Silence Ain't My Native Tongue - Dean/Castiel R
Title - Silence Ain’t My Native Tongue
Author - queerly_it_is
Pairing - Dean/Castiel
Rating - R
Word Count - 2.5k
Warnings - Mentions of other/non-main character death, references to off-screen explicit sex, very mild gore, profanity
Disclaimer - I own nothing and no one mentioned in this, and I make no profit.
Summary - Dean and Cas are Agents 'D' and 'C' of the Men in Black. Their relationship is a little bit outside the normal regulations.
Author’s Notes - Written for tsuminoaru for spnspringfling. I cannot put words to my excitement at getting ‘Men in Black’ as a prompt. This may become a larger story/verse (it’s me, this shouldn’t be a shock), or it may stay as a one-shot. I haven’t decided.
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“Dammit, C! How many more’a these things we got left?!” He’s been playing catcher - no, not like that, jeez - for the past hour, as Cas gently drops the softball-sized ‘children’ that look like naked birds; but have four shiny-black eyes and a long, forked tongue darting out from behind flint-sharp teeth, down from the barn loft they’ve been nesting in for what looks like months now.
Christ, Dean hates being a midwife during Mylett breeding season. Actually, being an alien’s midwife has pretty much sucked - or beaten, or crushed or squeezed - every time he’s done it.
“About half as many as there’d be if you stopped complaining and kept catching.” Gruff and irritated voice from above, and yeah Cas has to deal with the egg sacs and the mucus but Dean’s been bitten nine times, and one of the things apparently had motion sickness; if the fluorescent neon-pink vomit - stuff smells like fabric softener, only pleasant thing about this species, far as he can tell - on his suit jacket is anything to go by.
“Fluorescent. Vomit.” He says; aloud and through gritted teeth, and why is he the one always getting puked on, anyway?
“Just don’t get any in your mouth. I’m not kissing you when you taste like laundry.” He doesn’t know how Cas never gets pissed about the sheer volume of ick in their work; always the intensely focused calm that he’s projected since the day Dean met him in the firehouse a year ago; mysterious guy in a black suit and trench coat, azure eyes and bed-mussed hair, head tilted and gaze fixed on Dean in a way that still makes his skin tingle; talking about “licensing, monitoring and policing alien activity” like he worked in a freakin’ post office.
Okay, not a good comparison; he’s seen the things that work in the post office.
“Can’t we just shoot ‘em? Pretty please?” Asked even as he’s lowering the squalling, still-damp things carefully into the glowing, semi-organic stasis pods that always make him think of green beans, and seriously why come to Earth to breed and then leave the natives to ship your kids home?
“Oh sure, go right ahead. Never mind the breach of interplanetary peace treaties or the violations of galactic law. You just get your gun off.” Irritation edging into the words grunted between the squelching noises, as he liberates more tiny bird/snake/spider thingies, and okay maybe Dean gets a little thrill from riling him up, ‘specially when he‘s using ‘getting off’ and ‘gun’ in the same sentence.
They aren’t exactly supposed to be whatever it is they are; somewhere between work partners and partners, partners. But then Dean also isn’t supposed to know anything about the guy beyond the one letter, and that he’s real good at his job and has some sorta dislike for personal space.
He’d been ‘Agent D’ for all of three weeks, before they’d had a huge argument - in which he’d shouted and Cas’ voice’d got lower and more growly and Dean’s personal bubble had shrunk to the size of a pea, until finally he couldn’t ignore his erection anymore - and wound up having the most phenomenal angry sex of his entire life over a table in one of the secure interview rooms.
He’d demanded a name, soon as he was capable of words and complex thought again - casual hook-ups aside, no way is he groaning a first initial in the heat of the moment - and just got “You can call me Cas. Anything more than that and I’ll have to neuralyze you. Now, how long until you can get hard again?”
He doesn’t know what happened to Cas’ last partner; just knows his codename was U, and that he was apparently some kinda double-agent for an Armageddon-obsessed alien militia - more dime a dozen than you’d think - that’d been booted off-planet way back when. The one time he’d gone fishing for more intel, he’d gotten the cold shoulder at work and in the bedroom for over a week, so no way is he asking again.
They’d managed to keep their non-relationship a secret for all of five minutes, before R sat him down and gave him the “We‘re not hosting a damn intergalactic cocktail mixer.” speech from behind his big, wavy desk; talking about regulations and “The way things are done, boy.” while Cas was downstairs apparently getting dating advice from Bob.
Or maybe it was Wooligang; he swears they change seats just to screw with him. Stupid twins.
He’s still half-convinced R got him drunk so he’d confess the whole thing, and then neuralyzed him after; but that’s not the kinda accusation you make without a whole lotta body armour and a running start.
R is like the father he never had, which is pretty pathetic considering he knows less than nothing about him; aside from his initial and that he’s apparently older than anyone, ever. He’s also the most uptight person Dean’s met his whole life - Cas totally loosens up once you get him naked and work him over a little - but he sometimes gives Dean this proud-papa look that never fails to warm him from head to toe.
If R is his father, then E would be his mother; all scolding tones and knowing smirks like she can see through him the way he sees through the giant, grouchy, semi-transparent slug-guy, who always gets delayed coming into the terminal because he thinks endangered Ykrinian marmots are an acceptable in-flight meal.
Dean never really got to know his father; guy spent most of his time drowning in a bottle after his mom died, and CPS’d quickly nabbed him and his brother and shipped them off to separate foster homes. He has no idea where Sammy is now, and he’s not really allowed to go lookin’ when he’s technically been erased from existence; no fingerprints or DNA records or paperwork to show he’d ever been born, much less that he used to be somebody’s big brother.
He hopes the kid’s managed to carve out some sort of normal, happy life for himself. God knows one’a them should.
He’d wound up in New York, and became a firefighter because he didn’t want anyone else to lose people in burning houses the way he had. He hadn’t expected to run down a guy suspected of arson, only to find he had black smoke curling out from under his clothes, pinwheeling yellow eyes and could actually breathe fire. He’d been ready to put in for some major stress-related sick leave, when Cas’d shown up and yanked him straight down the rabbit hole.
The whole living as a rumour, being shaken off as déjà vu thing doesn’t really bother him. He’s never been one for keeping big groups of friends, and his family are all either dead or somewhere far, far away. MiB assigned him a neat little apartment with all the furnishings and appliances, plus a hidden room full’a weapons that he maybe has fantasies of blowing Cas in.
If he just happens to spend most of his time at the brownstone Cas lives in - senior agents get more than just an open-plan room, apparently - and maybe keeps some of his stuff in a couple’a draws or half a closet; well that’s just saving gas on the commute, is all.
Plus, Cas’ place has more artillery.
He’s technically sleeping/living with his boss; even though they don’t really get paid and they’re supposed to be ‘partners’, and he’s saved the guy’s life about a thousand times by now; voluntary ingestion by Bugs notwithstanding.
He doesn’t know if it’s the big Four Letter Word - which, in fairness, is three more letters than he usually gets around here - but it’s something, something that makes him feel purely human in a world of savage aliens and sentient robots and cold faces in dark suits; a world he thanklessly risks his life for that has no idea he even exists.
Yeah, that word? It’s probably that. Maybe. Not that he’s gonna say it.
Their final count is one-hundred-forty-seven healthy Mylett infants, and thank fuck they only breed once a year, seriously. The stasis pods fold and collapse into their rack; vanishing into the trunk of the Impala with a soft, seamless whirr and click; and not a day goes by he isn’t glad he’d persuaded R to outfit his baby with all the MiB toys, so he wouldn’t have to ride around in that crappy Ford anymore. Cas doesn’t even try and snatch the keys with all the smelly goop covering his hands and coating his bare forearms. It’s even in his hair; and he’s got this scrunched-up expression that says he’s really not happy about it, but won’t complain ‘cos he’s Mr-I’ve-Seen-It-All.
Dean doesn’t find that adorable. He doesn‘t.
Honestly, Cas has been pretty cool about letting Dean drive in general, ever since they got the Impala assigned as their personal vehicle. It’s either respect for the fact that she’s all Dean has left of his father - he’d spent months rebuilding her after John finally got himself T-boned by a fully loaded semi; enough booze in him that at least he didn’t feel it - or he’s willing to capitulate on the driving thing so long as Dean lets him play his stupid Elvis tapes as they head from case to case.
Bribery with pre-road head helps too, he’s found.
“We can share a decon shower when we get back.” Suggestive tone, waggle of his eyebrows as he pulls away from the dilapidated farm, and Cas suddenly finds the view out his window absolutely fascinating; way he always does when he doesn’t wanna be seen openly smiling around other human beings.
“And risk the twins putting the security feed up on the monitor again?” Turning back with Stoneface on full, one eyebrow up; and yeah okay he might’ve gotten a little carried away before he’d checked the sensors weren’t active, but Cas was naked. And wet. And naked.
“I didn’t hear you complainin’ at the time.”
“I was covered in Bug intestinal juices, I didn‘t realise what you were doing until you were actually. Doing it.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“If you wanted romance you should’ve taken to sleeping with J.” Just the thought of that makes him wince.
“And wake up to E holding a De-Atomizer to my head? Think I’ll pass.”
“Don’t be stupid. She’d shoot you in the balls, first.” Yeah, she would.
“Well, I guess I’ll hafta stick with you then, huh sugarplum?”
“I’m flattered to be rated higher than a disruptor blast to the testicles.” Tone flatter than a shit-carters hat, but he’s looking out the window again.
“Oh baby, you know you’re only one.” Grin taking over his face, finger itching toward the little red button.
“Don’t even think about it, slick.” Eyes in the back of his head, swear to God.
He flicks the button higher up and to his left instead, and the sounds of Promised Land fill the car - yeah so he knows what the song’s called, doesn’t mean he’s a fan, okay?
“You do know Elvis is dead, right?” They both know he isn’t, but its habit to throw the teasing words out, now; every time he has to sacrifice his metal for the King.
The way Cas’ shoulders lower and relax; hands unclenching, eyes fluttering like they want to close on a long exhale, endears Dean to the genre that little bit more.
They offload their cargo of baby aliens - fuck his life is so weird - onto a gaggle of eager-looking technicians; parting crack about rounding up a few dozen godparents as they head for R’s office.
“How’d it go?” How he always knows they’re standing there when he’s not looking and the doors slide open quieter than a breath, Dean’ll never understand.
“All pretty standard.” Cas says as he folds himself into a chair; somehow graceful even though he’s exhausted and his suit’s rumpled and he’s covered in green-grey slime. “Lots of healthy Myletts to transport home, once they can handle the gravity shift.” Slight tired smile that Dean wants to taste; even though they’re at work and R’s right there, and Cas doesn’t take kindly to the mushy stuff even when they are alone. Prickly, sexy bastard.
“Nice work boys. Go home and get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.” Dean isn’t even sure what day it’s supposed to be; he lost track months ago; after the thirty-seven hour cycles had stopped feeling like a form of psychological torture.
“Will do, chief.” Two-fingered salute as he waits for Cas to lever himself outta the chair; trench coat shuffing and damp in patches, bunched around his elbows where he’d shoved the sleeves up.
They walk through the terminal like it was choreographed; ducking tentacles and antennae, hopping over tails, sidestepping chirping machines as they fly, glide or hover along their merry, beeping way.
They’re almost to the elevator, and Dean is entertaining himself with thoughts of Cas’ big shower and bigger bed, when the chanting starts. Again.
“C and D, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G ahahaha!”
“Which of these zapwatas you think wears the women’s underwear?”
“Both of ‘em!”
“Waaangaaa!”
Frickin’ worms.
“Can we shoot them?” Hand already twitching toward the inside of his jacket.
“R’d make us clean up the entrails.” Doesn’t necessarily sound like a no.
“How ‘bout just a flesh wound?” Hand actually on his gun, now.
“Better idea.” Suddenly marching forward, utter confidence like the sea would part for him. Dean honestly wouldn’t blame it. He stops at the small herd - clew? - of bent-double, cackling aliens; leans in from the waist, hands gripping his thighs.
“Fellas?” Not a polite address; drill sergeant demanding the attention of those beneath him. The laughter dies like a bird in mid-air.
“Oh, shit.”
“Uh, hey C.”
“Three words guys; no. More. Coffee.” He turns away, little smile bending his lips and twinkle in his eyes at the outraged shouts of unintelligible - and no doubt really foul - language.
“Would‘ve been kinder to just shoot ‘em.” He points out as their steps synch up and they finally reach the elevator.
“They’re lucky I didn’t remind them about the smoking ban.” Air of smug satisfaction that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it is, punctuated by the ding of the doors opening onto the lobby.
They pass the newspaper-reading security guy whose name - or letter - Dean has never gotten. “You aren’t really getting rid of the coffee, right?” Nearly forty-hour days with no caffeine? Pure torment.
“We’ll stick it on a very high shelf.” It’s either the words or the total sombreness of them that makes him laugh, which brings the vaguely pleased look back to Cas’ face as he ducks down into the car, notes of Elvis crooning into the warm, night air.
There’s that word again.