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Click click click click. Dean ground his teeth together, and cast a furious glance towards the corner of the library.
Click click click click. He caught Sam’s eye; his brother rolled his eyes, looking equally annoyed.
Click click click – pause. Dean looked up hopefully. Perhaps Cas was done for toda–
Click click.
“Dammit, Cas!”
Over in the corner of the room, Cas put down his knitting needles with the air of one readying himself for a fight.
“How’m I supposed to be able to read up on kelpies, with you playing grandma in the background? This is the sixth day in a row, all of the lamps are wearing beanies, I can’t concentrate, Sam can’t concentrate –“
“Hey, don’t bring me into this,” Sam protested. “I think it’s great that Cas has found a new hobby.” Dean glared at his brother, who switched his gaze innocently down to the pages of his book.
“Yeah, sure, it’s great that instead of trying to rule Heaven or hide in Purgatory, Cas is crocheting,” Dean scoffed. “Like there’s a world shortage on woolly hats.”
“I was never hiding, Dean. And this is not a hat, it is a scarf.” Cas held up his creation for inspection: it looked like a tangle of red and black yarn. “It isn’t finished yet,” Cas assured them, picking his needles up.
“It’s beautiful,” Dean said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“I am glad you think so,” Cas replied placidly, “Because it’s for you, Dean.”
Across the room, Sam let out a small snort of laughter, which he quickly turned into a cough. Dean looked horrified.
“Oh, no way. No way. I am never going to wear that.”
Cas’ tranquil expression darkened.
“Yes, you will,” he said.
Dean raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, will I?” he questioned, a twinkle in his eye. “OK, how about this. If you can get me to wear the scarf, you can knit all you want and I won’t say anything. Free licence to cover this place in cosies.”
Cas nodded thoughtfully.
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” he said. “I’ll bring you the scarf when it’s ready.”
“Awesome,” Dean said with a smirk. “Bring it on.”
Cas began his campaign with an agile leap-from-behind-the-fridge manoeuvre.
Dean was wandering through the bunker, heading for the kitchen as he usually did in the late afternoon, hungry for a snack. Cas had tucked himself in between the fridge and the wall, completely hidden from sight. The scarf, finished late last night, was gripped tight in his hand. When Dean entered, whistling Metallica, Cas closed his eyes and breathed in, and out. After a moment, he leapt.
The jump was perfectly executed. Cas threw the scarf in a loop, holding on to both ends; it soared through the air like a cowboy’s lasso and hooked over – nothing. The wool flopped down to hang at Cas’ side.
Dean straightened, his expression triumphant.
“You think I didn’t see you eyeing up that gap between the fridge and the wall last night at dinner? Come on, Cas, please. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Cas glowered. It was on.
Dean was lying asleep on his bed, breathing deeply and evenly. Cas entered, using a little angel juice to silence his footsteps. He slipped over to stand at Dean’s side, looking down at him. He used to watch Dean a lot; it was one of the things he missed most nowadays. The way Dean’s lips softened when he dreamed, how his eyelids fluttered and twitched, how his hands relaxed into easy curves where they rested on his tummy –
Cas shook his head. He had a job to do. He could not allow himself to be distracted.
Cas lifted the scarf, leaning over Dean so that he could try to tuck one end behind his neck. He pushed at the wool with cautious, gentle fingers. When he reached the nape of Dean’s neck, he switched hands, teasing it through. He was almost there, nearly done –
Dean’s eyes flickered open.
Cas, inches from Dean’s face and with one hand under his neck, said:
“Um.”
Dean, his voice rough with sleep, said,
“Uh. Hey, Cas. What – what are you doing?”
Admitting defeat, Cas stood up and tugged the scarf back, holding it up with a small smile.
“I thought this tactic would be worth a try,” he said.
“Target me while I’m sleeping, nice,” Dean agreed. “Coulda shot you, though, man. If I hadn’t realised it was you because of your –“ he stopped, but when Cas raised an eyebrow, was forced to continue in a fast mutter, “– because of that stupid shampoo you use.”
“You said you liked the smell of honey,” Cas said defensively.
“Yeah, uh, I do. It does smell good, just – what was I, uh. Yeah. Get outta here, Cas, I have to shower.”
“I’ll get you next time,” Cas said, waving the scarf threateningly.
“Not a chance,” replied Dean with a grin.
Dean showered at the same time every day, and always used two towels: one around his waist, and the other over his shoulders that he used to dry his hair.
Cas placed the scarf within the folds of one of Dean’s towels on its hook behind the bathroom door. He’d brought out new towels, choosing the red ones so that the colours of the scarf would be somewhat camouflaged. With luck, Dean would drape the towel over his neck without even realising that the scarf was in there.
Cas felt a little strange standing right outside the bathroom whilst he could hear the water running and Dean singing quietly off-key, but he talked himself into it: after all, he had to be there to claim his victory when Dean emerged wearing the scarf.
The water switched off. Cas heard the swish of the shower curtain, the ruffling noise of towels being donned. The door swung open.
“Cas!” Dean yelped, then cleared his throat. “What’s up, is something wrong?”
“I think you’ll find that you’re wearing the scarf,” Cas said smugly, seeing no sign of his creation lying on the floor of the bathroom.
“What?” Dean pulled the towel off his shoulders and shook it, but nothing fell out. Cas frowned.
“I put it inside the folds of one of your towels,” he said in confusion. “It should be…” he tailed off. Dean was unrolling the top of the towel wrapped roughly around his waist: there, hidden by a fold, was Cas’ scarf.
“What?! No way, Cas, this doesn’t count…”
“I – I didn’t intend for it to be there,” Cas said, moving forward to try to grab it back. Dean backed away, arms raised protectively.
“Whoa, there. I’ll get it and give it back to you when I’m not – when I’m wearing clothes, OK?”
“Yes, Dean,” Cas said, blushing furiously.
“And this does not count as wearing it.”
“No, Dean.”
“… it was a nice try, though, um. On all counts.” Dean moved away towards his bedroom.
“Thank you,” said Cas, although he wasn’t entirely sure what Dean had meant.
The booby-trap on the door was not sophisticated, but it would get the job done. Cas hid patiently in the library, waiting for Dean to enter.
It was taking a long time; Cas was sure that Dean had been heading this way. Finally, he heard footsteps. Cas smirked to himself as the door opened, and the scarf fell.
“What – oh, for – are you kidding me? Cas, are you in here? You got the wrong one,” Sam called. Cas emerged from behind a bookshelf, somewhat sheepishly.
“Sam,” he said.
“Cas,” Sam acknowledged with a smile. “I’m guessing the, er, the scarf campaign isn’t going so well?”
“There have been a few small issues,” Cas admitted. “Dean is proving hard to scarf.”
“I’ll bet,” said Sam, grinning. “I’d lend a hand, but I think this one’s all yours.” He moved towards a bookshelf, scanning the titles. “So, er, Cas?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Why are you doing this, anyway? You know… crocheting.”
Cas paused for a moment before answering.
“You know, we used to make things all the time,” he said. “The angels. Canyons and mountains and seas and storms. We were powerful because we made things that influenced people.” Cas held out his hand for the scarf, and Sam handed it over. “And now, I don’t have that amount of power, so this is my canyon.”
Sam nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I’m sorry, Cas. It must be hard to downsize like that.”
Cas smiled, small and enigmatic. “I can’t move mountains, but maybe I can change the mind of Dean Winchester. They’re about the same difficulty, wouldn’t you say?”
“No way,” Sam said. “Dean is way harder.”
He smiled at Cas and clapped him on the shoulder. Cas tightened his grip on the scarf. He had one last idea.
Dean moved around the kitchen, humming to himself and fixing a sandwich. He was planning on a long evening spent in the library, reading up on a few cases before they set out the next day.
There was a slight creak, and the door moved.
“Sam?” Dean called. “Cas, is that you?”
Silence. Dean reached out and gripped the handle of the cooking knife.
“Come out, whoever you are,” he growled. “I warn you, I am armed, and I am dangerous, and I am –”
“Scarfed!” Cas cried triumphantly, popping into view in front of Dean and throwing the scarf over his neck in one smooth movement.
“What – C-Cas?” Dean stuttered, adjusting out of hunter mode as he laid the knife back down on the counter. “What –?” He finally noticed the scarf around his neck when Cas wiggled the two ends, which were still clutched in his hands.
“No!” he groaned. “No, this cannot be happening. You used your angel juice, that’s not fair!”
“There was no rule against angelic powers being used to put the scarf on you,” Cas said calmly. “I asked Sam, just to check. He said it counts. So now, I can knit as many things as I like and put them wherever I want, and you aren’t allowed to complain.”
“Ugh,” Dean grumbled, “whatever, yeah. You win.”
Cas paused.
“Thank you, Dean. You know, I want to make this place more like a home. Because we’re a family, right? And families live in homes.”
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean replied, his voice slightly husky. “Yeah, that’s – that sounds good.”
“This has been fun. I… I enjoy living with you.”
“Yeah, well. It’s been good. I like living with you, too, man. You’re, uh, you’re great.” Dean hesitated, scanning Cas’ face with an odd, longing look. “You’re really great, Cas.”
Cas felt his heart beating fast in his chest. Dean was watching him, shifting his weight forwards and backwards as though he wanted to come closer, but didn’t dare. After a moment, Cas tugged experimentally at the ends of the scarf. Dean was pulled forwards a step.
“Cas?” Dean said, a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips. Cas tugged again, and Dean was pulled another step forward, so that they were almost nose-to-nose.
“Cas,” said Dean again, but quieter this time, as though he were whispering a secret. Cas’ heart was beating madly now, and his hands were shaking, so he clutched the scarf tighter. Dean was still smiling, though, and Cas could see each individual freckle on his face and the burst of darker green at the centre of his eyes, and that started a shiver which began at the base of Cas’ spine and ran up his neck and over his shoulders, twitching his arms and jerking the scarf, which pulled Dean a few inches closer so that their hips bumped and their chests touched and their lips met.
Cas pulled back quickly, turning his face away so that Dean wouldn’t see his confusion, his embarrassment.
Dean lifted the scarf from around his neck, slowly and deliberately. Cas felt his stomach sinking with disappointment.
“Where exactly,” Dean growled, “do you think you’re going?” He lassoed Cas with the scarf, yanking him back in close and kissing him firmly. After a moment or two, Cas allowed his hands to reach up and run through Dean’s hair.
“What?” Dean asked with a twinkle, when they pulled away and Cas was beaming.
“I’m going to knit you a hat, next,” Cas told him.