Comment_Fic: Ticklish
Title: Ticklish
Author: twfftw
Rating: PG
Genre: Humour
Spoilers: For season five generally.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 2,556
Warnings: Language
Summary: "Dude," Dean says, catching Castiel’s eye again. "I think you're ticklish."
Notes: This is a comment_fic for sycophantastic’s prompt Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, ticklish angel. It ran, er, a little long, hence posting it here, but all the usual comment_fic warnings apply - written in a burst of adrenaline in the wee hours, unbeta’d, etc. Also, the ending is stolen from an homage to my favourite joke in the lovely hrtslkths' Managing Up, which you should all go read post-haste.
Ticklish
It begins when they are fighting an unexpected group of demons who appeared abruptly at the end of an unrelated hunt. Castiel has lost his coat and jacket - torn and slashed away in the fight - and he is down to simply his shirt when a demon whirls away from a confrontation with Dean to try to strike at his unprotected flank.
Dean sees this immediately. He shouts "Cas!" and reaches out. But he cannot seize Castiel’s arm; to do so would prevent Castiel from striking, leaving him vulnerable to the demon attacking him from the front.
Dean must realise this, as he instead attempts to wrap his arm around Castiel's torso, to pull him away. But Castiel is moving too quickly - Castiel does not, really, need Dean's help at all - and Dean's fingertips slide and scrabble at Castiel's waist, unable to find purchase.
Castiel can feel the light flickering of Dean's fingers clearly through the thin material of his shirt. There is something odd about it and abruptly he finds he has jerked away from Dean's touch without conscious thought. (This must be what acting on instinct is, he realises. It is a strange feeling).
The sudden, unstrategic movement has momentarily confused the demon before him. Castiel takes advantage to slice cleanly through his throat, and then opens the stomach of the second demon on the follow-through. He completes the turn to find Dean frowning at him, clearly unhappy. "Cas--" Dean says, but then there is another demon coming at Dean from the side, and two more regrouping to come at Castiel together, and there is no time to discuss what has just happened.
Dean does not forget, however. Later, when the demons are dead, when the corpses of the unfortunate possessed are salted, burned and buried, when Castiel has reconstituted his lost garments and taken his place in the Impala with Dean and Sam, when they are pulling onto the roadway that will take them to their next destination, Dean catches Castiel's gaze in the rearview mirror.
"What the hell was that?" he demands.
His voice is loud and angry; Castiel feels his own temper flare in response to the implied blame. He must remind himself that Dean has good reason to be disturbed, that what is important is to find out what is wrong, before he can answer calmly.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"What the hell was what?" Sam asks.
"I tried to pull Cas out of a tight spot back there and he flipped out," Dean replies.
"The touch felt... strange."
"You don't like to be touched?" Sam asks.
Castiel has only rarely been touched in this vessel. He thinks about the warm weight of Dean's hand on his shoulder as they stood together beside a near-deserted highway. "No," he says. "I do not object to being touched. But Dean's hand here..." Hesitantly, he lifts his arm and slides his other hand under his layers of coat and jacket to press against his side, the same spot Dean's fingers had slid against. To his surprise, the strange sensation is not repeated. "It seems fine now."
"So, when Dean touched your side, it felt funny, but when you touch your side, it feels fine?"
"Yes." Castiel does not understand why Sam has started smiling. He understands even less why Dean suddenly laughs - low and brief, but unmistakably a laugh. "What is it?"
"Dude," Dean says, catching his eye again. "I think you're ticklish."
"Ticklish?" The word seems vaguely familiar; he is certain he has heard it before, but he can't place its meaning.
"Yup," Dean says. "Wait til we get to the hotel, I'll help you test it out."
"Dean," Sam says, abruptly unamused; he is giving his brother a look that Castiel has come to understand means he feels Dean is being inappropriate, or taking advantage of Castiel's ignorance.
"What?" Dean replies, in a tone of entirely false innocence. "If he's ticklish, we need to know. That's important information. What if we need to pull him out of a fight again?"
"I did not require your assistance," Castiel says. Dean flicks his gaze into the rearview mirror again; the lines around his eyes suggest his expression has hardened, but he says nothing.
"Fine," Sam says, to Dean. He is looking at his brother so Castiel is viewing him only in profile, but that view is sufficient for him to see Sam roll his eyes.
Sam then twists around in his seat so he is facing Castiel fully. "Just remember you can pop out any time you want," he says, before turning back to the windshield. A moment later, he twists around again. "Just, um, come back. Please."
"Always," Castiel assures him.
Dean's glance into the mirror is brief, but the lines around his eyes suggest that he is smiling.
* * * * *
They stop for dinner at a diner, as is usual. Castiel has no need to eat, of course, but he joins the brothers anyway. They do not remark on this, any more than they remarked on his joining them in the car, or, for that matter, on his arrival at their motel before their hunt. Heaven no longer requires all of Castiel’s attention, and it has become commonplace for him to spend his hard-won free time with the Winchesters; there is still tension between him and many of his former garrison mates, while the Winchesters are always glad of his help and even, he sometimes thinks, of his company. And he of theirs.
Their waitress is a tall, slender young woman - attractive, Castiel supposes - who makes her interest in Sam so plain that even Castiel understands her intent when, while collecting the bill, she tells Sam “You know, my shift’s just ending. If you’re not busy--”
“He’s not.” Dean says immediately. Sam glares at him, which confuses Castiel, as the next thing Sam does is to smile at the waitress and confirm “I’m not.”
“Well, good,” she says, smiling back. “Let me get my coat.”
Sam watches her walk away until he is interrupted by Dean. “I expect you in by ten, young man.”
Sam turns to Dean, looking confused. He is not the only one.
“Do you not wish him to ‘go for it’?”
“Cas!” Sam says, sounding shocked, before turning to Dean. “But, uh, yeah. What he said.”
Dean is glaring at Cas. “I was going to say ten am, but - never mind.” He turns back to Sam. “Just don’t come back tonight, or I’ll be very disappointed in you.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m going to go wait at the counter.”
Dean waits until Sam is halfway across the diner before yelling after him “Go for it, Sammy!” an act which causes Sam to turn back around and extend his middle finger towards Dean, but which also, apparently, restores Dean’s good mood; when he turns back to Castiel, he is smiling again.
“Guess it’s just you and me, buddy.”
“It would seem so.”
“I mean, if you’re good to hang around for a bit.”
“I am.”
“Well, good. Because as I recall, we have something to test.”
* * * * *
“Right,” Dean says, as they reenter the Winchesters’ motel room. “Take off your coat. Jacket too.”
“Why?” Castiel asks. He knows Dean sheds his outer layers of clothing on entering buildings, but Castiel has never done so, and Dean has never before suggested that he should.
“Because as great as I am at tickling, I don’t think I’m going to get a reaction scratching at you through a trench coat and a suit jacket. Come on, chop chop.”
It feels strange to pull off the coat; stranger still to remove the jacket. Their weight, Castiel knows, is negligible, yet their removal makes him feel much lighter. He throws them on one of the beds, as Dean has done with his jacket.
“Okay,” Dean says, standing in front of him, eyeing him critically. “Arms up.” He demonstrates, lifting his arms straight out to the side until they are at right angles to his torso. Castiel mirrors the gesture.
“Perfect,” Dean says. Then, without warning, he lunges forward and runs his fingers along Castiel’s right side in a light, scrabbling touch.
Castiel starts and jerks away with a gasp, but Dean is apparently anticipating this response. He simply smiles and follows, keeping his fingers moving against Castiel’s side. Castiel reminds himself that they are testing... something, something important, and forces himself to stop moving. Or forces his feet to stop moving, at least; it seems he cannot stop his torso from trying to twitch away from Dean’s touch. It is the first time his vessel - the vessel he has come to think of almost as his own body, he has been alone in it for so long - has not been entirely within his conscious control. It is a strange and not entirely pleasant feeling.
The sensations Dean’s light touch is eliciting are causing his breathing to change too: he finds he is gasping repeatedly, seemingly unable to draw a full breath unimpeded, and then abruptly he hears himself laugh - he knows it must be him, as Dean is not laughing and there is no one else in the room, as he feels the puff of air leave his mouth in time with the sound, but it is again an entirely involuntary reaction, and suddenly he feels overwhelmed.
“Dean,” he says. The name is half-lost in more of the involuntary laughter, and perhaps Dean doesn’t hear him, as he doesn’t stop-- doesn’t stop tickling, simply continues to smile at Castiel. “Dean. Dean!”
At last Castiel seizes Dean’s wrist and pulls Dean’s hand away from him, irrationally relieved to find his vessel responding to the command. “Dean. That is enough.”
“Well,” Dean says, pulling his hand back. “I guess you’re ticklish.”
“That is being ticklish? Strange movements, sensations, in response to that touch?”
“Yep.”
“Then yes, I am ticklish.”
Unexpectedly, Dean grins. “That’s awesome,” he says, then without warning he lunges forward again, pressing his fingers back to Castiel’s side.
“Dean. Dean. Dean!”
It is not a fight, exactly. If it were a fight, Castiel would overpower Dean easily. But because it is not a fight - not a real fight - Castiel is prevented from using his full strength for fear of hurting Dean. Indeed, he does not know quite how forceful he can be, and must err on the side of caution, while Dean, who has spent his entire life fighting creatures stronger and faster than himself, can bring all his own strength and training to bear without any fear of injuring Castiel.
And then too, Dean has knowledge on his side. Castiel knows to protect the right side of his torso, but he is not expecting Dean to switch angles and attack his apparently equally vulnerable left. He is not expecting Dean to abruptly abandon his torso and slide his fingers under Castiel’s collar, against his surprisingly sensitive neck. And he is certainly not expecting Dean to trip him to the ground, seize his ankle, pull off his shoe, and run clever fingers along the sole of his foot.
And then too, each successful attack of Dean’s begets more success: Castiel can hardly defend himself effectively while twitching, gasping, laughing under the stroke of Dean’s fingers. And even when Castiel manages to push Dean away, he is left jittery and gasping, while Dean is hardly winded, and immediately able to attack once more - although Dean has, Castiel notes, started laughing as well, despite the fact that Castiel has hardly laid a finger on him, certainly not in any of the spots Dean is targeting on Castiel.
And then too--
And then too, Dean so rarely touches Castiel - Dean so rarely touches anyone. For all that Castiel’s vessel’s involuntary response and Castiel’s rational mind are joined in the same goal - escaping Dean’s questing fingers - he finds there is a small part of him, a part he must overcome, that is reluctant to pull away from Dean’s touch, no matter how unpleasant its consequences. And while Dean smiles more than he used to, during the apocalypse, it is still no common thing to hear him laugh...
Fleeing, as Sam had suggested, somehow never even crosses Castiel’s mind. The sensation of being tickled is unpleasant, the physical response to being tickled is unpleasant, and yet... and yet, Castiel is increasingly certain that some of his laughter is his own.
Eventually, of course, Castiel wins the not-a-fight, by dint of simply shoving Dean down and pinning him. He sits across Dean’s thighs, holding his legs down as best he can - he does not put it past Dean to reach a vulnerable spot with his feet, and while Castiel is reasonably certain Dean couldn’t use his feet to tickle while still wearing his boots, he isn’t taking any chances - and leans forward, using his hands to pin Dean’s wrists to the floor, one on either side of his head. The position leaves Castiel close enough to feel the gusts of Dean’s laughter against his face, to feel Dean’s chest brush against his as Dean arches in a futile attempt to break Castiel’s hold.
At last, Dean subsides. He lies back on the floor, panting, grinning up at Castiel.
“Dude,” he says, his voice still full of laughter. “You’re ticklish.”
“I noticed,” Castiel tells him.
“I like it,” Dean says. Before Castiel can tell him just what he thinks of that, Dean adds “You should laugh more.”
“So should you,” Castiel tells him. He means it, but he doesn’t mean for the statement to turn Dean’s look from amused to pensive, doesn’t like the smile being replaced by something serious and unreadable. But before he can react, before he can begin to think what to say to bring Dean’s smile back, Dean makes another unexpected move, leaning up as best he can to press his lips against Castiel’s.
Another strange touch; another strange touch evoking strange responses in Castiel’s body, but it isn’t the same. Castiel has spent a long time watching humanity; Castiel has spent a long time watching the Winchesters. Watching Dean. This touch, these responses Castiel understands.
And when after a too-brief moment Dean lets his head drop back, Castiel leans forward, following.
He does bring Dean’s smile back.
* * * * *
Later, when they have removed far more than just their outer layers of clothes, when Dean has introduced Castiel to many unexpected touches, when they are tangled together on one of the beds, panting and sweaty but very, very pleased, when Dean is sprawled on his back and Castiel is pressed up against his side, Castiel cautiously raises a hand and, careful not to be seen by Dean, reaches across the pale expanse of Dean’s stomach. He brings his hand down against Dean’s other side and curls his fingers rapidly, mimicking Dean’s gesture from earlier.
Dean does not laugh.
“Sorry Cas,” he says, and there is amusement in his voice, but still he does not laugh. “I’m not ticklish.”
“Oh,” Castiel says. He is disappointed. And he is fairly sure he sounds disappointed, so he doesn’t understand why his response makes Dean, finally, laugh.
“Don’t worry, Cas.” Dean rolls over to face Castiel, his lips mere inches away. “That part’s optional.”
Author: twfftw
Rating: PG
Genre: Humour
Spoilers: For season five generally.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 2,556
Warnings: Language
Summary: "Dude," Dean says, catching Castiel’s eye again. "I think you're ticklish."
Notes: This is a comment_fic for sycophantastic’s prompt Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, ticklish angel. It ran, er, a little long, hence posting it here, but all the usual comment_fic warnings apply - written in a burst of adrenaline in the wee hours, unbeta’d, etc. Also, the ending is stolen from an homage to my favourite joke in the lovely hrtslkths' Managing Up, which you should all go read post-haste.
Ticklish
It begins when they are fighting an unexpected group of demons who appeared abruptly at the end of an unrelated hunt. Castiel has lost his coat and jacket - torn and slashed away in the fight - and he is down to simply his shirt when a demon whirls away from a confrontation with Dean to try to strike at his unprotected flank.
Dean sees this immediately. He shouts "Cas!" and reaches out. But he cannot seize Castiel’s arm; to do so would prevent Castiel from striking, leaving him vulnerable to the demon attacking him from the front.
Dean must realise this, as he instead attempts to wrap his arm around Castiel's torso, to pull him away. But Castiel is moving too quickly - Castiel does not, really, need Dean's help at all - and Dean's fingertips slide and scrabble at Castiel's waist, unable to find purchase.
Castiel can feel the light flickering of Dean's fingers clearly through the thin material of his shirt. There is something odd about it and abruptly he finds he has jerked away from Dean's touch without conscious thought. (This must be what acting on instinct is, he realises. It is a strange feeling).
The sudden, unstrategic movement has momentarily confused the demon before him. Castiel takes advantage to slice cleanly through his throat, and then opens the stomach of the second demon on the follow-through. He completes the turn to find Dean frowning at him, clearly unhappy. "Cas--" Dean says, but then there is another demon coming at Dean from the side, and two more regrouping to come at Castiel together, and there is no time to discuss what has just happened.
Dean does not forget, however. Later, when the demons are dead, when the corpses of the unfortunate possessed are salted, burned and buried, when Castiel has reconstituted his lost garments and taken his place in the Impala with Dean and Sam, when they are pulling onto the roadway that will take them to their next destination, Dean catches Castiel's gaze in the rearview mirror.
"What the hell was that?" he demands.
His voice is loud and angry; Castiel feels his own temper flare in response to the implied blame. He must remind himself that Dean has good reason to be disturbed, that what is important is to find out what is wrong, before he can answer calmly.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"What the hell was what?" Sam asks.
"I tried to pull Cas out of a tight spot back there and he flipped out," Dean replies.
"The touch felt... strange."
"You don't like to be touched?" Sam asks.
Castiel has only rarely been touched in this vessel. He thinks about the warm weight of Dean's hand on his shoulder as they stood together beside a near-deserted highway. "No," he says. "I do not object to being touched. But Dean's hand here..." Hesitantly, he lifts his arm and slides his other hand under his layers of coat and jacket to press against his side, the same spot Dean's fingers had slid against. To his surprise, the strange sensation is not repeated. "It seems fine now."
"So, when Dean touched your side, it felt funny, but when you touch your side, it feels fine?"
"Yes." Castiel does not understand why Sam has started smiling. He understands even less why Dean suddenly laughs - low and brief, but unmistakably a laugh. "What is it?"
"Dude," Dean says, catching his eye again. "I think you're ticklish."
"Ticklish?" The word seems vaguely familiar; he is certain he has heard it before, but he can't place its meaning.
"Yup," Dean says. "Wait til we get to the hotel, I'll help you test it out."
"Dean," Sam says, abruptly unamused; he is giving his brother a look that Castiel has come to understand means he feels Dean is being inappropriate, or taking advantage of Castiel's ignorance.
"What?" Dean replies, in a tone of entirely false innocence. "If he's ticklish, we need to know. That's important information. What if we need to pull him out of a fight again?"
"I did not require your assistance," Castiel says. Dean flicks his gaze into the rearview mirror again; the lines around his eyes suggest his expression has hardened, but he says nothing.
"Fine," Sam says, to Dean. He is looking at his brother so Castiel is viewing him only in profile, but that view is sufficient for him to see Sam roll his eyes.
Sam then twists around in his seat so he is facing Castiel fully. "Just remember you can pop out any time you want," he says, before turning back to the windshield. A moment later, he twists around again. "Just, um, come back. Please."
"Always," Castiel assures him.
Dean's glance into the mirror is brief, but the lines around his eyes suggest that he is smiling.
* * * * *
They stop for dinner at a diner, as is usual. Castiel has no need to eat, of course, but he joins the brothers anyway. They do not remark on this, any more than they remarked on his joining them in the car, or, for that matter, on his arrival at their motel before their hunt. Heaven no longer requires all of Castiel’s attention, and it has become commonplace for him to spend his hard-won free time with the Winchesters; there is still tension between him and many of his former garrison mates, while the Winchesters are always glad of his help and even, he sometimes thinks, of his company. And he of theirs.
Their waitress is a tall, slender young woman - attractive, Castiel supposes - who makes her interest in Sam so plain that even Castiel understands her intent when, while collecting the bill, she tells Sam “You know, my shift’s just ending. If you’re not busy--”
“He’s not.” Dean says immediately. Sam glares at him, which confuses Castiel, as the next thing Sam does is to smile at the waitress and confirm “I’m not.”
“Well, good,” she says, smiling back. “Let me get my coat.”
Sam watches her walk away until he is interrupted by Dean. “I expect you in by ten, young man.”
Sam turns to Dean, looking confused. He is not the only one.
“Do you not wish him to ‘go for it’?”
“Cas!” Sam says, sounding shocked, before turning to Dean. “But, uh, yeah. What he said.”
Dean is glaring at Cas. “I was going to say ten am, but - never mind.” He turns back to Sam. “Just don’t come back tonight, or I’ll be very disappointed in you.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m going to go wait at the counter.”
Dean waits until Sam is halfway across the diner before yelling after him “Go for it, Sammy!” an act which causes Sam to turn back around and extend his middle finger towards Dean, but which also, apparently, restores Dean’s good mood; when he turns back to Castiel, he is smiling again.
“Guess it’s just you and me, buddy.”
“It would seem so.”
“I mean, if you’re good to hang around for a bit.”
“I am.”
“Well, good. Because as I recall, we have something to test.”
* * * * *
“Right,” Dean says, as they reenter the Winchesters’ motel room. “Take off your coat. Jacket too.”
“Why?” Castiel asks. He knows Dean sheds his outer layers of clothing on entering buildings, but Castiel has never done so, and Dean has never before suggested that he should.
“Because as great as I am at tickling, I don’t think I’m going to get a reaction scratching at you through a trench coat and a suit jacket. Come on, chop chop.”
It feels strange to pull off the coat; stranger still to remove the jacket. Their weight, Castiel knows, is negligible, yet their removal makes him feel much lighter. He throws them on one of the beds, as Dean has done with his jacket.
“Okay,” Dean says, standing in front of him, eyeing him critically. “Arms up.” He demonstrates, lifting his arms straight out to the side until they are at right angles to his torso. Castiel mirrors the gesture.
“Perfect,” Dean says. Then, without warning, he lunges forward and runs his fingers along Castiel’s right side in a light, scrabbling touch.
Castiel starts and jerks away with a gasp, but Dean is apparently anticipating this response. He simply smiles and follows, keeping his fingers moving against Castiel’s side. Castiel reminds himself that they are testing... something, something important, and forces himself to stop moving. Or forces his feet to stop moving, at least; it seems he cannot stop his torso from trying to twitch away from Dean’s touch. It is the first time his vessel - the vessel he has come to think of almost as his own body, he has been alone in it for so long - has not been entirely within his conscious control. It is a strange and not entirely pleasant feeling.
The sensations Dean’s light touch is eliciting are causing his breathing to change too: he finds he is gasping repeatedly, seemingly unable to draw a full breath unimpeded, and then abruptly he hears himself laugh - he knows it must be him, as Dean is not laughing and there is no one else in the room, as he feels the puff of air leave his mouth in time with the sound, but it is again an entirely involuntary reaction, and suddenly he feels overwhelmed.
“Dean,” he says. The name is half-lost in more of the involuntary laughter, and perhaps Dean doesn’t hear him, as he doesn’t stop-- doesn’t stop tickling, simply continues to smile at Castiel. “Dean. Dean!”
At last Castiel seizes Dean’s wrist and pulls Dean’s hand away from him, irrationally relieved to find his vessel responding to the command. “Dean. That is enough.”
“Well,” Dean says, pulling his hand back. “I guess you’re ticklish.”
“That is being ticklish? Strange movements, sensations, in response to that touch?”
“Yep.”
“Then yes, I am ticklish.”
Unexpectedly, Dean grins. “That’s awesome,” he says, then without warning he lunges forward again, pressing his fingers back to Castiel’s side.
“Dean. Dean. Dean!”
It is not a fight, exactly. If it were a fight, Castiel would overpower Dean easily. But because it is not a fight - not a real fight - Castiel is prevented from using his full strength for fear of hurting Dean. Indeed, he does not know quite how forceful he can be, and must err on the side of caution, while Dean, who has spent his entire life fighting creatures stronger and faster than himself, can bring all his own strength and training to bear without any fear of injuring Castiel.
And then too, Dean has knowledge on his side. Castiel knows to protect the right side of his torso, but he is not expecting Dean to switch angles and attack his apparently equally vulnerable left. He is not expecting Dean to abruptly abandon his torso and slide his fingers under Castiel’s collar, against his surprisingly sensitive neck. And he is certainly not expecting Dean to trip him to the ground, seize his ankle, pull off his shoe, and run clever fingers along the sole of his foot.
And then too, each successful attack of Dean’s begets more success: Castiel can hardly defend himself effectively while twitching, gasping, laughing under the stroke of Dean’s fingers. And even when Castiel manages to push Dean away, he is left jittery and gasping, while Dean is hardly winded, and immediately able to attack once more - although Dean has, Castiel notes, started laughing as well, despite the fact that Castiel has hardly laid a finger on him, certainly not in any of the spots Dean is targeting on Castiel.
And then too--
And then too, Dean so rarely touches Castiel - Dean so rarely touches anyone. For all that Castiel’s vessel’s involuntary response and Castiel’s rational mind are joined in the same goal - escaping Dean’s questing fingers - he finds there is a small part of him, a part he must overcome, that is reluctant to pull away from Dean’s touch, no matter how unpleasant its consequences. And while Dean smiles more than he used to, during the apocalypse, it is still no common thing to hear him laugh...
Fleeing, as Sam had suggested, somehow never even crosses Castiel’s mind. The sensation of being tickled is unpleasant, the physical response to being tickled is unpleasant, and yet... and yet, Castiel is increasingly certain that some of his laughter is his own.
Eventually, of course, Castiel wins the not-a-fight, by dint of simply shoving Dean down and pinning him. He sits across Dean’s thighs, holding his legs down as best he can - he does not put it past Dean to reach a vulnerable spot with his feet, and while Castiel is reasonably certain Dean couldn’t use his feet to tickle while still wearing his boots, he isn’t taking any chances - and leans forward, using his hands to pin Dean’s wrists to the floor, one on either side of his head. The position leaves Castiel close enough to feel the gusts of Dean’s laughter against his face, to feel Dean’s chest brush against his as Dean arches in a futile attempt to break Castiel’s hold.
At last, Dean subsides. He lies back on the floor, panting, grinning up at Castiel.
“Dude,” he says, his voice still full of laughter. “You’re ticklish.”
“I noticed,” Castiel tells him.
“I like it,” Dean says. Before Castiel can tell him just what he thinks of that, Dean adds “You should laugh more.”
“So should you,” Castiel tells him. He means it, but he doesn’t mean for the statement to turn Dean’s look from amused to pensive, doesn’t like the smile being replaced by something serious and unreadable. But before he can react, before he can begin to think what to say to bring Dean’s smile back, Dean makes another unexpected move, leaning up as best he can to press his lips against Castiel’s.
Another strange touch; another strange touch evoking strange responses in Castiel’s body, but it isn’t the same. Castiel has spent a long time watching humanity; Castiel has spent a long time watching the Winchesters. Watching Dean. This touch, these responses Castiel understands.
And when after a too-brief moment Dean lets his head drop back, Castiel leans forward, following.
He does bring Dean’s smile back.
* * * * *
Later, when they have removed far more than just their outer layers of clothes, when Dean has introduced Castiel to many unexpected touches, when they are tangled together on one of the beds, panting and sweaty but very, very pleased, when Dean is sprawled on his back and Castiel is pressed up against his side, Castiel cautiously raises a hand and, careful not to be seen by Dean, reaches across the pale expanse of Dean’s stomach. He brings his hand down against Dean’s other side and curls his fingers rapidly, mimicking Dean’s gesture from earlier.
Dean does not laugh.
“Sorry Cas,” he says, and there is amusement in his voice, but still he does not laugh. “I’m not ticklish.”
“Oh,” Castiel says. He is disappointed. And he is fairly sure he sounds disappointed, so he doesn’t understand why his response makes Dean, finally, laugh.
“Don’t worry, Cas.” Dean rolls over to face Castiel, his lips mere inches away. “That part’s optional.”