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spn ficlets: one-word tumblr prompts
Eight drabblets written for one-word askbox prompts on Tumblr. All Dean/Cas, all roughly 100 words. Various ratings.
[warmth -- for anon]
They curl together on the couch, drowsing as the tv flashes and murmurs in the background, Cas’ head under Dean’s chin and Dean’s arms wrapped around Cas’ shoulders, an old blanket pulled around them, holding out the bunker’s chill. Dean brushes his thumb over the soft skin behind Cas’ ear, and Cas shifts a little closer, making a rough, sleepy noise into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He tips his head up, pressing a kiss to the point of Dean’s chin; the remote slides to the floor, but Dean sighs and curves his hand around the back of Cas’ neck.
[thighs -- for sweetladyjustice]
The bed creaks softly as Cas stretches back against the pillows, his knees bent and his legs spread, his hands already twisting in the sheets. Dean presses in as close as he can, leaning in for a kiss, long and slow and dirty, then slides down Cas’ body, running his hands over Cas’ thighs, tracing his fingers over every line and curve of muscle. He noses at the crease of Cas’ hip, first one side and then the other, all stubble and heat and slow, sucking kisses, smiling at the noises Cas makes, the way his back arches off the bed, how his heel digs into Dean’s side.
[socks -- for fire-of-fire]
Cas buys them on a salt-and-butane stop in the middle of a hunt, their fourth day tracking an angry spirit through a rainstorm. Everything they own is wet, the kind of wet that never really seems to dry out, but these are the ugliest things Dean has ever seen, over-the-calf dress socks in multicolored stripes. Cas just smiles as he throws them into the cart, and later he tucks his clown-suit feet under Dean’s thigh, then props them in Dean’s lap, and Dean catches himself with his hand curled around Cas’ ankle, his thumb tapping over a red stripe, then a yellow one, then a blue one.
[pen -- for deanhugchester]
The worst part of research is waiting while it gets done; Sam is searching for next-of-kin online and Cas is flipping through a book, trying to decide between wraith or ghoul. Dean taps his foot until his leg shakes the table, then snatches up a pen, drumming it on a pile of papers, chewing at the cap until it cracks between his teeth. Cas lays his hand on Dean’s restless knee, and Dean doodles a star at the base of Cas’ middle finger, a spiral on the pad of Cas’ thumb, writes his name on the inside of Cas’ wrist, crookedly, the letters getting smaller as he goes, blue ink smeared over Cas’ pulse.
[needy -- for staircasetothesea]
Cas can’t get close enough. He fists his hands in the front of Dean’s shirt, trying to pull Dean toward him as they fall back against the seat, the leather upholstery squeaking under his knees, his foot slipping against the door. Everything his humid and thick, and there isn’t enough room, and Dean’s hand is sweaty at the back of Cas’ neck, his fingers twisting into Cas’ hair as he kisses the line of Cas’ jaw. Cas rolls his hips, his mouth open and wet against Dean’s check, then hides his hot face in the curve of Dean’s neck, closing his eyes as he rubs himself against Dean’s thigh.
[reunion -- for nerdacious]
Cas comes back to the bunker on a Sunday, early in the morning, just as the sky is starting to brighten and bruise; Dean is outside, watching the sun nudge the horizon because it’s easier than not sleeping, last night’s whiskey heavy in his arms and legs, the mark a dull ache on the inside of his arm. Cas studies him for a moment, tilts his head but doesn’t quite squint, says hello in a voice like gravel crunching under the Impala’s wheels. He curves his hand over Dean’s cheek, his palm sunrise-cold against Dean’s skin, and Dean kisses him before he disappears for another month, his eyes closed and his heart hammering in his throat.
[incandescent -- for anon]
They stop for gas outside Enid, just as the sun is sinking out of sight; the fluorescent lights above the pump wash everything in yellow, fading the asphalt to gray and rusting the Impala to dark brown, leeching the color from Cas’ coat, from his skin. He leans against the trunk while they wait, his feet crossed at the ankles and his hand curved over the fin, and Dean covers it with his own, squeezes a little, brushes over Cas’ long fingers and sharply bent knuckles, the gun callus building at the crease of Cas’ thumb and the sparse hairs at the start of his wrist.
[paper -- for radioactiveamoebas]
Dean isn't paying attention when he doodles a heart on the stuffy translation Cas is working on; he's tired and hungry and Sam is complaining about badly-kept cemetery records, and he just wants something to do with his hands. But the next day he finds a bar napkin in his pocket, I love you written on the back in Cas' blocky, awkward scrawl, and I always will the day after that, wedged at the bottom of an old gas receipt. Dean is terrible with words, even when he doesn't need to say them aloud, so he draws more hearts on Cas' crossword puzzles, leaves scraps of paper covered in dirty stick figures in Cas' sock drawer. Then the newspaper prints an article that sounds like angel killings, and he blocks out the headline and replaces it with one word -- stay.
[warmth -- for anon]
They curl together on the couch, drowsing as the tv flashes and murmurs in the background, Cas’ head under Dean’s chin and Dean’s arms wrapped around Cas’ shoulders, an old blanket pulled around them, holding out the bunker’s chill. Dean brushes his thumb over the soft skin behind Cas’ ear, and Cas shifts a little closer, making a rough, sleepy noise into the hollow of Dean’s throat. He tips his head up, pressing a kiss to the point of Dean’s chin; the remote slides to the floor, but Dean sighs and curves his hand around the back of Cas’ neck.
[thighs -- for sweetladyjustice]
The bed creaks softly as Cas stretches back against the pillows, his knees bent and his legs spread, his hands already twisting in the sheets. Dean presses in as close as he can, leaning in for a kiss, long and slow and dirty, then slides down Cas’ body, running his hands over Cas’ thighs, tracing his fingers over every line and curve of muscle. He noses at the crease of Cas’ hip, first one side and then the other, all stubble and heat and slow, sucking kisses, smiling at the noises Cas makes, the way his back arches off the bed, how his heel digs into Dean’s side.
[socks -- for fire-of-fire]
Cas buys them on a salt-and-butane stop in the middle of a hunt, their fourth day tracking an angry spirit through a rainstorm. Everything they own is wet, the kind of wet that never really seems to dry out, but these are the ugliest things Dean has ever seen, over-the-calf dress socks in multicolored stripes. Cas just smiles as he throws them into the cart, and later he tucks his clown-suit feet under Dean’s thigh, then props them in Dean’s lap, and Dean catches himself with his hand curled around Cas’ ankle, his thumb tapping over a red stripe, then a yellow one, then a blue one.
[pen -- for deanhugchester]
The worst part of research is waiting while it gets done; Sam is searching for next-of-kin online and Cas is flipping through a book, trying to decide between wraith or ghoul. Dean taps his foot until his leg shakes the table, then snatches up a pen, drumming it on a pile of papers, chewing at the cap until it cracks between his teeth. Cas lays his hand on Dean’s restless knee, and Dean doodles a star at the base of Cas’ middle finger, a spiral on the pad of Cas’ thumb, writes his name on the inside of Cas’ wrist, crookedly, the letters getting smaller as he goes, blue ink smeared over Cas’ pulse.
[needy -- for staircasetothesea]
Cas can’t get close enough. He fists his hands in the front of Dean’s shirt, trying to pull Dean toward him as they fall back against the seat, the leather upholstery squeaking under his knees, his foot slipping against the door. Everything his humid and thick, and there isn’t enough room, and Dean’s hand is sweaty at the back of Cas’ neck, his fingers twisting into Cas’ hair as he kisses the line of Cas’ jaw. Cas rolls his hips, his mouth open and wet against Dean’s check, then hides his hot face in the curve of Dean’s neck, closing his eyes as he rubs himself against Dean’s thigh.
[reunion -- for nerdacious]
Cas comes back to the bunker on a Sunday, early in the morning, just as the sky is starting to brighten and bruise; Dean is outside, watching the sun nudge the horizon because it’s easier than not sleeping, last night’s whiskey heavy in his arms and legs, the mark a dull ache on the inside of his arm. Cas studies him for a moment, tilts his head but doesn’t quite squint, says hello in a voice like gravel crunching under the Impala’s wheels. He curves his hand over Dean’s cheek, his palm sunrise-cold against Dean’s skin, and Dean kisses him before he disappears for another month, his eyes closed and his heart hammering in his throat.
[incandescent -- for anon]
They stop for gas outside Enid, just as the sun is sinking out of sight; the fluorescent lights above the pump wash everything in yellow, fading the asphalt to gray and rusting the Impala to dark brown, leeching the color from Cas’ coat, from his skin. He leans against the trunk while they wait, his feet crossed at the ankles and his hand curved over the fin, and Dean covers it with his own, squeezes a little, brushes over Cas’ long fingers and sharply bent knuckles, the gun callus building at the crease of Cas’ thumb and the sparse hairs at the start of his wrist.
[paper -- for radioactiveamoebas]
Dean isn't paying attention when he doodles a heart on the stuffy translation Cas is working on; he's tired and hungry and Sam is complaining about badly-kept cemetery records, and he just wants something to do with his hands. But the next day he finds a bar napkin in his pocket, I love you written on the back in Cas' blocky, awkward scrawl, and I always will the day after that, wedged at the bottom of an old gas receipt. Dean is terrible with words, even when he doesn't need to say them aloud, so he draws more hearts on Cas' crossword puzzles, leaves scraps of paper covered in dirty stick figures in Cas' sock drawer. Then the newspaper prints an article that sounds like angel killings, and he blocks out the headline and replaces it with one word -- stay.