile.
“Well, we better get cracking if he expects ‘something amazing’ and pie,” he says. “Right, girl?”
She gives him a disinterested look, but when he stoops to start gathering kittens, she jumps down from the deck and nabs Rosie, always the hardest to catch.
Castiel stumbles downstairs half an hour later, rubbing bleary eyes and pointing an accusatory finger at the stove. “I could smell it from upstairs, that’s not fair.”
“Yeah, your life bites,” Dean says as he reels him in. “It’s just terrible.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Castiel grumbles, lifting his face for the light kiss Dean drops on his lips. “You’re distracting.”
“And you’re a workaholic,” Dean says, giving him a one-armed squeeze. “Pot pie with cheddar biscuits okay?”
Castiel groans into his neck. “And pumpkin pie?”
“Mmm. In the oven as we speak.”
“… I hate you.”
“Nah, don’t think so.”
Though the day is dripping sunshine, every so often a chilly breeze comes off the water and threatens to scatter Dean’s carefully mounded pile of leaves. One comes now, he uses the rake to cage them in. “Nice day out,” he says offhandedly.
Castiel’s frown turns into an outright scowl.
“Think I left my phone on the nightstand,” Dean says, trying not to smile too hard in the face of his obvious irritation. “Could you grab it for me?”
“No,” Castiel says shortly.
“Please?”
Castiel glares. “I am trying to work, Dean. Get your own phone.”
“It’s Saturday, Cas,” Dean wheedles. “It’s beautiful out here. Come down for just a couple minutes?”
“No,” Castiel says stubbornly. “If I come down there, you’ll- you’ll have made something amazing for dinner, and there will pumpkin pie, and I’ll eat too much and then a cat will sit in my lap and I’ll get nothing done the rest of the evening.”
“That’s an oddly specific chain of events you’ve got worked out, there,” Dean says with a slow grin. “You want pumpkin pie tonight?”
“No,” Castiel says, and disappears from the window.
Dean looks down at Nabokov, who’s sitting with her tail curled around her feet, closely supervising her brood’s exploration of Dean’s leaf pile.
“Well, we better get cracking if he expects ‘something amazing’ and pie,” he says. “Right, girl?”
She gives him a disinterested look, but when he stoops to start gathering kittens, she jumps down from the deck and nabs Rosie, always the hardest to catch.
Castiel stumbles downstairs half an hour later, rubbing bleary eyes and pointing an accusatory finger at the stove. “I could smell it from upstairs, that’s not fair.”
“Yeah, your life bites,” Dean says as he reels him in. “It’s just terrible.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” Castiel grumbles, lifting his face for the light kiss Dean drops on his lips. “You’re distracting.”
“And you’re a workaholic,” Dean says, giving him a one-armed squeeze. “Pot pie with cheddar biscuits okay?”
Castiel groans into his neck. “And pumpkin pie?”
“Mmm. In the oven as we speak.”
“… I hate you.”
“Nah, don’t think so.”