Title: Your Freckles are Plentiful
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Written For: the LJ comm d_hearts_c
Prompt: Sam, aware of Castiel and Dean's mutual but unexpressed interest, convinces Cas that poetry - particularly haikus - is an explicit requirement of Valentine's Day. This leads Cas to produce some extremely uninspired, unromantic verse (ie. "Your hair is clean and your freckles are plentiful"), which he then presents to Dean in an effort to communicate his love. I'm picturing a writer's block montage kind of like the one at the beginning of Shakespeare in Love, but with a lot more cursing and grumbling about the ridiculousness of human tradition on Cas's part.
Disclaimer: I do not own SPN and this was not written for profit.

Originally posted to LJ 1 March 2011

The graphite tip broke off and spun down the paper, the pencil stuck in the loop of an 'e'.

Castiel sighed. "This is not going well," he said.

Sam stood and walked over, leaning down over Cas' shoulder to look at what he'd written so far. "Well at least you have. Something," he said, glancing from the paper to Cas and back again, his eyebrows raising slightly in commiseration. "Let me see what you have."

Cas set the pencil down beside the loose sheets of paper and handed the stack to Sam. "I feel these verses are... adequate."

"Right." Sam nodded and scanned the three haiku written in a sprawling, child-like hand across the page. "Cas, what. What is this?" he asked. "'You're meticulous and you take care of your car. I can admire this.' And... 'You make me happy, and I am glad that we're friends. I'll get you some pie.' 'Your hair is clean and your freckles are plentiful..." Sam stopped and looked up at Cas. He blinked, his expression placid and despite his claim that the exercise wasn't going well, he looked content. "Really Cas?" Sam asked. "You've been working for two hours and all you've come up with is this."

"What's wrong with what I wrote?" Cas asked. His hands lay still in his lap and he sat with rigid, upright posture. "You told me to write haiku about Dean, and - "

"I... suggested," Sam said, his head moving in a slow arc as handed the papers back to Castiel. "It's supposed to be romantic. Personal."

"This is personal," Cas said. "It's about Dean."

"Right, okay, but." Sam sat down in the chair across from Cas, his long legs sweeping under the table. Castiel moved his out of the way, curling them under his chair. "Dean's important to you, isn't he?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes."

"And you want him to know that, right? Don't you want to tell him how important he is?"

"I do," Cas said. "Dean constantly underestimates himself and I have no problem correcting him."

Sam's expression slid from earnest and appealing to something closer to disheartened and confused. "That's. That's all. He's not..." Sam pursed his lips and gestured in a vague, enticing way. "He's not, maybe, very important? Very important to you?" Cas' head moved with Sam's hands, looking like a bird as he followed the motion. "You know. It's Valentine's Day."

Sam had come to Castiel because he'd thought the angel would have been easier to work with than Dean. The two of them had gotten ridiculous; they had always had their "profound bond," even before either of them had really admitted it was there, and the oddly, disconcertingly intimate way they had with each other made Sam feel ill at ease whenever he was in the same room with them. Because it was constant. Every moment laced with tension that was weird and erotic and something that no one was willing to admit existed.

Except for Sam. He could see what both his brother and Castiel were blind to, even though it was right there, blatant and inescapably sexual, looming over them since they'd met. And Dean could shove his heteronormative expectations up his ass, because whatever he might argue, however much he might try to deny, Sam wasn't about to let one of the best things that could happen to his brother just slip away.

Dean loved him. Dean needed him as much as he needed Dean. And even though there was that voice inside that resented Cas for taking Dean away, there was another voice that was happy, that threw around the word co-dependent way too casually - and that was the voice Sam listened to. That was the voice that really wanted what was best for Dean.

But though he'd expected to meet with resistance - more than resistance, with anger and yelling and profuse, possibly vulgar admiration of the female body - from Dean, but he'd at least expected Castiel to pick up the hint.

"I know it's Valentine's Day," Castiel said. "You've been reminding me for a week. And you're the one who insisted that I follow the human tradition of presenting poetry." Cas put his palm flat on the paper laid across the table, his longest finger resting on the word 'freckles.' "If I'm doing it wrong, then what should I be writing?"

"Well." Sam sat back, sinking a little in his chair and rubbing his hand against the denim on his thigh. "It should be meaningful," he said. "Like... You are my sunshine. I want to stay beside you and... kiss you a lot." Sam frowned immediately after he'd spoken, drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. "Or not that," he said, "but do you get the idea?"

Cas stared at his hand. Sam started to get impatient, sitting up again, and folding his hands together between his knees. "No," Cas said. "I don't get the idea."

Sam sighed and he felt a little deflated that his plan to at least get Castiel and Dean to admit that the staring meant something. There had to be more. Sam had thought he would at least be able to get a hug out of the two of them. He stood up and popped his back. "I'm going to bed," he said. "Why don't you... keep working," he suggested. "And if you can't come up with anything better, just give Dean the one about the freckles." He looked down at what Cas had written so far and cleared his throat. "Just, uh, write how you feel," he said. He tried for a smile, but met with Castiel's usual flat, blank expression and the smile feel off. "Right," he said, turning to walk away. "Good night."

"Here. This is for you."

Dean looked at him oddly and stared for a long moment at the paper that hung in Cas' hands. They were about to leave to grab a quick bite to eat when Cas had accosted him, and Dean looked at the interruption with suspicion.

Cas held it up, pushing it into Dean's hand.

"Uh. Thank you, Cas. I guess." Dean cleared his throat and took the paper. He shook it out and held it up, reading aloud. ""Your hair is clean and your freckles are plentiful. Please let me... hug... you." Dean lowered his arm and looked at Castiel like he was a little crazy. "Dude. You want to hug me?"

"It is Valentine's Day," Cas said, with a sniff. It had taken him hours to hone that down successfully, and it had taken all his knowledge on what was appropriate according to human tradition, what was appropriate according to Dean, what Sam had told him, and a very long, very illuminating letter to Dean he would never send that was currently crumpled in a small ball in the left pocket of his coat. He was not in the mood for criticism. "It is traditional to be affectionate."

"Have you been talking to Sam again?" Dean asked. "If he put you up to this..."

"According to Sam, poetry is an integral part of the holiday. Especially haiku. I wrote it for you." He cocked his head to one side. "I hope it is properly complimentary." Dean's expression told him immediately that wasn't where the problem lay, and Cas nodded to himself. "You do not actually have to hug me."

Dean snorted and grinned, throwing one arm around Cas' shoulders. Castiel reciprocates, a hand on Dean's back, just at his waist; and he can feel the warmth of Dean's side against his own. "Good," Dean said, "because I don't hug." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, and Cas followed it, looking over the freckles speckled dusky and soft against his skin. "No chick flick moments," Dean said. But he tightened his grip anyway and squeezed Cas' shoulder.

"I am sorry if my poem made you uncomfortable," Cas said. He didn't mention that his request had been sincere, and he felt something scratching at the back of his consciousness, something about what Sam had said, and the warmth spreading through him where Dean's arm lay broad and heavy across his shoulders. Dean folded the paper as neatly as he could with one hand and put it in his back pocket. "I won't mention your hair. Or your freckles."

Dean snorted again. "Plentiful, huh?"

Castiel knew precisely how many freckles Dean had and the exact location of each one. He had brushed them one, gently, pain-stakingly, when he had put Dean back together. Each one was perfect. "Yes," Castiel said. "I know exactly how many you have, and exactly where they are. I put them there."

"Cas. Why the hell do you say stuff like that?" Dean twitched, uncomfortable, and for a moment Cas thought he was going to let him go. But he didn't. "I don't get you anything," Dean said, "and I'm not going to write you a damn poem."

Castiel saw the opportunity for humor. "Not even haiku?" he asked. "Or a sonnet. A villanelle."

"No," Dean said, and they smiled together and Cas thought of Dean's freckles again, and how each one would be perfect to press his mouth against, softly, with deliberation and significance, blessing each one again.

"Poetry is for girls," Dean said. "For Hallmark cards. And Sam."

"Yes," Cas said. "I think Sam overstated the importance of the haiku. Your human traditions are ridiculous."

"Thanks, Cas. I'll remember that." And he withdrew his arm and smiled again, and Cas stared. "Happy Valentine's Day, Cas."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Dean. Is it time for pie?"

Dean's face cracked a grin. "Yeah," he said. "It's time for pie."

Thanks for reading!