Castiel had searched everywhere for it: the floor of his room, under his bed, on the hook by the front door, the kitchen, even the chicken yard and the fringe of the woods. He couldn’t find it.
“Where’s my cape?” He asked the empty space around him from his spot in the front yard.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of familiar red.
‘Oh goodness, not again,’ he thought with an exasperated sigh.
Castiel made his way over to the back of the house, where the woods came closest. There, behind the pile of firewood, sat his big bad wolf, Dean.
Dean, for the umpteenth time, had stolen his red cape.
Castiel folded his arms across his chest. “Dean, how many times do I have to tell you to leave my cape alone?”
Pointy ears perked up under the soft hood, and he twisted around to see Castiel. “You were going to wash it, Cas! With soap!” He tugged at the front, keeping it tight around his strong body.
Castiel sighed, smiled gently, and sat down in front of the werewolf who hated soap.
“I promise,” he said gently, fingers finding Deans ear under his hood and scratching just exactly were he liked it best, “I won’t wash it.”
Dean whined and leaned into the touch. “Promise?”
If Castiel left that encounter with a few new bite marks peppering his neck, well, at least he had his cape to cover it.
- m-arci-a I’ve written a few drabbles for you in the past, so I consider us friends. This was based off one of your live stream doodles.