So, anyway, I don't want to write anything big and in-depth, but I thought some ficlets on a theme might be fun, so here's the first.
Title: The Seven Virtues of Dean Winchester: The Strategic Enabling of Sloth
Pairing: Dean/Castiel pre-slash or friendship fic
Spoiler: In passing for Season 5.
Word count: 700
Summary: Seven times Dean derailed an angel before he sinned.
Note: The first of seven stand-alone ficlets.
The Strategic Enabling of Sloth
"I do not wish to go to work today," Castiel announced from where he was suddenly seated at the foot of Dean's bed.
Dean jerked awake. "Dude," he complained, kicking at Castiel through the scratchy motel blankets, not at all accidentally. "What the fuck? We've talked about this!"
"I want a day off." Castiel stilled Dean's foot by the simple expedient of gripping it tightly, his thumb sliding into the hollow of the arch. "The Heavenly Host," he added, "can go fuck themselves."
"Wha-?" Sam reared up from the depths of his blanket cocoon like a huge and startled moth. "Wha's happening? What time's it?" He squinted at the trout-shaped digital clock built into the wooden headboard, then groaned and flopped back down, stuffing his head under his pillow. "Oh my God, I hate you."
"Seriously," Dean said. "It's fucking early o'clock and we just got to bed after way too many close encounters with ectoplasm. Whatever you're doing, just do it. We don't need to hear holy scripture about it."
"Amen," came Sam's somewhat muffled agreement.
Castiel tilted his head to one side, consideringly. "I see the merit in this plan." He stood up and started to remove his coat.
"Thank fuck for that." Dean rolled over and shut his eyes again, rubbing the arch of his foot against his ankle.
A moment later, Dean's blankets lifted, letting in a waft of arctic air, and the bed dipped.
"Jesus Christ," Dean mumbled as he shuffled over to make more room. "Don't touch me. You're like a fucking ice-cube."
"My apologies, Dean. Perhaps I should share with Sam, as his bed has more blankets than yours does?"
A whimper came from Sam's bed, along with the rustling sound of bedding being pulled in more tightly.
"Christ, no, we'll never hear the end of it. Just stay on your side and mojo some heat or something. And don't steal all the covers this time."
"I will do my best not to, Dean."
Silence reigned for perhaps six breaths, and then Castiel's phone started to play the Imperial March.
No one moved.
It rang. And rang. And rang some more.
After the seventh iteration, Sam said, "Are you going to get that? At all? Ever?"
"No," Castiel said.
"Fuck's sake!" Dean leaned out of bed just far enough to snag Castiel's coat off the chair. He groped around until he pulled the phone out of the pocket -- letting the coat fall to the floor in a crumpled heap when he was done -- snapped it open, and barked, "What?"
After a few whiny sounding words from the other end, Dean said, "No, he can't come to the phone right now."
A few more tinny protests.
"Because he's staying home for the day," Dean said, and then, "Because he's got bird flu. Why do you think?" and then, voice losing all traces of humor, "Just try it, douchenozzle, and I'll banish your ass so hard, you'll be climbing out of Limbo for the next thousand years. I have the sigil right here with your name on it, Raphael, so don't think I won't--"
Raphael's response to that cut off mid-word, leaving only the silence of a disconnected line in its wake.
"Huh. He hung up on me." Dean closed the phone and dropped it down onto the abandoned coat. "I didn't know he knew that kind of language."
"Neither did I," Castiel said, sounding warm and fond and a little astonished. "Dean, your strategic untruths were very inventive."
"What can I say?" Dean said, modestly. "It's a gift."
"I have often thought so, and I appreciate you using it on my behalf. I was concerned that I might inadvertently smite something if I spoke to Raphael myself."
"Yeah, well, we all need a break from the dicks of the world sometimes. Just keep your wings on your side of the bed, and maybe make a pie run in the morning, and we'll call it even."
"Of course, Dean. Would you prefer apple pie? From that bakery in Maine?"
"Mmmm," said Dean. "You know me so well, baby."
"Oh my God," Sam said, feelingly, "I can't believe I came back from Hell for this."
This entry was originally posted at http://cupidsbow.dreamwidth.org/350