FIC: Cutting it Close
Here's one of the fics I owe to fill prompts. My beta ended up not being to beta this after all, so I apologize for any/all mistakes you find in here. Enjoy!
Title: Cutting It Close
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters Dean/Castiel, Sam
Genre: fluff, romance, being human lessons
Spoilers: Up to 6.13
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~6,100
Summary: After Dean convinces Sam to get a haircut, Castiel becomes curious about more aspects of being human. Dean helps him figure out just what those aspects entail. Set some time after season 6.
Author’s Note: For pyjamagurl , based on her prompt “something snuggly, possibly with hands in hair, etc., because I’m in a kind of sappy mood.” Well, the “hands in hair” idea got lodged in my brain and wouldn’t let go, so this is what developed. I hope it gets snuggly enough for you!
Cutting it Close
They’re in the middle of settling into the next nameless motel room when Dean looks up from his duffle to see Sam card a hand through his hair. It doesn’t do much to pull the hair out of his face, because as soon as his hand reaches his side his hair falls back into place. Dean shakes his head, feeling stupid for the incredibly fond feeling that fills his chest.
“You think you could…” he starts, but stops before he can finish his thought.
Sam looks up from setting his computer on his bed. “Could I what?”
Dean clears his throat, thinks about it for a moment, before raising a hand that’s fisted around a fake FBI badge to wave vaguely at Sam’s head halfway across the room.
“It’s just…” He pauses, but Sam’s raised eyebrow prompts him to continue, “You’re kinda starting over again, yeah?”
“Uhh…” Sam says. He looks uncomfortable for a moment. “Yeah. And?”
Dean throws his ID down onto the bed, zips his duffle closed with too much force.
“Just… thought you’d want to go for a different look, y’know?” He risks a glance at Sam and sees him staring at him. “It’s just,” he starts abruptly, “the long hair’s kinda screaming psycho killer, isn’t it?”
Sam’s silent for a beat before saying, “Not really, Dean,” with a snort chasing his words past his lips.
Dean rolls his eyes and throws his duffle onto the floor beside his bed. He grabs a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt, underwear, and starts to head for the shower to wash three days worth of sweat and road and stale coffee from his skin.
“But yeah,” Sam’s voice reaches him just before Dean steps into the bathroom. “Sure. Maybe you’re right.”
Dean looks back to see Sam standing in front of the room’s only mirror perched behind the dresser on the opposite side of the room. His duffel’s in front of him, but Sam’s staring into the mirror and carding a hand slowly through his hair. Dean smirks and silently congratulates himself on a job well done.
*
That’s how, Dean reasons, everything started. At least, if he had to point to a single moment when things started to change between him and Castiel, that’s the memory he’d point at and blame and say started everything. Not the looks between them, not the stares, not the sacrifices and the blood and the camaraderie formed over the Apocalypse and joined rebellions.
No. He’d blame it on Sam and his hair. Because Sam always had a way to bring out the girl in him, and Sam’s hair had, at that point, taken on a character and a life all of its own. And of course it would be in league with Sam at that point, before it was tamed.
*
Sam gets back from interviewing a witness the next day an hour late. Dean’s propped up against his headboard, Sam’s computer in his lap and a bag of long-gone-cold fries resting beside his right leg. Grease is seeping through the bag to the comforter beneath him.
“You’re late,” Dean says without looking up from the computer screen. There’s a real-time camera broadcasting footage from the lion habitat at the zoo they’ve been investigating. Dean got stuck with the job of surveillance, keeping watch for signs that the lions will start morphing into half-human, half-lion creatures like witnesses have begun to report. Dean’s seen nothing so far, except an enthusiastic feeding session and one of the male lions trying to roar his lungs out when the crowd got too large.
Dean’s never thought about lions much before, but after this he’s starting to think they’re kind of badass.
“Dude,” he says as Sam takes off his suit jacket. “These guys are awesome. All they do is sleep and roar and eat. Meat. Lots of meat.” And they give your hair a run for its money, he doesn’t add.
“I’m glad you’re working hard, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean looks up to give him the finger but ends up choking on a fry instead.
Sam’s had a haircut.
Sam’s hair has been cut nice and neat. The top part falls to just above his eyebrows, and the back is trimmed to only an inch or two. It’s still longer than Dean’s, than Castiel’s, than a lot of hunters Dean knows, but it’s cut. And Dean doubts it would very much flow in the wind anymore like it has the last hunt or two when they’ve had to make a quick escape.
“Dude,” Dean says. “You actually listened.”
Sam snorts and throws his jacket over the back of a chair. “Yeah,” he says. “Turning over a new leaf, right?”
He walks across the room and into the bathroom. The sound of the faucet as he washes his hands layers over his voice when he asks, “Did you find anything interesting?”
Dean shakes his head, and goes back to staring at the computer screen and the live feed of badass carnivores.
“Zilch,” he says. “How ‘bout you?”
*
Life goes on normally for about a day. It takes Dean the length of that entire day to get used to Sam’s haircut enough that he doesn’t do a double take every time he glances at Sam to see if that’s really his brother he’s looking at. But by the end of that day he’s acclimatized well enough. By the time Castiel shows up he thinks he’s gotten used to it, mostly. So when Castiel pops into their motel room, takes one look at Sam and freezes, Dean’s at a loss as to why.
“Cas?” Dean asks.
Castiel’s eyes skitter to Dean, hold his gaze for a moment before snapping back to Sam.
“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, cautiously.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “There a problem, Cas?”
“No,” Castiel says slowly. “I don’t think so.” He takes a few steps towards Dean and Dean stands up from his seat on the bed to meet him.
“Something up?” Sam’s eyes are pleading when his gaze finally lands on Dean.
“No,” Castiel repeats.
“Dude,” Dean snaps. Castiel jumps, and when he settles he turns to glare at Dean. He looks confused, like he’s trying to piece something together.
“Something’s off,” Castiel says. “With Sam.”
Dean looks to Sam, and fear shoots through him quick and hot when he thinks it might be related to Hell and Michael and Lucifer.
But then Sam starts to laugh, and he sits at the lone table in the room, lounging back as his laughter fills the air.
Dean looks to Castiel, and Castiel takes a step closer to Dean. His eyes are still on Sam. “Should we be… worried?”
“Cas,” Sam sighs, laughter stopped for a moment. “It’s a haircut.”
Castiel goes still at Dean’s side. “Haircut?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Like… getting your ears lowered?”
Castiel’s eyes widen in horror, and Dean rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel looks down at his touch, and Dean squeezes his shoulder gently. “Dude, you’re a freakin’ angel of the Lord and you’ve never heard of a haircut?”
Castiel looks up at Dean. “The purpose of a haircut is to… shorten hair?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. His smile is a mile wide.
“Then angels have no need of it. We can control the body’s functions.”
“Oh,” Dean says. Because yeah, that makes sense. “Well, that’s… cool.” He glances at Sam. “You couldn’t have taught Sam that trick?”
Sam throws a pencil at him, and Dean sidesteps the projectile.
“It’s a nontransferable talent,” Castiel says.
Dean rolls his eyes and looks to Castiel again. Castiel’s staring at Dean’s hand on his shoulder again, and Dean clears his throat thinking about withdrawing his touch. But then Castiel’s glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and Dean forgets about moving at all.
“So, Cas,” Sam says, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin and looks hastily away from Castiel. “You know anything about sphinxes?”
“Yes.”
“Great.” Sam opens the file folder sitting in front of him, looks at the papers paper-clipped to photos and police reports he stole from the police station the day before. “You should stick around,” he says. “We could use some help.”
Castiel pauses only a moment before nodding. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks,” Sam says, but the grin he throws Castiel’s way lands on Dean, and Dean thinks it’s too self-satisfied and full of secret agendas to mean anything good.
*
It’s been over eight months since Sam got his soul back. Seven months since he recovered some memories of his time in Hell. It’s been four since Castiel worked a miracle and made it so that Dean no longer has to worry on a day to day basis that he’s going to wake up one morning to find Sam drooling on his pillow and raging mad, or Sam’s going to collapse on another hunt and start going into seizures as another memory sears through his brain and pumps remembered pain through his body.
It’s been two months since Castiel’s civil war has reached an impasse. Two months since Castiel appeared one afternoon while Dean and Sam were driving through Kentucky and told them that if they needed it, he’d like to help them with the hunt and then he’d fallen silent. A month has passed since Dean woke up to Castiel sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands and quietly, slowly-painfully slowly-telling him how he’d killed his brother to end his war against humanity.
It’s been a month since Castiel started appearing regularly, and three weeks since Dean’s noticed Castiel slipping back into human habits. Dean asked him once, when Castiel had slid Dean’s plate of uneaten fries from Dean’s placeset to his and then commenced eating, if Castiel was losing his mojo. The answer he’d gotten, muffled by fried potato and delivered with a blue stare, had been that no, archangel’s were allowed certain… leeway where fraternizing with humans was concerned.
It’s been two weeks, six days, fifteen hours and thirty-two minutes since Dean realized that Castiel’s words had lifted a large, extremely heavy weight off his shoulders.
It’s the present day, the present time, and Dean’s still not really sure what that means. Or what to do with it.
*
Sam goes to visit the zoo in person the next day. “I’m worried you’re becoming obsessed with the suspects,” he’d said when Dean had asked why he found going to the zoo necessary when they had a free show set up for them in their motel room.
“They’re cool,” Dean had responded. “You just want to talk to that brunette zookeeper.”
Dean hadn’t missed Sam stumbling over his words, “Dean, really?” or how he made a hasty retreat after that. But that didn’t make a difference, because he’s still stuck in the motel room going over documents and waiting for Bobby to call with any information he’d found.
The sound of rustling feathers sends a small thrill through him even as relief makes him drop the folder to the table.
“Thank fucking Christ,” Dean sighs, and turns to see Castiel frowning at him. “What?”
Castiel sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything until he goes over to the table to look at the folder Dean’s abandoned. “You needed help with this case?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “but we’re kinda stuck at the moment. We’ve been over the files, but nothing’s coming up. And the lions are asleep tonight, and every other night.”
He shoots Castiel a grin, and is met with a blank stare.
“You need to watch The Lion King,” Dean mumbles.
Castiel frowns. “What’s that?”
Dean turns to look back at the file folder. “Nevermind,” he grunts, and motions for Castiel to sit. During the next forty-five minutes, Castiel gives Dean the entire history of the sphinx and its subsequent watered-down version that he thinks they might be dealing with. By the end of it, Dean’s head feels heavy with information, but there are a few new leads and he sends Sam a text telling him to check if lions’ eating or sleeping habits have changed in the past few weeks.
When Dean looks up from putting his phone on the table, he sees Castiel staring at him.
“What?”
Castiel’s quiet a moment longer. Then, “I don’t understand this… haircut thing.”
Dean sighs. “There’s not much to know,” he says. “Hair grows, people cut it, end of story.”
Castiel looks to the table. After a moment he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. His mouth closes.
“Spit it out, Cas.”
Castiel looks up, meets Dean’s gaze, and says, “It’s nothing.”
Dean nods slowly. “Okay,” he breathes out. Castiel goes back to work immediately, stealing the folder from Dean’s hands and rifling through papers. Dean watches him for a few moments before reaching out and tugging the papers to rest on the table between them.
*
It takes a week for Dean to notice anything’s different. They solved the case with the lions-as it turned out, one of the female zookeepers was indeed a sphinx, keeping watch over another member of the breed that had been hiding out in the lion habitat for a good seven years-and have moved onto the next town with rumors of a haunting. It’s a run of the mill case, something they haven’t handled since before the Apocalypse started, and it feels good to be able to take care of something ordinary and mundane and just a little bit boring.
They’re at a diner reviewing the case when Dean pauses in bringing his burger to his mouth. Castiel is sitting scrunched up against his side in a booth that’s a bit too small. He’s listening intently to the brothers discuss where the body of the ghost they’re dealing with might be buried and dipping his fries into his chocolate milkshake, eating in silence. Castiel’s been with them for the past three days, and Dean’s slowly gotten used to his presence. To the bedhead and the stares and the intrusion of personal space. But Castiel looks different today. It’s been bothering Dean all morning because he can’t place why or how Castiel looks different. It takes them sitting this close in a small booth for Dean to finally place it.
“Dude,” he says, returning his burger to his plate. “Do you need to shave?”
Castiel looks up from the case file spread out on the table and swallows his mouthful of fries and chocolate.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Do I?”
Dean doesn’t think, just reaches out a hand and rubs his thumb along the edge of Castiel’s jaw. Castiel’s jawbone is sharp against the pad of his thumb, his skin weatherworn, but there’s the definite scrape of stubble there.
“Dude,” Dean says. “You do.” There’s a small bit of wonder in his voice.
“I see,” is all Castiel says, and Dean uses his thumb to tilt Castiel’s face towards him, observing the extent of Castiel’s new dip into humanity.
“You sure this is… normal? Or okay?” Dean’s other hand joins his first, running fingertips over Castiel’s cheekbone.
“It’s fine, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low and too soft for the small space they’re enclosed in, and Dean’s eyes snap up to see Castiel watching him.
“You’re not…” Dean can’t continue.
“I’m still fully angel,” Castiel confirms.
“Oh.” Dean takes a breath in, nods. “Okay. Good.” He lets his left hand fall into his lap, and it takes a moment, one more brush against Castiel’s jaw, before his other hand falls to the table. Dean clears his throat as he faces his plate again, picks up his burger, and takes a bite.
When he looks up, Sam is staring at him, a small smirk on his face.
“What?” Dean demands, words muffled by meat and bread.
“Nothing,” Sam says, and stuffs a forkful of salad into his mouth, grinning as he chews.
Dean snaps his eyes to the case folder and tries to focus, but it takes another few minutes for the sensation that Castiel is watching him to pass.
*
Later that afternoon, Sam goes to interview the family at the house who’s been experiencing the haunting while Dean researches the town’s history at the local library. He finds what he’s looking for soon enough: the location of the grave of a girl who died violently in the house fifty years before. All it takes is a text to Sam and Sam agrees to salt and burn the sucker. The graveyard is on the outskirts of town and has been mostly abandoned for the past four years, so there’s little chance of Sam being seen even in daylight.
Castiel tags along with Dean, quite and oddly peaceful despite working on a case. Dean figures that he’s still winding down from years of civil war, and Dean appreciates the company, so he lets Castiel retain his silence.
When they return back to their motel room, however, Dean nudges Castiel with his elbow, and motions for Castiel to follow him into the bathroom.
“Dean?”
“Come on,” Dean says. “The librarian was giving you odd looks. You can’t go around with the trench coat and the crazy hair and the stubble. People are going to start thinking you’re a hobo.”
Castiel looks down at his trench coat as he follows Dean into the bathroom. “My apparel is not that different from other men and women,” he says.
Dean grins into his bathkit, pulls out a razor before rifling around in Sam’s and finding another one. “I know. But c’mon. Indulge me.”
Dean motions for Castiel to stand beside him in front of the bathroom mirror and Castiel falls into place at his side. Explaining the concept of shaving is rather easy, and Dean does so as he fills the sink with warm water and instructs Castiel to wet his face before he puts a dollop of shaving cream into Castiel’s palm. Dean demonstrates on his own face his instructions as he talks, and Castiel picks up the art and rhythm of shaving quickly. Pretty soon it’s silent in the bathroom as they work quietly side by side.
“This is,” Castiel says as he scrapes away the last of the stubble and shaving cream under his chin, “oddly soothing.”
Dean smirks and wipes his faces with a damp towel. “Say that again after you’ve been doing it for twenty years.”
Castiel takes the towel from Dean, wipes his own face, and says, “Okay.”
Dean huffs amusement and takes the razor from Castiel’s hand. He lets the water in the sink out and rinses the razors before setting them onto the counter to dry. When he looks up, Castiel is staring into the mirror. He’s moving his head around and pausing at different moments, and Dean thinks he’s admiring his stellar first shaving job when he notices Castiel’s eyes aren’t on his face, but on his hair. Dean looks closer, and raises an eyebrow.
“You let your hair grow out, too?”
Castiel pauses long enough in taking stock of his appearance to shoot Dean a look. “I thought it would be an interesting experiment.”
Dean snorts. “Only you, Cas.” His voice comes out softer, more affectionate than he’d planned. Castiel’s eyes stay on Dean a moment more before he looks away and resumes observing his reflection.
“Okay, Cas,” Dean says. “This isn’t Snow White.” He’s out of the bathroom before he can hear Castiel respond and returns with the scissors from the medical kit. Castiel is facing the doorway when he enters.
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks.
Dean holds up the scissors to show Castiel before placing them on the counter and reaching for a bath towel. “You want the whole human experience?”
Castiel nods.
“Then trust me.”
Castiel nods again without hesitation.
Dean looks at Castiel’s clothing before he taps two fingers against Castiel’s shoulder.
“Off,” he says.
Castiel stares at him.
Dean rolls his eyes. “If you want this to work without making a mess out of everything, take this off.” He tugs a little at the lapel of Castiel’s trench coat. Castiel processes the motion for a moment before he reaches up and haltingly tugs the coat off his shoulders, down his arms, and holds it awkwardly in one hand when he’s done.
“Just… put it on the toilet or something.”
Castiel frowns at him before his eyes fall on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. He steps to the left and hangs it up.
“All right, Mr. Clean,” Dean says, and tugs Castiel back with a finger through his belt loop. “Let’s see what we can do.”
After staring at Castiel for another moment, Dean decides the suit jacket has to go as well, and so that ends up hanging next to the trench coat. Castiel’s frame is smaller than Dean had imagined it would be-and he has imagined what Castiel would look like, he’s willing to admit that now-but there’s still power under Dean’s hands when Dean shakes out a bath towel and drapes it around Castiel’s shoulders, overlapping the front and throwing one end over the opposite like a kind of shawl.
Castiel looks down at Dean’s hands as he works.
“What’s the purpose of this?” he asks when Dean tugs the towel a little bit more, making sure it will stay in place throughout the process.
“When you cut hair,” Dean says, “it has to go somewhere. Gravity wins every time, Cas. Hair doesn’t just disappear.”
Castiel raises his face to Dean’s. “I could make it.”
Dean freezes in tugging at the towel. “Uh… no.” He brushes a hand over Castiel’s shoulder before turning to grab the scissors from the counter. “Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, and smirks as he turns to face Castiel. “Okay now,” he says, and moves in close enough to reach Castiel’s hair easily. “Hold still.”
Castiel follows Dean’s directions implicitly. Which is exactly the opposite of what Dean needs at the moment. It takes only a second for Dean to realize Castiel’s too tall for him to see the top of his head clearly, and so he stumbles over, “You’re gonna… have to…” before he shakes his head and reaches up to tilt Castiel’s face downwards so he can see the top of Castiel’s head.
“This isn’t going to work,” he mumbles, and Castiel is looking up again and taking a step back when Dean stops him and tugs him over to the counter with a hand around his wrist. When he reaches the counter, Dean releases Castiel’s wrist, turns, and hops up onto the counter. He waves a hand to beckon Castiel closer.
“You’ve done this before,” Castiel says, tone suspicious as he steps up to Dean. Dean puts a hand to Castiel’s waist and tugs him forward, widens his legs so Castiel can fit between and lean right up against the counter. Dean can feel his face burn with a blush.
“I used to have to do this for Sam,” he says. Castiel’s hair is easier to see now, and Dean hesitates only a moment before running his left hand slowly through Castiel’s hair, front to back, trying to comb it out and stand it on end to see where to start. “When we were little, there wasn’t a lot of time or money to stop for a trip to the barber’s, y’know?” He huffs. “Maybe that’s why his hair’s so ridiculous now.”
“Before he got it cut.”
“Yeah.”
Dean had expected Castiel’s hair to be rough, dry and course from neglect and zapping from one place to another. But it’s not. It’s the complete opposite. Castiel’s hair is soft and thick and healthy, and Dean runs his fingers through it more than necessary before lifting the scissors and making the first cut.
Castiel is silent, letting his head be moved by Dean as Dean gently nudges with a thumb or forefinger against Castiel’s chin or jaw or cheek to get him to look one way or the other so Dean can easily reach another patch of hair.
The silence is almost oppressing, with the beating of Dean’s heart the only sound filling up his ears.
“Do you…” Dean pauses, clears his throat. “So are you on a touchy-feely binge?”
Castiel looks up out of the corner of his eyes at Dean. “You’re referring to the human characteristics I’ve taken on.”
Dean nudges his knee against Castiel’s hip. “No, I’m talking about the poetry and Michael Bolton you’ve been breaking into.” He tilts Castiel’s head to the right to card his fingers through the hair behind Castiel’s ear, thumb brushing over the shell of his ear before making a cut.
Castiel lets his breath out slowly. “Despite… falling,” he says, “I rather enjoyed certain aspects of being human.”
Dean nods. “So now you figure test the waters again? See if it sticks?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Dean tilts is body to the right to reach the back of Castiel’s head. “Are you still enjoying it?”
Castiel nods, and Dean stops him quickly with a hand beneath his chin.
“Don’t move,” he says.
Castiel doesn’t.
Dean continues in his task, carding hands through Castiel’s hair and ruffling it on occasion to see how it settles and if strands are still too long. Castiel goes with it. He’s silent and moves easily any way that Dean needs him to. And Dean’s still floored sometimes that Castiel trusts him enough to do things like this, to trust enough that Dean won’t harm him when Castiel is relaxed and vulnerable with his neck bared to Dean. It’s not been so long since Dean caused Castiel’s faith in him to crumble. And yet he’s here, now, and Dean finally understands what it means to feel humbled. The feeling is sunk so deep in his bones now he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get rid of it, or if he wants to.
Dean’s almost done, working at Castiel’s left temple, when he nudges the back of Castiel’s knee with his heel. “Turn a little this way,” he mumbles, and Castiel does so immediately, his hand rising up to rest against the top of Dean’s thigh.
The touch is innocuous, merely a means to keep balance and turn to where Dean needs Castiel to go. But Castiel’s palm is warm and flat against Dean’s leg, and Dean can feel the heat through his jeans.
Dean focuses on the softness of Castiel’s hair beneath his fingers, on the way it will only take one more cut to complete the haircut, and he makes it. He ruffles Castiel’s hair again, dislodging stray hair, before he smoothes the hair down with a few more careful strokes. He opens his mouth to speak as he looks down to Castiel’s face.
Dean doesn’t say a word. Castiel’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, and Dean watches, speechless, as he takes in Castiel’s features unobserved.
Dean’s heartbeat is raging in his ears now, and his chest feels ridiculously tight. He takes one slow, steady breath in to relieve the tension, but it doesn’t work. And in that moment he feels Castiel’s fingers twitch against his thigh, just a slight tightening before they relax, and Dean’s breath rushes out of him.
“Cas?” Dean’s voice is stuck somewhere in the back of his throat, and he swallows and realizes there’s an odd lump making the action difficult.
Castiel hums in response. It’s a lazy, blissed out kind of sound, one Dean imagines wouldn’t be foreign in a bed, in tangled, rumpled sheets on a lazy Sunday morning. It makes something in Dean’s chest ache and jump at the same time, and Dean tightens his fingers into a gentle grip in the hair at the base of Castiel’s skull. He tugs softly down to tilt Castiel’s face up.
Castiel’s eyes blink open slowly, and Dean thinks the world’s suddenly started to move in slow motion, because it seems to take centuries for Castiel’s gaze to focus on his own.
“You’ve got…” Dean starts, and Castiel’s brow twitches before his lips curve into an unknowing frown. Dean lowers his hand to place the scissors on the counter, and hears them clatter into the sink when he doesn’t look down to see if he’s placed them on a flat surface.
“Nevermind.” He lifts his hand again, and reaches forward to brush a stray hair lying on Castiel’s cheek off with his thumb.
Castiel’s breath is warm and steady, and Dean’s leaning close enough to feel the soft puff of air on his lips. Everything smells like Cas, like cotton and musk and a taint of ozone, and Dean’s helpless to do anything but lean forward, tugging Castiel towards him with his hand grasping at hair, to see if that’s how Castiel tastes as well.
Castiel’s lips are dry, but his face is soft and warm from his recent shave. Dean’s heart rams up against his ribcage, but he’s prepared for that, and he’s prepared for the stillness he gets in response. What he isn’t prepared for is the soft sound of surprise Castiel makes. Dean pulls back at that, breath unsteady. He licks his bottom lip, and even with only the briefest of contacts he tastes something foreign and addictive.
“Uhh,” he says, because Castiel isn’t moving. His fingers, however, have tightened around Dean’s thigh, and Dean doesn’t know how to read that. Not from Castiel. “Oops?” His fingers loosen in Castiel’s hair, prepare to let go.
Castiel leans slightly forward then, and Dean holds his breath as Castiel’s nose bumps into his, and then his forehead is leaning against Dean’s brow, putting pressure against Dean to tilt his head slightly back. The movement is slow and lazy, and Dean moves one hand to grip tight onto Castiel’s shoulder as it becomes harder to breath. By the time Castiel’s lips brush against his, Dean has raised a leg to press his heel against the back of Castiel’s thigh, pulling him closer, and Dean figures he can’t be held responsible for the soft moan that escapes his throat.
Castiel kisses like he does most things. With a single-minded devotion, a sureness and thoroughness that guarantees he’ll be able to dissect, analyze, and then retain enough information to forever be an expert on whatever he sees, does, hears. And this is no different, except in how he goes about it. Dean’s seen him charge into battle, eyes blazing and sword drawn, fierce and absolute. But the kiss starts soft and chaste despite the steadfast pressure and intent behind it. And it’s chaste for a long time, until Dean loosens his grip enough on Castiel’s hair to card his fingers through his hair again. Castiel makes a soft growling noise in the back of his throat at the motion, and Dean smiles against his lips before he opens his mouth and shows Castiel what else kissing can do.
Castiel takes to it like a charm, and for the next indefinite amount of time Dean’s lost to the slow movement and the realization that yeah, Castiel does taste like he smells, only there’s something different, something deeper, that Dean can’t seem to get enough of.
When the kiss slows, Dean can feel the chill of the mirror pressing up against his back. His right thigh is dangling over the empty air of the sink. But Castiel’s hand his clamped hard on his waist, and his other arm is bracketing Dean’s other side, and Dean’s sure that the cold of the bathroom tile and the precarious balance he’s found on the bathroom counter doesn’t really matter when you have an angel spotting you.
“Okay,” Dean murmurs, when Castiel stops kissing him and simply breathes, his breath ghosting over Dean’s lips. Dean opens his mouth and catches Castiel’s breath in his mouth. “Okay,” he whispers, softer.
“Okay?” Castiel asks, and his voice is loud against the tile of the bathroom.
Dean chuckles, and cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair again, once, twice, before uncurling his fingers from around Castiel’s shoulder and bringing that hand up to card through Castiel’s hair as well. He stops after a moment, grips Castiel’s hair in a loose hold with both hands on either side of his head.
“Yeah,” Dean says, and brings Castiel forward to catch on his tongue the soft sounds Castiel makes when Dean licks into his mouth.
*
“I thought you didn’t like this part of human interaction.”
Dean nudges his toe against Castiel’s calf. “Shut up.” His words are muffled by Castiel’s hair. “I’m trying to give you the full scope of the human experience. Unless you’d rather not.”
Castiel’s silent for a moment before saying, “No. I think I need to research this a bit more.”
Dean huffs and rearranges his arms around Castiel’s waist to tug Castiel further back against him. “You do that.”
It’s early evening, the winter sun set beneath the horizon and throwing the motel room into darkness. The motel heater is broken, but underneath the comforter with the sheets tugged up to his and Castiel’s chin, it’s more than warm.
Dean breathes in slowly, and Castiel’s hair tickles his nose as he does so. But Dean presses his body up against Castiel’s in front of his and closes his eyes and breathes in again.
“Sam.”
Dean grunts. “Cas? You’ve got the wrong brother here.”
Dean yelps as Castiel pinches his arm.
“Sam is going to be returning soon.” Castiel tilts his head up as if to look back at Dean. But all it accomplishes is putting his temple within kissing distance. Dean takes advantage of the situation.
“Sam can wait. Here.” He untangles one arm from around Castiel’s waist and waves it in the general direction of the night table on Castiel’s side of the bed. Dean’s limbs feel heavy and warm and Dean can’t remember a time when he felt quite like this. “My phone.”
Castiel lifts up his head, and Dean grumbles when Castiel leans up on an elbow and stretches away to grab Dean’s phone off the night table. The phone taps against Dean’s knuckles and Dean opens his hand to receive it. He tugs at Castiel’s waist, and frowns when instead of falling back into the curve of Dean’s body Castiel rolls away, over onto his stomach and looks back to watch Dean.
“Spoilsport,” Dean grumbles, and opens his cell phone to text Sam. The backlight blinds him for a moment, and he squints as he types out a message. “This should keep him away for a while,” he says, and presses send.
When he snaps the phone closed and his eyes adjust to the dark, he turns his head to glance at Castiel. Castiel’s watching him, holding his upper body up off the bed by his elbows. His hair, shorter now, is sticking straight up in the back.
Dean smirks, opens his phone back up, and scrolls until he pulls up his camera.
“Say ‘cheese,’ Cas.”
“Why do you want-”
The flash goes off and Dean laughs at the picture that appears on the face of the phone.
“You have too much free time on your hands,” Castiel says, voice low and gravel-rough. Dean opens his mouth, but his response is stillborn when Castiel’s fingers cover his over the phone and snap it closed. By the time Dean’s eyes adjust to the dark again, Castiel is already kissing him.
Dean grins when it ends. “You have a solution for that?”
Castiel grunts. “Maybe.”
The mattress shifts under Castiel’s weight as he moves close to Dean again, and Dean starts rolling towards him but is stopped by a hand on his hip. He doesn’t protest until Castiel starts rolling him in the opposite direction.
He frowns. “Hey.”
Castiel’s knee slides in between Dean’s legs, lifts up and forward so his thigh nudges Dean’s body onto its side, and Dean grunts when Castiel’s arm slides under his body and tugs his hip back towards him, maneuvering him so that Castiel can slide in against Dean’s back.
“Cas-”
“Shut up,” Castiel says, voice soft against the shell of Dean’s ear. His arms settle around Dean’s waist as he moves in close, pressing his chest against Dean’s back and intertwining their legs. “I’m researching.”
Dean chuckles, tosses his phone onto the bed and wraps a hand around Castiel’s forearm. He knocks his head back against Castiel until he feels Castiel’s warm breath dancing over his scalp.
“Whatever you say, Cas.”
Title: Cutting It Close
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/Characters Dean/Castiel, Sam
Genre: fluff, romance, being human lessons
Spoilers: Up to 6.13
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~6,100
Summary: After Dean convinces Sam to get a haircut, Castiel becomes curious about more aspects of being human. Dean helps him figure out just what those aspects entail. Set some time after season 6.
Author’s Note: For pyjamagurl , based on her prompt “something snuggly, possibly with hands in hair, etc., because I’m in a kind of sappy mood.” Well, the “hands in hair” idea got lodged in my brain and wouldn’t let go, so this is what developed. I hope it gets snuggly enough for you!
Cutting it Close
They’re in the middle of settling into the next nameless motel room when Dean looks up from his duffle to see Sam card a hand through his hair. It doesn’t do much to pull the hair out of his face, because as soon as his hand reaches his side his hair falls back into place. Dean shakes his head, feeling stupid for the incredibly fond feeling that fills his chest.
“You think you could…” he starts, but stops before he can finish his thought.
Sam looks up from setting his computer on his bed. “Could I what?”
Dean clears his throat, thinks about it for a moment, before raising a hand that’s fisted around a fake FBI badge to wave vaguely at Sam’s head halfway across the room.
“It’s just…” He pauses, but Sam’s raised eyebrow prompts him to continue, “You’re kinda starting over again, yeah?”
“Uhh…” Sam says. He looks uncomfortable for a moment. “Yeah. And?”
Dean throws his ID down onto the bed, zips his duffle closed with too much force.
“Just… thought you’d want to go for a different look, y’know?” He risks a glance at Sam and sees him staring at him. “It’s just,” he starts abruptly, “the long hair’s kinda screaming psycho killer, isn’t it?”
Sam’s silent for a beat before saying, “Not really, Dean,” with a snort chasing his words past his lips.
Dean rolls his eyes and throws his duffle onto the floor beside his bed. He grabs a clean pair of jeans, a t-shirt, underwear, and starts to head for the shower to wash three days worth of sweat and road and stale coffee from his skin.
“But yeah,” Sam’s voice reaches him just before Dean steps into the bathroom. “Sure. Maybe you’re right.”
Dean looks back to see Sam standing in front of the room’s only mirror perched behind the dresser on the opposite side of the room. His duffel’s in front of him, but Sam’s staring into the mirror and carding a hand slowly through his hair. Dean smirks and silently congratulates himself on a job well done.
*
That’s how, Dean reasons, everything started. At least, if he had to point to a single moment when things started to change between him and Castiel, that’s the memory he’d point at and blame and say started everything. Not the looks between them, not the stares, not the sacrifices and the blood and the camaraderie formed over the Apocalypse and joined rebellions.
No. He’d blame it on Sam and his hair. Because Sam always had a way to bring out the girl in him, and Sam’s hair had, at that point, taken on a character and a life all of its own. And of course it would be in league with Sam at that point, before it was tamed.
*
Sam gets back from interviewing a witness the next day an hour late. Dean’s propped up against his headboard, Sam’s computer in his lap and a bag of long-gone-cold fries resting beside his right leg. Grease is seeping through the bag to the comforter beneath him.
“You’re late,” Dean says without looking up from the computer screen. There’s a real-time camera broadcasting footage from the lion habitat at the zoo they’ve been investigating. Dean got stuck with the job of surveillance, keeping watch for signs that the lions will start morphing into half-human, half-lion creatures like witnesses have begun to report. Dean’s seen nothing so far, except an enthusiastic feeding session and one of the male lions trying to roar his lungs out when the crowd got too large.
Dean’s never thought about lions much before, but after this he’s starting to think they’re kind of badass.
“Dude,” he says as Sam takes off his suit jacket. “These guys are awesome. All they do is sleep and roar and eat. Meat. Lots of meat.” And they give your hair a run for its money, he doesn’t add.
“I’m glad you’re working hard, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean looks up to give him the finger but ends up choking on a fry instead.
Sam’s had a haircut.
Sam’s hair has been cut nice and neat. The top part falls to just above his eyebrows, and the back is trimmed to only an inch or two. It’s still longer than Dean’s, than Castiel’s, than a lot of hunters Dean knows, but it’s cut. And Dean doubts it would very much flow in the wind anymore like it has the last hunt or two when they’ve had to make a quick escape.
“Dude,” Dean says. “You actually listened.”
Sam snorts and throws his jacket over the back of a chair. “Yeah,” he says. “Turning over a new leaf, right?”
He walks across the room and into the bathroom. The sound of the faucet as he washes his hands layers over his voice when he asks, “Did you find anything interesting?”
Dean shakes his head, and goes back to staring at the computer screen and the live feed of badass carnivores.
“Zilch,” he says. “How ‘bout you?”
*
Life goes on normally for about a day. It takes Dean the length of that entire day to get used to Sam’s haircut enough that he doesn’t do a double take every time he glances at Sam to see if that’s really his brother he’s looking at. But by the end of that day he’s acclimatized well enough. By the time Castiel shows up he thinks he’s gotten used to it, mostly. So when Castiel pops into their motel room, takes one look at Sam and freezes, Dean’s at a loss as to why.
“Cas?” Dean asks.
Castiel’s eyes skitter to Dean, hold his gaze for a moment before snapping back to Sam.
“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, cautiously.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “There a problem, Cas?”
“No,” Castiel says slowly. “I don’t think so.” He takes a few steps towards Dean and Dean stands up from his seat on the bed to meet him.
“Something up?” Sam’s eyes are pleading when his gaze finally lands on Dean.
“No,” Castiel repeats.
“Dude,” Dean snaps. Castiel jumps, and when he settles he turns to glare at Dean. He looks confused, like he’s trying to piece something together.
“Something’s off,” Castiel says. “With Sam.”
Dean looks to Sam, and fear shoots through him quick and hot when he thinks it might be related to Hell and Michael and Lucifer.
But then Sam starts to laugh, and he sits at the lone table in the room, lounging back as his laughter fills the air.
Dean looks to Castiel, and Castiel takes a step closer to Dean. His eyes are still on Sam. “Should we be… worried?”
“Cas,” Sam sighs, laughter stopped for a moment. “It’s a haircut.”
Castiel goes still at Dean’s side. “Haircut?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Like… getting your ears lowered?”
Castiel’s eyes widen in horror, and Dean rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel looks down at his touch, and Dean squeezes his shoulder gently. “Dude, you’re a freakin’ angel of the Lord and you’ve never heard of a haircut?”
Castiel looks up at Dean. “The purpose of a haircut is to… shorten hair?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. His smile is a mile wide.
“Then angels have no need of it. We can control the body’s functions.”
“Oh,” Dean says. Because yeah, that makes sense. “Well, that’s… cool.” He glances at Sam. “You couldn’t have taught Sam that trick?”
Sam throws a pencil at him, and Dean sidesteps the projectile.
“It’s a nontransferable talent,” Castiel says.
Dean rolls his eyes and looks to Castiel again. Castiel’s staring at Dean’s hand on his shoulder again, and Dean clears his throat thinking about withdrawing his touch. But then Castiel’s glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and Dean forgets about moving at all.
“So, Cas,” Sam says, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin and looks hastily away from Castiel. “You know anything about sphinxes?”
“Yes.”
“Great.” Sam opens the file folder sitting in front of him, looks at the papers paper-clipped to photos and police reports he stole from the police station the day before. “You should stick around,” he says. “We could use some help.”
Castiel pauses only a moment before nodding. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks,” Sam says, but the grin he throws Castiel’s way lands on Dean, and Dean thinks it’s too self-satisfied and full of secret agendas to mean anything good.
*
It’s been over eight months since Sam got his soul back. Seven months since he recovered some memories of his time in Hell. It’s been four since Castiel worked a miracle and made it so that Dean no longer has to worry on a day to day basis that he’s going to wake up one morning to find Sam drooling on his pillow and raging mad, or Sam’s going to collapse on another hunt and start going into seizures as another memory sears through his brain and pumps remembered pain through his body.
It’s been two months since Castiel’s civil war has reached an impasse. Two months since Castiel appeared one afternoon while Dean and Sam were driving through Kentucky and told them that if they needed it, he’d like to help them with the hunt and then he’d fallen silent. A month has passed since Dean woke up to Castiel sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands and quietly, slowly-painfully slowly-telling him how he’d killed his brother to end his war against humanity.
It’s been a month since Castiel started appearing regularly, and three weeks since Dean’s noticed Castiel slipping back into human habits. Dean asked him once, when Castiel had slid Dean’s plate of uneaten fries from Dean’s placeset to his and then commenced eating, if Castiel was losing his mojo. The answer he’d gotten, muffled by fried potato and delivered with a blue stare, had been that no, archangel’s were allowed certain… leeway where fraternizing with humans was concerned.
It’s been two weeks, six days, fifteen hours and thirty-two minutes since Dean realized that Castiel’s words had lifted a large, extremely heavy weight off his shoulders.
It’s the present day, the present time, and Dean’s still not really sure what that means. Or what to do with it.
*
Sam goes to visit the zoo in person the next day. “I’m worried you’re becoming obsessed with the suspects,” he’d said when Dean had asked why he found going to the zoo necessary when they had a free show set up for them in their motel room.
“They’re cool,” Dean had responded. “You just want to talk to that brunette zookeeper.”
Dean hadn’t missed Sam stumbling over his words, “Dean, really?” or how he made a hasty retreat after that. But that didn’t make a difference, because he’s still stuck in the motel room going over documents and waiting for Bobby to call with any information he’d found.
The sound of rustling feathers sends a small thrill through him even as relief makes him drop the folder to the table.
“Thank fucking Christ,” Dean sighs, and turns to see Castiel frowning at him. “What?”
Castiel sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything until he goes over to the table to look at the folder Dean’s abandoned. “You needed help with this case?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “but we’re kinda stuck at the moment. We’ve been over the files, but nothing’s coming up. And the lions are asleep tonight, and every other night.”
He shoots Castiel a grin, and is met with a blank stare.
“You need to watch The Lion King,” Dean mumbles.
Castiel frowns. “What’s that?”
Dean turns to look back at the file folder. “Nevermind,” he grunts, and motions for Castiel to sit. During the next forty-five minutes, Castiel gives Dean the entire history of the sphinx and its subsequent watered-down version that he thinks they might be dealing with. By the end of it, Dean’s head feels heavy with information, but there are a few new leads and he sends Sam a text telling him to check if lions’ eating or sleeping habits have changed in the past few weeks.
When Dean looks up from putting his phone on the table, he sees Castiel staring at him.
“What?”
Castiel’s quiet a moment longer. Then, “I don’t understand this… haircut thing.”
Dean sighs. “There’s not much to know,” he says. “Hair grows, people cut it, end of story.”
Castiel looks to the table. After a moment he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. His mouth closes.
“Spit it out, Cas.”
Castiel looks up, meets Dean’s gaze, and says, “It’s nothing.”
Dean nods slowly. “Okay,” he breathes out. Castiel goes back to work immediately, stealing the folder from Dean’s hands and rifling through papers. Dean watches him for a few moments before reaching out and tugging the papers to rest on the table between them.
*
It takes a week for Dean to notice anything’s different. They solved the case with the lions-as it turned out, one of the female zookeepers was indeed a sphinx, keeping watch over another member of the breed that had been hiding out in the lion habitat for a good seven years-and have moved onto the next town with rumors of a haunting. It’s a run of the mill case, something they haven’t handled since before the Apocalypse started, and it feels good to be able to take care of something ordinary and mundane and just a little bit boring.
They’re at a diner reviewing the case when Dean pauses in bringing his burger to his mouth. Castiel is sitting scrunched up against his side in a booth that’s a bit too small. He’s listening intently to the brothers discuss where the body of the ghost they’re dealing with might be buried and dipping his fries into his chocolate milkshake, eating in silence. Castiel’s been with them for the past three days, and Dean’s slowly gotten used to his presence. To the bedhead and the stares and the intrusion of personal space. But Castiel looks different today. It’s been bothering Dean all morning because he can’t place why or how Castiel looks different. It takes them sitting this close in a small booth for Dean to finally place it.
“Dude,” he says, returning his burger to his plate. “Do you need to shave?”
Castiel looks up from the case file spread out on the table and swallows his mouthful of fries and chocolate.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Do I?”
Dean doesn’t think, just reaches out a hand and rubs his thumb along the edge of Castiel’s jaw. Castiel’s jawbone is sharp against the pad of his thumb, his skin weatherworn, but there’s the definite scrape of stubble there.
“Dude,” Dean says. “You do.” There’s a small bit of wonder in his voice.
“I see,” is all Castiel says, and Dean uses his thumb to tilt Castiel’s face towards him, observing the extent of Castiel’s new dip into humanity.
“You sure this is… normal? Or okay?” Dean’s other hand joins his first, running fingertips over Castiel’s cheekbone.
“It’s fine, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low and too soft for the small space they’re enclosed in, and Dean’s eyes snap up to see Castiel watching him.
“You’re not…” Dean can’t continue.
“I’m still fully angel,” Castiel confirms.
“Oh.” Dean takes a breath in, nods. “Okay. Good.” He lets his left hand fall into his lap, and it takes a moment, one more brush against Castiel’s jaw, before his other hand falls to the table. Dean clears his throat as he faces his plate again, picks up his burger, and takes a bite.
When he looks up, Sam is staring at him, a small smirk on his face.
“What?” Dean demands, words muffled by meat and bread.
“Nothing,” Sam says, and stuffs a forkful of salad into his mouth, grinning as he chews.
Dean snaps his eyes to the case folder and tries to focus, but it takes another few minutes for the sensation that Castiel is watching him to pass.
*
Later that afternoon, Sam goes to interview the family at the house who’s been experiencing the haunting while Dean researches the town’s history at the local library. He finds what he’s looking for soon enough: the location of the grave of a girl who died violently in the house fifty years before. All it takes is a text to Sam and Sam agrees to salt and burn the sucker. The graveyard is on the outskirts of town and has been mostly abandoned for the past four years, so there’s little chance of Sam being seen even in daylight.
Castiel tags along with Dean, quite and oddly peaceful despite working on a case. Dean figures that he’s still winding down from years of civil war, and Dean appreciates the company, so he lets Castiel retain his silence.
When they return back to their motel room, however, Dean nudges Castiel with his elbow, and motions for Castiel to follow him into the bathroom.
“Dean?”
“Come on,” Dean says. “The librarian was giving you odd looks. You can’t go around with the trench coat and the crazy hair and the stubble. People are going to start thinking you’re a hobo.”
Castiel looks down at his trench coat as he follows Dean into the bathroom. “My apparel is not that different from other men and women,” he says.
Dean grins into his bathkit, pulls out a razor before rifling around in Sam’s and finding another one. “I know. But c’mon. Indulge me.”
Dean motions for Castiel to stand beside him in front of the bathroom mirror and Castiel falls into place at his side. Explaining the concept of shaving is rather easy, and Dean does so as he fills the sink with warm water and instructs Castiel to wet his face before he puts a dollop of shaving cream into Castiel’s palm. Dean demonstrates on his own face his instructions as he talks, and Castiel picks up the art and rhythm of shaving quickly. Pretty soon it’s silent in the bathroom as they work quietly side by side.
“This is,” Castiel says as he scrapes away the last of the stubble and shaving cream under his chin, “oddly soothing.”
Dean smirks and wipes his faces with a damp towel. “Say that again after you’ve been doing it for twenty years.”
Castiel takes the towel from Dean, wipes his own face, and says, “Okay.”
Dean huffs amusement and takes the razor from Castiel’s hand. He lets the water in the sink out and rinses the razors before setting them onto the counter to dry. When he looks up, Castiel is staring into the mirror. He’s moving his head around and pausing at different moments, and Dean thinks he’s admiring his stellar first shaving job when he notices Castiel’s eyes aren’t on his face, but on his hair. Dean looks closer, and raises an eyebrow.
“You let your hair grow out, too?”
Castiel pauses long enough in taking stock of his appearance to shoot Dean a look. “I thought it would be an interesting experiment.”
Dean snorts. “Only you, Cas.” His voice comes out softer, more affectionate than he’d planned. Castiel’s eyes stay on Dean a moment more before he looks away and resumes observing his reflection.
“Okay, Cas,” Dean says. “This isn’t Snow White.” He’s out of the bathroom before he can hear Castiel respond and returns with the scissors from the medical kit. Castiel is facing the doorway when he enters.
“What are you doing?” Castiel asks.
Dean holds up the scissors to show Castiel before placing them on the counter and reaching for a bath towel. “You want the whole human experience?”
Castiel nods.
“Then trust me.”
Castiel nods again without hesitation.
Dean looks at Castiel’s clothing before he taps two fingers against Castiel’s shoulder.
“Off,” he says.
Castiel stares at him.
Dean rolls his eyes. “If you want this to work without making a mess out of everything, take this off.” He tugs a little at the lapel of Castiel’s trench coat. Castiel processes the motion for a moment before he reaches up and haltingly tugs the coat off his shoulders, down his arms, and holds it awkwardly in one hand when he’s done.
“Just… put it on the toilet or something.”
Castiel frowns at him before his eyes fall on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. He steps to the left and hangs it up.
“All right, Mr. Clean,” Dean says, and tugs Castiel back with a finger through his belt loop. “Let’s see what we can do.”
After staring at Castiel for another moment, Dean decides the suit jacket has to go as well, and so that ends up hanging next to the trench coat. Castiel’s frame is smaller than Dean had imagined it would be-and he has imagined what Castiel would look like, he’s willing to admit that now-but there’s still power under Dean’s hands when Dean shakes out a bath towel and drapes it around Castiel’s shoulders, overlapping the front and throwing one end over the opposite like a kind of shawl.
Castiel looks down at Dean’s hands as he works.
“What’s the purpose of this?” he asks when Dean tugs the towel a little bit more, making sure it will stay in place throughout the process.
“When you cut hair,” Dean says, “it has to go somewhere. Gravity wins every time, Cas. Hair doesn’t just disappear.”
Castiel raises his face to Dean’s. “I could make it.”
Dean freezes in tugging at the towel. “Uh… no.” He brushes a hand over Castiel’s shoulder before turning to grab the scissors from the counter. “Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, and smirks as he turns to face Castiel. “Okay now,” he says, and moves in close enough to reach Castiel’s hair easily. “Hold still.”
Castiel follows Dean’s directions implicitly. Which is exactly the opposite of what Dean needs at the moment. It takes only a second for Dean to realize Castiel’s too tall for him to see the top of his head clearly, and so he stumbles over, “You’re gonna… have to…” before he shakes his head and reaches up to tilt Castiel’s face downwards so he can see the top of Castiel’s head.
“This isn’t going to work,” he mumbles, and Castiel is looking up again and taking a step back when Dean stops him and tugs him over to the counter with a hand around his wrist. When he reaches the counter, Dean releases Castiel’s wrist, turns, and hops up onto the counter. He waves a hand to beckon Castiel closer.
“You’ve done this before,” Castiel says, tone suspicious as he steps up to Dean. Dean puts a hand to Castiel’s waist and tugs him forward, widens his legs so Castiel can fit between and lean right up against the counter. Dean can feel his face burn with a blush.
“I used to have to do this for Sam,” he says. Castiel’s hair is easier to see now, and Dean hesitates only a moment before running his left hand slowly through Castiel’s hair, front to back, trying to comb it out and stand it on end to see where to start. “When we were little, there wasn’t a lot of time or money to stop for a trip to the barber’s, y’know?” He huffs. “Maybe that’s why his hair’s so ridiculous now.”
“Before he got it cut.”
“Yeah.”
Dean had expected Castiel’s hair to be rough, dry and course from neglect and zapping from one place to another. But it’s not. It’s the complete opposite. Castiel’s hair is soft and thick and healthy, and Dean runs his fingers through it more than necessary before lifting the scissors and making the first cut.
Castiel is silent, letting his head be moved by Dean as Dean gently nudges with a thumb or forefinger against Castiel’s chin or jaw or cheek to get him to look one way or the other so Dean can easily reach another patch of hair.
The silence is almost oppressing, with the beating of Dean’s heart the only sound filling up his ears.
“Do you…” Dean pauses, clears his throat. “So are you on a touchy-feely binge?”
Castiel looks up out of the corner of his eyes at Dean. “You’re referring to the human characteristics I’ve taken on.”
Dean nudges his knee against Castiel’s hip. “No, I’m talking about the poetry and Michael Bolton you’ve been breaking into.” He tilts Castiel’s head to the right to card his fingers through the hair behind Castiel’s ear, thumb brushing over the shell of his ear before making a cut.
Castiel lets his breath out slowly. “Despite… falling,” he says, “I rather enjoyed certain aspects of being human.”
Dean nods. “So now you figure test the waters again? See if it sticks?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Dean tilts is body to the right to reach the back of Castiel’s head. “Are you still enjoying it?”
Castiel nods, and Dean stops him quickly with a hand beneath his chin.
“Don’t move,” he says.
Castiel doesn’t.
Dean continues in his task, carding hands through Castiel’s hair and ruffling it on occasion to see how it settles and if strands are still too long. Castiel goes with it. He’s silent and moves easily any way that Dean needs him to. And Dean’s still floored sometimes that Castiel trusts him enough to do things like this, to trust enough that Dean won’t harm him when Castiel is relaxed and vulnerable with his neck bared to Dean. It’s not been so long since Dean caused Castiel’s faith in him to crumble. And yet he’s here, now, and Dean finally understands what it means to feel humbled. The feeling is sunk so deep in his bones now he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get rid of it, or if he wants to.
Dean’s almost done, working at Castiel’s left temple, when he nudges the back of Castiel’s knee with his heel. “Turn a little this way,” he mumbles, and Castiel does so immediately, his hand rising up to rest against the top of Dean’s thigh.
The touch is innocuous, merely a means to keep balance and turn to where Dean needs Castiel to go. But Castiel’s palm is warm and flat against Dean’s leg, and Dean can feel the heat through his jeans.
Dean focuses on the softness of Castiel’s hair beneath his fingers, on the way it will only take one more cut to complete the haircut, and he makes it. He ruffles Castiel’s hair again, dislodging stray hair, before he smoothes the hair down with a few more careful strokes. He opens his mouth to speak as he looks down to Castiel’s face.
Dean doesn’t say a word. Castiel’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, and Dean watches, speechless, as he takes in Castiel’s features unobserved.
Dean’s heartbeat is raging in his ears now, and his chest feels ridiculously tight. He takes one slow, steady breath in to relieve the tension, but it doesn’t work. And in that moment he feels Castiel’s fingers twitch against his thigh, just a slight tightening before they relax, and Dean’s breath rushes out of him.
“Cas?” Dean’s voice is stuck somewhere in the back of his throat, and he swallows and realizes there’s an odd lump making the action difficult.
Castiel hums in response. It’s a lazy, blissed out kind of sound, one Dean imagines wouldn’t be foreign in a bed, in tangled, rumpled sheets on a lazy Sunday morning. It makes something in Dean’s chest ache and jump at the same time, and Dean tightens his fingers into a gentle grip in the hair at the base of Castiel’s skull. He tugs softly down to tilt Castiel’s face up.
Castiel’s eyes blink open slowly, and Dean thinks the world’s suddenly started to move in slow motion, because it seems to take centuries for Castiel’s gaze to focus on his own.
“You’ve got…” Dean starts, and Castiel’s brow twitches before his lips curve into an unknowing frown. Dean lowers his hand to place the scissors on the counter, and hears them clatter into the sink when he doesn’t look down to see if he’s placed them on a flat surface.
“Nevermind.” He lifts his hand again, and reaches forward to brush a stray hair lying on Castiel’s cheek off with his thumb.
Castiel’s breath is warm and steady, and Dean’s leaning close enough to feel the soft puff of air on his lips. Everything smells like Cas, like cotton and musk and a taint of ozone, and Dean’s helpless to do anything but lean forward, tugging Castiel towards him with his hand grasping at hair, to see if that’s how Castiel tastes as well.
Castiel’s lips are dry, but his face is soft and warm from his recent shave. Dean’s heart rams up against his ribcage, but he’s prepared for that, and he’s prepared for the stillness he gets in response. What he isn’t prepared for is the soft sound of surprise Castiel makes. Dean pulls back at that, breath unsteady. He licks his bottom lip, and even with only the briefest of contacts he tastes something foreign and addictive.
“Uhh,” he says, because Castiel isn’t moving. His fingers, however, have tightened around Dean’s thigh, and Dean doesn’t know how to read that. Not from Castiel. “Oops?” His fingers loosen in Castiel’s hair, prepare to let go.
Castiel leans slightly forward then, and Dean holds his breath as Castiel’s nose bumps into his, and then his forehead is leaning against Dean’s brow, putting pressure against Dean to tilt his head slightly back. The movement is slow and lazy, and Dean moves one hand to grip tight onto Castiel’s shoulder as it becomes harder to breath. By the time Castiel’s lips brush against his, Dean has raised a leg to press his heel against the back of Castiel’s thigh, pulling him closer, and Dean figures he can’t be held responsible for the soft moan that escapes his throat.
Castiel kisses like he does most things. With a single-minded devotion, a sureness and thoroughness that guarantees he’ll be able to dissect, analyze, and then retain enough information to forever be an expert on whatever he sees, does, hears. And this is no different, except in how he goes about it. Dean’s seen him charge into battle, eyes blazing and sword drawn, fierce and absolute. But the kiss starts soft and chaste despite the steadfast pressure and intent behind it. And it’s chaste for a long time, until Dean loosens his grip enough on Castiel’s hair to card his fingers through his hair again. Castiel makes a soft growling noise in the back of his throat at the motion, and Dean smiles against his lips before he opens his mouth and shows Castiel what else kissing can do.
Castiel takes to it like a charm, and for the next indefinite amount of time Dean’s lost to the slow movement and the realization that yeah, Castiel does taste like he smells, only there’s something different, something deeper, that Dean can’t seem to get enough of.
When the kiss slows, Dean can feel the chill of the mirror pressing up against his back. His right thigh is dangling over the empty air of the sink. But Castiel’s hand his clamped hard on his waist, and his other arm is bracketing Dean’s other side, and Dean’s sure that the cold of the bathroom tile and the precarious balance he’s found on the bathroom counter doesn’t really matter when you have an angel spotting you.
“Okay,” Dean murmurs, when Castiel stops kissing him and simply breathes, his breath ghosting over Dean’s lips. Dean opens his mouth and catches Castiel’s breath in his mouth. “Okay,” he whispers, softer.
“Okay?” Castiel asks, and his voice is loud against the tile of the bathroom.
Dean chuckles, and cards his fingers through Castiel’s hair again, once, twice, before uncurling his fingers from around Castiel’s shoulder and bringing that hand up to card through Castiel’s hair as well. He stops after a moment, grips Castiel’s hair in a loose hold with both hands on either side of his head.
“Yeah,” Dean says, and brings Castiel forward to catch on his tongue the soft sounds Castiel makes when Dean licks into his mouth.
*
“I thought you didn’t like this part of human interaction.”
Dean nudges his toe against Castiel’s calf. “Shut up.” His words are muffled by Castiel’s hair. “I’m trying to give you the full scope of the human experience. Unless you’d rather not.”
Castiel’s silent for a moment before saying, “No. I think I need to research this a bit more.”
Dean huffs and rearranges his arms around Castiel’s waist to tug Castiel further back against him. “You do that.”
It’s early evening, the winter sun set beneath the horizon and throwing the motel room into darkness. The motel heater is broken, but underneath the comforter with the sheets tugged up to his and Castiel’s chin, it’s more than warm.
Dean breathes in slowly, and Castiel’s hair tickles his nose as he does so. But Dean presses his body up against Castiel’s in front of his and closes his eyes and breathes in again.
“Sam.”
Dean grunts. “Cas? You’ve got the wrong brother here.”
Dean yelps as Castiel pinches his arm.
“Sam is going to be returning soon.” Castiel tilts his head up as if to look back at Dean. But all it accomplishes is putting his temple within kissing distance. Dean takes advantage of the situation.
“Sam can wait. Here.” He untangles one arm from around Castiel’s waist and waves it in the general direction of the night table on Castiel’s side of the bed. Dean’s limbs feel heavy and warm and Dean can’t remember a time when he felt quite like this. “My phone.”
Castiel lifts up his head, and Dean grumbles when Castiel leans up on an elbow and stretches away to grab Dean’s phone off the night table. The phone taps against Dean’s knuckles and Dean opens his hand to receive it. He tugs at Castiel’s waist, and frowns when instead of falling back into the curve of Dean’s body Castiel rolls away, over onto his stomach and looks back to watch Dean.
“Spoilsport,” Dean grumbles, and opens his cell phone to text Sam. The backlight blinds him for a moment, and he squints as he types out a message. “This should keep him away for a while,” he says, and presses send.
When he snaps the phone closed and his eyes adjust to the dark, he turns his head to glance at Castiel. Castiel’s watching him, holding his upper body up off the bed by his elbows. His hair, shorter now, is sticking straight up in the back.
Dean smirks, opens his phone back up, and scrolls until he pulls up his camera.
“Say ‘cheese,’ Cas.”
“Why do you want-”
The flash goes off and Dean laughs at the picture that appears on the face of the phone.
“You have too much free time on your hands,” Castiel says, voice low and gravel-rough. Dean opens his mouth, but his response is stillborn when Castiel’s fingers cover his over the phone and snap it closed. By the time Dean’s eyes adjust to the dark again, Castiel is already kissing him.
Dean grins when it ends. “You have a solution for that?”
Castiel grunts. “Maybe.”
The mattress shifts under Castiel’s weight as he moves close to Dean again, and Dean starts rolling towards him but is stopped by a hand on his hip. He doesn’t protest until Castiel starts rolling him in the opposite direction.
He frowns. “Hey.”
Castiel’s knee slides in between Dean’s legs, lifts up and forward so his thigh nudges Dean’s body onto its side, and Dean grunts when Castiel’s arm slides under his body and tugs his hip back towards him, maneuvering him so that Castiel can slide in against Dean’s back.
“Cas-”
“Shut up,” Castiel says, voice soft against the shell of Dean’s ear. His arms settle around Dean’s waist as he moves in close, pressing his chest against Dean’s back and intertwining their legs. “I’m researching.”
Dean chuckles, tosses his phone onto the bed and wraps a hand around Castiel’s forearm. He knocks his head back against Castiel until he feels Castiel’s warm breath dancing over his scalp.
“Whatever you say, Cas.”