catstiel

kayliemalinza:

Castiel leaps nimbly onto the couch next to Dean. “Nimbly” meaning, of course, that the springs squeak alarmingly and something in the frame goes pop.

“Go away,” says Dean.

Castiel approaches him, tail wafting hopefully back and forth, the couch cushions cratering beneath his paws.

“Oh, that’s precious,” says the lady, Dean’s only current lead on all the weird-ass deaths going on in this town. She clacks her fingernails across her glintzy glass jewelry and shakes her bangs over her left eye in a swoop that’s shiny and glamorous and probably tickles a little.

“Yeah, he’s a charmer,” Dean says, and forces a chuckle. He puts his palm flat against Castiel’s triangular chest and pushes. Cas doesn’t move. Dean’s fingers sink into the fur, aching where they’re bending back, and his palm goes tender against the sharp collarbones. “Cas, we’ve talked about this,” he says. “Personal space.”

Cas blinks his freaky yellow eyes at Dean and slowly—deliberately—insouciantly—places a paw upon Dean’s thigh. It presses deep into the muscle, like it weighs 50 pounds.

“Don’t be silly. Cats don’t understand things like personal space,” says the woman, and laughs. Oh, it’s a good laugh, feisty and rich, and if Dean weren’t in immediate danger of getting his balls crushed he’d be teasing another one out of her.

Cas starts to purr. The glass rattles in the windowpanes. He puts another paw on Dean’s leg. There will be bruises there tomorrow, mottled echoes of every jellybean toe.

Dean shoves Cas while trying to hide that he’s using his full strength. Castiel purrs even more loudly. The floor trembles and the wooden beams of the building start to crackle.

The woman glances around like she’s wondering if an earthquake is coming.

Dean gives up, and tries not to grunt in pain when Cas settles on his lap like a cast-iron meatloaf.

“Aren’t cats great?” she says.

“Yeah, they’re awesome,” Dean squeaks.