[Fic] I like it when you don't use contractions :: SPN AU :: Dean/Castiel :: PG-13
Title: I like it when you don't use contractions
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam/Sarah Blake
Genre:: AU, schmoop
Warning: kid!fic (not Dean and Cas'), AU, language, faux antagonism, geekgasms and abuse of philosophy.
Word Count: ~3,400
Betas: Thank you to crystalsundance and rogue_pixie88 for looking this over and holding my hand. ♥
Notes: written for my schmoop_bingo card . The prompt was 'kidfic-bedtime.' The kid is Sam and Sarah's, and I hope I haven't steered from the prompt too much. This is my first attempt at schmoop, so apologies.
I Like It when You Don't Use Contractions
It’s been another long, gruelling day of riding around in the ambulance. When his shift finally ends, Dean drives home in anticipation of dumping his sorry ass on his worn couch, turning on whatever sports game happens to be on and gulping down a cold beer.
He’s fresh out of the shower - like scolding hot water ever really excoriate the stink of blood and lives lost - when Sam calls and asks if he could come over to babysit. It’s another one of their anniversaries - they have one for everything - and Sam’s taking Sarah out for dinner and a movie. And even though Sam is a bigger girl than his wife and celebrating their first kiss is absolutely ridiculous, Dean has never learned to say no to his baby brother and he’s out the door before they finish the call.
~*~
Dean loves his nephew, and most of the time Nate is a perfectly well behaved four-year-old - an obvious result of defective genes he’s inherited from Sam and Sarah both. Except that apparently, Nate turns into an obnoxiously loud monster around bedtime.
They’ve been in the bathroom for the better half of forty-five minutes, and every time Dean picks Nate up to dry him off, never mind tuck him in, he’s met with wailing cries that threaten to rupture his eardrums. Dean’s knees are starting to protest their kneeling position in front of the bathtub, and his t-shirt is wet and uncomfortable where it clings to his skin.
Desperate times call for desperate measures; Dean isn’t above extortion if the occasion calls for it.
“Nate, buddy, come on,” he begs, “Your mom will kill me if I let you stay up past your bedtime.”
Nate seems perfectly content to spend the night with his rubber ducks and mini-submarines, and Dean is splashed until his hair and most of his upper-body are wet. He’s fighting to keep a streak of curse words from escaping his mouth - Sarah would have his balls if he let out a foul word around her boy - when the doorbell rings.
“You stay right there,” he orders with a stern finger pointed at Nate. He nearly trips and cracks his skull open as he sprints down the stairs - he will never, ever learn- and all but rips the front door from its hinges.
He frowns when he sees who’s on the other side.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Castiel’s features lose all previous neutrality. His brows furrow and his jaw-line is tense and tight; it’s the same stern, closed-off expression only Dean seems to merit.
Sam often insists that the tension between Dean and Castiel is of sexual nature. The truth is, the only thing between them is disdain. Castiel looks at Dean like his mere presence is an annoyance he’d wish to be rid of. He might be a hotshot who’s published numerous articles in various upstanding scholarly journals, but it does not excuse his arrogance as far as Dean’s concerned. Castiel is Sarah’s closest and oldest friend, and Dean has accepted his presence in their lives; it doesn’t mean he has to like the guy. Sam has to understand that just because they both happen to like men does not mean they want to fuck each other.
(Sure, they have the potential to have some very steamy angry-sex, but Castiel isn’t just a random guy from the pub down the street, and even Dean has his standards.)
“Sarah asked me to watch over Nathaniel tonight,” is the curt reply Castiel supplies as he gracefully side-steps Dean to enter the house, puts down his briefcase and takes off his shoes.
“What? That’s-Why would she-” Dean’s rant is interrupted by a babble of laughter sounding from upstairs. Castiel’s features lighten with a ghost of a smile and he’s at the top of the stairs before Dean can blink. Damn those long, swift legs of his.
Dean enters the bathroom just in time to witness the excitement Castiel’s presence stirs in his nephew: Nate calls out an enthusiastic, “Uncle Cas!” and splashes water on the floor.
“Nathaniel,” the movement of Castiel’s shoulders and the mirth in his usually-gruff voice suggests that he’s laughing, but Dean can’t be sure; it’s a foreign concept he’s having trouble reconciling.
Castiel takes off his ridiculous trench-coat - the one that makes him look like a tax-accountant rather than a philosophy professor - and hangs it on the towel rack before showing his navy suit-jacket the same treatment. He unbuttons the cuffs of his pristine white oxford, rolls the material all the way up to his elbows. Dean realizes this is the most undressed and informal he’s seen Castiel in the five years he’s known the guy; he never noticed how slim he is under the layers of bunched-up fabric, how pale his skin is.
Castiel crouches next to the bathtub, ignoring the puddle of water that has to be drenching his black socks. He picks up one of the yellow rubber ducks floating around in the water. “How long have you been in here?”
“Forty minutes,” Dean replies and turns a stern gaze in Nate’s direction. “And it’s about time to get out and go to bed.”
Nate’s only reaction is to blow a raspberry and smash a mini-submarine against the ceramic of the bathtub.
“Nathaniel,” Castiel’s voice is authoritative and serious; Dean assumes it’s the same tone he uses on his students. “If your uncle Dean says it’s time for bed, you must be a good boy and do as he says.”
Nate’s hazel eyes are wide and awed, like he’s absorbing valuable information he’s had no prior knowledge of. Dean’s not sure if the appropriate reaction is amusement or to take offense.
Castiel stands and reaches for the huge, fluffy blue towel hanging on the rack.
“Now, come on, stand up.”
When Nate does just that, Castiel wraps him in the towel and picks him up, cradling him tight against his chest. Dean feels oddly reverent as he watches Castiel’s retreating back and Nate’s suddenly-sleepy face mashed against his shoulder.
When he joins them in Nate’s room, Castiel is already finishing buttoning-up Nate’s favourite pyjamas. They’re simple blue cotton with colourful prints of cars Dean had picked out for him as a Christmas gift. When Castiel hands him his favourite stuffed-animal-a blue elephant he named Cupid-Nate gurgles his delight.
“Story, Uncle Cas!” he exclaims with his ever-present exuberance.
“Alright,” Castiel replies carefully. “Just one.”
Nate nods his approval, and Castiel picks up the copy of Cat in the Hat from the small bookshelf at the corner of the room before settling down on the edge of Nate’s bed.
Dean watches the scene silently and is only startled out of his reverie when Castiel closes the book, and Nate looks up at him with wide, expectant eyes.
“Uncle Dean?” he asks shyly. He looks so much like Sam with the shaggy brown hair that reaches past his ears and his expressive eyes; Dean doesn’t stand a chance and he knows it. “Will you sing?”
“Yeah, buddy, of course,” Dean replies as he comes to stand by the bed and ruffles his nephew’s hair.
Castiel seems to sense their need for privacy to share the intimate moment. He kisses Nate’s forehead, a whispered “Good night,” pressed against the skin, and leaves the room.
Dean starts humming Hey Jude and watches his nephew drift into peaceful sleep.
~*~
Dean finds Castiel sitting at the kitchen table, papers scattered across the wooden surface. He’s holding a ballpoint pen in his left hand, while the other is wrapped absently around a coffee mug; long, pale fingers a stark contrast against the dark ceramic.
“Grading papers?” Dean asks.
Castiel startles out of his philosophical musings and looks up from his work; upon confirming Dean’s presence his focus shifts back to the papers in front of him.
“Yes,” he replies as he writes down a comment on one of the papers, circles a mark and moves it to the bottom of his pile. “I made some tea, if you’d like some.”
Dean makes his way to the fridge and grabs himself a beer. “Nah,” he replies as he hops on the kitchen counter. “I'm good, thanks.”
Castiel hmms distractedly in the back of his throat as he starts on another paper.
“So how’s the grading going?” it’s pointless small-talk, but no-one can say he isn’t trying.
Castiel looks thoughtful as he chews on his bottom lip. “The students seem to have grasped the difference between liberalism and libertarianism quite well. It is usually a topic which generates great confusion in Introduction classes, so I am glad. Their essays on utilitarianism, however, are a different matter; while they are not of poor quality, I had expected a more diverse array of responses.”
Dean snorts into his beer.
“Excuse me?” electric blue eyes are trained on Dean, wide with surprise; he holds all of Castiel’s attention now.
“Nothing, just-” Dean wipes his lips with the back of his hand, “dude, who the fuck talks like that?”
Castiel’s brows furrow and his mouth flattens into a grim line. “I do,” he replies intently, like the rhetorical nature of the question has completely flown over his head. It often does. Dean rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” he pauses to take a swig of his beer, shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe you should take the stick out of your ass. Use contractions every once in a while.”
Castiel narrows his eyes. “You asked me a question, did you not?” he accuses. “If you find my mannerisms so gratingly idiosyncratic, why did you bother? Do you merely enjoy ridiculing me?”
“Hey-woah!” Dean protests as he hops off the counter. “I was just trying to be polite and make conversation. If you weren’t so-”
“So you were merely engaging in social pleasantries that serve no purpose. And I am expected to engage such pretence simply to accommodate you?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean cannot believe the accusations Castiel is spewing. He’s not the one with the inflated sense of self-importance, here. “It’s called being sociable! You might want to try it once in a while, Cas-maybe then you won’t be perceived as such a pretentious prick!”
Castiel’s already-pale complexion blanches, but his features don’t betray any sort of emotion.
“I have no desire to build pretend social ties for the sake of conversation. I do not understand the need to fake friendship to relieve momentary awkwardness. I am sorry that these things cause you to hold such a negative opinion of me, but I will not apologize for who I am. Never again.” Castiel is earnest and reasonable, and Dean feels a bit like a dick. He’s about to mumble an apology when Castiel adds, “You’re so preoccupied with saying what you think everyone else wants to hear. What about what you want, Dean?”
Dean doesn’t need this shit, and he certainly doesn’t want to hear it. “Okay, you know what? There’s really no reason for both of us to be here. I’ll look after Nate. So, y’know, just go and do whatever it is you do on Friday nights.”
Castiel’s eyes are hard and unyielding when he states, “I promised Sarah that I would look after her son tonight. I intend to see that promise through and await her return.”
“Fine,” Dean snaps. He grabs two more beers from the fridge and retreats to the living-room.
He could go home. There’s no reason for him to stay, and he more than trusts Castiel with Nate.
Instead, he flops down on the couch and watches the last quarter of a football game.
~*~
By the time the game’s over Dean’s downed a total of three Buds and is feeling considerably more relaxed.
He enters the kitchen to find the dining table even more cluttered and Castiel looking dismayed. He’s hunched over the various papers, chewing on the tip of his expensive pen and clutching his disarrayed hair in what looks like a painful iron grip.
“Dude,” Dean starts as he walks over to the kitchen counter and fills the electric kettle with water before turning it on. “No essay is worth stressing that much over.”
Castiel looks up at him with bright, miserable eyes. Exhaustion is evident in the slump of his shoulders, panic etched in the arch of his eyebrows. “No, it’s-it’s a book I’m working on.”
Dean’s heard Sam and Sarah talk about a book Castiel’s writing - Sam practically had a geekgasm when he got to read the first chapter. From what Dean had managed to gather, it explores deism and argues that God’s lack of involvement does not contradict his existence.
“What’s the problem?” Dean’s read a number of articles Castiel wrote for the Times, and he knows the quality of Castiel’s work is good. His arguments are solid and succinct, and he doesn’t tip-toe around his thesis. He’s forward and intelligent, and his conclusions are easy to follow.
“I can’t get this paragraph to sound right,” Cas huffs in frustration. He looks down at the paper in front of him in disgust, like it’d somehow personally offended him. “The third chapter is due on my publisher’s desk next week, and I can’t get the concluding paragraph to sound right,” he repeats, eyes impossibly wide and frantic. “I’m not usually like this. I usually have my projects done long before the deadline, but I had to grade these exams and grade the essays for my bioethics class, and now I can’t get this paragraph-”
“Whoa, whoa!” Dean interrupts before Cas hyperventilates. “You have plenty of time to get the paragraph right,” he assures him. Only Cas would stress over something that’s due in a week when all he has to do is revise a fucking paragraph.
“Here, let me see,” Dean prompts and snatches the paper Castiel’s staring at from under his nose. Just as he suspected, the paragraph is beyond satisfactory. “Cas, it’s great,” he insists as he rereads the paragraph.
“You haven’t read the whole chapter, you can’t possibly-”
“I don’t need to,” Dean reasons, “I know it’s just as brilliant as everything you’ve ever written,” and so what if he just admitted to following Castiel’s work. “Just replace ‘as’ with another connective word - you used it too many times in the last sentence - and you’re set.”
Castiel looks awed as Dean hands him back the paper; you’d think Dean just solved a Rubik’s cube, or something. He crosses off the ‘as’ in question and replaces it with a ‘when.’
“Thank you,” Castiel enunciates the words carefully, like he wants to make sure Dean grasps just how much he means it; it’s more sincerity than Dean knows how to handle.
“Yeah, don’t mention it,” is the only reply Dean’s manages to scrape from his vocal-cords-because really, what do you say to that?
“I gotta say, I never expected you of all people to be so insecure about your work,” he mumbles absentmindedly, then realizes how Cas might take that the wrong way and adds, “I mean, you’ve been dubbed one of the most influential minds of the century by virtually every publication.”
Castiel sighs deeply and drops his gaze to the floor. “And yet, I still feel as though I’ve taken on a task that is greater than I can handle,” he confesses forlornly.
It strikes Dean that despite his credentials and supreme intellect Cas actually doubts his ability to write his much-anticipated book. Dean settles on the chair beside Castiel, puts a hand on his shoulder and makes sure to look him square in the eye as he says, “Cas, you are beyond qualified to write this book. You will finish it and it will make a valuable contribution.”
Castiel is silent as he absorbs Dean’s words, eyes filled with gratitude. Dean becomes conscious of the fact that he hasn’t removed his hand from Castiel’s shoulder, feeling the curve of the bone along the back.
“I don’t mean to come across as condescending,” Castiel says suddenly, effectively breaking the stretching silence. “Social mores... baffle me. I have never been able to decipher their purpose or adhere to their dictation.”
Dean finally removes his hand from Castiel’s warm shoulder, ignoring the pang of loss. “Look, it’s fine. I mean, I get it. You’re this big name in academia, and I’m just-well, a nobody,” Dean huffs out a nervous laughter and scratches the back of his neck.
“Dean,” Castiel says sternly, layering his tone with just enough authority to make every hair on Dean’s body to stand in attention. “I do not look down on anyone - least of all on you.”
Castiel’s eyes are soft but firm, and they elaborate all the words that have remained trapped by his throat. Dean’s used to receiving condescending you’re-just-a-paramedic looks from most doctors, is used to being looked down on and feeling like he’s not good enough; Castiel’s eyes are screaming at him that he is, that his work matters, like he’s begging Dean to see himself as Castiel does. Dean has never been so lavishly appraised with a single look.
“I thought you hated me,” is how Dean ends up replying, because his brain-to-mouth filter is evidently defective and he should really look into exchanging the damn thing. “I mean - you avoid me half the time, and you look plain uncomfortable the other half.”
“The problem isn’t that I don’t like you, Dean,” Castiel says, shifting in his seat as a blush spreads across the bridge of his nose. “It’s that I do.”
Oh.
Oh.
What Dean has misinterpreted as an attitude problem is really just Castiel fighting a crush.
Castiel likes him.
Castiel likes him, and Dean had spent the past five years being a complete and utter jerk to the guy, thinking he was a pretentious bastard who thought himself too good to associate with Dean.
Dean is a complete and utter idiot.
“I like it when you don’t use contractions.”
Castiel looks up from starting at his own hands, startled. “What?”
“All that stuff I said earlier? I didn’t mean it,” and maybe there’s some hope for him yet, because Dean actually means what he’s saying. “I like the way you talk. Sure, it’s a little strange, but-it’s who you are. I like that stupid trench-coat you seem to wear no matter the weather. I like that you’re socially awkward. I-”
I like you, he doesn’t say, because he’s already treading on dangerous chick-flick territory.
Castiel is wide-eyed and unblinking - Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him blink, so that in itself is not alarming - his mouth hanging slack in a tempting ‘O.’
Dean is just as surprised by his admission, but the realization of its truth is what does him in.
He likes Castiel. He’s probably liked him for years. They’ve both liked each other for years, were too dumb to see what was there from the very beginning, hidden beneath a façade of antagonism.
They’re fucking idiots.
“Dean, would you like to go out sometime?”
“Yeah,” Dean replies immediately. “Yeah, I’d really fucking like that.”
Castiel’s smile is small, secretive; Dean knows he’s earned it all for himself.