Fic: "Fur and Pretty Teeth" [PG - Dean/Cas, for daggomus_prime]
TITLE: “Fur and Pretty Teeth”
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: PG
PAIRINGS: Dean/Cas, mentions of Sam/Jess
SPOILERS: None
WARNINGS: AU, RPF-real pet fiction?
WORDCOUNT: 3,734
SUMMARY: On the subject of rats.
DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all associated content is the property of Eric Kripke and The CW. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for my beloved daggomus_prime, in honour of the late, great Richard Nixon, who was the awesomest rat on the face of the planet. (Sounds like I’m talking about something else, don’t it?) This was meant to be a birthday fic for the lovely lady herself, but alas, I’ve been too busy feeding her porn for our spn_j2_bigbang project instead; she was very helpful with the rat info, however, since without her knowledge this couldn't have been written. I make no apologies for the fluff, though I do give silent thanks to Jensen for the unacknowledged use of his dog. Thanks also to blue_fjords for the swift beta! Title stolen from the Margaret Atwood poem, “Rat Song”.
“Fur and Pretty Teeth” by nanoochka
Not that Dean is homophobic or anything, but Sam and Jessica seriously have the gayest dog on the face of the planet. Quantitative studies have been done, and the results are unanimous: that dog is the canine equivalent of dressing up in Richard Simmons short-shorts, a sparkly tiara and a feather boa, then going out for a night on the town. And somehow the damn thing has become Dean’s responsibility.
Although Dean might, on occasion, be partial to dick himself, that doesn’t mean he wants to be seen walking an obnoxious ball of white fluff around San Diego, the likes of which tends to bark annoyingly at every human, animal, car, or stationary object to cross its path. Icarus, the aforementioned, is a two-year-old Cockapoo-don’t even get Dean started-which, according to Sam, was a surprise rescue-slash-birthday gift from his wife shortly before the birth of their first child. Dean wishes he could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, considering Sammy’s had a thing for big dog breeds since he was twelve.
According to Jess, she’d been unable to leave little Icarus to languish on the side of the road with the other pound giveaways. Something about hormone fluctuations and the sadness in his rheumy eyes. Sam, ever the respectful husband-and a good enough lawyer to know when to keep his mouth shut-insisted a small dog was actually a good choice, what with a baby on the way. Over a year and a half later, Sam’s more or less enamoured of the yappy little shit, and so the decision was never repealed.
Dean would really fucking like to repeal that decision now.
With Sam, Jess and baby Johnny in the Maldives for a family holiday, Dean is in San Diego for a couple weeks to house- and dog-sit until they return. This is supposed to be a vacation for him, too, since South Dakota is currently buried beneath a solid couple feet of snow, and business at the salvage yard is at a crawl. Bobby, his boss, all but chased him out of state when Dean got the request from his brother and sister-in-law. Mostly he’s grateful, because the trip so far has been sunny and warm and restorative, but Dean now knows getting on that plane was the first step in a long string of dog-related bullshit that somehow led him… here.
'Here' being the inside of a vet’s office, Icky lying miserable and sick at Dean’s feet while they wait their turn to be seen. Somewhere inside the little guy’s stomach, a baby’s pacifier languishes.
As far as veterinarian’s offices go, this one is pretty nice. The AC is set to a temperature that’s cool, but not so cold as to freeze the sweat off Dean’s back, and there’s Neil Young playing on the radio instead of the awful elevator music ubiquitous to doctor’s offices everywhere. Like all animal medical facilities, it smells of kibble and antiseptic. The receptionist is pretty cute, a slender punk with neon blue hair who greeted Dean with a once-over and a slow smile upon receiving Icarus’s patient info, but other than that, this isn’t quite how Dean imagined spending his Saturday afternoon. He leaves in two days, and planned on tanning his Dakota-pale ass by the pool before hitting the strip and finding an attractive girl or boy to take home. No such luck.
What weirds him out most is that, alongside the little girl with the sick parakeet and the aging cat lady with stylized tigers on her sweatshirt, there’s this man in the waiting room wearing a suit and trenchcoat that makes Dean hot just looking at him. Not in the good way. He’s youngish, early thirties maybe, dark-haired and with big, blue eyes the colour of seawater. He’s also got the sweetest mouth Dean’s seen on a person in a long, long time-in fact, it’s giving him ideas that threaten the fit of his jeans if he doesn’t get himself under control in the next five minutes.
Only problem is, dark-and-handsome has no discernable reason for being in the vet’s office; there’s no animal of any kind with him, and he lacks the equipment-be it a leash, carrier or otherwise-that might suggest he’s here to collect his pet. To make matters worse, he’s got one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his trench, already an iffy choice around children, and every few seconds will move it around like he’s, well… fondling something. Dean is too perturbed to find the thought remotely sexy.
It’s a long wait. Parakeet girl is called into the vet’s office, followed by cat lady, leaving Dean and the possible exhibitionist alone together in the waiting room. Icarus heaves a long-suffering sigh from Dean’s feet that ends in a despondent, drawn-out whimper; it even tears at Dean’s Cockapoo-loathing heart. Poor guy. He really is a good dog, is Icky, if a bit hyperactive and yappy for Dean’s tastes. Aside from the constant demands for affection and the suspicious looks he been giving Dean’s favourite pair of boots since he arrived in San Diego-well, and the pacifier-eating thing-Icarus has actually been pretty chill. No digging holes in Jessica’s garden; no unnecessary shows of aggression or territoriality in the form of pissing on the furniture. Though Dean is still put off by the dog’s liquid eyes and vacant expression, he wouldn’t have wished this kind of discomfort on the little dude.
“What’s wrong with him?”
The sudden question snaps Dean out of his musings, and he jerks a little in his chair, abrupt enough to make Icarus glance up at him in mild alarm. None other than trenchcoat guy could have spoken; with a slow curl of panic, Dean realizes that the receptionist has disappeared, abandoning him to the perversions of a man who is obviously jacking himself through his coat pocket. There’s totally a bulge in there-Dean can see it through the fabric. Shit’s gonna get real and Dean will have to make a scene, in a public place no less, and in front of all god’s little creatures and possibly an old lady or two.
Be chill, Dean reminds himself. He’s a big guy, strong from all those hours at the salvage yard hauling engine blocks around, and though the suit and trenchcoat distort his figure a little bit, Dean can tell the other man isn’t particularly large; he has the look about him of someone who might cry at the first threat of violence. He’s probably a Buddhist and doesn’t believe in that shit.
“What?” Dean responds articulately.
The man nods in Icky’s direction, expression neutral but with a touch of concern in his eyes. “Your dog. Is everything alright?” His voice is deep and gravelly, the kind of voice you’d expect to be recording audiobooks of H. P. Lovecraft short stories, or calling in ransom requests.
Dean wants to say, Obviously not, before he remembers not all animals who visit the vet’s office are automatically sick, and despite being a bit of a creep, the man is just being friendly. Maybe this is how he lures in his victims: sweet-talks them into complacency before he rips open his jacket to show off a pair of women’s underwear or a ball-spreader or something.
Instead Dean clears his throat and says, “Swallowed my nephew’s pacifier on my watch. I didn’t want to saddle my brother with it when he gets back from vacation, so here we are. I’m hoping he’ll just poop it out or something, though.”
Frowning, the man tilts his head to one side and gazes down at Icarus, sprawled on the floor like he’s just been given last rites. He really is a beautiful guy, thinks Dean, in a scruffy, distracted way. Too bad he seems like such a weirdo.
“It’s unlikely he will expel the pacifier naturally,” he says slowly, shooting Dean an apologetic look. “For a dog of his size, surgery will probably be required in order to remove the object. The procedure is extremely expensive and your brother will undoubtedly be upset.” At Dean’s horrified expression, he shrugs. “My apologies; I felt you should know. Though it is very common for household pets to swallow foreign objects. Such as elastics. Elastics are very bad.”
Confused, Dean just stares at him for a minute, trying to figure out whether this guy seriously talks like Rain Man, or if he’s just having Dean on. “Are you for real?” he asks, and the man’s whole expression pinches momentarily before he narrows his eyes and turns away to gaze out the office’s picture window in offended silence. Dean recoils slightly, abashed, knowing he crossed a line and not really sure why he felt compelled to do so in the first place.
Hoping to do the polite thing and reciprocate the question, Dean realizes he might be able to settle some of his own curiosity by toning down the hostility and cutting his assumptions off at the pass. “What are you here for?” he asks hesitantly. “Pardon my saying so, but you seem kind of… empty-handed.” Dean curses himself for the poor choice of words.
With eyebrows raised, the man glances back at Dean and studies him in a thoughtful way, understandably wary after Dean has all but called him an idiot to his face. “I am not 'empty-handed',” he answers coldly.
Chastised, Dean sighs and spreads his hands apologetically, remembering at the last second not to make the gesture too dramatic and end up jerking Icky’s leash. “Look, man, I’m sorry. This whole thing has me stressed out since it’s not even my dog, and I didn’t mean to… insult you. Because that’s obviously what I did.”
A few moments of silence pass, and eventually the man nods. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry also if I provided further stress over your pet; that wasn’t my intention. I was simply trying to prepare you.”
Dean nods. “Well… thanks. Guess I’m gonna learn the awful truth eventually.” Impulsively, he trades the end of Icarus’s leash to his other fist and holds out his free hand. While the jury’s still out on whether or not he’s a pervert, the guy seems a decent enough sort. “I’m Dean, by the way.”
Accepting the handshake, the man nods. “Castiel.” He pulls away, but then, to Dean’s surprise and slight apprehension, starts to withdraw his other hand from the pocket of his trenchcoat. Dean braces himself for something horrific, though he couldn’t possibly guess what, and yet what Castiel slides from his pocket is so unexpected that Dean actually snorts a laugh.
It’s a rat.
Castiel must know what a surprise this is, because he blushes a charming pink and shields the animal protectively with his free hand. Not that Dean has an issue with rodents-snakes, maybe-but he thinks the little guy is pretty subdued-looking. For a rat. Whiskers twitching, it crawls around on Castiel’s lap to investigate its surroundings, but doesn’t venture further than the edges of Castiel’s knees. Even Icarus seems happy to overlook the new addition beyond a twitch of his eyes in Castiel’s direction.
“This is Richard Nixon,” says Castiel, voice free of irony.
“Richard Nixon,” repeats Dean.
“Yes.”
Dean wonders if he’s supposed to shake a paw or something, but Castiel doesn’t seem too perturbed when he doesn’t offer. “It’s… uh, nice to meet you, Mr. President,” he says instead, quirking a crooked smile.
Obviously the tone of Dean’s voice is a dead giveaway, because Castiel sighs and curls his hand back around the rodent. He says, “I know what you’re thinking.”
Dean holds up his hands. “Not thinking anything. Except that maybe I’m glad there was a rat in your pocket and not-” Castiel’s eyebrows lift sharply, and Dean shakes his head and tries really hard not to point out that he was half-right about Castiel stroking his Dick. “Nevermind.”
Disbelieving, Castiel folds his hands around Richard Nixon and stares at a point on the wall just past Dean’s head. Already Dean can tell he’s about to launch into a speech he’s given many times before, just from the way his posture straightens and he clears his throat a little. “Rats are extremely intelligent animals,” he begins.
Dean nods. “Never said they weren’t, man,” he interjects in a placating tone. Okay, so maybe this guy isn’t a flasher or a child molester, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a few screws loose. Shame, he thinks, because Castiel is goddamned beautiful. Probably intelligent, too, though all that info is probably crammed in his head Raymond Babbitt-style.
But Castiel isn’t done. “People only associate rats with garbage and waste, but rats are extremely clean, and will even groom their owners once enough trust has been built. You can train them to use a litter box; they will learn their names and come when called; they don’t bite. Rats are wonderful pets and are constantly the victim of unfair labelling.”
“Okay.”
Shoulders slumping, Castiel gives Dean a look that is impassive but still manages to communicate he’d hoped for a better response. “Richard Nixon was a test animal at the university lab where I work,” he explains. “But he’s retired now, and I decided to give him a proper home. He’s been a very good test subject.”
“This is why you don’t name the animals,” mutters Dean, and when Castiel cocks his head, he says, more loudly, “That’s a really nice gesture, Cas.”
“My name is Castiel,” he corrects, but then pauses to consider. “Although, Richard was called Subject 47 before my colleague, Gabriel, re-named him. So I suppose a nickname might be acceptable. Cas does sound more… normal.”
Unable to help himself, Dean grins at him. Normally he tries to give the science geeks a wide berth-he just doesn’t have the patience for that kind of social retardation most of the time-and yet something about Cas is sort of disengaging, charming even. “You never had a nickname before?”
Shaking his head, Cas shrugs a little. “No. I didn’t grow up in that kind of family, if my name itself is of any indication.”
A hint of unexpected fondness creeps its way into Dean’s smile, makes his cheeks flush in a way that shouldn’t be possible in the cool office environment. “Well, you should stick with it-Cas suits you.”
“Thank you.”
Hoping to shift the subject onto less awkward territory, Dean nods to indicate the rat. “Is Richard Nixon sick or something?” he asks.
With a shake of his head, Castiel scratches affectionately between the rat’s ears. “No. He’s in good health. But now that he will be living with me, it seemed prudent to have him neutered.”
Before Dean can ask why, Cas turns the animal over in his hands, revealing the biggest set of cojones Dean has ever seen on an animal. They protrude like a pair of swollen walnuts from Richard Nixon’s nether region, comically huge given the small size of the rat. Christ, he thinks, even a fucking Great Dane doesn’t pack that kind of heat. Dean makes a face, lip curling as he tries not to recoil too clownishly in his seat.
Cas notes Dean’s reaction with a small nod. “So, you understand,” he says. “But it gets worse. In addition to the size of their genitals, male rats also produce something called ‘buck grease’ due to the overabundance of testosterone in their systems. It’s a type of bright orange oil and smells foul. Overall, the effect is rather disgusting and off-putting to any visitors I might have.”
At this, Dean cracks a smile. “The ladies don’t dig it, huh?”
Frowning, Cas just stares back at him. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t really… ‘dig’ the ladies.”
Well now. Dean pauses at that, partly surprised and partly unable to believe his luck. Not, of course, that it means anything one way or another that Cas is gay, but it makes Dean feel marginally less guilty for horndoggin’ it over the guy in the middle of a waiting room.
Watching Dean closely, Cas continues to frown. It seems even when Dean’s thinking positive thoughts, the man manages to misinterpret him. “Does that bother you?” he asks, voice cold.
Dean starts. “What? No!” He shakes his head with vehemence, wonders if he shouldn’t have been so quick to disown Icky as his own, if being in possession of such a ridiculously fluffy dog might have identified him as at least a part-time member of Castiel’s team. “I’m not always one for the ladies either, man.”
“Oh.”
Shifting in his seat, Dean adds, experimentally, “I wouldn’t find Dick’s testosterone problem that off-putting, if I came to visit.” Beneath Cas’s stare, he starts to wonder what the hell he’s even doing, hitting on someone who, five minutes ago, he was sure belonged on the registered sex offenders’ list.
Unfortunately, Cas doesn’t seem to know, either. Somehow he manages to arch his eyebrow and wrinkle his forehead at the same time, an expression which nevertheless conveys that Dean might be the strangest person he’s ever met. Well, the feeling is mutual, but Dean thinks he kinda likes it. “What are you saying?” Cas says slowly. “That you’d… like to come visit?”
Dean shrugs. “Maybe?” Meaning, of course, yes.
Cas snorts. Along with the sound, the tiniest of smiles appears on his face, crinkling his eyes and making his nose wrinkle in a way that makes Dean fucking melt. Its appearance alone is enough to confirm Dean in his spontaneous decision to flirt with this weird dude with the exhibitionist’s coat and the former lab-rat he keeps as a pet, the strange beauty of Cas’s face heightened a thousandfold by even the smallest expression of amusement. Though he can’t explain why-and Dean never gets like this over anyone-Dean’s damn proud to have put it there, would gladly work to see it again. Hell, he’d turn tricks like Icarus does for dog treats if it’d score him a few brownie points and another shy crook of those amazing lips, another glimpse of the faint laugh-lines around those electric eyes when Cas smiles.
Still watching Dean with a considering expression on his face, Cas finally bites his lip and looks down at his hands, distractedly petting the rat nestled like precious cargo in his lap. Dean knows he’s being measured and weighed, in a sense, and it occurs to him that, if it’s slightly strange for him to be asking out someone like Cas, whose first impression included ‘Rain Man’ in the description, then it’s equally likely Cas might hesitate to accept an offer from a guy whose first instinct was to insult him. In that light, and the longer Cas’s silence continues to stretch, it seems more and more probable that he’ll just tell Dean to fuck off.
Eventually, and to Dean’s great relief, Cas smiles again, this time with a hint of teeth. If Dean wasn’t sure before, then he really is now, and grins back in a way that probably makes him look like a lunatic. “Perhaps a drink first,” Cas suggests. Dean swears his voice drops a whole octave, maybe unconsciously, but the effect has Dean worrying again about how tight his jeans are getting. To this, at least, Cas seems not oblivious, but amused. “After that… we can see how it goes. It looks like we may both be free of our charges tonight.”
Before Dean can answer, the receptionist returns to the waiting room with a clipboard and calls Icarus’s name, flashing a winning smile when Dean glances his way. Although Dean barely notices, too busy grinning his agreement at Castiel, he stands and jogs over to the front desk to snatch the pen out of the receptionist’s hand.
“Can I borrow this?” he asks and, not waiting for permission, crosses back across the room to where Cas is still seated with Richard Nixon in his lap.
He takes Cas’s hand and turns it over so the palm is facing up towards him. “Don’t get buck grease all over this,” he advises, smirking, and writes out his cell phone number across Castiel’s hand, the blue ink stark against the pale skin and creasing against his lifeline. “I really want you to call, and it’d be a shame for you to lose it before you can teach me more about how awesome rats are.”
Cas smiles, broader now and full of promise; his fingers curls a little around Dean’s. “I won’t lose it.”
"So you'll call me?"
"I will."
“Good.” Releasing his palm, Dean crouches to scoop Icarus up off the floor, murmuring a quiet platitude when the dog whimpers in discomfort and tries to ball up in his arms. Milking it, no doubt, since he’s now got a sympathetic audience and a caretaker momentarily grateful to have taken him to the vet. Dean walks towards the door that leads to the examination rooms at the back of the clinic, ignoring the receptionist, whose face is a combination of impatience and amusement as Dean and Cas’s little exchange wraps up.
Just as he’s about to cross the threshold, Dean turns back and flashes what he knows is his most winning smile, one he doesn’t break out unless he sees something he really wants. “Cas?”
Blue eyes blink at him. “Yes, Dean?”
Nodding towards Richard Nixon, who sits complacent and oblivious to the swift-approaching fate of his genitalia, Dean says, “From one guy to another, I think you should spare the little dude. It’s not his fault he’s got giant balls.” When Cas lifts an eyebrow, Dean can’t help but laugh at the puzzlement in his expression. “I’ll say one thing for ‘em-they obviously bring good luck. Just don't go rubbin' 'em or anything.”
The door closes behind him to the sound of Castiel’s quiet chuckle, and for a second Dean leans back against the wall and lifts Icky so that he can stare into the dog’s droopy eyes. Despite having a foreign object lodged in his tiny stomach, Icarus’s ears perk up in delight at the happy expression on Dean’s face, mouth opening on a puppy smile as his tail gives a tentative twitch.
Dean smiles back, scritches the little critter behind the ears in reward for taking one for the team. Clearly Icky knows something about how to pick up cute guys in San Diego that Dean doesn’t. “Thanks, buddy,” Dean says cheerfully, and promises to pamper the goddamn dog for the remainder of his trip like it was his own freaking kid. “I owe you one.”
Fin