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blue_bells» Title: The Crease in the Coat
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Spoilers for Season 5.
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Dean/Castiel
» Summary: There's a good reason that Castiel is doing laundry.
» A/N: Written here for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trulybloom in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic.
Castiel’s unhappy noise of surprise made Dean look up from his slouch over the local phonebook where he’d been divining the location of the nearest diner for their breakfast.
Castiel was examining the results of his latest attempts at laundry fresh from the dryer and judging by his serious frown, he was less than satisfied. It had been almost two weeks since the angel had first approached Dean with the sincere and humble request to be taught the means of laundering his clothes.
Dean had stopped, looked the angel from head to toe and, for the first time, noticed the mud stains that hadn’t disappeared from the hem of Castiel’s coat and knees where he’d kneeled before sweeping them away from the forest under siege. There was a familiar spatter of what may have been an exploding hellhound on his white shirt and, yes, that was ash smearing his sleeves and breast pocket.
Dean also noticed what could either be ketchup or mustard on Castiel’s tie and for some reason that’s when it became real for Dean. He recalled the future Castiel, the one who smiled too wide with vacant eyes because his grace and faith had faded with the angels’ departure and Dean realised it was already happening.
Castiel was saving his power for the fight and that meant learning their ways on the side lines. That meant he had a limited supply.
As Castiel hovered stiffly by Dean at the dinner table and made a polite inquiry about detergent, Dean had barked a laugh of disbelief because he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Castiel had begun the ever slow and unwitting transformation into something terrible and Dean hadn’t even noticed the ash on his collar. They all walked around looking fresh out of a brawl these days, but he should have known it wasn’t normal for Cas.
He should have noticed.
Instead of reaching for Castiel’s wrist as his first instinct screamed, Dean abandoned his dinner and spent the rest of the night at the laundromat with an angel of the Lord.
Two weeks later, Castiel was getting pretty good at it.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked as Castiel frowned at his coat and turned the crumpled thing over in his hands like he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was out of place.
Castiel shook his head at the coat. “It should not look like this.”
Dean regarded the trenchcoat, dried stiff and wrinkled. “Did you put it in the dryer?”
Castiel’s grip on the coat went white-knuckled and Dean could see the moment Castiel realised what he had done wrong. Castiel quietly huffed a breath of disappointment and slowly, too-gently pressed the pale coat back into the hamper with the rest of his things.
That look made Dean’s chest tighten and it was way too early in the morning for that; he at least needed Sam to come back with coffee before he could deal with any long faces. Before Dean had thought properly about it, he’d grabbed his leather jacket.
“Here.”
Castiel frowned at the leather jacket under his nose. “You would like me to launder this, too?”
Dean’s eyes flew wide. “N – Cas, this is leather, it stays well clear of any and every machine, okay?”
Castiel’s face shut down and Dean quashed any sense of guilt when he thrust the jacket against Castiel’s chest, as though if he pushed the angel hard enough he could shove that resignation right off his shoulders.
“Wear it,” Dean said, “Until we straighten yours out. Go on and give me that.”
Castiel’s frown didn’t quite lift, but he did as he was told and Dean laughed at the look on Castiel’s face as he stood dwarfed in Dean’s larger jacket. Castiel's face was dead-panned, but the slight twitch of a brow muscle, the purse of the corner of his mouth was the equivalent of a shrug and sheepish now what? It looked completely wrong on him, but it weirdly made Dean feel better.
Dean took Castiel’s trenchcoat from the hamper and shook it loose. On a whim he shrugged into it and there was a slightly awkward moment when he got stuck at the shoulders because it was, unsurprisingly, a snug fit. Dean flexed and rolled his shoulders, making the effort not to flail too obviously, until the arms slid home and he almost missed the small curve of Castiel’s mouth.
Dean tugged at the collar and stuck his chin out at his reflection in the motel microwave. Turning his head to the side, he decided he should definitely masquerade as a FBI agent after breakfast. Maybe even sooner -- maybe he could get them free donuts.
The creases in the coat were obvious, but looked more like Dean had slept on it in an all-night stakeout rather than been a victim of mislaundering in Castiel’s hands.
Dean couldn’t help the swagger and cant to each motion when he turned back to Castiel. He even felt like one of those badges from the GQ crime dramas and it was worth the cramped uncoolness betrayed by his shoulders because Castiel was definitely smiling.
“All right, listen up and I’ll show you a way to clean this right without even needing an iron. Irons are for pussies.”
“... Like... your brother?” Castiel took his cue well.
Dean clapped him on the back. “You’re getting it now, Cas!”
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Warnings: Spoilers for Season 5.
» Pairing(s)/Characters: Dean/Castiel
» Summary: There's a good reason that Castiel is doing laundry.
» A/N: Written here for
trulybloom in comment_fic. Castiel’s unhappy noise of surprise made Dean look up from his slouch over the local phonebook where he’d been divining the location of the nearest diner for their breakfast.
Castiel was examining the results of his latest attempts at laundry fresh from the dryer and judging by his serious frown, he was less than satisfied. It had been almost two weeks since the angel had first approached Dean with the sincere and humble request to be taught the means of laundering his clothes.
Dean had stopped, looked the angel from head to toe and, for the first time, noticed the mud stains that hadn’t disappeared from the hem of Castiel’s coat and knees where he’d kneeled before sweeping them away from the forest under siege. There was a familiar spatter of what may have been an exploding hellhound on his white shirt and, yes, that was ash smearing his sleeves and breast pocket.
Dean also noticed what could either be ketchup or mustard on Castiel’s tie and for some reason that’s when it became real for Dean. He recalled the future Castiel, the one who smiled too wide with vacant eyes because his grace and faith had faded with the angels’ departure and Dean realised it was already happening.
Castiel was saving his power for the fight and that meant learning their ways on the side lines. That meant he had a limited supply.
As Castiel hovered stiffly by Dean at the dinner table and made a polite inquiry about detergent, Dean had barked a laugh of disbelief because he felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Castiel had begun the ever slow and unwitting transformation into something terrible and Dean hadn’t even noticed the ash on his collar. They all walked around looking fresh out of a brawl these days, but he should have known it wasn’t normal for Cas.
He should have noticed.
Instead of reaching for Castiel’s wrist as his first instinct screamed, Dean abandoned his dinner and spent the rest of the night at the laundromat with an angel of the Lord.
Two weeks later, Castiel was getting pretty good at it.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked as Castiel frowned at his coat and turned the crumpled thing over in his hands like he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was out of place.
Castiel shook his head at the coat. “It should not look like this.”
Dean regarded the trenchcoat, dried stiff and wrinkled. “Did you put it in the dryer?”
Castiel’s grip on the coat went white-knuckled and Dean could see the moment Castiel realised what he had done wrong. Castiel quietly huffed a breath of disappointment and slowly, too-gently pressed the pale coat back into the hamper with the rest of his things.
That look made Dean’s chest tighten and it was way too early in the morning for that; he at least needed Sam to come back with coffee before he could deal with any long faces. Before Dean had thought properly about it, he’d grabbed his leather jacket.
“Here.”
Castiel frowned at the leather jacket under his nose. “You would like me to launder this, too?”
Dean’s eyes flew wide. “N – Cas, this is leather, it stays well clear of any and every machine, okay?”
Castiel’s face shut down and Dean quashed any sense of guilt when he thrust the jacket against Castiel’s chest, as though if he pushed the angel hard enough he could shove that resignation right off his shoulders.
“Wear it,” Dean said, “Until we straighten yours out. Go on and give me that.”
Castiel’s frown didn’t quite lift, but he did as he was told and Dean laughed at the look on Castiel’s face as he stood dwarfed in Dean’s larger jacket. Castiel's face was dead-panned, but the slight twitch of a brow muscle, the purse of the corner of his mouth was the equivalent of a shrug and sheepish now what? It looked completely wrong on him, but it weirdly made Dean feel better.
Dean took Castiel’s trenchcoat from the hamper and shook it loose. On a whim he shrugged into it and there was a slightly awkward moment when he got stuck at the shoulders because it was, unsurprisingly, a snug fit. Dean flexed and rolled his shoulders, making the effort not to flail too obviously, until the arms slid home and he almost missed the small curve of Castiel’s mouth.
Dean tugged at the collar and stuck his chin out at his reflection in the motel microwave. Turning his head to the side, he decided he should definitely masquerade as a FBI agent after breakfast. Maybe even sooner -- maybe he could get them free donuts.
The creases in the coat were obvious, but looked more like Dean had slept on it in an all-night stakeout rather than been a victim of mislaundering in Castiel’s hands.
Dean couldn’t help the swagger and cant to each motion when he turned back to Castiel. He even felt like one of those badges from the GQ crime dramas and it was worth the cramped uncoolness betrayed by his shoulders because Castiel was definitely smiling.
“All right, listen up and I’ll show you a way to clean this right without even needing an iron. Irons are for pussies.”
“... Like... your brother?” Castiel took his cue well.
Dean clapped him on the back. “You’re getting it now, Cas!”
no subject
Date: 2011-06-04 09:51 pm (UTC)Heartbreaking, hilarious and pure awesome all at the same time. The contrast of BAMF-of-the-Lord!Cas with 2014!Cas were chilling and scary, but especially so in contrast with this Cas in the middle, hesitant, uncertain, certainly scared, and frustrated as he makes mistakes because dammit he used to be so much more than this, but still determined and proactive and taking measures to last, to stay useful, as long as he can.
And Dean. Deeeaaan. Saying it's too early for this shit, but emotionally wrenched for Cas' tragedy all the same, and doing his best to make it better, make it okay, make it not so obviously horrible just for a minute.
<3
no subject
Date: 2011-06-05 12:32 pm (UTC)