FIC: Dirty Laundry (beta'd version :oP)...
Title: Dirty Laundry
Rating: PG/tame PG-13?
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, brief moments with Sam and Bobby:
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Underwear!
Word Count: ~1,800
Summary: So cloudyjenn wanted a fic with Castiel hanging up Dean's underwear (we have this loverly picture to thank for this ;o) and I gave it a shot. This is what came out of that... Dean wakes up to find Castiel's developed a new taste for laundry.
This is the beta'd version (finally :oP) to the original. awesomepants87 is awesome as always for being an awesome beta ;o)
Dirty Laundry
What Dean likes most about the end of the Apocalypse, other than the whole “the Devil’s back underground and I’m not an angel condom” thing, is the fact that he actually gets a chance to sleep. Sleep was something that Dean had never thought he'd enjoy. It had always been accompanied by memories of Hell, visions of angels wearing Sam's skin, the world going down in flames. Sleep was something he'd relucantly fall into, exhausted, after a three or four day stretch.
But since the final battle, life has been relatively stress free. Now, there are no demons, no angels trying to wear his skin, and even if the occasional nightmare of Hell weaves its way into his subconscious, he has a certain blue-eyed angel to wake up to.
So yeah, sleep is good. Especially the waking up part. He'd never admit it to anyone, but Castiel is adorable in the morning, his hair mussed and sticking out at odd angles as he tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes. It was the perfect image to wake up to. So Dean rolls over to get an eyeful of morning Cas, only to find Castiel's side of the bed empty.
And the only downer since getting used to the sleep thing was finding out that Castiel is a morning person. Dean, on the other hand, is not.
Dean groans into his pillow, eventually kicks his feet out from under the covers and trips out of bed. He steps into the first pair of pants he can find, grabs a shirt off the floor and sniffs it before shrugging and tugging it on. They’re mostly clean, he thinks. He looks around at the room he and Cas have claimed as their own, and rubs the back of his neck.
They’ve become quite messy since the End never happened. Settled into a routine of ease and comfort, and Dean can’t say he feels any need to complain. Clothes are scattered everywhere, and Dean smirks when he remembers how most of them got on the floor. How Castiel's tie came to hang off the lampshade is one of his most fond memories to date.
Dean turns away with a chuckle, staggers downstairs. He enters the kitchen, expecting to see Bobby with a cup of coffee and Sam with a newspaper, scanning the damn thing for hunts like he has since the end of the End. But Dean enters to an empty room.
And an empty coffee pot.
“Son of a-”
The coffee isn’t hard to handle. But Dean’s still trying to fight off the morning grogginess, and he groans as he steps up to the counter. He struggles for a moment, trying to remember how to get the lid of the coffee machine open before he lets out a small “ha!” of triumph when it pops up. He’s not ashamed of the pride he feels when he has the filter emptied and the pot under the faucet. As he’s waiting for the water to reach the "max" line, he glances up and stares out the kitchen window.
It takes him approximately 6.8 seconds to realize Bobby’s backyard has been turned into a tangle of clothesline and fabric. And the fabric flapping in the wind is his underwear.
And Castiel is standing right in the middle of it.
The coffee pot clanks onto the counter, and Dean’s outside in less than 2.3 seconds.
“Cas,” Dean trips over the door frame on his way outside. “What are you doing?”
Castiel looks up from his task, where he’s currently clipping another pair of Dean’s underwear onto the line.
Dean almost trips again, because the angel has a clothespin between his lips, and ever since they started this thing between them, Castiel’s mouth has been something Dean’s been unashamedly fascinated with. And Dean thinks that he’s never wanted to be a clothespin before, but at this moment the idea doesn’t sound half-bad.
It doesn’t help, either, that Castiel’s taken to borrowing his clothes and hasn’t shaved for a day or two. He looks worn-in-comfy and Sunday-morning-lazy, but Dean’s trying not to focus on that right now.
“Dude… what are you doing with my underwear?”
Castiel finishes clipping the underwear on the line before taking the clothespin out of his mouth. Dean swallows.
“Good hygiene is important,” Castiel states.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yeah… and?”
Castiel’s head tilts just slightly. Dean would miss the slight raising of one corner of his mouth if he hasn’t studied every movement that mouth makes. But Castiel is undeterred and he bends down and takes out another pair of underwear from the basket at his feet. He shakes it out, his eyes on Dean, and Dean would swear the angel was challenging him. Or else had developed some weird sense of humor.
“And clean underwear is part of good hygiene. Unless,” Castiel pauses for a moment. “Unless I’m mistaken. Or… you’d rather go without it.”
And yeah, the challenge or weird humor? It’s a little of both.
Dean stomps over to Castiel, pulls the underwear hanging from his fingertips out of his hands. “There are better ways to do this, other than giving the neighbors an eyeful of my underwear.”
There’s another head tilt. “There are no neighbors, Dean. Not for three-quarters of a mile.”
“Like you know that.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow, and Dean thinks, Right. Angel of the Lord.
“Well, Bobby and Sam aren’t going to appreciate it. Nothing says manly like underwear prettying up cars in a junkyard.” He looks to his right, and regrets it the instant he sees that the clothesline is secured in the window of an '80 Camaro.
Dean turns back to Castiel, only to see the angel bending over to pick up another pair of Dean’s underwear, shake it out and reach for the clothesline. Dean’s eyes widen when he sees it’s the black pair with the yellow Batman logo.
“Oh, hell no,” Dean lunges, fists his hand around the fabric. He collides with Castiel in the process, and the angel has to reach out and grasp the clothesline to keep them from falling. A few pairs of underwear shake loose of the line, and Castiel stares at them for a moment before looking up at Dean, a frown now making it quite clear where Castiel stands on this.
“Dean.” And Castiel’s voice has gone surprisingly low and gravely. There’s a warning in there somewhere, but Dean shivers and can’t help pressing slightly closer, fitting himself more securely against Castiel’s body. The lazy look really works well on him.
“You know what,” Dean says, “fine. If you wanna go all houseangel on me, go ahead. But not… this…” he tugs the underwear still grasped in their hands, but Castiel doesn’t let it go. “Give me this, Cas.”
Castiel’s frown increases, but his grip remains tight.
“Dean.”
“Cas, remember that conversation we had about how some things are meant to be private? And remain private?”
Castiel freezes, and Dean watches his eyes flicker away before his grip slackens on the cloth in his hand. Dean pulls it away, suppressing a satisfied smile. He shoves the pair into his pocket, flinches when the dampness starts to seek through fabric to his skin.
There’s a moment where they simply stare at each other, and Dean can’t help but appreciate how Castiel’s hair still looks rumpled from sleep.
But then Castiel takes a step back, taking his warmth and lazy-morning with him, and Dean sighs. After all of Castiel’s talk about hygiene, Dean expects Castiel to bend over, pick up the now-dirty underwear laying in the grass and dirt. But he doesn’t. Instead he reaches into the basket, pulls out another pair, and goes on hanging. His hand slips into his pocket to retrieve another clothespin, sticks the pin into his mouth, and Dean wonders at how much care Castiel takes in smoothing the underwear out on the line, clipping it with an almost reverent attention.
“Geeze, Cas. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you liked playing with my underwear and putting on this little exhibition.”
Castiel’s reaction is small, just the tiniest of motions. The clothespin he’s attempting to put on the line misses, slides over fabric, before it catches and Castiel steps back towards the laundry basket again.
“Whoa… wait a minute…”
Castiel’s motions remain smooth this time, unflinching, but his eyes flicker to Dean as he turns back to the clothesline, hold for just a moment before focusing back on the task at hand.
“Oh…”
And Dean didn’t realize what he was getting into with Castiel. But he can’t say he exactly minds.
Dean takes the step and a half to where Castiel is folding the corner of a gray pair of underwear over the edge of the line. He stops only when his chest is pressed against Castiel’s back, sees Castiel’s fingers twitch before clipping the clothespin over fabric. Castiel is warm and solid against him, but it’s a soft, steady movement when he leans back into Dean, his breath sighing out of him.
“You know, there are better ways to deal with this… underwear, exhibition thing than involving laundry duty,” Dean says, and presses his lips briefly to the skin behind Castiel’s ear. He steps back then, turns Castiel around and decides that he likes the feel of worn-in fabric under his palm when he slides an arm around Castiel’s waist.
Castiel’s eyes have widened now, but he doesn’t say anything. The clothespin is still in his mouth, and he seems to have forgotten it’s there. Dean lifts a hand, takes the pin from between his lips, and doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyelids flutter before Dean leans in and kisses him.
“And,” Castiel’s voice is rougher now, for an entirely different reason, “what would that involve?”
Dean smirks against Castiel’s lips before stepping back, tugging Castiel by the waist into the house. “We’ll see what we can come up with.”
An hour later, Sam and Bobby arrive home to a seemingly empty house.
“Dean?” Sam calls out, but there’s no answer. He’s passing by the backdoor when he stops, does a double take, and then simply stares out into the backyard.
“Will you go tell those idjits my backyard is not an underwear orchard for Fruit of the Loom,” Bobby demands as he wheels past Sam.
Sam sighs, turns to resume his search for Dean, when he catches sight of one of Dean’s jackets on the floor near the door. He remembers seeing Castiel wearing it that morning before he left. “Ugh… Dean,” Sam whines. He pulls in a breath before following Bobby into the kitchen. “Later, Bobby,” he promises.
And later, if Dean has to put up with Sam’s bitching about underwear flapping in the breeze and dirty clothes scattered across the floor, there’s still a small smile lingering around Castiel’s lips and the angel’s eyes haven’t quite focused yet. And Dean finds that he doesn’t quite mind this weird, lazy-comfy-not-quite-awkward life they’ve managed to slip into. Underwear-obsessed angel and all.
Rating: PG/tame PG-13?
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Castiel, brief moments with Sam and Bobby:
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Underwear!
Word Count: ~1,800
Summary: So cloudyjenn wanted a fic with Castiel hanging up Dean's underwear (we have this loverly picture to thank for this ;o) and I gave it a shot. This is what came out of that... Dean wakes up to find Castiel's developed a new taste for laundry.
This is the beta'd version (finally :oP) to the original. awesomepants87 is awesome as always for being an awesome beta ;o)
Dirty Laundry
What Dean likes most about the end of the Apocalypse, other than the whole “the Devil’s back underground and I’m not an angel condom” thing, is the fact that he actually gets a chance to sleep. Sleep was something that Dean had never thought he'd enjoy. It had always been accompanied by memories of Hell, visions of angels wearing Sam's skin, the world going down in flames. Sleep was something he'd relucantly fall into, exhausted, after a three or four day stretch.
But since the final battle, life has been relatively stress free. Now, there are no demons, no angels trying to wear his skin, and even if the occasional nightmare of Hell weaves its way into his subconscious, he has a certain blue-eyed angel to wake up to.
So yeah, sleep is good. Especially the waking up part. He'd never admit it to anyone, but Castiel is adorable in the morning, his hair mussed and sticking out at odd angles as he tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes. It was the perfect image to wake up to. So Dean rolls over to get an eyeful of morning Cas, only to find Castiel's side of the bed empty.
And the only downer since getting used to the sleep thing was finding out that Castiel is a morning person. Dean, on the other hand, is not.
Dean groans into his pillow, eventually kicks his feet out from under the covers and trips out of bed. He steps into the first pair of pants he can find, grabs a shirt off the floor and sniffs it before shrugging and tugging it on. They’re mostly clean, he thinks. He looks around at the room he and Cas have claimed as their own, and rubs the back of his neck.
They’ve become quite messy since the End never happened. Settled into a routine of ease and comfort, and Dean can’t say he feels any need to complain. Clothes are scattered everywhere, and Dean smirks when he remembers how most of them got on the floor. How Castiel's tie came to hang off the lampshade is one of his most fond memories to date.
Dean turns away with a chuckle, staggers downstairs. He enters the kitchen, expecting to see Bobby with a cup of coffee and Sam with a newspaper, scanning the damn thing for hunts like he has since the end of the End. But Dean enters to an empty room.
And an empty coffee pot.
“Son of a-”
The coffee isn’t hard to handle. But Dean’s still trying to fight off the morning grogginess, and he groans as he steps up to the counter. He struggles for a moment, trying to remember how to get the lid of the coffee machine open before he lets out a small “ha!” of triumph when it pops up. He’s not ashamed of the pride he feels when he has the filter emptied and the pot under the faucet. As he’s waiting for the water to reach the "max" line, he glances up and stares out the kitchen window.
It takes him approximately 6.8 seconds to realize Bobby’s backyard has been turned into a tangle of clothesline and fabric. And the fabric flapping in the wind is his underwear.
And Castiel is standing right in the middle of it.
The coffee pot clanks onto the counter, and Dean’s outside in less than 2.3 seconds.
“Cas,” Dean trips over the door frame on his way outside. “What are you doing?”
Castiel looks up from his task, where he’s currently clipping another pair of Dean’s underwear onto the line.
Dean almost trips again, because the angel has a clothespin between his lips, and ever since they started this thing between them, Castiel’s mouth has been something Dean’s been unashamedly fascinated with. And Dean thinks that he’s never wanted to be a clothespin before, but at this moment the idea doesn’t sound half-bad.
It doesn’t help, either, that Castiel’s taken to borrowing his clothes and hasn’t shaved for a day or two. He looks worn-in-comfy and Sunday-morning-lazy, but Dean’s trying not to focus on that right now.
“Dude… what are you doing with my underwear?”
Castiel finishes clipping the underwear on the line before taking the clothespin out of his mouth. Dean swallows.
“Good hygiene is important,” Castiel states.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yeah… and?”
Castiel’s head tilts just slightly. Dean would miss the slight raising of one corner of his mouth if he hasn’t studied every movement that mouth makes. But Castiel is undeterred and he bends down and takes out another pair of underwear from the basket at his feet. He shakes it out, his eyes on Dean, and Dean would swear the angel was challenging him. Or else had developed some weird sense of humor.
“And clean underwear is part of good hygiene. Unless,” Castiel pauses for a moment. “Unless I’m mistaken. Or… you’d rather go without it.”
And yeah, the challenge or weird humor? It’s a little of both.
Dean stomps over to Castiel, pulls the underwear hanging from his fingertips out of his hands. “There are better ways to do this, other than giving the neighbors an eyeful of my underwear.”
There’s another head tilt. “There are no neighbors, Dean. Not for three-quarters of a mile.”
“Like you know that.”
Castiel raises an eyebrow, and Dean thinks, Right. Angel of the Lord.
“Well, Bobby and Sam aren’t going to appreciate it. Nothing says manly like underwear prettying up cars in a junkyard.” He looks to his right, and regrets it the instant he sees that the clothesline is secured in the window of an '80 Camaro.
Dean turns back to Castiel, only to see the angel bending over to pick up another pair of Dean’s underwear, shake it out and reach for the clothesline. Dean’s eyes widen when he sees it’s the black pair with the yellow Batman logo.
“Oh, hell no,” Dean lunges, fists his hand around the fabric. He collides with Castiel in the process, and the angel has to reach out and grasp the clothesline to keep them from falling. A few pairs of underwear shake loose of the line, and Castiel stares at them for a moment before looking up at Dean, a frown now making it quite clear where Castiel stands on this.
“Dean.” And Castiel’s voice has gone surprisingly low and gravely. There’s a warning in there somewhere, but Dean shivers and can’t help pressing slightly closer, fitting himself more securely against Castiel’s body. The lazy look really works well on him.
“You know what,” Dean says, “fine. If you wanna go all houseangel on me, go ahead. But not… this…” he tugs the underwear still grasped in their hands, but Castiel doesn’t let it go. “Give me this, Cas.”
Castiel’s frown increases, but his grip remains tight.
“Dean.”
“Cas, remember that conversation we had about how some things are meant to be private? And remain private?”
Castiel freezes, and Dean watches his eyes flicker away before his grip slackens on the cloth in his hand. Dean pulls it away, suppressing a satisfied smile. He shoves the pair into his pocket, flinches when the dampness starts to seek through fabric to his skin.
There’s a moment where they simply stare at each other, and Dean can’t help but appreciate how Castiel’s hair still looks rumpled from sleep.
But then Castiel takes a step back, taking his warmth and lazy-morning with him, and Dean sighs. After all of Castiel’s talk about hygiene, Dean expects Castiel to bend over, pick up the now-dirty underwear laying in the grass and dirt. But he doesn’t. Instead he reaches into the basket, pulls out another pair, and goes on hanging. His hand slips into his pocket to retrieve another clothespin, sticks the pin into his mouth, and Dean wonders at how much care Castiel takes in smoothing the underwear out on the line, clipping it with an almost reverent attention.
“Geeze, Cas. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you liked playing with my underwear and putting on this little exhibition.”
Castiel’s reaction is small, just the tiniest of motions. The clothespin he’s attempting to put on the line misses, slides over fabric, before it catches and Castiel steps back towards the laundry basket again.
“Whoa… wait a minute…”
Castiel’s motions remain smooth this time, unflinching, but his eyes flicker to Dean as he turns back to the clothesline, hold for just a moment before focusing back on the task at hand.
“Oh…”
And Dean didn’t realize what he was getting into with Castiel. But he can’t say he exactly minds.
Dean takes the step and a half to where Castiel is folding the corner of a gray pair of underwear over the edge of the line. He stops only when his chest is pressed against Castiel’s back, sees Castiel’s fingers twitch before clipping the clothespin over fabric. Castiel is warm and solid against him, but it’s a soft, steady movement when he leans back into Dean, his breath sighing out of him.
“You know, there are better ways to deal with this… underwear, exhibition thing than involving laundry duty,” Dean says, and presses his lips briefly to the skin behind Castiel’s ear. He steps back then, turns Castiel around and decides that he likes the feel of worn-in fabric under his palm when he slides an arm around Castiel’s waist.
Castiel’s eyes have widened now, but he doesn’t say anything. The clothespin is still in his mouth, and he seems to have forgotten it’s there. Dean lifts a hand, takes the pin from between his lips, and doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyelids flutter before Dean leans in and kisses him.
“And,” Castiel’s voice is rougher now, for an entirely different reason, “what would that involve?”
Dean smirks against Castiel’s lips before stepping back, tugging Castiel by the waist into the house. “We’ll see what we can come up with.”
An hour later, Sam and Bobby arrive home to a seemingly empty house.
“Dean?” Sam calls out, but there’s no answer. He’s passing by the backdoor when he stops, does a double take, and then simply stares out into the backyard.
“Will you go tell those idjits my backyard is not an underwear orchard for Fruit of the Loom,” Bobby demands as he wheels past Sam.
Sam sighs, turns to resume his search for Dean, when he catches sight of one of Dean’s jackets on the floor near the door. He remembers seeing Castiel wearing it that morning before he left. “Ugh… Dean,” Sam whines. He pulls in a breath before following Bobby into the kitchen. “Later, Bobby,” he promises.
And later, if Dean has to put up with Sam’s bitching about underwear flapping in the breeze and dirty clothes scattered across the floor, there’s still a small smile lingering around Castiel’s lips and the angel’s eyes haven’t quite focused yet. And Dean finds that he doesn’t quite mind this weird, lazy-comfy-not-quite-awkward life they’ve managed to slip into. Underwear-obsessed angel and all.