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“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“No, Dean, I am not “shitting you”. And that idiom is disgusting.”
“You were a frikken’ angel. How do you not know how to do this?”
Dean looks up to watch Cas tug his dumb trench coat tighter around his shoulders. He shrugs, a gesture he almost certainly picked up from Dean. “I don’t know everything Dean, I was an angel, not David Attenborough.”
“OK, one. You and I are gonna talk about this weird obsession you’ve got with that old British dude and his lame bird documentaries. Two. I am not gonna be beaten by four poles and a scrap of nylon. C’mon, get up. We’re men, damn it. We can do this.”
Cas heaves a long-suffering sigh and leans back on his hands. “I fail to see what our genders have to do with this. And no, I’m not getting up.” His lips purse in a way that Cas swears is not a pout because ‘angels don’t pout, Dean’ but makes Dean’s tummy flip all the same. “I’m cold.”
At that, Dean loses all of his (admittedly limited) patience. He tosses the steel tent pole over his shoulder, just narrowly avoiding hitting the lesser spotted grey-necked wood-rail. (Who needs Attenborough? Dean reads.)
Dean waves an apology to the bird and then turns, fuming, back to Castiel. “You wouldn’t be cold if you wore that jacket I bought you, but nooo Cas is too good for high quality fleece WHICH by the way is a hell of a lot warmer than that trench coat of yours, I mean c’mon that thing stopped being waterproof the second time you got evaporated from thin air, now it’s hanging together by a th-” A large drop of rain plinks down upon the bridge of Dean’s nose, interrupting him mid-lecture. “Oh for fuck's- look, it’s gonna start pissing it down, do you wanna argue or do you wanna not catch pneumonia?”
Castiel lumbers to his knees with really none of the grace you’d expect from a former angel of the Lord. “Fine,” he huffs. He points a stern finger down at the tent’s neon turquoise fabric, “I'll deal with this. You can work out that camping stove. Twice now I’ve nearly set my fingers alight.”
“Jesus, who’s dumbass idea was it to go camping anyway? Wait don’t tell me it was-”
“Sam.” They say simultaneously.
“The jerk.”
“The fool.” With firm nods condemning Sam’s silly ‘family bonding’ ideas, Cas turns to face the tent, gathered giant and ominous at his feet. "There's no way Sam is going to fit in this."
Dean sniggers in the background.
Castiel tugs at one end of the tent’s fabric, searching for the part that serves as the door, or flap might be the suitable term Castiel supposes, when he's hit with an obstacle.
"Dean, you’re standing on the flap I need to put the peg in, move your foot.”
“You move your foot.” Dean mutters petulantly.
“No, you move-” Cas sighs again, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “We are acting like children. I’m sorry I didn’t like the jacket you bought me, it just wasn’t my style. I promise in future I will wear any and all gifts you give me with pride. Now can we please just co-operate and set up this camp?”
Dean scowls at Cas for a moment longer before rolling his eyes.
“Fine,” He says, because Dean is nothing if not mature. He kneels down to inspect the camp stove where Cas has burned away some of the grass. “Hey where’d Sammy go anyway?”
“He said he needed something out of the car, though I suspect that was a pretext for giving us a chance to talk about the grudge you were harbouring.”
“I was not harbouring a grudge damn it, I just didn’t expect my b-boyfriend to love his trench coat more than m- ow fuck.” Dean shakes his hand out to cool where the igniter burned his finger.
“Are you alright? That camping stove is a menace. Let me look.” Cas crouches beside him and takes his ring finger in hand. He turns it this way and that before soaking it with a bottle of water from his duffel. Theres no burn marks, the tip of Dean's finger is just a little tender. “You’ll be okay,” Cas says, but he brings Dean’s finger to his lips and kisses it softly anyway.
“I know. Doesn’t even hurt.” Dean mumbles, and no he’s not blushing he’s WARM from all the work he put into the tent, okay?
“You called me your boyfriend.“ Cas says, one side of his mouth pulling up in a half-grin. “You’ve never done that before.”
Dean scoffs and looks away. “Sure I have,“ his voice is all high pitched, damn it, “Clearly you just walk around with cotton in your ears.”
“Mhm.” Cas hums. “That must be it.”
Cas keeps ahold of Dean’s hand for a little while until Dean stands to push the propane bottles and stove at least ten feet away, lest they burn down their (as yet unconstructed) camp site. When he returns, Dean toes at the nylon fabric pooled at his feet, hands stuffed into his pockets. He clears his throat before he speaks. “Y'know, before we get to the tent, we should- while Sammy’s gone I mean- maybe we should… make out? While we have the chance, y’know?”
“Probably should,” Castiel nods intently, “While we have the chance. And then straight back to fixing the tent, of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
Sam comes back a short while later to find them rolling around on the canvas. He peers one eye out from behind his fingers. “Oh come on! You couldn’t even wait to put up the tent first? Ugh. You guys are the worst.”