What if like one day cas was just sitting there, aching to be tickled and like dean could tell by cas's body language so he just kinda pounces on cas and teases him about it before and while he tickles the poor fallen angel into insanity
I took this into the artist/chef college AU because those dorks like it and know it. (Words: 950)
Dean barely kept himself from rolling his eyes as Cas yawned at the other end of the couch, a long, pronounced stre-e-etch accompanying it for the third time in less than ten minutes. It made his ribs protrude invitingly, which Cas knew, and Dean knew that Cas knew, and Cas knew that Dean knew that he knew, and all of this added up to Dean wanting to let Cas stew for a while, just to see how far he’d go. The television rambled on, appearing to keep both students’ focus, while in reality providing nothing but background noise.
A moment later, there was a sharp pressure at the side of Dean’s thigh. Cas was flexing his feet, pointing and stretching them under the guise of rolling his ankles, jamming his bare toes into Dean’s leg in the process. Dean glanced down for a few seconds to watch Cas’ toes scrunch and wriggle, putting on a tempting dance for his fingertips. Or maybe his tongue. No, shut up, Cas got to stew. For a good long while. No matter how enticingly sensitive those toes were known to be.
Yawn, stretch again. Cas’ arms stayed up over his head this time as he slipped down to lie more horizontally. His knees popped up to accommodate the position, and the one tipped outward in a lazy sprawl. Dean refused to look at the delectable length of inner thigh exposed by that move. Cas’ skin had to be crawling with want by now. Dean chewed his lip to repress a smirk, and maybe also to remind his hand not to go wandering. He was not going to be played into this.