Ficlet Collection

[annundriel]

I did some ficlets in February for Valentine's Day. Thought I'd repost them here.

For krystalicekitsu:

Sam finds a box of chalky conversation hearts on the passenger seat.

“Dean,” he starts, staring down at them, “what’re those?”

“What’re what?” Dean asks looking at Sam over the roof of the Impala.

Bending down, Sam picks up the box. He holds it out to show Dean. “These. Did you put them there?”

Dean frowns, and then grins. “Wasn’t me, dude,” he says, pulling his own door open and sliding in behind the wheel. “Looks like you have a secret admirer.”

The hearts shift together as Sam turns the box over, looking for a clue. On the back there’s a space for To and From.

Sammy, it says in spikey handwriting. And then, Wouldn’t you like to know? There’s a winking smiley-face beside next to the question mark. It’s mocking him, Sam is sure.

He’s also sure he knows exactly who left it there, though he’s less certain about why. He tamps down the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth and opens the box, shaking a candy into his hand. Be Mine, it says. Sam pops it in his mouth and crunches down on it, thinks, Sure, why not? He likes his candy as much as the next man—or angel—and he deserves a little bit of brightness. A little bit of fun.

“Yeah, Dean,” he says, sliding into the passenger seat. “Guess I do.”

*

For ember_firedrake:


They don’t do Valentine’s Day. They’re fucking Marines, for god’s sake, and Brad is not going to buy some pansy-ass flowers or goddamn chocolates in a pussy liberal heart-shaped box. It’s ridiculous and unnecessary and if someone doesn’t already know they’re the be-all, end-all the rest of the year, buying those things isn’t going to change a thing.

Brad watches husbands and boyfriends scrambling over last minute options at the grocery store’s flower department from his place in the check-out line and shakes his head. Those poor, stupid bastards.

“Bemoaning the frantic state of your contemporaries?” Nate asks, setting the gallon of milk on the conveyer belt with a thunk. “Or just despising the holiday in general?”

Scowling, Brad reaches for the carton of eggs, places it next to the milk. “They were never my contemporaries,” he says, “being civilian dick-sucks like yourself, sir.”

Nate flashes him a grin, leaning in close on the pretext of grabbing the box of Cheerios from the bottom of the cart. His breath is hot against Brad’s cheek, body warm even through the layers of their clothes, when he says, “You like it when I suck your dick.”

Brad nods as Nate retreats, ignoring the urge to wrap his fingers around Nate’s wrist and keep him close. That’s not something they do either. “I can’t argue that.”

Looking over his shoulder, Nate flashes him a look, his mouth a secretive curve. Brad will wait until they’re home and prise that mouth open with his own, find everything he needs right there between Nate’s tongue and the roof of his mouth. Everything they don’t say or do hidden in the slick slide of lips on lips, their hands pressed hard against each others skin.

They don’t need the rest of that bullshit.

*

For sycophantastic:


“What is this?” Dean asks, the motel room door swinging shut behind him.

Cas looks up from where he’s standing in the middle of the room surrounded by what looks like—yup—red and pink rose petals. His coat and jacket are gone and his sleeves are rolled up, the long lines of his forearms distracting even as Dean boggles over the rest of the room. There are candles arranged and burning on all available hard, flat surfaces and—dear god—what the hell is playing on the radio?

“I wanted to surprise you, Dean,” Cas says.

“I—” Dean shakes himself. “What?”

“Today is February 14. I believe it is customary to woo the object of one’s affections and—”

“Wait, wait,” Dean says, mind reeling. “Woo?”

Cas nods. “Yes. You liked the pie earlier today?”

“Uh. Yeah, that was—”

“And the coffee?”

Dean licks his lips. “It was—”

“And the way I exorcised that demon with a glance?”

Swallowing hard, Dean nods. That was pretty fucking awesome.

Cas smiles like he’s worked it all out. “Then the wooing was successful.”

There’s that word again. Dean’s going to have to start paying more attention to what Cas watches. “That’s not—I thought that was just—You don’t have to woo me, Cas.”

Cas frowns.

“I mean,” Dean continues, “all of that is nice, but uh.” He can’t believe he’s saying this. “I’ve kind of already been wooed.”

“Then you didn’t—”

“No! I did.” Dean closes the distance between them. “I’m just saying you don’t have to.”

Cas blinks at him, eyes wide and blue and full, so full. “Oh,” he says. “And if I want to?”

Dean reaches for him, fingers brushing stubble and warm skin, slipping into Cas’ hair behind his ear. “I have no problem with that. But sex is good, too. You can woo me with sex, maybe.”

Nodding, Cas’ eyes dip to Dean’s mouth. He licks his lips, and Dean feels his dick twitch. “Yes,” Cas says, “I could.”

“Just do me a favor?”

Their mouths are only a breath away, and Dean can feel Cas’ lips move when he answers. “Anything.”

Dean kisses him briefly, a hint of tongue, before he pulls back enough to gesture at the room. “Get rid of all of this. I want you to fuck me, and I don’t want it to be on rose petals.”

*


For xarixian:

“What the hell?” Dean asks, stepping into Bobby’s smoking kitchen. “Who lit the place on fire?”

Cas looks up from where he’s bent over the open stove, trench coat and jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie dangling. His cheeks are flushed pink. Dean absolutely does not think he looks adorable.

“I—It was an accident,” Cas says, unbending. Just past him, Dean can see something in the oven, round and dark and—

“Were you baking?”

“I—” Cas straightens his shoulders. “Yes. I was. I know you enjoy pie and I thought—”

Something in Dean’s chest tightens. “You were baking me pie?”

Cas nods. “Yes.”

“But you—I—”

Rolling his eyes, Cas sighs. “And I failed, yes. I tried to do something—” his fingers curl in the air “—normal and it didn’t—”

Dean crosses to him in three long strides, stopping Cas’ mouth with his own. “I don’t care, Cas,” he says, pulling away, his fingers hard on Cas’ arms. “I don’t—You tried to bake me a fucking pie.”

Cas nods, the corners of his mouth tipping up slowly. Dean leans in and tastes that smile, kisses Cas again while the smell of burnt crust wafts over them. It’s the only way he knows to show Cas what it means.

*

For picklepegg:

[Fits with these fics.]

Dean’s in the library studying. He’s trying to, anyway. It’s February 13 and Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been in this situation before, never had someone else on Valentine’s Day, never really had anything quite as serious as this thing he’s got with Cas.

Some days he’s not even really sure how he got this far with Cas. To the point where his bed is usually made because he tumbles into Cas’, where he’s actually picking up after himself in the dorm room because clutter puts Cas on edge. Where he wants to grin like a sleepy idiot into his pillow just because he can hear Cas humming under his breath as he gets ready for his first class in the morning.

Where he isn’t annoyed at being woken that early for something other than sex.

It’s fantastic and terrifying, and Dean wants to hang on to it so hard, but he has no idea what he’s doing.

Should he even do anything for Valentine’s Day? Acknowledge it at all? Buying Cas a card seems, well, pathetic and buying him flowers seems ridiculous. (Does Cas even like flowers? Oh god, what if he’s allergic?) Chocolates might work, but—

“Hello,” Cas interrupts, dropping into the armchair across from Dean’s, bag hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Dean blinks, eyes refocusing on Cas. His hair’s more disheveled than usual—it was a bit breezy when he walked over, Dean remembers—and his cheeks are pink. As Dean looks, Cas reaches up and undoes an extra button on his shirt, pale skin peeking out past the dark blue fabric.

If they were back in their room, Dean would crowd Cas against his wardrobe, or pin him to the bed, taste that triangle of skin. Suck a bruise there that meant Cas couldn’t unbutton his shirt like that in public for days.

“Dean?”

“Sorry, hi,” Dean says, looking up at Cas’ face. The shirt must be new; Dean doesn’t remember any of Cas’ bringing out his eyes like that.

Cas frowns at him and stretches his leg out. He presses the toe of his shoe to the outside curve of Dean’s ankle, hooking it slightly behind. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Yeah, I’m—Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” he blurts.

Nodding, Cas shifts in his seat. “Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“And I—I mean, are we—” Dean scrubs his hand over the back of his head. “I’ve never done this before, Cas.”

“Neither have I, Dean.”

“You’re not—” Dean sighs. “You seem pretty calm about it.”

Cas shrugs, right hand playing with a loose thread on the upholstery. “You know how I feel about you,” he says, voice low and calm. It’s a sound Dean wants to wrap himself up in. “And I know how you feel about me. I don’t see any reason to—”

Dean’s heart hammers in his chest, but he can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oh, you do, do you?”

The smile that spreads across Cas’ face is warm and full of so many things, Dean doesn’t even know where to begin. “I have a fairly strong suspicion.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, taking in that smile, that face, the look in those eyes. “I do, too.”

Cas beams at him, and Dean feels himself flush, wants to be anywhere but here.

“So tomorrow—”

“Will be like any other day,” Cas finishes, unhooking his foot and reaching for the strap of his bag. He stands, and looks down at Dean. “Except I think we’ll put the books away a little bit earlier than usual, hmm?” And then he winks at Dean, an honest to god wink, and pulls his bag over his shoulder, turning toward the entrance to the stairwell.

Grinning, Dean shuts his book and gets up to follow him.

*

For akadougal:

Sam frowns at Dean. He doesn’t understand what the big deal is. Dean walked in on him having sex; all Sam saw was some kissing.

“Listen, Sam,” Dean’s saying, “it wasn’t—you can’t—it wasn’t what it looked like.”

Sam really doesn’t care, but Dean expects something, so he sighs and says, “No? So you and Cas didn’t just have your tongues down each other’s throats?”

Dean flushes and crosses his arms over his chest. “Okay, fine. It was exactly what it looked like.”

“Does that mean you and Cas are—” Sam makes a circle with his fingers and lowers it to his crotch, makes a jerking motion a few times. “You know. Fucking?”

The blush on Dean’s cheeks deepens and he uncrosses his arms, turns away to open the fridge and grab a beer. “Jesus, Sam,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” He jerks his hand again. “Don’t do that? Or don’t ask if you and Cas are fucking?”

Dean almost chokes on his beer. “Either.” He coughs. “Both. It’s not—We’re not—”

“You’re not? Really?”

“No!”

Sam raises an eyebrow.

“No, I mean. Not—” Dean takes a deep swig of his beer. “God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud, but we’re not—I don’t want to fuck this up, Sam. Believe it or not, I like Cas.” He leans back against the counter and looks down at the bottle, his fingers fiddling with the label. “But things are kind of royally fucked up right now. What with you and, uh, Lisa.” He takes another pull from his beer. “And Cas never actually being here.”

Sam nods and frowns, trying his best to look sympathetic. “So what you’re saying is,” he says slowly, “that you and Cas aren’t fucking? Like, at all. Even though the two of you have been making eyes at each other since you met.”

“What? No, we haven’t—”

Sam raises his eyebrow again, and Dean sighs.

“No.”

“Huh.” Sam’s surprised, an interesting, far-off feeling. He would’ve thought that Dean—or Cas—would’ve closed that deal long ago. “Do you mind if I fuck him?”

Dean stares at him, mouth open, before his look goes thunderous. “Jesus Christ, Sam! Yes, I mind! And no, you can’t!” He sets his bottle on the counter with a thud and heads to the door, grabbing his jacket on the way. “The sooner we get you re-souled, the better.”

Sam stares at the closed door, wondering what he said. Then he shrugs and shakes it off, digs into his pocket for the phone number he shoved there earlier. Already thinking of brunettes with dark eyes and pouty lips, he picks up the phone.

*

For baba_o_reily:

“Dean, your hand is on my thigh.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. You were unawa—nnnngh.”

“Not on your thigh anymore, is it?”

“No, no it’s—Dean—it’s not.”

“Mmmmmm.”

…..
…..

“Dean. Dean. We are in—we’re in public.”

“Tunnel of Love doesn’t count as public, Cas.”

“N-no?”

“Mmmmno.”

“Fffff—”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Fffff.”

“C’mon, Cas. C’mon. I want to hear you say it.”

“Fuck, Dean, your hand, your—mmmph.”

…..
…..

“I thought you wanted to hear me?”

“Changed, uhm, changed my mind, Cas.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t want anyone else to hear you.”

“So you silenced me with your mouth.”

“My hands were busy. You complaining?”

“No, Dean. Of course not.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

*

For cautionzombies:

“Don’t call him, Sam,” Dean says, turning away from the phone to cough into his hand. “He’s—” Dean sniffs hard, ignoring the way it makes his temples throb. “He’s busy.”

“Too busy to know you apparently have the plague?”

“I do not have—”

“Your text this morning said, have plague, dying,” Sam says. “You followed it with, like, fifty frowny faces.”

“It was a moment of weakness, Sam. Really, I feel much bet—” Dean coughs against the receiver. “Much better.”

“Uh huh.”

Dean groans, his head ringing. “Please, Sam? Please. He’s important and busy and he’ll just worry and I don’t want—He needs to focus.”

Sam sighs on the other end of the line. “He’d want to know, Dean.”

“Not this, okay, Sam? It’s just a cold. I’ll be fine.”

There’s more sighing from Sam’s end and skeptical tones, but eventually Dean says, “Listen, the drugs are starting to kick in. I’m just going to, y’know, sleep this off.”

“Call me if you need anything,” Sam says, and Dean can practically see his concerned face.

“Yeah, yeah.” He hangs up, and for a moment regrets it, wants to tell Sam to come over. Bring soup. His apartment’s too quiet without Cas puttering around. Without his humming, his occasional murmur as he grades papers or reads journals when he stays on the weekend. It seems too big and empty without Cas here now. It’s strange; Dean doesn’t remember his place feeling this lonely before.

He curls deeper into the nest of blankets on his bed, face tucked against the pillow.

Fuck, he misses Cas.

--

Dean doesn’t know how long he sleeps, but when he wakes up it’s dark outside. Through the bedroom door, he can see lights on in the kitchen. He doesn’t remember leaving them on, but he must have. There’s no one else—

He hears a cupboard close in the kitchen, the whistle of the kettle he bought when Cas started staying the night. Sam, he thinks. Good ol’ Sam, coming to check on him.

Rolling over, Dean pulls himself out of bed, dragging the comforter with him. He pulls it around his shoulders, ignoring the way his head pounds as he shuffles toward the door. “Sammy,” he says, voice coming out a hoarse croak, “come to take care of your big—Cas?”

Cas turns from where he’s pouring hot water into two of Dean’s mugs. His shirt is rumpled and his hair’s a mess and he’s still the best goddamn thing Dean has ever seen.

“What’re you doing—” Dean’s throat catches and he coughs. “What’re you doing here?”

Cas sets the kettle back on the stove before moving around the counter, closing the distance between them. “Sam called.”

Dean rolls his eyes and tries to sigh. He only succeeds in triggering another coughing fit. When it stops he feels Cas’ hand firm on his shoulder—a touch Dean can’t help but lean into—and Cas is looking at him with eyes big with concern.

“I told Sam not to call you.”

Cas frowns. “Why?”

“You were busy,” Dean says. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Cas’ frown deepens. “That’s stupid, Dean. That’s—What were you going to do when I called? Pretend you were fine?”

“Yes?”

That gets him a sigh, long suffering and put upon. “Dean,” Cas says, shaking his head. He presses his other hand to Dean’s face, palm gentle against Dean’s cheek. Dean wants to rub himself against it, wants to pull Cas close and bury his face in the curve of Cas’ neck. He doesn’t want to get Cas sick, though, so he doesn’t.

“Dean,” Cas repeats, pulling him close. “Sometimes you are very dumb.”

Dean wants to protest the hug, wants to argue that it’s better for Cas to be out in the world, socializing and networking, discussing topics only his peers can really understand. But Cas’ arms feel so good and Dean is so tired that he just leans into him and nods.

“I’m sick,” he says. “You can’t call me dumb.”

Cas’ hand is warm on the back of his head, fingers combing through his hair. “You’re sick,” Cas says. “What are you going to do about it?”

Dean chuckles, pulling back when it triggers another cough. He feels a bit dizzy and completely worn, but there’s something in his chest that feels lighter, clearer. It has nothing to do with his health.

“Come on,” Cas says, steering him by his shoulder. “You’re going back to bed.”

Dean goes readily. “You’re insatiable, Cas.”

“What can I say,” Cas says, taking the comforter from Dean’s shoulders as he crawls under the sheets, “even congested you’re irresistible.”

*

For chicklet25:

They curl beneath sheets, arms and legs entangled, bodies pressed close. There’s no reason, not a single one, why they should move today. It’s a weekend, and if Jensen wants to stay in bed with Misha, he’s going to stay in bed with Misha.

Misha stirs against the pillow, blue eyes blinking open in the early morning light. He usually gets up and goes for a run, leaves Jensen with cooling sheets and the bed all to himself. Before he can say anything, before he can move, Jensen closes the distance between them and kisses Misha, morning breath be damned.

“Good morning to me,” Misha hums, fingers warm against Jensen’s back.

Jensen pulls back, the tips of their noses brushing. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“No,” Misha says, mouth curving into a smile as his foot slides up the back of Jensen’s calf. “No, I’m not.”

*

For perfumaniac:

Cillian’s smooth and calm and quiet, reserved. A true professional, serious and dedicated.

Tom respects that, admires the work Cillian does, but acting opposite him is driving him crazy. All he wants, all he really wants is to press Cillian up against his trailer door and ruffle him up a bit. Tangle Fischer’s silk tie in his fingers, wrinkle his pressed slacks with his hand. He wants to see Cillian’s cheeks flushed pink, color high on his cheekbones, eyes dark with surprise and want and need.

He’s seen Cillian lose his cool on film, but Tom wants to see him lose his cool in person. He wants to be the cause, the catalyst. Wants to push Cillian toward the edge until Cillian is grasping and panting against him, cock hard and hips working, lips sweet and parted and breathing Tom’s name.

And then Tom wants to push him over.

He wants to hear Cillian come, wants to watch his face as it happens, slide his cock inside and feel Cillian clench around him, his feet hooked at the small of Tom’s back, fingers leaving bruises on Tom’s skin.

Tom passes his time on set that way, imagining the many ways he’d like to strip Cillian down, the many positions he’d like to bend him into.

Sometimes he catches Cillian watching him, a look in his eye that Tom can’t quite place, and thinks maybe he’s not the only one thinking these things, well aware of how much naked skin is covered by their suits.

Still waters run deep, after all. Tom’s just waiting for the opportunity to dive in.

*

Robert has these dreams sometimes. He doesn’t know where they come from. In them, he’s surrounded by snow and ice, white peaks rising up around him. It’s too cold and too bright and Robert doesn’t know what he’s doing there, only that he needs to move, needs to go, needs…something.

There’s also a fortress, a man—his guide?—shot and bleeding. Dreams of bullets in the air and a woman holding a gun. Of pain deep inside.

He dreams of waking up, cement above and below him, and a man—a different man, a younger man—leaning over him, tell him something Robert knows he should listen to. He thinks once he did listen, once he did hear what this man had to say, but now…now he ignores him. Reaches for this man hovering above him, touches his hand to the man’s jaw and pulls him down, drags him onto the cold cement with him.

The man’s lips are full and hot against his own, sending warm shivers down Robert’s spine, into his extremities. He thinks that if he could hold him there, if he could be held there, everything else would disappear; the cold and the pain and the bullets, the sense of urgency, the feeling that something very big is happening.

Robert’s tired of all of it. He only wants this. Only wants this stranger he keeps dreaming about to press him against the floor, the wall, his sheets. Wants to kiss and lick and suck, be kissed and licked and sucked. Fucked.

He tangles his fingers in the white fabric of the man’s snow suit and hangs on, rolls them until he’s on top, the man hard and handsy beneath him. He kisses that mouth he can’t forget even when he’s awake and wants nothing more, nothing less than this, this feeling of connection that isn’t like anything else he’s ever felt before. He wants to press himself against this man, press himself in, wants to take and take and—

Robert wakes up in his bed alone, sheets twisted around his feet, cock pressed against the mattress. He tucks his face into his pillow, breath catching, and hates that he always wakes up.