The Flock (SPN / destiel)

your heartbeat with mine

Summertime in Lawrence wasn't comparable to Hell, and since human testicles were slightly less than core body temperature, "hot as balls" was hardly accurate when the thermostat read eighty-five. Castiel supposed Dean was being metaphorical.

Days when the temperature climbed past ninety, Castiel hid in the bedroom with the curtains drawn and their yard-sale air conditioner rattling in the window. It churned out mildewed air. He had trouble sleeping when it cycled on and off at night, but it shaved the edge off his discomfort. Dean slept through the racket, no doubt conditioned by a lifetime in motels.

When a heatwave struck in August and Dean equated Lawrence with Lucifer's asshole, Castiel was appalled but too hot to disagree. He lived in shorts for a month and looked forward to meeting up with Sam for hunts, which meant a few days in a motel with an ice machine and a commercial A/C unit.

He showered before bed and again when he got up, but still felt sticky. He kept a wet cloth on his neck at all times. Dean opted for beer on their sagging porch. Castiel swatted flies away from his lemonade and slurred something about relocating to Alaska.

The heat broke the first week of September, leaving them with a free Saturday and nothing planned. Castiel suggested a picnic—they featured in a good deal of his literary canon. He wanted to experience one for himself. He was pleased that Dean agreed without argument, and touched when Dean offered to find and pack a basket.

Castiel looked up from the "basket," an old box that once carried Coronas, with a scowl. "This is beer and napkins."

"So?"

He folded his arms over his chest and took a long breath.

Dean scoffed. "What the hell do normal people pack?"

"I don't think there are strict conventions. A text from 1904 suggests stuffed eggs and oranges."

Dean's mouth was tight, as if he wanted to reply. Castiel deduced that Dean found his response unhelpful.

"I'll make sandwiches," he appended, winking to let Dean know he'd been kidding. In actuality, he hadn't been kidding at all, but it wouldn't hurt for Dean to think so in this case. He ran through a mental checklist of the refrigerator's contents—they had apples and half a watermelon. "And a fruit salad."

"Yeah, sounds good," Dean said. "I, uh. I'll see if I can find something to sit on."

"Alright," Castiel said as Dean left the kitchen.

Castiel heard him searching in the small linen closet just off the bathroom, probably disrupting Castiel's tidy rows of toilet paper rolls and product bottles, a habit that had become second nature after months of stocking shelves at Gas n' Sip.

"Have you heard from Sam?" Castiel called.

"Not today. Why?"

"We haven't seen him in two weeks. I assume you've spoken about potential cases."

"I think he's giving us space to, uh." Castiel could picture the slightly embarrassed look on Dean's face, the same one he wore the day they packed the Impala and left for Lawrence. "But now that you mention it, he hasn't texted me in a couple days."

"I'm sure he's fine," Castiel said to squash the note of worry in Dean's voice. He got out the bread and a jar of peanut butter.

"You kidding? He's probably loving this. In fact, I'll bet you a case of beer he's got a fridge full of that kale shit and his yoga crap all over the war room." Dean laughed uneasily.

"Get me my phone?" Castiel asked, laying twelve slices of bread on the counter.

"Where is it?"

"In the bedroom charging."

"Yeah, okay. Hey—found the beach towels."

Castiel tilted his head in thought as he unscrewed the jar. "We have beach towels?"

"They got stripes," Dean said, coming back into the kitchen with two of them slung over his shoulders. He set Castiel's phone on the counter. "That means they're beach towels."

"I didn't realize there was a distinction."

Dean slumped at the kitchen table and popped open a cold beer. Castiel made six sandwiches, wiped his hands on a dishcloth, and picked up his phone.

"Who're you calling?" Dean asked.

"I'm texting Sam."

"Why?"

"Because you're worried about him."

"You're worried about him," Dean muttered.

"I worry about both of you."

He sent a quick text and got out the watermelon and apples. Dean stood behind him as he cut them up, and rested a hand at the small of Castiel's back.

"He's probably in the shower," Castiel said when he noticed Dean glance at his phone. Dean kissed Castiel's neck and opened the fridge.

"Those apples are gonna turn brown," he muttered, ignoring him. "Think I saw a lemon rolling around in here."