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Castiel expressly tells Dean not to open the box.
Dean opens it anyway.
He has a reason for it, he isn't completely stupid. But they need to find the upside-down triangle thingy that Sam has been yapping on about for hours, and they need to find it fast. There's a damn good chance it's in the box.
Okay, there's a chance, anyway.
And alright, he knows it isn't the smartest thing to do, to open a potentially magical object without even trying to ascertain what the roughly carved marks on its lid mean. Hell, he knows it could be a downright stupid thing to do. But Castiel looks at him with such stern reprimand written across his pursed lips, that Dean can't help but want to fuck with him. To shake him up, just a bit.
The fine gold mist that explodes into the air like an atom bomb makes Sam yelp, Castiel vanish and reappear in quick succession, and Dean stick his tongue out to catch the glitter on his taste buds.
It tastes like sugar.
When nothing happens in the thirty seconds that they freeze stock still - waiting for Armageddon to surely rain down upon them - Dean gleefully declares that he knew all along it wasn't dangerous.
Sam rolls his eyes and reminds them, pointedly, that they are actually working to a time frame.
So they ignore their glittery golden sheen and get on with the job at hand - finding the stupid cursed item that had brought them into the dank cave of treasures.
Unrepentant, Dean enjoys his gloating as he searches, even if it is maybe only because they weren't killed by his extraordinarily lucky box-opening skills. It had made Sammy whine and Cas frown and that is a good day in his books.
Thirty minutes later, when still nothing has happened, other than that they've found what they were looking for in the first place and trudged out of the cavern into the murky afternoon, Dean declares that they are in the all-clear. Clearly.
Whatever mojo had originally been contained in the small wooden box, it has clearly past its expiration date down in the dark.
"Sometimes a cigar box is just a cigar box," he smirks as he opens the driver's side door of the Impala.
Castiel looks dubious, but nods slightly. "It is possible."
Dean takes that as confirmation that he knows best. Sam jiggles the pendant irritatingly to get them to hurry the hell up.
Pulling onto the highway, Dean takes extra joy in the fact that when Castiel pouts, little flecks of gold sparkle in the cupid's bow of his lip.
Not that Dean is looking. He just finds it amusing that perfect angel Cas looks like he's been in a strip club with a girl named Candi and her awesome cleavage of glitter.
And with that kind of imagery? The blame for noticing the way Cas licks the sparkle off his lip with the tip of his pink tongue simply cannot be put on him.
Besides, it's another 30 hours before the box incident comes back to haunt him.
* * *
Dean is in the middle of a really impressive rant about why rushing into a town full of zombies with absolutely no intel and no weapons is actually a really fucking good idea when he catches sight of Cas in the backseat of the Impala.
That in itself is not entirely unusual. Actually, it's pretty damn usual for these days.
What is unusual is the way he's squirming minutely, shoulders hitching ever so slightly, fingers flexing against his knees where his hands rest.
Dean ignores him, concentrating on the argument he's damn sure he's going to win against Sam's mopey protesting from the passenger side.
"It's not like we've never done this before, Sammy. It's practically routine."
Sam huffs a sigh, "No it isn't Dean. Because routinely we have weapons and intel and at least some idea of what we're dealing with."
Which is so not true that Dean is about to snort and point exactly that out, when in the mirror he catches sight of Castiel. He's moving, inching to one side, glancing at his shoulder as if trying to see something, before moving back the other way.
"Ants in your pants, Cas?" Dean smirks, annoyed at being interrupted but amused enough to get over it.
Castiel meets his eyes in the rear-view, and it takes a second to realise what the slight puckering around Castiel's mouth and the flash of something in his eyes means; Cas is irritated.
Dean finds this infinitely more amusing than he should.
Castiel opens his mouth, seems to reconsider and shuts it.
"Spit it out, Feathers."
Castiel glares. "You would not understand," he says and disappears in a gust of air.
"Way to go Dean," Sam bitches from the seat next to him before he launches into a renewed attack on why Dean's plan is stupid and his is awesome.
Dean doesn't pay attention; he knows he's right and Sam will end up doing whatever he tells him they're doing. So he just concentrates on the road and the purr of his baby under him and lets Sam yammer on in increasingly girly tones. Hell, it's almost soothing in its normalcy.
When he looks into the rear-view mirror, though, he keeps expecting Cas to be there.
* * *
The next night, zombies dealt with and new baddie already on the horizon, Dean is lounging on his bed deciding between a Dr Sexy marathon and pay-per-view when a very unkempt and flustered looking Cas bursts into the middle of the room with a billow of trench-coat and curtains.
"Where've you been?" Dean snaps. Because it's annoying, having to wonder about where the ace up your sleeve has gotten to. Not because he was worried. At all.
Castiel's tie is even more pulled out and crooked than normal and his shirt is half un-tucked. It looks wrong and Dean has the sudden urge to fix it - which he ruthlessly squashes because what. the. ever. loving. hell.
"I need assistance," Castiel says without preamble.
Dean sits up, alert and instantly, oddly, queasy. "What's wrong?"
Castiel blinks, and if Dean's eyes don't deceive him, his cheeks flush pink.
"Where is Sam?" Is all Castiel says.
It avoids answering Dean's question so he gets up from the bed and crowds into Castiel's space. If something's wrong then they could be wasting valuable time for fixing whatever it is. "Pulling an all-nighter at the library like a dork. Seriously Cas, what is it?"
Castiel blinks. "I have mites."
Dean also blinks, trying to comprehend. "You have...dude, what?!" he yelps and backs away so fast the back of his knees hit the bed and he buckles down onto it. "Gross!"
Castiel scowls and advances on him, one hand unconsciously scratching at his side under his shirt. Dean can see the pale expanse of flesh as the shirt rides up, which is...interesting. He pulls his eyes away with a disconcerting amount of resistance.
"It is not gross, Dean, and it is your fault."
He scoots back up the bed in a vain attempt to get away. "How is it my fault?"
"Remember that box I told you not to open?"
Oops.
"Dust mites," Castiel confirms. He's now itching at his upper arm, nails digging into the folds of trench coat for purchase. It pulls the collar of his shirt away from his neck exposing collarbone and neck. Not that Dean notices.
"But I'm fine, and so is Sam," he back-peddles as he backs up physically into the pillows, "How can you be the only one with fleas?"
If he doesn't have to, Dean is so not taking the blame for this.
Castiel growls. "They are not fleas, Dean. They are mites. And they are celestial in origin."
"Angel fleas?" Dean smirks. He manages not to cower at the absolutely filthy look Cas shoots his way.
"Besides," Castiel continues, as if Dean had not interrupted, as if he were but a flea himself. "You and Sam would not get these. You do not have feathers."
Dean gapes, "They're in your feathers? Dude. Your feathers aren't even corporeal."
Castiel sighs and sits down on the edge of the bed. Dean tries not to itch, even though he's sure he can see millions of the little buggers jumping off Castiel's shoulders and into his bed.
"They are not corporeal either," Cas says, shoulder slumping in defeat.
And okay, Dean might even feel just a little sorry for the guy. He remembers what it was like to have chicken pox after all. And Cas doesn't even have a mom to dab Calamine on him and feed him soup.
"So er, what do we do?" Dean manages, and the look of gratitude that Cas bestows on him for offering to help makes him feel like a complete dick.
"I need someone to oil my feathers."
Dean's pretty sure he heard that wrong. "Excuse me?"
"Oil," Cas confirms, nodding seriously. "When birds get mites humans rub olive oil into their feathers."
A sinking feeling is settling in Dean's stomach. "You want me to rub you in olive oil?"
No way. No fucking way.
Castiel rolls his eyes. "No Dean," he says like he's talking to a child. "I am not a bird, that would not work."
Thank fuck for that, Dean thinks.
"It will need to be holy oil," Cas says.
* * *
"This is too weird," Dean moans.
He's on his knees in the centre of the bed, an earthenware jar of pungent holy oil between his legs. Castiel sits cross-legged in front of him. Thankfully, fully clothed.
"Please, Dean. I need your assistance," Castiel says, and though it's said stoically, Dean can detect the mournful despair underneath it.
"I know!" he exclaims, feeling thoroughly guilty and exasperated. "But how am I meant to do this when I can't even see them!"
He doesn't need to see Cas' face to know that he's frowning, lips tight and brow furrowed.
"The oil will allow you to feel my wings," Castiel says.
Dean looks down at the pot and it's dark oily contents. Of course it will.
"If you like, you can turn the lights off," Castiel adds.
And for fuck's sake. There is no way he is oiling up an angel in the dark.
"God, what! No," Dean says hurriedly, ignores the slight flinch in Castiel's shoulders at the blasphemy. "This will be just fucking dandy. Yeah."
He dips his fingers into the jar. The oil is surprisingly warm and it slips over his fingers like liquid silk. It smells like frankincense and myrrh. Not that he knows what either of those things smell like. But it's holy oil. Of course that's what it smells like.
Yeah. He's pretty sure this isn't going to work.
Scraping the excess of his palm on the lip of the jug he brings his hands up, trying not to drip, and moves them forward towards Castiel's back. He's still sure it isn't going to work right up until his fingers touch something solid and soft where there isn't anything and he jerks back at the feel.
"Cas, you have wings" he says, aware he sounds somewhat awed. And a little bit like Sam.
Castiel grunts impatiently. "Yes, you know I have wings. You have seen them, Dean."
"Yes but..." he trails off, not sure how to explain that he had always thought that that one glimpse in the lightning had more to do with angels fucking with his head than anything tangibly real.
"Dean, please..." Cas says, and he's starting to sound desperate, fingers risen to his neck to itch at the skin under his collar.
Dean has never noticed just how long and delicate Cas' fingers are until now. Huh.
"Okay, okay, I'm doing it." He reaches out again, feels the tickle of invisible feathers against his fingertips.
* * *
Ten minutes into the oiling up process, or 'first aid treatment', as Dean is going to be calling this little adventure when Sammy asks, and Castiel begins to still.
There's amber-coloured oil dripping down Dean's wrists and sneaking under the cuff of his t-shirt, but it's warm and he barely notices. Instead he's concentrating, trying to coat Castiel's feathers from quill to tip, reaching out in concentric circles to ensure he doesn't miss anything that he can't see.
Fifteen minutes in, when Dean is smoothing the shaft of a feather to the left of Cas' shoulder, rolling it between his fingertips to coat it in oil, Castiel starts to make noises.
Pornographic noises.
And okay, sure, Dean reasons, they could be noises of relief. They could be.
It's just that they don't sound like that. At all.
Cas shivers and sighs breathily as Dean coats the oil along the barbs of the next feather he finds.
Dean should stop. Right now. He should tell Castiel to take his jar of lube and go find an angel who cares. Or takes cash.
But then he reaches another feather and Cas fucking moans, quietly and maybe somewhat accidentally, but it's there nonetheless. Dean heard it. Dean's anatomy heard it.
Shit.
Dean's fingers freeze, slippery against the tickling edge of a feather. He doesn't move. He doesn't dare.
But then Cas does, a rippling shudder wending its way from his hair down his spine.
Dean coughs, suddenly unbelievably awkward. "Um...Cas?"
And then it's Castiel's turn to freeze, ramrod straight. As if until now he'd been unaware how he's been acting. How he's been reacting.
In a flurry of invisible wings and air, droplets of oil landing and the mattress giving way beneath Dean's knees, Castiel is suddenly at the foot of the bed, rounding with huge terrified eyes.
"Dean, I did not...It is the feathers, they.. I had forgotten... "
Any other time, Dean thinks he might kind of enjoy a panicking Castiel. Some of the huffy composure knocked out of him. Right now though, Castiel just looks scared and confused, and something about it disagrees with Dean, even if he had been the one freaking out just a second ago.
The fact remains that he'd had something to freak out about.
Dean holds up his hands, palms forward as if proving to a scared animal he isn't about to corner and grab.
"Cas. Cas! It's okay," he tries to soothe.
Castiel takes a step back as Dean inches off the bed, sets the oil on the nightstand to leave a greasy ring.
"It is not okay, Dean" Castiel says, urgently trying to convince Dean that it means nothing.
Which Dean would probably believe, if it weren't for the way he can see that Castiel's aroused.
"Cas," he says, inches his way forward into the other man's space. He speaks as slowly and forcefully as he can, because he actually does know the answer to this situation; hunting skills and people skills kicking in all at once in weird coalescence of 'dealing with the situation'.
He can freak out over it later.
And he better not catch Cas' fleas.
"It's okay."
If possible, Cas' eyes go even wider, even darker, first in surprise and then in comprehension. He takes a nervous step towards Dean.
Dean rolls his eyes and reaches out, hands finding Cas' shoulders and yanking him in.
When he presses his lips to Castiel's, he tastes like frankincense and myrrh.
Because of course that's what he tastes like.
* * *
When Sam comes back from the library, he opens the door to find Dean and Castiel stretched out asleep on the bed. Castiel is covered in something slick and shiny, Dean's shirt sleeves are dark and wet.
They're turned into each other, a hair's breadth away, Dean with a protective hand over Cas' shoulder. Strewn randomly around them are bedraggled white-gold feathers.
Sam decides very quickly that he really, really, doesn't want to know.
He decides to sleep in the car.
* * *
End.