[ castiel is at home enough to pour himself a nice cool glass of icewater without needing anyone's permission - truly it had taken several weeks worth of sessions before he'd been comfortable enough to do it because somehow, despite his sorely lacking social skills castiel was raised to be polite about people's belongings, and sam had had to goad him more than once before he'd allowed himself the license.
nevertheless, he takes a deep drink to chase away the thirst and warmth in his body, and to give his hands and mouth and eyes and mind something to do that doesn't involve dean winchester. with half the glass drained, he refills before he sits at last, in the chair next to the one his bag rests on.
and.. dean is still here. lingering. at first he's just washing his hands, which, all right, makes sense; best not to leave grease stains all over the house. castiel watches him with idle interest, studying the way his forearms tense, the way the light catches on his rough, wet knuckles, and all the strength in his broad hands while he scrubs. but after that? after he's washed up, and grabbed his beer, dean is still lingering, and castiel feels the discomfort settling in all over again, resting like a heavy stone at the bottom of his belly. making idle conversation, smalltalk, is not among his talents, not by any stretch of the imagination, and while castiel can go off on wild tangents about the stars, nuclear fusion, infinity, gravity.. he's piss poor at anything else, much more a listener than a talker.
dean, apparently, sucks at it too. castiel lifts his eyes to dean's face again with a withering glance, because really? that was bad, even by his standards. still, castiel's mind drifts anyway, and he glances aside, thoughtfully. ]
Nothing is new with the universe. All the new things are simply things we haven't yet learned about.
no subject
nevertheless, he takes a deep drink to chase away the thirst and warmth in his body, and to give his hands and mouth and eyes and mind something to do that doesn't involve dean winchester. with half the glass drained, he refills before he sits at last, in the chair next to the one his bag rests on.
and.. dean is still here. lingering. at first he's just washing his hands, which, all right, makes sense; best not to leave grease stains all over the house. castiel watches him with idle interest, studying the way his forearms tense, the way the light catches on his rough, wet knuckles, and all the strength in his broad hands while he scrubs. but after that? after he's washed up, and grabbed his beer, dean is still lingering, and castiel feels the discomfort settling in all over again, resting like a heavy stone at the bottom of his belly. making idle conversation, smalltalk, is not among his talents, not by any stretch of the imagination, and while castiel can go off on wild tangents about the stars, nuclear fusion, infinity, gravity.. he's piss poor at anything else, much more a listener than a talker.
dean, apparently, sucks at it too. castiel lifts his eyes to dean's face again with a withering glance, because really? that was bad, even by his standards. still, castiel's mind drifts anyway, and he glances aside, thoughtfully. ]
Nothing is new with the universe. All the new things are simply things we haven't yet learned about.
[ obvious answer, clearly. ]