#witch fluff

A Dean/Cas Fluff-fest fic by @pathsofpassion

January 24

The bed isn’t their bed, but Ellen keeps decent mattresses in her temporary rooms and he wakes comfortably, though no mattress is comfortable enough to make morning a bearable or humane time of day. Castiel blindly gestures at the coffeepot on the small desk, his eyes still squinted shut against the intrusion of daylight.

Obligingly, the coffee pot turns itself on and starts brewing. Being a witch has its perks.

He is not at all surprised that the largest and most beloved of those perks has left him to wake alone; rolling into the warm spot his familiar left in the covers, Castiel snuffles and mumbles incoherently. Undoubtedly Dean pushed for staying at the Roadhouse last night instead of returning to their cozy apartment across town purely for the chance to cadge Ellen into making him breakfast.

The other Roadhouse guests, renters, and temporary lodgers have long since risen by the time Cas drags himself from the bed and, coffee pot in hand, makes his way down to the kitchen.

Ellen is finishing up the last of the breakfast orders, surrounded by flour and biscuits and bacon. He leans in the kitchen doorjamb between the bar and the kitchen and watches, sipping his coffee straight from the carafe. At her feet, a large toffee-colored mutt is bounding around the kitchen floor, feathery tail wagging and fluffy ears relaxed and floppy against his head as he darts in to chomp at a bowl of scraps.

This is not the breakfast Cas anticipated Dean begging off of his near-aunt, but when his familiar is in canine form, leftover hamburger and steak trimmings are the very height of luxury.

“You’re going to spoil him,” he drawls, abandoning the half-empty carafe on a countertop in favor of bending down to snag his hand in the thick ruff at the back of Dean’s neck and drag him away from the bowl.

Ellen shrugs at him from where she is frying the last of the bacon, her wry smile tucking up the edges of her mouth. “It’s his birthday, s’far as I see it, that’s the point.”

The fond roll of his eyes precedes Cas down to crouching on the floor next to Dean, who is happily panting and alternates between lunging fruitlessly back toward the bowl of leftovers and licking Cas’s face.

“There are plans,” he informs Dean firmly, ignoring an excited yip and the tail hitting his side. “Plans made for your enjoyment, specific plans which are time-sensitive and depend upon you having two legs, not four.”

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Dean sits, miracle of miracles, and cocks his head at Cas. Mischievous moss-green eyes narrow, and three seconds later, he is facing not a maple-colored lab-retriever mix, but a stately and overly-large golden eagle. Dean launches himself up to perch on Cas’s shoulder, his beak and the talons of one foot raking affectionately through messy hair.

Ellen doesn’t even pretend not to bark out a laugh.

“I wish I could have seen your bird form when you first chose it,” Cas says, carefully rising to his feet. He knows that Dean picked a golden eagle after one too many viewings of Rescuers Down Under as a child. “You must have made an adorable eaglet. Maybe your mother has pictures.”

Unsurprisingly, Dean makes a horrified noise in protest and flaps off of his shoulder in a huff. There is absolutely not room for a fucking eagle to fly in Ellen’s kitchen, but Dean does manage to flutter to the floor without (much) awkwardness or errant clouds of flour. Cas snorts as Dean struts smugly around his feet, the reason for his familiar’s shift finally connecting from his earlier statement. “A form that has two legs and hands, you absolute menace. No feathers. No fur.”

Aw, Caaaaas. Deans voice in his head is all summer grass and sunshine, despite the whining.

He folds his arms, putting on his sternest expression. Today is a surprise, and he is going to spoil Dean whether Dean cooperates or not. The secrecy has been driving Dean crazy, and Cas would be a filthy rotten liar if he said he didn’t enjoy every minute.

At his feet, Dean takes two exaggeratedly-stealthy steps toward the bowl of leftover meat, his talons clicking on the hard tile. Cas merely cocks an eyebrow at him, waiting, and Dean steps again.

“You’re welcome to that breakfast, of course,” he says mildly as Dean hunches over to grasp a shred of meat with his beak. “Though it does mean I’ll have to cancel the pie-tasting at Gabriel’s for brunch.”

The eagle pauses in the midst of tipping his head back to gulp down his scrap, bright eyes peering over at Cas. …Pie?

“Strawberry, apple, rhubarb, pecan, coconut… something with maple.”

Dean drops the remaining shred of meat back into the bowl and takes off running toward the bar and the stairs that lead up to the Roadhouse showers. A couple of awkward, lunging steps in, he shifts from eagle to cat and becomes a lithe streak of ginger dashing away.

It’s… nice, to see Dean switching between forms so easily. To see him excited for his birthday for the first time Cas has known him. He cleans out the bowl of scraps for Ellen while he remembers last year’s January 24th, how Dean had gruffly requested that Cas ignore the day and – cautious with the newness of both their bond and their romantic relationship – he had reluctantly agreed.

It had been the right thing to do at the time. Cas respecting Dean’s wishes even in the face of his own desire to spoil his familiar and boyfriend had gone a long ways toward deepening Dean’s trust and their bond. This year, they’ve made enough progress in their relationship that Dean has cautiously allowed Cas to plan him a nice birthday, which is – meaningful. In ways he can’t yet express.

“As if I wouldn’t include pie on his birthday,” he mutters to Ellen as he sets the dirty bowl into the dishwasher.

She makes a considering sound. “Mary and John’ll be here with the rest of the gang at four to set up for the party. You sure you can keep him out ‘til five?”

Cas tilts his hand from side to side. It wouldn’t be the first time that they’ve had to head home early; with his ultra-sensitive shifter senses, Dean’s tolerance for crowds of strangers only goes so far. But most of the day he’s planned should be in private, intimate spaces where the press of humanity won’t constantly push at Dean. “If we have to change plans, I’ll let you know.”

And if he makes the pair of them later than intended by following Dean up into the shower, well. Dean certainly doesn’t protest.

When Dean – clean and finally human – pushes away from the table at Gabriel’s café, Cas can almost imagine that he can see the man’s stomach protruding with his pastry-related indulgences. He does not have to imagine the satisfaction radiating from his partner; he can feel it across their link, and closes his eyes for a moment to bask contentedly in the knowledge that he has made Dean happy.

His lids lift, and at his side Dean is smirking at him. The expression is a little wry, a little fond; “Dork,” Dean tells him, nudging Cas’s shin with his foot, but his eyes are surrounded by pleased crinkles. Dean reaches a hand out to ruffle at Cas’s hair, nearly identical to how he’d run his talons through it earlier. “What’s up next, sunshine?”

“You will see,” Cas hums, as Meg clears off their table. The pie sampling had really been Gabriel’s present for Dean, an awkward expression of fondness. With Gabriel, it is best not to acknowledge such things. Cas will never understand why his brother and his shifter-familiar get along so well, but he’s learned not to attempt comprehension of their fondly antagonistic relationship.

(They are both quick-witted, funny assholes who share a juvenile sense of humor. This is not difficult to understand; he simply refuses to acknowledge it. Undesirable behavior is best countered with a lack of attention, after all.)

Dragging Dean out of the café before Gabriel can appear and try to guess the rest of Dean’s surprise, Cas winds his fingers with his partner’s and tugs them toward the Impala, black and gleaming where she’s parked on the curb. This morning was Gabriel’s gift, and this evening will be consumed with all of their family and friends, but the rest of the afternoon is just for him and Dean. No one else knows where Cas is planning to take them, nor will they.

“Still not gonna tell me?” Dean’s settled behind the wheel, and Cas grins from his place in the passenger seat.

“Just drive. I’ll tell you where to turn.”

A gesture of Cas’s fingers brings up a floating green arrow in front of the windshield. Cas’s direction-spell leads them by back ways and circular routes, eventually coming into the chosen establishment from the rear so that Dean won’t have the chance to blanch and bolt until he’s out of the car.

They get out; Dean closes the Impala’s door behind him, and his nose wrinkles as he looks over the hood at Cas. His canine form was his first, and even in his human shape those are the heightened senses Dean can access most easily. “I smell water. And frou-frou bath shit. And Gilda.”

He keeps his gaze even, steady on Dean as his familiar’s eyes narrow. Like all skittish, wounded animals, Dean is ever ready to bite first and analyze intent later, but they have been building trust, and he will not falter in providing his heart’s mate with the best care he can.

If Dean truly doesn’t want this, beneath any macho posturing, Castiel does have back-up plans. But. Dean rarely allows his physical self to be cared for, to be pampered and tended and eased. Such things are labeled as frills, feminine, unmanly, un_necessary_. For someone who is so vibrantly present in their own body, so intimately connected to their physical being in any shape, Dean is almost violent in his opposition to actually caring for his corporeal self.

Cas lifts an eyebrow, refusing to be cowed by Dean’s initial grimace, and the subsequent, “You got me a spa day?” is far more neutral than he’d hoped.

“Us. I will be with you the entire time.”

Dean assesses him, and Cas can sense across their connection how manufactured protests bubble up in Dean’s throat and then falter into silence, one by one. Dean makes a considering hum, bottle-green eyes gaining a mellower shade. Inwardly, Cas allows himself a hint of a smile. It is in Dean’s nature to thrash against structure or guidance when it is first provided, just as it is equally in his nature to melt into a firm grip once he realizes it’s beneficial for him. Cas has learned this much, at least, though Dean finds new ways to test their relationship on a near-daily basis.

Though Dean’s gaze is still suspicious, and though across their bond he is still skeptical, he locks Baby behind them and lets Cas take his hand as they walk into the fairy-run day spa. Victories come one small moment at a time.

“Cas, I love you, I love you, I love you.” Two hours later, Dean’s chants are interspersed with moans as Gilda works her (figurative) magic on his feet. Cas’s own pedicure is finished, completed by the able hands of Gilda’s assistant, but Dean’s feet had been in such poor shape that the fairy was spending extra time working them into submission.

“Can you teach me that?” Cas requests, watching Gilda’s strong hands expertly rub at his partner’s feet. She smiles up at him and beckons; Cas rises from his pedicure chair and goes over to crouch down next to where she is sitting.

“This is the motion to start with.” Gilda’s accent is thick; someone unfamiliar with the supernatural would only identify her as foreign, but Cas knows her native tongue is not from this plane of existence. “See?” She starts over with broad motions, working from the top of Dean’s foot to his sole, and then from his heel up to his toes. Cas watches her fingers closely for technique, noting the different movements involved – pulling here, squeezing there.

He tunes out the sounds of pleasure from Dean; otherwise his ears would turn a nice red, given that usually Cas only hears these sounds in their bed. Or, granted, at Gabriel’s café. Or when Dean is eating one of Ellen’s burgers.

“You try.” Gilda smiles at him and shifts off her stool, beckoning Cas to take her place.

There is intimacy here.

Dean goes quiet, watching him from half-lidded eyes as Cas takes his right foot in both his hands. His thumbs start at Dean’s heel, working in opposite directions as he gently coaxed the muscle into relaxing. He moved up into the arch of Dean’s foot, now stroking outward from the center. Cas’s eyes are on Dean’s, not on his hands, as he works; he does not notice when Gilda tactfully withdraws.

His knuckles drum against the instep in soft, rolling strokes, and Dean can no longer keep his eyes open once Castiel’s fingers hit the ball of his foot, his toes. Each inch is given careful attention, each touch soaked in – not skill, perhaps, but. Love. All of the love and affection that Dean usually will only accept sideways, worked into each of his feet.

When he has finished with both, Cas leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to both Dean’s knees where they are exposed by his spa robe. His familiar makes a grabby-hands motion, reaching for Cas; he smiles as he stands, taking Dean’s hands and kissing each knuckle. This earns him a whine, and he chuckles as he bends over to brush a light, chaste kiss to his partner’s mouth.

“Gilda would kill us,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hands a last time before moving back to his own pedicure chair. Dean’s thought-projections of Cas ducking his head or his hands beneath that robe are not at all subtle.

Dean is pouting at him, but not seriously. His cheeks are pink, flushed, but across their bond he does not feel displeased. “No, Charlie and Dot would kill us for upsetting Gilda,” he corrects, stretching in the reclining chair and flexing his feet.

Gilda reappears as if summoned by her name, her hands beckoning them up. They already had the deep-tissue massage, which Dean approved of, and the body scrub and wrap, which Dean loudly disapproved of before sinking into relaxation with distinct murmurs of pleasure.

Their last treatment is a soothing hot stone massage, a procedure so relaxing that Dean actually falls into a contented doze halfway through. Closely as he’s been monitoring his familiar’s emotions and mental state for the past several hours, Cas smiles as he closes his own eyes. He’d refused to show it in the parking lot, but he had been nervous about this particular surprise. Dean’s utter pleasure and contentment with the massages and treatments are… validating. That he has provided something Dean needed, even if Dean wouldn’t admit it.

Castiel’s eyes narrow when Dean backs him up against the car door in the parking lot, but Dean presses their mouths together in a warm, lingering kiss that leaves little doubt as to his appreciation. Cas winds his arms around Dean’s neck, leaning back into the sturdy cold of Baby’s metal and nuzzling their mouths together in soft, small samples of touch.

“Thanks, Cas,” gets breathed out against his temple, and it’s damn cold in Wichita but Dean is a line of welcome heat all up the front of his body. Possibly even better than the physical connection is the psychic one, where Dean is pulsing out gratitude and happiness along their familiar bond.

Castiel smiles, small, and scrapes his fingernails gently at the back of Dean’s neck. “I did well, then.”

He’s answered with a wry snort, and “Y’did good,” accompanied by a crinkle of Dean’s eyes that is more genuine than their teasing. “Y’always do good, Cas. You know you spoil me.” His familiar’s eyes are serious now, if no less warm.

Shaking his head, Cas gives one more fond squeeze of his arms. “I give you what you deserve, and you deserve everything good.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but lightly colors at the implied praise; genuine appreciation is Dean’s deepest weakness, and one Cas exploits with ruthless love.

It is just past five, so they have nicely managed to fill the requisite hours before the party; Cas has one last surprise planned, but it will not be in place for some time yet. He kisses Dean’s nose and mouth, one after the other, before going around to the passenger side of the impala.

Castiel has been selfish, in the daylight hours; he has kept the majority of Dean’s birthday to the two of them. So now, at the Roadhouse party with most of their family and friends, Cas lets himself fade into the background.

He watches as Jo and Ellen tag-team Dean into a rousing defeat at pool; watches as Mary and John embrace their eldest son, comfortable and easy even in their complications. (Mary and John get along far better after the divorce than they ever did during their marriage; they still share a home on the outskirts of Wichita, having followed Ellen and therefore Dean when the Roadhouse relocated).

Charlie, Benny, Ash, and Kevin pull Dean into a rapid-fire game of Munchkin, while Aaron and Gabriel bicker good-naturedly over the proper way to cut the cake. Gordon even came up from the basement room he’s been renting from Ellen, and he may be drinking steadily at the bar but he is present. Lisa couldn’t make the party, but sent her warmest regards in the form of her homemade Oreos – one of Dean’s particular favorites. Bobby is stuck on a hunt in Idaho; he left a set of work gloves wrapped in newspaper for Dean to open.

Really, there is only one glaring gap on the guest list. Stanford is a long ways from Kansas, and Sam’s scholarship doesn’t cover airfare to attend his brother’s birthday party.

The presents are minor, mostly fond and silly, at Dean’s request – well. At Cas’s interpretation of Dean’s quiet discomfort toward being given Too Much or his birthday being a Big Deal. Donnie makes Dean the pinkest Cosmopolitan Cas has ever seen; Mary and John give him a detailing kit for the Impala and a new rope tug to play with in his dog form. Benny and Kevin give Dean a new set of gaming dice and a book of dirty jokes.

The cake has been cut and all the presents distributed to a laughing Dean by the time the doorbell rings. The Roadhouse was closed down for the evening; everyone stops talking and looks toward the entrance.

“I believe that’s for you, Dean.” Cas has to bite his cheeks in order to keep from smiling too hard. He gets a squinty, green-eyed look for his trouble, and then Dean is opening the door and being swamped by a hug from –

“Sammy?” chokes out into a shoulder that is now the height of Dean’s head; Sam has grown since summer. The crowd of kith and kin flocks to the door, everyone exclaiming and reaching to claim their own hug from the youngest Winchester. Castiel stays back. It is enough, for now, to watch Dean’s disbelieving joy at being reunited with his brother.

You did this for me, whispers across their bond, awed and reverent. Dean is still half-wrapped around Sam, but his eyes have once again found his witch’s. Cas. Thank you.

He has to fly back Sunday morning, Cas cautions; he cannot help but send a wave of love and happiness across their bond. We wanted to surprise you.

He feels more than hears Dean’s snort of amusement. Believe me, buddy, I’m surprised.

Long hours later, it is only the actual Roadhouse crew left. Cas herds Dean upstairs with kisses and warm insistence; this once, Jo and Ash can finish the clean-up. Cas needs to lay Dean out in their bed and settle next to him, exchanging slow, slow touches of lips. Sam went home with John and Mary, but will be back for breakfast in the morning. Now, this, is just the two of them.

The both of them had too many drinks to drive back to their apartment when Ellen offered a cozy mattress upstairs. Dean will protest the lack of memory-foam in the morning, but he is the reason Castiel is too warm and fuzzy with alcohol to drive.

“Best birthday ever,” Dean slurs in between the grazing of their mouths; Cas draws back to smile at him, thumb tracing gently along Dean’s cheek. “S’rsly, Cas, tha’ was – “ Dean yawns, huge and sleepy. “Aw’some.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” Cas kisses Dean’s forehead, soothing him. “Sleep now. Sam will be here early.”

His only response is a contented hum, as the man in his arms wriggles and turns, trying to find a position where he is completely curled up in Cas’s hold. Dean huffs softly, and within seconds Cas is holding a much smaller creature – Dean’s feline form, the ginger tabby. He strokes his hand down Dean’s head and back as the cat settles against his chest, curled up in a comfy, tight little ball. “Good night, Dean,” he murmurs before closing his eyes.