Fic :: Supernatural :: I'd Marry Your Cat Just to Get in the Family
I'd Marry Your Cat Just to Get in the Family
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Summary: Dean gives Castiel all his lame pick-up lines and Castiel keeps trying to use them on Sam
Posting date: November 2009
All chat-up lines taken from here. Written for woodstarling's prompt in the Sam/Castiel commentfic meme.
*
“Hey baby,” Castiel says.
“What,” says Sam.
“Did it hurt when you fell out of heaven?” Castiel continues. “For you appear to be an angel. Actually, you do not appear to be an angel. I would be able to tell if you were.”
He stares at Sam expectantly.
“No, seriously,” Sam says. “What.”
Since Castiel lost a slice of his angelic mojo, he’s taken to riding around in the backseat of the Impala with them sometimes. From what Sam can tell, Dean’s using it as some kind of reward system. If Cas provides some handy information or remembers a piece of obscure pop culture Dean taught him, he gets a ride in the car.
It’s a nice thought.
It’s making Sam a little bit uncomfortable.
The first few times he joined them in their unending, Apocalyptic roadtrip, he’d just sat in silence, occasionally commenting on the scenery or funny number plates just as Sam had been lulled into forgetting he was sat back there.
Recently, however, he’s taken to staring. Whenever Sam glances in the rearview mirror, there Castiel is, unblinking. Watchful. A little bit bug-eyed.
“Cas,” Sam says, two hours into the ride away from the haunted meat packing plant job, when it’s beginning to feel a little too much like he’s accidentally entered into a staring competition. “Do you… have something to say or something?”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I was wondering if you might help me with some directions.”
“Uh.” Sam glances at Dean, who is looking suspiciously serene. “You’re not driving, Cas.”
Castiel frowns. “No,” he says. “You are supposed to ask where I would like directions to.”
Sam eyes Dean. Dean begins to nonchalantly whistle, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead at the road like he’s completely caught up in the driving moment.
When Sam chances a glance back up at the rearview mirror, Castiel is still staring expectantly at him.
“Okay,” Sam sighs. “Fine. Where do you want directions to, Castiel?”
“I would like directions to your heart,” Castiel intones. And then he settles back in his seat and, still staring at Sam, stiffly crosses his arms behind his head and smiles.
Sam scrubs a hand across his face.
Dean’s whistling is beginning to sound suspiciously like laughter.
“I’m having a nap,” Sam announces, closing his eyes without checking to see if Castiel is still watching.
“Who do you think would win in a fight?” Dean says, waving a fry dramatically under Sam’s nose. It’s a bit more ketchup-y than Sam usually likes, but he snatches it out of Dean’s fingers and pops it into his mouth, regardless. Dean kicks him under the table but keeps on talking anyway. “A wendigo or a werewolf?”
“Wendigo,” Sam says, pulling a face at the ketchup overload.
“That’s what you get for stealing my food, bitch,” Dean says, smugly. “And that was an easy one. I was just testing you.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel says. Dean’s taught him to eat fries too, but he’s still cutting them up with a knife and fork. “Why are you so concerned about the abilities of these monsters? My father could smite them all.”
“Your father isn’t as cool as a part-man, part-wolf,” Dean points out.
“My father is extremely cool,” Castiel mutters. He cuts another fry into neat quarters and carefully pops a piece into his mouth, then glances up a Sam from under his eyelashes. “Don’t you think my father is cool, Sam?”
“Maybe,” Sam hazards.
Castiel beams.
Dean clears his throat loudly and slides out of their booth. “Actually, I’ve gotta take a leak. You kids can entertain yourselves for a while.” That’s normal enough; Dean patting Castiel on the back as he passes by on the way to the bathroom, not so much.
“I am not actually a kid,” Castiel says. “I am a consenting adult. I have life experience.”
Sam blinks. “That’s… great?”
Castiel finishes off the remaining three quarters of his fry-in-progress and then carefully lays down his knife and fork. “Sam,” he says, reaching across the table to rest his hand on Sam’s arm. “If you were a tear in my eye I would not cry for fear of losing you.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “You know what? I gotta take a leak too.”
He doesn’t run away.
It’s just a light jog.
Sam hates pixies. He really, really fucking hates pixies. They’re vicious bastards and their voices are squeaky enough to give you a headache and they throw their freaking pixie dust into your eyes as soon as look at you.
Sam and Dean managed to waste the little shits, but not before each getting a dose of the dust. It turned Dean into a chicken for five hours, which was actually pretty awesome, but now Sam hasn’t slept in five days and he can barely manage to tie his shoes, let alone savour the chicken-y good times.
He buries his head into his useless pillow and groans.
“It’s gotta wear off soon,” Dean says, patting Sam soothingly on the back. “Pixie dust can only last up to a week.”
“You got five hours,” Sam mumbles around his pillow. “How is this fair?”
“I laid an egg,” Dean reminds him. “An egg. It came out of me.”
Dean may have a point about that, but right now Sam is so tired he feels like his eyes are going to fall out, so he just groans in reply.
“Look, I’ll go call Bobby again, see if he knows anything that can overpower the dust.” Dean draws his hand away and Sam feels the bed shift and creak as Dean stands up. No footsteps though.
Dean clears his throat. “I’ll, uh. I’ll send Cas in to make sure you don’t go sleep-deprived crazy on our asses,” he adds, and then his footsteps beat a hasty retreat.
Sam drifts for a little while, which is the closest thing he can get to sleep right now and is therefore awesome, but then his absence of thought is disrupted by the soft sound of Castiel rustling into existence.
“Hello, Sam,” he says. “Dean has explained to me that sleep is important to humans. I understand it is stressful for you to be without it for extended periods of time.”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles. “Stressful.”
Castiel rustles to the edge of the bed. “I could sing you an angelic lullaby if you like,” he whispers.
Sam pulls his head away from the pillow to squint up at Castiel. His vision is blurry, but he doesn’t need clear sight to know the slightly bug-eyed expression on Castiel’s face.
“Let’s not do that,” he says.
“Perhaps not,” Castiel agrees. He sits down on the edge of the bed, blurrily. “Hey baby, do you want to see something swell?”
“Sure,” Sam says, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “Why not.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Really?” Castiel asks.
“Really,” Sam says. “I want to see something swell.”
Castiel clears his throat. “Dean never explained to me what I should do if you said yes. We didn’t get that far.”
Sam giggles into his pillow. He’s feeling a bit giddy. It’s just lack of sleep.
“Perhaps we could hold hands instead,” Castiel hazards.
“Okay,” Sam agrees easily, holding his hand out without looking up and he giggles again as Castiel takes it.
He drifts off.
*
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Summary: Dean gives Castiel all his lame pick-up lines and Castiel keeps trying to use them on Sam
Posting date: November 2009
All chat-up lines taken from here. Written for woodstarling's prompt in the Sam/Castiel commentfic meme.
*
“Hey baby,” Castiel says.
“What,” says Sam.
“Did it hurt when you fell out of heaven?” Castiel continues. “For you appear to be an angel. Actually, you do not appear to be an angel. I would be able to tell if you were.”
He stares at Sam expectantly.
“No, seriously,” Sam says. “What.”
Since Castiel lost a slice of his angelic mojo, he’s taken to riding around in the backseat of the Impala with them sometimes. From what Sam can tell, Dean’s using it as some kind of reward system. If Cas provides some handy information or remembers a piece of obscure pop culture Dean taught him, he gets a ride in the car.
It’s a nice thought.
It’s making Sam a little bit uncomfortable.
The first few times he joined them in their unending, Apocalyptic roadtrip, he’d just sat in silence, occasionally commenting on the scenery or funny number plates just as Sam had been lulled into forgetting he was sat back there.
Recently, however, he’s taken to staring. Whenever Sam glances in the rearview mirror, there Castiel is, unblinking. Watchful. A little bit bug-eyed.
“Cas,” Sam says, two hours into the ride away from the haunted meat packing plant job, when it’s beginning to feel a little too much like he’s accidentally entered into a staring competition. “Do you… have something to say or something?”
“Yes,” Castiel says. “I was wondering if you might help me with some directions.”
“Uh.” Sam glances at Dean, who is looking suspiciously serene. “You’re not driving, Cas.”
Castiel frowns. “No,” he says. “You are supposed to ask where I would like directions to.”
Sam eyes Dean. Dean begins to nonchalantly whistle, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead at the road like he’s completely caught up in the driving moment.
When Sam chances a glance back up at the rearview mirror, Castiel is still staring expectantly at him.
“Okay,” Sam sighs. “Fine. Where do you want directions to, Castiel?”
“I would like directions to your heart,” Castiel intones. And then he settles back in his seat and, still staring at Sam, stiffly crosses his arms behind his head and smiles.
Sam scrubs a hand across his face.
Dean’s whistling is beginning to sound suspiciously like laughter.
“I’m having a nap,” Sam announces, closing his eyes without checking to see if Castiel is still watching.
“Who do you think would win in a fight?” Dean says, waving a fry dramatically under Sam’s nose. It’s a bit more ketchup-y than Sam usually likes, but he snatches it out of Dean’s fingers and pops it into his mouth, regardless. Dean kicks him under the table but keeps on talking anyway. “A wendigo or a werewolf?”
“Wendigo,” Sam says, pulling a face at the ketchup overload.
“That’s what you get for stealing my food, bitch,” Dean says, smugly. “And that was an easy one. I was just testing you.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel says. Dean’s taught him to eat fries too, but he’s still cutting them up with a knife and fork. “Why are you so concerned about the abilities of these monsters? My father could smite them all.”
“Your father isn’t as cool as a part-man, part-wolf,” Dean points out.
“My father is extremely cool,” Castiel mutters. He cuts another fry into neat quarters and carefully pops a piece into his mouth, then glances up a Sam from under his eyelashes. “Don’t you think my father is cool, Sam?”
“Maybe,” Sam hazards.
Castiel beams.
Dean clears his throat loudly and slides out of their booth. “Actually, I’ve gotta take a leak. You kids can entertain yourselves for a while.” That’s normal enough; Dean patting Castiel on the back as he passes by on the way to the bathroom, not so much.
“I am not actually a kid,” Castiel says. “I am a consenting adult. I have life experience.”
Sam blinks. “That’s… great?”
Castiel finishes off the remaining three quarters of his fry-in-progress and then carefully lays down his knife and fork. “Sam,” he says, reaching across the table to rest his hand on Sam’s arm. “If you were a tear in my eye I would not cry for fear of losing you.”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “You know what? I gotta take a leak too.”
He doesn’t run away.
It’s just a light jog.
Sam hates pixies. He really, really fucking hates pixies. They’re vicious bastards and their voices are squeaky enough to give you a headache and they throw their freaking pixie dust into your eyes as soon as look at you.
Sam and Dean managed to waste the little shits, but not before each getting a dose of the dust. It turned Dean into a chicken for five hours, which was actually pretty awesome, but now Sam hasn’t slept in five days and he can barely manage to tie his shoes, let alone savour the chicken-y good times.
He buries his head into his useless pillow and groans.
“It’s gotta wear off soon,” Dean says, patting Sam soothingly on the back. “Pixie dust can only last up to a week.”
“You got five hours,” Sam mumbles around his pillow. “How is this fair?”
“I laid an egg,” Dean reminds him. “An egg. It came out of me.”
Dean may have a point about that, but right now Sam is so tired he feels like his eyes are going to fall out, so he just groans in reply.
“Look, I’ll go call Bobby again, see if he knows anything that can overpower the dust.” Dean draws his hand away and Sam feels the bed shift and creak as Dean stands up. No footsteps though.
Dean clears his throat. “I’ll, uh. I’ll send Cas in to make sure you don’t go sleep-deprived crazy on our asses,” he adds, and then his footsteps beat a hasty retreat.
Sam drifts for a little while, which is the closest thing he can get to sleep right now and is therefore awesome, but then his absence of thought is disrupted by the soft sound of Castiel rustling into existence.
“Hello, Sam,” he says. “Dean has explained to me that sleep is important to humans. I understand it is stressful for you to be without it for extended periods of time.”
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles. “Stressful.”
Castiel rustles to the edge of the bed. “I could sing you an angelic lullaby if you like,” he whispers.
Sam pulls his head away from the pillow to squint up at Castiel. His vision is blurry, but he doesn’t need clear sight to know the slightly bug-eyed expression on Castiel’s face.
“Let’s not do that,” he says.
“Perhaps not,” Castiel agrees. He sits down on the edge of the bed, blurrily. “Hey baby, do you want to see something swell?”
“Sure,” Sam says, dropping his head back onto the pillow. “Why not.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Really?” Castiel asks.
“Really,” Sam says. “I want to see something swell.”
Castiel clears his throat. “Dean never explained to me what I should do if you said yes. We didn’t get that far.”
Sam giggles into his pillow. He’s feeling a bit giddy. It’s just lack of sleep.
“Perhaps we could hold hands instead,” Castiel hazards.
“Okay,” Sam agrees easily, holding his hand out without looking up and he giggles again as Castiel takes it.
He drifts off.
*