Miracle Anti-Aging Cream (5/?)vikkiMarch 27 2010, 14:41:36 UTC
Castiel was persuaded to eat some beef with broccoli in the end, sharing some of Sam's meal while seated at the table. Castiel demonstrated that usage of a fork and knife was absolutely not beyond an angel.
(Sam shoved Dean's shoulder when Dean looked surprised by this. "What? I mean - dude!"
"He's an angel, Dean, not a caveman," Sam hissed. "Just because he hasn't watched Rambo doesn't mean he's stupid."
Castiel looked at them both, calmly chewing. "This has a strong flavor of salt.")
"So what does Jimmy think about all this?" Dean asked.
"The--Jimmy doesn't know what's happening. He's - asleep." Castiel said the word like that wasn't what he meant, staring into space, as if he had just left the building and was looking at something beyond the walls of the motel room. When he came back, he pursed his lips thin. "The spell effects him, not me."
"Right." Dean looked down long enough to stab the last piece of General Tsao's chicken with his fork.
When he looked up, Castiel was about six inches shorter, his face rounder and smoother, and he looked very startled.
"Holy shit, Cas!" Dean dropped his fork into the takeout box with a clatter. Behind him Sam looked round in surprise and half-rose off the bed.
"It advanced," Castiel said in a voice that now didn't crack at all, and bent his head to push up the sleeves on his now too-large sweatshirt.
"Okay, that's it," Dean snapped, setting his food aside and rolling his sleeve up again. he reached for the silver knife under his pillow. "Come on, Cas, get up--!"
Castiel slid off his seat, and his jeans slid right off his hips. Castiel looked at his pants pooled around his skinny ankles; Sam stared, and Dean looked away. Castiel's sweatshirt covered everything from his mid-thighs and up, but the moment quickly became awkward.
"I, uh, I might have a --" Sam stammered, but even as he watched, suddenly Castiel's jeans were around his waist again, as if they'd never fallen - except that Castiel grabbed the material at his hips, frowning.
"I'll get some rope," Sam said, finding his tongue, and ducked out of the motel room.
Dean knelt in the narrow space between kitchenette and bedroom, beckoning Castiel over, prepared with a towel and knife and the sketch the angel had drawn. "So let me guess: that's how you figured out you were getting younger. Dropping trou'." Dean smirked.
Castiel fixed Dean with an angelic stare calculated to freeze blood in its veins. It should have been pretty effective, except that Dean thought de-pantsing was too funny, and Castiel looked about nine, small and hardly inimidating. Which meant that the smirk didn't slide off Dean's face until he met Castiel's eyes and saw the being that had done him the little favor of pulling him out of Hell. Tiny package or not, Dean subsided.
"Okay. Killjoy," Dean grumbled. "I need the sweatshirt off."
"I can't let go of my pants," Castiel said. He almost sounded as if he was sulking in that child's pitch.
Dean had to purse his lips to keep from laughing. "... Mojo it off," he suggested.
"Got it," Sam announced as he ducked back into the motel, which solved that problem.
(Sam shoved Dean's shoulder when Dean looked surprised by this. "What? I mean - dude!"
"He's an angel, Dean, not a caveman," Sam hissed. "Just because he hasn't watched Rambo doesn't mean he's stupid."
Castiel looked at them both, calmly chewing. "This has a strong flavor of salt.")
"So what does Jimmy think about all this?" Dean asked.
"The--Jimmy doesn't know what's happening. He's - asleep." Castiel said the word like that wasn't what he meant, staring into space, as if he had just left the building and was looking at something beyond the walls of the motel room. When he came back, he pursed his lips thin. "The spell effects him, not me."
"Right." Dean looked down long enough to stab the last piece of General Tsao's chicken with his fork.
When he looked up, Castiel was about six inches shorter, his face rounder and smoother, and he looked very startled.
"Holy shit, Cas!" Dean dropped his fork into the takeout box with a clatter. Behind him Sam looked round in surprise and half-rose off the bed.
"It advanced," Castiel said in a voice that now didn't crack at all, and bent his head to push up the sleeves on his now too-large sweatshirt.
"Okay, that's it," Dean snapped, setting his food aside and rolling his sleeve up again. he reached for the silver knife under his pillow. "Come on, Cas, get up--!"
Castiel slid off his seat, and his jeans slid right off his hips. Castiel looked at his pants pooled around his skinny ankles; Sam stared, and Dean looked away. Castiel's sweatshirt covered everything from his mid-thighs and up, but the moment quickly became awkward.
"I, uh, I might have a --" Sam stammered, but even as he watched, suddenly Castiel's jeans were around his waist again, as if they'd never fallen - except that Castiel grabbed the material at his hips, frowning.
"I'll get some rope," Sam said, finding his tongue, and ducked out of the motel room.
Dean knelt in the narrow space between kitchenette and bedroom, beckoning Castiel over, prepared with a towel and knife and the sketch the angel had drawn. "So let me guess: that's how you figured out you were getting younger. Dropping trou'." Dean smirked.
Castiel fixed Dean with an angelic stare calculated to freeze blood in its veins. It should have been pretty effective, except that Dean thought de-pantsing was too funny, and Castiel looked about nine, small and hardly inimidating. Which meant that the smirk didn't slide off Dean's face until he met Castiel's eyes and saw the being that had done him the little favor of pulling him out of Hell. Tiny package or not, Dean subsided.
"Okay. Killjoy," Dean grumbled. "I need the sweatshirt off."
"I can't let go of my pants," Castiel said. He almost sounded as if he was sulking in that child's pitch.
Dean had to purse his lips to keep from laughing. "... Mojo it off," he suggested.
"Got it," Sam announced as he ducked back into the motel, which solved that problem.
tbc
Reply
Leave a comment