Pre-Dean/Castiel/Balthazar. Ish. Kinda. PG-13. Hot, lazy summers and angels with beer.
Dean doesn’t even blink at the sound of feathers ripping through the heady afternoon heat. Mostly because blinking would require him to open his eyes, but also because-
“Dean-. Why are you…”
Dean grunts and lifts his head from the back of the couch, blinking blearily up at Cas. He shifts, searching out unexploited cool on the worn seats cushions and then shifts again, his jockeys sticking and pulling uncomfortably against his skin. “‘s hot, Cas. Tryin’ta cool down.”
Cas tilts his head to the side, frowning like the act of staring will make Dean make sense. Closing his eyes, Dean huffs and lets his head fall back to the seat, “If you’re not gonna talk, move outta the way.”
He can feel Cas blink, hears the confused shuffle, and then the deliberate steps to one side. The pleased sigh is lost to the cool breeze of the oscillating fan and the rustle of a moving trench coat.
Gotta love summers in South Dakota.
“I couldn’t find any good brandy, but I did discover a bottle of syrah hiding-,” the light taps of bare feet on wood slow and then stop and Dean would sigh, would roll his eyes or make some snark but honestly? He doesn’t have the energy. Being this damn hot always saps his strength and there’s no real need for him to move. Much easier to let the damn angels talk it out above him.
He cracks an eye and then does sigh because they’re both staring at each other.
Dean snorts and opens the other eye. Looks like he’s going to get involved anyway.
“Alright, you big girls, enough with the longing looks.” He lifts a hand towards Balthazar and make a grabby motion for the chilled, condensation-licked bottle and crappy plastic glass he’s got wedged between his fingers. “Gimme the booze and go get the rest. Bobby keeps a pack of PBRs underneath the 18th century reference books.” At Balthazar’s questioning look he adds, “In the basement” and ignores the continued confusion by waving until the angel deposits the bottle and glass on the coffee table and pads off to the stairs.
Dean can feel the stare trying to bore its way into his head.
“Was making me hot looking at him,” Dean slides his eyes pointedly to Cas’ multiple layers as he digs out the cork with his pocket knife.
Cas rolls his eyes- rolls his eyes- at him before stripping out of his coat and jacket, tugging the tie off and over his head. At Dean’s pointed cough, Cas sighs in the most put-upon way anybody’s ever done (must be taking lessons from Sam) and toes off his shoes, rolling up his sleeves before he kicks off his socks.
Dean nods in acceptance as Balthazar walks back into the study.
The cork finally comes free with a very satisfying ‘pop!’ and Dean fills and drains the glass in a few short seconds, reveling at the cold sliding down his throat.
Balthazar pops the top off a PBR and takes a drink, forehead crinkling at the taste or the fizz or the bite, Dean doesn’t know, as he sets the rest of the twelve-pack on the coffee table in front of Dean. Cas and Balthazar both sink to the couch at the same time on either side of him, making the cushions shift and dip underneath him and he pitches to the side with a curse, Cas taking his weight easily even as Balthazar huffs a laugh.
Dean turns around and shoves an elbow in his gut and this time it’s Cas huffing in amusement. Possibly at him. Probably at him, because Balthazar doesn’t move, just looks sideways at him like ‘and what, pray tell, was that supposed to accomplish?’
Dean has no idea when the angels started living in his head enough that he knows what that look says.
They sit in relative silence (the fan clicking when it reached the end of a pass as the motor switched directions, the low tap of the wine bottle being set back down on the coffee table in little rings of condensation, the occasional creak and snap of settling and heated wood and steal and stone around them) until dusk starts to fall and Balthazar says calmly, without any inflection, “We should play Candyland.”
Cas turns to stare at him and Dean feels his gaze follow.
Balthazar flicks a look at them from the corner of his eye before going back to massacring the label on his PBR. The lean, bare leg perched on the coffee table shifts and resettles, light golden hairs twitching in the artificial wind and Balthazar shifts lower in his seat, dragging half of Dean’s ass down with the cushion.
“Candyland,” Dean finds himself repeating, because really. What do you say to that? Besides, ‘Um, excuse me, but I think you’ve lost your friggin mind.’
Dean ignores the half-there joke about lost-and-founds and dating and cell phone numbers because Sam isn’t around to bitch face at him, Cas probably won’t get it and if Balthazar gets it at all, it’ll probably be the half that would lead to sexual innuendo and he’s too hot still to worry about blushing.
Not that he does that. Ever.
Balthazar shrugs. “More interesting than Scrabble.”
“I don’t know,” Cas pipes up suddenly from his other side and Dean wonders just what’s going on, “Scrabble can at least be marginally educational.” He turns a look on Dean, “Like when to use the word ‘capnomancy’ correctly.”
Balthazar chuckles from his other side and Dean opens his mouth, suddenly feeling like the middle kid in a game of keep-away, “Hey, that wasn’t my fault. It was a friggin misspelling! Damn Middle English and their freakin absent grammar.”
But he joined in the laughs and by the time Bobby pulled up with a second pack of PBRs and enough ice to freeze a rhino, there were Scrabble tiles scattered over the coffee table and two angels good naturedly arguing over whether the correct spelling of ‘theater’ was ‘er’ or ‘re’ and if one was allowed to use alternate spellings in the first place because it was their ‘native language’. Castiel called foul and Balthazar ribbed him about leaving stuff in Dean’s ‘trunk’ and renting out old ‘apartments’ in between asking what it was like to use a ‘flashlight’ when he was human.
Dean watched on with a smile.