SPN untitled Dean/Cas Star Trek fusion drabbles

[the_diggler]

Title: untitled Star Trek fusion {from tumblr}
Rating: PG-13 so far
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Genre: AU, sci-fi, fusion, pining, slightly domestic? no intent to smut.
Warnings: WIP-ish? there's no real end or direction yet, just plotless drabbling.
Word Count: around 1k all up
Summary: The captain of the USS-Impala likes to unwind in the holodeck at the end of the day...
Author's Notes: I wrote this out of a serious need for some sci-fi AU while I was watching a lot of Next Gen Star Trek, but then dropped it to write my first DCBB. Updating a little bit now because of Nimoy feels :(
Disclaimer: Supernatural and Star Trek ain't mine.



~

As soon as Dean enters the room he heads straight for the couch, collapsing back onto it with a sigh and sinking into its worn red leather. Before he can even muster the energy to reach for his whisky, two Orion slave girls emerge from the curtains on stage and practically writhe down the runway to where he’s sitting at the end of it. One of them is dressed in red leather, a pair of red devil horns on top of her head. The other is in white lingerie, wearing a halo and a fluffy pair of angel wings. Dean is aware that their outfits are completely out of place on their alien green skin, but at the time he made the program, it seemed like a good idea. And it usually does the trick, but it’s just not working tonight. In fact, the old Earth rock-song blaring on about cherry pies is starting to grate.

“Computer, end program,” Dean sighs wearily. With a short beeping sound, the girls and the stage disappear, to be replaced with walls of glowing gridlines, though the holodeck safety protocols keep him snugly seated on the couch. The sudden silence is welcome.

He’s just too tired. He’s spent five, very long, back to back shifts investigating the possible collapse of a dying star and the potential repercussions on the surrounding systems, and he’s exhausted.

The star had been beautiful once. A swirling mass of light and color which by rough translation had been named the ‘Morningstar’ by the surrounding systems. It had been too bright to support life, but its death is likely to disturb the equilibrium of the three nearby systems to the extent it might destroy several M-class planets and their civilizations, some of which are still barely post-industrial and haven’t even had First Contact from the Federation yet. It’s going to be an ethical and political nightmare. And since the USS-Impala is overseeing the data survey, it’s most likely they will be spearheading the evacuations as well.

Dean doesn’t mind that part. If it’s only the logistical matter of getting people to safety, he can handle that. And he would love to see what some of those new cultures have to offer. It’s just all the diplomatic rigmarole he’s not looking forward to.

Dean sighs again, dropping his head over the back of the couch and massaging his temples.

“Computer, run holodeck program Winchester Delta Three,” he mutters tiredly. Somewhere in the back of his brain he’s embarrassingly aware that he’s been using this program more and more often lately, and he knows he should feel a little guilty about it at least, but he really needs it tonight.

With another soft beeping noise, Dean is suddenly sitting in a near perfect replication of his quarters on the ship, glass of whisky once again at his side. His lips finally begin to curve into a smile when he hears the soothing swish of Vulcan robes, and the soft padding of a familiar gait, pausing in the doorway of his bedroom.

“Hello, Dean.”

~

Dean looks up from the amber swirl of his synthehol, swallowing hard at the sight of his Vulcan first officer standing in the entrance of his bedroom like an invitation.

“Hey Cas,” he rumbles, voice thick in his throat. The Vulcan raises an eyebrow at Dean’s near-empty glass, a gesture that would come across as judgmental on any other species. And even though Dean knows it’s not, he can’t help but take it as such anyway.

“Did you have a long shift?” Cas both asks and surmises at once.

“The longest,” Dean sighs heavily, leaning back on the couch and massaging his temples.

“I see,” Cas replies softly, crossing the room to take the glass out of Dean’s hand.

Dean watches, contemplative, as Cas refills his drink with a bottle from the replicator. “You were infuriating today,” he finally says.

“Was I?” Cas replies, tilting his head in both acknowledgement and enquiry. But when Dean fails to offer more at the unspoken prompt, Cas simply nods. “I’m sorry,” he apologises, handing Dean his drink.

“No you’re not,” Dean huffs sardonically.

“True,” Cas nods again. “But that is what you want to hear.”

Dean looks away. “I suppose,” he sighs again.

Cas pads quietly around the couch, standing behind him. “There are other ways to make amends,” he murmurs, resting his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

“Mmm,” Dean hums as Cas begins massaging his tense muscles. “Yeah,” he exhales, melting as those fingers work out the kinks in his neck with practised accuracy.

He supposes it’s not so far-fetched for Cas to be good at this. A basic understanding of human anatomy is all anyone really needs. Combined with that extra bit of Vulcan strength, and a logical attention to detail, Cas could rival the best masseurs of Risa.

But never on any of his visits to the famed pleasure planet had Dean developed such a fascination with his masseur’s hands, become hypnotized by the slender length of their fingers or the grace in their every movement, mesmerized by the smoothness of their skin with every touch. Never had Dean desired to press his lips to anyone’s hands the way he does when Cas touches him.

“Cas,” Dean sighs, reaching up to take Cas’ hand in his own, tiredly resting his cheek against their twined fingers.

Cas comes around the couch again, climbing up onto it and straddling Dean’s legs. Settling himself in Dean’s lap, he begins kneading Dean’s hand, massaging the stiffness out of his fingers.

Dean looks up through his lashes, watching Cas’ face as he works – the little furrow of concentration in between his eyebrows, the intense focus of those striking blue eyes – he wants to kiss Cas so badly.

But he doesn’t want to break the illusion.

Instead, Dean twists his hand in Cas’ grip, running the tips of his fingers along Cas’s in a Vulcan gesture of affection.

Cas looks up at the touch, tracing his fingers against Dean’s in return. “Come to bed,” he says, simple and matter-of-fact.

Dean nods, clasping Cas’ offered hand and allowing himself to be led to his bedroom.

~

A/N: I'm going to keep trying to add onto this whenever the mood strikes, but I'm really not sure where I'm going with it yet :s Any suggestions? Or any title suggestions at least?