Sheets of Egyptian Cotton (R)

[skidmo_fic]

Title: Sheets of Egyptian Cotton
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Warnings: Spoilers for 4.17 “It’s a Terrible Life”
Word Count: 950
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me...sadly
Feedback: yes, please.
Summary: Dean Smith is pretty sure he’s dreaming
A/N: Set just before the end of “It’s a Terrible Life.” Written fordownfall35, who wanted a suit fic, possibly with suspenders. Title comes from a song by Jesse Spencer. Don't judge me.




He’s pretty sure he’s dreaming, even though this is the most realistic dream he has ever had.

A few seconds ago he was sound asleep on his Swedish mattress, between his 600 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, under his Hungarian down comforter.

And now he’s wide awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed for work, staring at a man in a cheap, rumpled suit across from him.

The first sign that this is a dream (other than him being fully dressed at 3 a.m.) is that Dean doesn’t feel threatened. There’s a stranger in his apartment, in the middle of the night, and Dean doesn’t feel even the slightest urge to call security.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” he asks.

The man nods. “Yes and no.”

Dean arches an eyebrow at him.

“You are not awake,” the man adds.

“Ooookay.” He’s about to ask what that means exactly, but what comes out of his mouth is, “I know you, don’t I?”

The man smiles. Sort of. The corners of his mouth seem to take a distinctly upward turn anyway. “Yes, Dean. You do.”

“Did we go to school together?”

“No.”

“Do I know you from work?”

The man hesitates before answering. “In a way, yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

If his face didn’t stay so perfectly straight as he said that, Dean would think he was joking. “What kind of a name is Castiel?”

“It’s my name.”

Dean supposes that’s a fair enough answer. “So…if I’m not awake, how are you talking to me?”

Castiel shrugs. “I couldn’t come to you while you were awake. It would not be allowed.”

Dean frowns. “What?”

Castiel shakes his head. “It is not important. I came because I wanted to see you before you made your decision.”

“What decision?”

“Whether you will stay in this life or return to where you belong.”

He hasn’t been making any sense this whole time. Dean figures it would be too much to expect it now. “Is this about that Sam guy? ‘Cause I already decided not to go chasing ghosts with him.”

“It is not about Sam,” Castiel says quietly, leaning back against Dean’s dresser. He sounds almost sad. “It is about…it is about me.”

Dean leans on his hands, giving Castiel a curious look.

Castiel sighs. His fingers play nervously with his tie. “We have met, Dean. And you do know me, but…not here. Not in this life.”

“What? Is this one of those psycho…reincarnation dreams? We were lovers in a past life or something?”

That almost-smile comes back. “In a way.” Castiel takes his coat off slowly, laying it across the top of the dresser. The jacket comes next, laid carefully on top of it. Dean watches in silence, unsure where this is heading, but unwilling to ask.

“I am not supposed to…help you to make your choice,” Castiel says eventually. “But I…I had to try. When you wake, you will remember this only vaguely. As a dream. It will not seem as real as it does now.”

Dean still has no idea what he’s talking about, but it seems important. “Okay,” he says, earnestly. “So…what is it you’re gonna tell me?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He just smiles a little more and steps closer to Dean.

Dean isn’t sure exactly what happens next. Everything seems to become even more dreamlike. Castiel is next to him, or on top of him, or in his lap, and he’s kissing Dean, soft and desperate and simple and hard and deep and fast and lazy and slow all at once. They’re in his bed, or on top of the blankets, or somewhere else entirely: a motel room, dim lights, scratchy sheets, a stale smell in the air. Either way, Castiel’s hands are on him, hot and solid. They push away his jacket, tug at his suspenders, slide them from his shoulders. And Dean’s hands move over Castiel’s shirt, loosening his cheap tie. He feels the rasp of the fabric against his fingers. Castiel mirrors his movements, pulling Dean’s tie loose. Dean helps him tug it over his head.

For a moment he pauses, a tie in either hand, and the dreamlike quality fades away. He’s lying on his bed looking at both ties. The polyester of Castiel’s scratches his skin, and the silk of his own caresses it, and he finds himself wanting to trade his for Castiel’s.

Castiel pulls the ties from his hands and sets them carefully on the nightstand, giving Dean a curious look. Still, though, he says nothing, and when he leans in to kiss Dean, Dean’s perception shifts, and he’s back to the dream.

Castiel is kissing him or holding him or undressing him, and they’re rolling onto the floor or tangled in each other and in the sheets, or spread out across the covers. They’re naked, or half-dressed, or fumbling with buttons and zippers. And Dean is inside Castiel, or Castiel is inside him, or (in that strange way that impossible things happen in dreams) they’re inside each other.

When they’re finished, for just a moment, everything becomes clear again, and they’re in his bed, on top of the Swedish mattress, between the Egyptian sheets, under the Hungarian comforter, curled around each other, panting, sweating, breathing each other in.

And just before Dean wakes, he almost thinks he hears Castiel whisper, “I love you.”

***

When Mr. Adler comes into his office with his offer of a substantial bonus, Dean sits for a moment with the scrap of paper in his hand, looking at the number and thinking how many silk ties he could buy with that.

He slides the paper back across the desk.

He’d rather have polyester.


fin