Work Text:
XV.
Dean is standing in the aisle of the small-town health-food store wishing he were a thousand miles away. Or a hundred. Or ten. He’d take any distance at all, really. Any minute now the cheerful looking middle-aged lady wearing the ripped old men’s green flannel shirt and equally worn jeans stocking vitamins a few feet away is going to glance over, realise the thoughts that are going through his head, and throw his ass onto the street. And then Bobby will crucify him because Dean will have failed at Shopping 101.
Get a fucking grip, Winchester, he tells himself firmly, fixing his eyes on what’s right in front of him for the nth time. Just make a fucking decision and get the hell out of here.
But he can’t.
He can’t even think what he’s making a decision about and so, for the minute, he stands paralyzed in front of two shelves full of chapstick.
The colored tubes are practically dancing in front of his eyes and he thinks he’d be flat-out grateful if a werewolf tore through the front door right now and gave him something straightforward to think about.
He glances down at the worn plastic basket in his hand, one end of the metal handle almost working free from the plastic casing, it’s so old. It may once have had the store’s name and logo on one side – New Moon Rising and the eponymous graphic – but that’s long since effaced by wear and scratches.
He’d gotten everything on Bobby’s list and then, as he was walking up to the front of the store to pay, he’d caught sight of the display of “fiddly shit”: the soaps, perfumes, shampoos, incense, candles, whatever. Sam bought stuff at places like this sometimes; once or twice, he’d bought Dean stuff, too. It was nice, but not worth going out of his way to get. And it wasn’t like they were in most towns long enough to shop around. And, to be honest, every time Dean so much as thought about going looking for shampoo that simply smelled nice or soap that didn’t leave bits of his skin dry, he was pretty sure his dad sank a level deeper in Hell; he could practically hear John’s scornful voice in his ear.
What caught his eye this time wasn’t the fancy soap – although he had picked up a bottle of something he remembered Sam raving about – but the chapsticks and now he wanted to die. Or he wanted the earth to open quietly beneath his feet and drop him into some quiet cave with some quiet ghouls for him to kill.
Chapstick brought to mind his passing thought of a few days ago that he would have to buy one for Castiel. And that brought Castiel to mind and that was just a whole tangle he really didn’t want to be standing here and thinking about in this store with this nice middle-aged lady turning to look at him.
Oh, Christ, she’s coming over.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ She has a nice smile and gardener’s hands, rough with stained, short nails.
‘I...uh...no.’ Dean winces hearing himself. ‘I just...zoned out for a minute, I guess.’
‘There’s a lot to choose from, aren’t there?’ She turns to look at the display with him and shakes her head. ‘I just use Bag Balm myself, but a lot of folks like these fancy ones.’
‘Really. Huh.’ Bag Balm. Jesus. That sounds like something his dad would have done but he really doesn’t want to be kissing Cas and – oh, where did that come from? Who said he was going to get to kiss Cas? And his dad and Cas and kissing were not three thoughts that needed to be in proximity to each other at any point in time ever.
She looks at him for a long minute – Dean can feel her eyes on his face and is pretty sure he’s blushing – then she suddenly reaches out, picks a tube off the shelf, and hands it to him. ‘Here.’
‘What...I...’ He looks down at what she’s put in his hand: the word “ayurvedic” jumps out at him, likewise “rose” and “cardamom.” Does he know what that is? ‘I...’
‘Take it. On the house.’
‘I can’t--’
She waves him away. ‘Yeah, you can. I own the place. If I can’t give away a two-buck tube of goop in my own place, who can? Take it. You’ll like it.’
Which is how Dean finds himself in the Impala, fifty bucks lighter for the groceries, with a free tube of chapstick in his hand, staring at it as if it might bite him.
‘Dean.’
Surprisingly, he doesn’t jump this time. ‘What are you doing here? When did you get back?’ Castiel has been gone for the last three days, vanishing silently one morning as he always did.
‘Bobby said you might need help.’
‘Help...with grocery shopping?’
Castiel shrugs, the trenchcoat rustling about his shoulders.
‘Well, I’m done anyway. And I...I...here.’ Dean practically tosses the tube into Castiel’s hands.
The angel juggles the thing, nearly drops it, looks at it, puzzled, then looks up at Dean.
‘It’s yours.’ Dean waves a hand as if that explains everything but can’t stand to meet his eyes; suddenly getting the Impala started requires more of his attention than it has ever done in his life.
‘What is it?’ Castiel holds the small tube up, turning it in his fingers and studying it curiously.
Dean pulls the Impala out into the street and turns towards Bobby’s. ‘Chapstick.’
‘Ah.’ Castiel nods wisely. ‘Jimmy told me about this.’
‘Yeah, I bet he did.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Castiel’s quizzical head tilt as he looks over at Dean, trying to figure out what he means. A lock of shaggy dark hair falls over Castiel’s eyes and Dean has to bite his lip hard to keep from reaching over to flick it back where it should be. He sees Castiel reach up and ruffle his hand through his hair, careless, as he always is, of where it falls, and nearly tastes blood. He growls silently at himself and forces his eyes back to the road.
Traffic lights. Those are something you should pay attention to, right?
‘What does that mean? Is it important?’
‘It...I...important?’ Dean blinks, staring up at the traffic light. ‘It isn’t important but – don’t your lips hurt?’
‘You did not hurt me.’
Dean’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel. ‘I know I didn’t. But I mean...aren’t they dry?’
‘Dry. I am not thirsty.’
‘Oh, fuck m—I mean--’ Because that is not a thought he needs right now. ‘--It isn’t rocket science, Cas. It’s shit in a tube you put on your mouth.’
Castiel frowns. ‘Why would I want to put shit on my mouth?’
Dean wants to bang his head on the steering wheel but instead he drives them out of town and pulls over at the first wide spot in the road. He puts the Impala in neutral, yanks on the parking brake, and turns to Castiel. ‘Look.’
He takes the small tube out of Castiel’s hand, rips the stupid little plastic seal off the top and stuffs it in his jacket pocket.
He holds it up again, as if to demonstrate the difference, and Castiel nods, his blue eyes on Dean’s hands. Dean takes a deep breath, willing himself to focus but not too much, and pulls off the top of the tube.
There’s an immediate rush of scent – it’s light, flowery, a little sweet, and kind of nice. Not the kind of thing Dean normally likes, maybe, but it’s okay. He fiddles with it for a minute, then figures out how to get the balm advanced out of the plastic tube. ‘See?’
Castiel tilts his head again.
‘Like this--’ He sweeps the stick over his own lips, presses them together, then hands the tube back to Castiel. ‘There. That’s it. Nothing fancy.’
Castiel looks at the tube for a minute, then at Dean, then at the tube again.
‘Look, man, if you don’t like it--’ Dean falls silent as Castiel reaches out towards him, his fingertip just touching the edge of Dean’s mouth.
Castiel’s eyes are bright, clear, watching Dean, watching for some sign that this is not okay.
Dean holds himself still – but Castiel’s hand is light, gentle. When Dean doesn’t pull back, Castiel strokes his fingertip over Dean’s full lower lip, seeming to feel where the lip balm ran over his skin. It almost tickles but not quite and what Dean would really like to do is open his mouth and taste Castiel’s skin.
But he doesn’t get a chance because, apparently having decided that Dean isn’t going to freak out, Castiel leans forward, his breath warm on Dean’s cheek, his fingers still on Dean’s mouth. ‘This...will make my lips soft?’
‘Yeah...yeah.’ Dean’s voice is a croak.
‘You would like that?’
‘Uh...’ This is a do-or-die moment; a Dean Winchester special. ‘Uh...’
The tip of Castiel’s tongue appears between his lips, just touching the lower lip, wetting it slightly as he watches Dean, his hand careful, not moving, his fingertip just pressing on the fullness of Dean’s lip. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s lips and, without seeming to realise he’s doing it, he’s biting at his lower lip, just sucking a tiny fold of skin between his teeth.
Anything else would be a lie. ‘Yes. Yes, God, yes, I would like that.’
Castiel smiles, a sudden, brightening of his face and he leans forward further, lips warm on Dean's, and Dean knows he moans, can feel the vibration in the back of his throat, and he knows that makes him a fourteen-year-old girl and he doesn’t care.