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Entry tags:
spn ficlet: accidental
accidental
Cas/Dean | PG | ~1,000 words
Inspired by the tags on this tags on this post.
--
Cas slurps the last of his soda, rattles the ice in the empty cup, slurps again, then turns to Dean and says, "Saint Valentine was beheaded."
Dean looks up from the burrito he's eating; he has guacamole on his fingers. "Okay."
"This case made me think of it," Cas continues. He rattles his ice again, then leans back against the seat, resting the cup on his thigh. "He was stoned first. When that didn't kill him, Emperor Claudius demanded his head."
"Okay."
"I just find it strange that his feast day is now a secular celebration of romance."
"That's probably Hallmark's fault," Dean says, taking another bite of his burrito. "Any excuse to sell sappy cards." A car turns the corner at the end of the block; they both slouch down as its headlights flare yellow-white across the Impala's dash. "I guess it makes sense -- isn't he the patron saint of love?"
The car passes the house they've been watching without stopping or slowing, and Cas says, "Marriage," as he straightens and peers down the street after it. "He's the patron saint of marriage, which historically has had little to do with romance."
"Huh." Dean has never given the saints much thought; there's a Saint Christopher medal in the Impala's glove box, has been for years, but that had been a gift from Bobby.
"He's also the patron saint of plague --"
"Weird."
"-- and beekeepers. Did you know --"
Dean groans and waves him off; if there's anything he cares about less than saints, it's fucking bees. "Don't start."
"Sorry," Cas says, in a quiet voice that makes Dean feel like an ass, but then his phone buzzes and Cas immediately perks up. "Is that Sam?"
"Yeah," Dean says, thumbing through the message. "Apparently, the dude at the mojo shop doesn't remember selling the stuff we found in those hex bags."
"She could've ordered it online."
"She -- online?" Dean sighs; he hadn't thought of that. Fucking internet. "If she -- wait," he says, sitting up a little as he spots someone walking down the street. "Grab that bottle of witch-killing shit. This might be our girl."
+
It hadn't been their girl, just some chick walking her dog. Accordingly, Dean is staring down at another pair of dead bodies -- the second pair since they rolled into town and the third since this nonsense started.
"Everything is the same," Cas observes.
The bodies are lying shoulder to shoulder, their arms at their sides and their hands clasped; the bed is strewn with rose petals and paper hearts.
"Yeah," Dean says, grabbing a handful of the hearts scattered around the husband's foot. They're the kind of thing kids make in elementary school, cut from red and pink construction paper. One of the pink ones is sloppily trimmed in white lace. "I don't get it."
"I don't either," Sam says, threading his way between a couple of CSI guys.
Dean glances around, then leans into Sam's shoulder and asks, "Hex bags?" in a low voice.
"Yeah." Sam pulls one out of his suit pocket and hands it to Dean. "I found them under the bathroom sink."
The stuff inside is the same as the others -- a mix of herbs and bird bones, some fingernail clippings that probably belonged to one of the victims. The first two sets had used hair.
"The rose petals," Cas says, brushing his fingers through a few as he skirts around the edge of the bed. His tie is crooked, flipped around the wrong way. "White roses mean marriage."
"Maybe," Sam says slowly. "But the first couple -- they were just living together."
"They also mean remembrance. Fresh starts."
Dean sighs. "I liked this case better when we thought we had a motive." They'd figured it was jealousy at first, that maybe the witch had been in love with one half of the couple, or had been jilted by them, cheated on, something. But this -- this shit doesn't make sense.
"There might not be one," Cas says.
"What -- like a serial killer?" Sam asks, frowning. "Who uses witchcraft?"
"Maybe that's the weapon she's comfortable with."
Dean's phone rings; it's probably the coroner, calling to say yesterday's couple had died the same way as the first, strangulation without any outward trauma or bruising, like their throats had been crushed from the inside.
His hands are full; without really thinking about it, he shoves the paper hearts at Cas and says, "Happy Valentine's Day, dude."
"Dean," Cas says, his voice soft. He smiles, the kind of bright, wide-eyed smile Dean usually ignores because they make his chest ache. "Thank you."
Dean stares at him, feeling suddenly hot in his fed suit, unable to breathe. He hadn't -- except that he had -- except that he hadn't. "Cas, I -- I, um. I wasn't -- um." Jesus Christ, he doesn't even know what he's trying to say. "Cas --"
His phone starts ringing again. Sam coughs pointedly, and Dean snatches it out of his pocket, grumbling, "Agent Hetfield," with a slow flush burning over his jaw and cheeks.
+
When they get back to the cars, Cas lingers uncertainly beside the Continental. He still has the stupid paper hearts in his hand.
"Dean," Cas says, catching Dean's sleeve, pulling hard enough that Dean has to stop, has to look him in the eye. "Did you -- you didn't mean it." It's not a question.
"No, I didn't," Dean admits. His voice sticks in the back of his throat, and watching Cas' face fall feels like a punch to the gut. "But I do," he adds quickly. Fuck, his cheeks are on fire. "I would've -- I want, um. I want that."
"Okay," Cas says. He runs his fingers along the line of Dean's jaw, and Dean closes his eyes, leans in when Cas tugs him closer by the tie, lets Cas kiss him soft and slow.
Behind them, Sam sighs like he's dying. Reluctantly, Dean pulls away from Cas long enough to toss Sam the Impala's keys.
Cas/Dean | PG | ~1,000 words
Inspired by the tags on this tags on this post.
--
Cas slurps the last of his soda, rattles the ice in the empty cup, slurps again, then turns to Dean and says, "Saint Valentine was beheaded."
Dean looks up from the burrito he's eating; he has guacamole on his fingers. "Okay."
"This case made me think of it," Cas continues. He rattles his ice again, then leans back against the seat, resting the cup on his thigh. "He was stoned first. When that didn't kill him, Emperor Claudius demanded his head."
"Okay."
"I just find it strange that his feast day is now a secular celebration of romance."
"That's probably Hallmark's fault," Dean says, taking another bite of his burrito. "Any excuse to sell sappy cards." A car turns the corner at the end of the block; they both slouch down as its headlights flare yellow-white across the Impala's dash. "I guess it makes sense -- isn't he the patron saint of love?"
The car passes the house they've been watching without stopping or slowing, and Cas says, "Marriage," as he straightens and peers down the street after it. "He's the patron saint of marriage, which historically has had little to do with romance."
"Huh." Dean has never given the saints much thought; there's a Saint Christopher medal in the Impala's glove box, has been for years, but that had been a gift from Bobby.
"He's also the patron saint of plague --"
"Weird."
"-- and beekeepers. Did you know --"
Dean groans and waves him off; if there's anything he cares about less than saints, it's fucking bees. "Don't start."
"Sorry," Cas says, in a quiet voice that makes Dean feel like an ass, but then his phone buzzes and Cas immediately perks up. "Is that Sam?"
"Yeah," Dean says, thumbing through the message. "Apparently, the dude at the mojo shop doesn't remember selling the stuff we found in those hex bags."
"She could've ordered it online."
"She -- online?" Dean sighs; he hadn't thought of that. Fucking internet. "If she -- wait," he says, sitting up a little as he spots someone walking down the street. "Grab that bottle of witch-killing shit. This might be our girl."
+
It hadn't been their girl, just some chick walking her dog. Accordingly, Dean is staring down at another pair of dead bodies -- the second pair since they rolled into town and the third since this nonsense started.
"Everything is the same," Cas observes.
The bodies are lying shoulder to shoulder, their arms at their sides and their hands clasped; the bed is strewn with rose petals and paper hearts.
"Yeah," Dean says, grabbing a handful of the hearts scattered around the husband's foot. They're the kind of thing kids make in elementary school, cut from red and pink construction paper. One of the pink ones is sloppily trimmed in white lace. "I don't get it."
"I don't either," Sam says, threading his way between a couple of CSI guys.
Dean glances around, then leans into Sam's shoulder and asks, "Hex bags?" in a low voice.
"Yeah." Sam pulls one out of his suit pocket and hands it to Dean. "I found them under the bathroom sink."
The stuff inside is the same as the others -- a mix of herbs and bird bones, some fingernail clippings that probably belonged to one of the victims. The first two sets had used hair.
"The rose petals," Cas says, brushing his fingers through a few as he skirts around the edge of the bed. His tie is crooked, flipped around the wrong way. "White roses mean marriage."
"Maybe," Sam says slowly. "But the first couple -- they were just living together."
"They also mean remembrance. Fresh starts."
Dean sighs. "I liked this case better when we thought we had a motive." They'd figured it was jealousy at first, that maybe the witch had been in love with one half of the couple, or had been jilted by them, cheated on, something. But this -- this shit doesn't make sense.
"There might not be one," Cas says.
"What -- like a serial killer?" Sam asks, frowning. "Who uses witchcraft?"
"Maybe that's the weapon she's comfortable with."
Dean's phone rings; it's probably the coroner, calling to say yesterday's couple had died the same way as the first, strangulation without any outward trauma or bruising, like their throats had been crushed from the inside.
His hands are full; without really thinking about it, he shoves the paper hearts at Cas and says, "Happy Valentine's Day, dude."
"Dean," Cas says, his voice soft. He smiles, the kind of bright, wide-eyed smile Dean usually ignores because they make his chest ache. "Thank you."
Dean stares at him, feeling suddenly hot in his fed suit, unable to breathe. He hadn't -- except that he had -- except that he hadn't. "Cas, I -- I, um. I wasn't -- um." Jesus Christ, he doesn't even know what he's trying to say. "Cas --"
His phone starts ringing again. Sam coughs pointedly, and Dean snatches it out of his pocket, grumbling, "Agent Hetfield," with a slow flush burning over his jaw and cheeks.
+
When they get back to the cars, Cas lingers uncertainly beside the Continental. He still has the stupid paper hearts in his hand.
"Dean," Cas says, catching Dean's sleeve, pulling hard enough that Dean has to stop, has to look him in the eye. "Did you -- you didn't mean it." It's not a question.
"No, I didn't," Dean admits. His voice sticks in the back of his throat, and watching Cas' face fall feels like a punch to the gut. "But I do," he adds quickly. Fuck, his cheeks are on fire. "I would've -- I want, um. I want that."
"Okay," Cas says. He runs his fingers along the line of Dean's jaw, and Dean closes his eyes, leans in when Cas tugs him closer by the tie, lets Cas kiss him soft and slow.
Behind them, Sam sighs like he's dying. Reluctantly, Dean pulls away from Cas long enough to toss Sam the Impala's keys.