literature

Castiel X-Reader - Firsts

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    “Dude, you've got three pieces in your mouth already.”

    “The flavor goes away quickly.” The angel's words are slightly distorted around the wad of gum in his mouth.

    “This brand doesn't last too long. I've got better stuff in my other bag. By the way, chew with your mouth closed.”

    Cass makes a conscious effort to keep his lips sealed, eyebrows knitting as he tries to continue chewing the gum. You should have denied him a second and third piece until he got the hang of handling the first, but he's right. The flavor doesn't last long.

    As he gives his jaw a workout, you unwrap a piece of your own and place it between your teeth. Chewing until it's soft and malleable, you pull it over your tongue and blow firmly, forming a small bubble that pops quickly with a sharp snap. You repeat the process twice more, and then you notice you're being watched.

    “How are you doing that?” Cass inquires with a tone of fascination.

    “Bubbles?” You form another one. “You stretch the gum over the tip of your tongue and blow between your lips. Try it.”

    And he does, making a fool of himself in the process. Tongue sticking out, eyes crossed, and then he tries to adjust the gum with his fingers, getting them sticky. After giving him a few pointers and an example, he does sort of make progress, but when he actually tries to blow the bubble, all that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little piff noise.

    “Apparently it's harder than it looks.” Once more you form your own bubble, this time holding it in place.

    He tries again, trying his hardest to mimic you, but this time the gum falls from his mouth and into his hand. “It's quite complicated.”

    Laughing, you pop the bubble and pat him supportively on the shoulder. “You'll get the hang of it.”

* * * * *

    “Alright,” Dean doles out directions. “Sam and I will talk to the police. (y/n), you and Cass check out the crime scene. Cass?”

    It's now you realize that you're short one ex-angel. He walked into the apartment building with you, but he's just disappeared. Turning, you scan the room for signs of him.

    “Found him.” Dean announces.

    Following his gaze, you locate Cass just outside the revolving front door. He looks the door up and down, and, as you watch, he attempts to enter behind another person, but he balks when the door almost hits him. This happens twice more.

    “Should one of us go help him?” Dean wonders without making a move.

    “Don't everybody jump at once.” You roll your eyes and head back to the door.

    You push through the door, stepping around a civilian. “Cass, dude, you coming?”

    “Yes.”

    “Then what's the holdup?”

    “This door.” His voice drops embarrassedly. “I can't get past it.”

    You sigh pityingly. “Would you like me to hold it for you?”

    “Yes.”

    Grabbing the nearest push bar, you force the door to cease spinning and motion for Cass to step into the open section. “Just push the bar and move with it.”

    More sure of himself now, he pushes the door so that it turns and opens into the building lobby. When it opens enough, you step out, expecting him to be right beside you, but Cass is actually back out on the sidewalk more confused than ever. From behind you can be heard Dean's amused laugh.

    Ignoring the hunter, you exit the lobby again to attend to the former angel's dilemma.

    “You're supposed to get out.”

    “I tried, but it was turning too quickly.”

    “Try again.”

    While you hold it, Cass attempts to pass the revolving door once more. You step out ahead of him and quickly turn around to pull him into the lobby, but the corner of his coat catches between a door panel and the wall post, stopping his forward progress and the turning of the door. Dean cracks up behind you again.

    It doesn't take much to tug the coat free, and as you head back over to the Winchesters, you cast a scolding look at Dean.

    Following closely, Cass confides something to you. “I don't like revolving doors.”

* * * * *

    “Hey, Dean, I'll bet you ten bucks you can't eat this whole thing by yourself.” Pushing a menu across the table, you point at something called a Triple Layer Burger Master Supreme.

    Dean doesn't even hesitate to up the ante. “Make it twenty and I'll do the super size.”

    “You're on.”

    “Prepare to be twenty dollars poorer.”

    “You're an idiot.” Sam rolls his eyes at his brother.

    “That doesn't *hic* sound *hic* like a good *hic* thing to do.” Cass voices his opinion.

    “You alright there?” Dean directs the question at his friend.

    “I don't *hic* know. I *hic* don't know what's *hic* going on.”

    “You've probably caught this weird infection, something super incurable. Better get used to it.”

    “Shut up.” Flinging a sugar packet at the Winchester, you turn to address Castiel's sudden and unnecessary worry. “It's just hiccups, a perfectly normal and temporary occurrence.”

    “It's rather *hic* painful.”

    “That is also normal. Hold your breath for as long as you can.” You push his water glass closer to his hand. “Drinking this slowly might also help.”

    “At the same *hic* time?”

    “No, honey. You do one first and then the other.”

    “Doesn't mean you can't do them at the same time.” Dean comments.

    “Do you want him to choke?”

    “I'm simply encouraging him to try new things.”

    As the ex-angel hiccups again, you tap the rim of his glass. “Drink this and don't listen to Dean.”

* * * * *

    It's hot. It's as simple as that. Being in the southern half of the country in the middle of the summer, you would expect nothing less, but it's not unbearable. At least, it's not unbearable for you and the Winchesters.

    Cass, on the other hand, is miserable. He's never experienced heat like this as a human. As a matter of fact, he's always stated that the temperature of his true form was in the thousands of degrees, so the low eighties was nothing.

    Now that he's human, however, his perception and sensitivity to warm temperatures is different. He's next to useless at this point. After stripping down to his boxers, he turned a fan on himself, spread out on the bed, and hasn't moved since. He hasn't even bothered to complain that much.

    “Why don't you take a cold shower?” You suggest. “Bathroom's open.”

    “It's too hot to move.” He moans.

    “It's only 83 degrees. That's not too bad. You should've been on that one banshee hunt in Arizona a couple years ago. That was hot.”

    “Yes, but we were on fire for that hunt.” Dean chimes in and sits on the other bed, cold beer in one hand.

    “I don't know if you're being metaphorical or literal – because that actually happened – just to be funny, but I really don't care.”

    “Does this happen every year?” Cass asks from the bed.

    “Most states cycle through different seasons, yes. If you go way south, it stays warm all year round. Seriously, fill the tub with cold water and soak for a bit. You'll be shivering in no time.”

    “I don't want to shiver. I want to be comfortable.”

    “Welcome to humanity. Leave your hope for consistent comfort at the door.” With a pitying look, you head into the kitchen and whip up a makeshift ice pack with a dishrag and some ice cubes. This you take back out to the suffering, prostrate former angel and balance it on his forehead. “You're not going to melt, Castiel.”

* * * * *

    This hunt was a rough one. Nothing seemed to go right. Sam almost got killed, Dean put his own life on the line, you kept getting overpowered, and Cass . . . he blames himself for how things went. He accidentally led the last victim right into a fatal trap and then led the monster to you and the boys when he ran, catching you all off guard. What makes him feel worse is that he's the only one who escaped with no more than a scratch.

    He was distant and silent the whole ride home.

    You let him be and focus on tending to the Winchesters. Once they're patched up, you send them off to their rooms and go searching for Cass. He's in your room of all places, slouched down on the floor against the bed. Though his face is meditative, as you watch he lets out one or two soft sobs, and his hands are fists clenching the folds of his bloodied trench coat.

    “You should get cleaned up.” Speaking gently, you get down to sit next to him. “A hunt is never completely finished until you wash off all the blood, sweat, and dirt.”

    “I can't wash off my mistakes.” His voice is nothing more than a melancholy murmur. “I can't wash away what I did to that girl.”

    “You didn't do anything, Cass. What happened was an accident. It was a bad hunt. I don't like them either, and this won't be the last one, but they happen.”

    “I messed up. I messed up, and someone else got killed.” His voices catches and takes on a quiver. “What's happening to me? What am I feeling?”

    “You're upset, sad, probably a little angry. You're feeling human.”

    “How do I make it stop?”

    “You can't. You can either ignore what you feel and let it fester over time, or you can get it out when you feel it. I find the former readily convenient, but the latter is the better option. Trust me.” Comfortingly, you play with the short hair on the back of his head.

    Squeezing his eyes shut, he unsuccessfully tries to restrain a sob as a tear rolls down his cheek. Heart catching in your throat, you pull him into an embrace, trying to coax him into letting go. The dam breaks in a matter of seconds, and he cries openly into your shoulder. You don't say anything; words don't do as much for Cass as actions. Instead, you simply exist in the moment with him and offer comfort.

* * * * *

    You're soaking wet and chilled, raindrops clinging to your eyelashes when you try to catch them on your tongue. Rain clouds moved in an hour ago and broke the heatwave with a torrential downpour. That had dwindled to the fat but consistent drops of the present moment, and the whole world glistens and sparkles in the lights of traveling vehicles.

    Castiel accompanied you into the outdoors, albeit with confusion. He isn't fazed by the rain and stares at the sky with an air of fascination and wonder. You suddenly realize that this is his first encounter with rain as a human. He's never felt the physicality of falling water, never had the raw sensation of being drenched with rain. He's never been this exposed.

    “Cass, do me a favor.” Your words pull him out of his trance.

    “Anything.”

    “Pretend you're five years old and go jump in that puddle.”

    “Why would I do that?” He cocks an eyebrow quizzically.

    “Because it's fun. Go on.”

    He glances at the puddle in question, probably processing your request. Casting one last look at you, he steps into the puddle. You laugh.

    “No, Cass! Like this!” With a running start, you jump into another puddle, splashing dirty water up the sides of your legs.

    In a second he tries again, taking a step back out of his puddle and then jumping forward enough to create ripples. He then looks to you for affirmation.

    You roll your eyes. “You'll get it.”

    Taking another running leap, you land full force in his puddle and smile up at him. He locks on to your gaze, curious, exploratory. You confuse and bewilder him, but he likes it. That's a quote. He doesn't understand you or your methods at all, but you're addictive and intoxicating to him all the same.

    You find him just as interesting. He's a peculiar little thing, and you always feel compelled to guide and protect him. Sometimes you forget that he was once a warrior, but now the only battles he fights are the ones that are part of being human.

    “It's very wet.” He states.

    “Yes it is.”

    “Do you enjoy this?”

    “Yes I do.”

    “It's very human.”

    “Quite. Do you enjoy this?”

    “I'm not sure. I know I like that it makes you happy.”

    “That counts.”

    “Do you like me?” The question makes the conversation take a sharp turn.

    “Of course I like you.”

    “Really like me?”

    “Yes, Cass. I really, truly like you.”

    “Can I give you something?”

    “Sure. What is it?”

    Without further ado, he leans forward through the rain and meets your lips with a kiss. A kiss? Why are you not more surprised? It's abrupt and sudden and unexpected and timid and careful and soft and gentle and nice. You try to not let the fact that you're soaking wet and almost shivering make the moment any less . . . enjoyable.

    He almost keeps it going until it's awkward. Almost. He ends it just before that point and doesn't linger, just pulls his head back to where it was before, eyes flitting everywhere but never settling on your face. Raindrops land on his head, soaking his hair and making the strands cling to and frame his face.

    Saying nothing, you take his hands in yours and lace your fingers with his. This catches his attention.

    “How long have you been waiting to do that?” You ask quietly.

    Cass shrugs. “A while. I heard humans kiss other humans they like. I suppose it's a common act of courtship.”

    “Courtship, huh?” A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Well, I found it very romantic.”

    “Romantic?”

    “Yes.” That's what you were going for, wasn't it?”

    “I suppose so.”

    Overhead, a low rumble of thunder rolls through the clouds, and you blink against the rain to look up at the gray sky. “We should go inside.”

    “May I keep holding your hand?”

    “You can hold my hand for as long as you like.”

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