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moonlettuceTitle: Winchester's Third Law
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,195
Summary: It's all Sam's fault...
Notes: Written for Day 3 of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mmom.
It was entirely Sam's fault, Dean decided as he fumbled the TV remote, unable to catch it before it dropped to the floor, spilling the batteries under the couch. After all, if Sam hadn't wanted to spend that extra couple of days in Austin, then they wouldn't have been the nearest ones to Assfuck, Nowhere. And they hadn't been the nearest ones to Assfuck, Nowhere, then Bobby wouldn't have called them after Rufus had called him and asked if there was anyone who could deal with a fire elemental while he was stuck cleaning up a vampire nest in Vegas. Which meant that the sneaky little fucker wouldn't have managed to trap Dean inside a burning room, leaving Sam to carry out the ritual to get rid of it.
Oh, don't get him wrong, Sam carried out the ritual just fine. Some Latin, some salt, a dash of Tabasco and Flamey McFlamerson was sent packing. The problem was, Sam hadn't managed to carry out said ritual before Dean had obtained second degree burns on both his hands trying to stop a fiery wooden beam of death from knocking him unconscious. Meaning, he was stuck with Hulk hands encased in bandages until they healed. Which translated to Dean being fucking useless for the time being, unless they ever needed to go after a ghost that was scared of ginormo-hands. In which case, Dean could wave them to death. After-death. Whatever.
They'd headed straight to Bobby's, intent on throwing themselves on his mercy for the next few weeks. And also because Sam said that if he had to listen to Dean's whining once more then he was going to smother him in his sleep and leave him for the motel maid to find. Which Dean thought was a little hard on the maid, if he was being honest, considering they were already leaving her numerous piles of salt on the floor, the spilled innards of at least one hex bag and seven dirty towels in the bathroom. But, apparently, Sam was just that kind of guy.
Bobby had taken one look at them, shaken his head, declared them both idjits and told them to get their asses inside before Sam's hangdog expression fell off his face. Dean had grinned, left Sam to carry the bags and waltzed over to the fridge, only to realise that he couldn't open the beer he'd managed to retrieve. Sam had just smirked and handed him a glass of water.
That had been nearly three weeks ago and things had gone steadily downhill from there. Dean hadn't realised just how much he did with his hands until he couldn't use them any more. The not being able to turn over the TV channel he could deal with. (He had Sam for that.) The not being able to open beer he could (just) deal with. (He had Sam for that one, as well.) But the not being able to jerk off? Well, that was just fucking frustrating. (Because there was no way in hell he was going to Sam with that one.)
And now? Now he was stuck on his knees with an arm under the couch and trying to bat at batteries that were just out of his reach in order to knock them out the other side of the couch so he could attempt to pick them up. It wasn't going well. Which meant he was TV-less, beer-less (no Sam in the house meant no Sam to open cans for him) and suffering from the worse case of blue balls he'd had since he was seventeen (which was the last time he'd gone without jerking off for three weeks, and that was because he'd been in a coma due to a werewolf bouncing him off a tree). And it was still Sam's fault.
"Dean?"
"Fuck! Ow! Bastard!" And who the hell had put that table in the way, anyway?
"Are you all right?"
Dean glared at Castiel. "Peachy, Cas. I often crawl about on my knees and then smack my head off a table when people appear out of nowhere and scare me half to death. I find it gets the blood pumping."
Dean sighed when Castiel peered into the kitchen instead of replying.
"Where are Sam and Bobby?"
"Out," Dean answered, finally accepting that the batteries had gone to that great dust bunny heaven under Bobby's couch and standing up. "They had stuff to do." Stuff that didn't involve him. If there was anything they were explicit about before they'd left it was his non-involvedness in the stuff they were doing.
Sam had claimed he was going to the library to research, but Dean was pretty sure he was actually boning the cute waitress in the café opposite. (He based this entire hypothesis on the fact that she kept giving Sam free pastries whenever they went in and all but ignored Dean when he ordered the cherry pie except to take his money.)
He had no idea where Bobby was. Out was as much as the other man had given. Well, that and the If I have to listen to you bitch a minute longer, I'm not only going to let Sam smother you, but I'm going to hand him the damn pillow--
"Do you know how long they'll be?" Castiel asked, removing his coat and carefully placing it over the back of one of the chairs.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Why?" Because, in his experience, questions like that never ended well. Except for that one time in Dallas, when How long will your brother be gone? had actually translated as How long do I have to suck your brains out through your dick? That one had ended pretty well.
Castiel smiled carefully, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk Dean's pretty sure he taught the angel in the first place.
"TV-less," he said, taking a step towards Dean and waving his fingers, not pausing as the TV flickered behind him and Dean's favourite episode of Dr Sexy snapped into life. (It was the one with the little girl, the puppy and that guy that used to be in Star Trek.) Not that Dean was paying attention to it, not the way Cas was all but stalking towards him.
"Beer-less." Another wave of Cas's fingers saw an open Bud appearing on the table, condensation running down the cool can to pool on the wood underneath.
"I believe the final one was haven't jerked off in three weeks--"
Dean swallowed heavily as Castiel reached him and leaned forward, his breath ghosting across Dean's cheek.
"Fancy going three for three?"
*
Later, when Dean's lying on Bobby's (now slightly sticky) couch, with Castiel wrapped around him and the blanket off the back of the armchair wrapped around the both of them, he still reckoned it was all Sam's fault. Extra days in Austin? Sam's fault. Fiery beam of death resulting in giant bandaged hulk hands? Also Sam's fault. Dirty towels on the bathroom floor? Definitely Sam's fault. Having the most awesome angel of the Lord as his boyfriend, though? Well, Dean's claiming that one entirely for himself.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,195
Summary: It's all Sam's fault...
Notes: Written for Day 3 of
mmom.It was entirely Sam's fault, Dean decided as he fumbled the TV remote, unable to catch it before it dropped to the floor, spilling the batteries under the couch. After all, if Sam hadn't wanted to spend that extra couple of days in Austin, then they wouldn't have been the nearest ones to Assfuck, Nowhere. And they hadn't been the nearest ones to Assfuck, Nowhere, then Bobby wouldn't have called them after Rufus had called him and asked if there was anyone who could deal with a fire elemental while he was stuck cleaning up a vampire nest in Vegas. Which meant that the sneaky little fucker wouldn't have managed to trap Dean inside a burning room, leaving Sam to carry out the ritual to get rid of it.
Oh, don't get him wrong, Sam carried out the ritual just fine. Some Latin, some salt, a dash of Tabasco and Flamey McFlamerson was sent packing. The problem was, Sam hadn't managed to carry out said ritual before Dean had obtained second degree burns on both his hands trying to stop a fiery wooden beam of death from knocking him unconscious. Meaning, he was stuck with Hulk hands encased in bandages until they healed. Which translated to Dean being fucking useless for the time being, unless they ever needed to go after a ghost that was scared of ginormo-hands. In which case, Dean could wave them to death. After-death. Whatever.
They'd headed straight to Bobby's, intent on throwing themselves on his mercy for the next few weeks. And also because Sam said that if he had to listen to Dean's whining once more then he was going to smother him in his sleep and leave him for the motel maid to find. Which Dean thought was a little hard on the maid, if he was being honest, considering they were already leaving her numerous piles of salt on the floor, the spilled innards of at least one hex bag and seven dirty towels in the bathroom. But, apparently, Sam was just that kind of guy.
Bobby had taken one look at them, shaken his head, declared them both idjits and told them to get their asses inside before Sam's hangdog expression fell off his face. Dean had grinned, left Sam to carry the bags and waltzed over to the fridge, only to realise that he couldn't open the beer he'd managed to retrieve. Sam had just smirked and handed him a glass of water.
That had been nearly three weeks ago and things had gone steadily downhill from there. Dean hadn't realised just how much he did with his hands until he couldn't use them any more. The not being able to turn over the TV channel he could deal with. (He had Sam for that.) The not being able to open beer he could (just) deal with. (He had Sam for that one, as well.) But the not being able to jerk off? Well, that was just fucking frustrating. (Because there was no way in hell he was going to Sam with that one.)
And now? Now he was stuck on his knees with an arm under the couch and trying to bat at batteries that were just out of his reach in order to knock them out the other side of the couch so he could attempt to pick them up. It wasn't going well. Which meant he was TV-less, beer-less (no Sam in the house meant no Sam to open cans for him) and suffering from the worse case of blue balls he'd had since he was seventeen (which was the last time he'd gone without jerking off for three weeks, and that was because he'd been in a coma due to a werewolf bouncing him off a tree). And it was still Sam's fault.
"Dean?"
"Fuck! Ow! Bastard!" And who the hell had put that table in the way, anyway?
"Are you all right?"
Dean glared at Castiel. "Peachy, Cas. I often crawl about on my knees and then smack my head off a table when people appear out of nowhere and scare me half to death. I find it gets the blood pumping."
Dean sighed when Castiel peered into the kitchen instead of replying.
"Where are Sam and Bobby?"
"Out," Dean answered, finally accepting that the batteries had gone to that great dust bunny heaven under Bobby's couch and standing up. "They had stuff to do." Stuff that didn't involve him. If there was anything they were explicit about before they'd left it was his non-involvedness in the stuff they were doing.
Sam had claimed he was going to the library to research, but Dean was pretty sure he was actually boning the cute waitress in the café opposite. (He based this entire hypothesis on the fact that she kept giving Sam free pastries whenever they went in and all but ignored Dean when he ordered the cherry pie except to take his money.)
He had no idea where Bobby was. Out was as much as the other man had given. Well, that and the If I have to listen to you bitch a minute longer, I'm not only going to let Sam smother you, but I'm going to hand him the damn pillow--
"Do you know how long they'll be?" Castiel asked, removing his coat and carefully placing it over the back of one of the chairs.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Why?" Because, in his experience, questions like that never ended well. Except for that one time in Dallas, when How long will your brother be gone? had actually translated as How long do I have to suck your brains out through your dick? That one had ended pretty well.
Castiel smiled carefully, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk Dean's pretty sure he taught the angel in the first place.
"TV-less," he said, taking a step towards Dean and waving his fingers, not pausing as the TV flickered behind him and Dean's favourite episode of Dr Sexy snapped into life. (It was the one with the little girl, the puppy and that guy that used to be in Star Trek.) Not that Dean was paying attention to it, not the way Cas was all but stalking towards him.
"Beer-less." Another wave of Cas's fingers saw an open Bud appearing on the table, condensation running down the cool can to pool on the wood underneath.
"I believe the final one was haven't jerked off in three weeks--"
Dean swallowed heavily as Castiel reached him and leaned forward, his breath ghosting across Dean's cheek.
"Fancy going three for three?"
*
Later, when Dean's lying on Bobby's (now slightly sticky) couch, with Castiel wrapped around him and the blanket off the back of the armchair wrapped around the both of them, he still reckoned it was all Sam's fault. Extra days in Austin? Sam's fault. Fiery beam of death resulting in giant bandaged hulk hands? Also Sam's fault. Dirty towels on the bathroom floor? Definitely Sam's fault. Having the most awesome angel of the Lord as his boyfriend, though? Well, Dean's claiming that one entirely for himself.
