remember the gemstone in their stomachs

Seven Minutes In Heaven

Castiel imagine requested by anon! ”I love all if your writing! I just I love your writing! I just love it so much! Aren’t you enthusiastic I was wondering if you could do an imagine, where they are playing spin the bottle and the reader and cas get 7 minutes in heaven ;)” This imagine has been edited for reposting, just to add detail where I had left it out when I originally wrote this. Hope you like it!

Your head was light with the cheerfully incapacitating laughter-induced lack of bloodflow to your brain, tear-filled eyes staring around the circle of four at the Winchester brothers and their beaming angel companion. You couldn’t remember the last time you had heard Dean laugh so carelessly,  his peridot irises surrounded by liquid as he struggled for his breath, hand pressed to his stomach to apply pressure to his crippling cramps, his brother Sam in an equally unraveled state as he choked on his giggles, taking a cautious pull at his bottle of beer, droplets of the amber beverage falling from his mouth as he keeled over in a fit. Even the usually stoic messenger of God was giving in to the intoxication of the night, his gemstone eyes alight with the group’s shared joy. Your stomach was beginning to protest from the strain of laughing too much, a problem your makeshift family hardly ever faced, your hand probing your abdomen while the fingers on your opposite hand swiped at hot tears as they threatened to spill over your cheekbones. Sam rolled to a seated position, placing his empty beer bottle on the carpet between you all with an exaggerated flourish, wiggling his eyebrows like an old Hollywood criminal about to kidnap the damsel in distress, his eyes falling on each member of the group before locking on yours with fixed determination, slowly sliding the bottle towards you. You felt your face flush as Dean whooped, Castiel’s already stiff posture freezing ever more rigid in your peripheral vision. Sam was smirking at your expression, which must have displayed your discomfort without filter, your eyes flickering downwards to the (now horrifyingly demonic) brown glass gleaming in the dim motel lighting, nestled among crumbs and miscellaneous, unidentifiable stains with questionable origins on the filthy shag carpet. The bottle glinted with opportunities you were too nervous to take. Perhaps if this game had arisen during your youth, you would find the courage to spin the Goddamn bottle.

“No, Sam. Not a chance,” you protested, his intentions clear as day, hazel eyes unrelenting as they bribed yours with silent persuasion. You held his gaze with unyielding strength until, defeated, he threw his hands in the air, his mouth playfully disappointed at your lack of what he deemed “playful spirit.” You saw Castiel’s hand move to fidget with the hem of his trench coat, a nervous tick not uncommon when the angel was placed in situations of unholy nature, his head turned away from yours, searching the vacant walls for any form of escape. Dean rubbed his palms together in anticipation, the only contestant taking in the full hilarity of the situation. Of course, someone as unbridled as the eldest Winchester wouldn’t see the prospective awkwardness that would surely present itself when the bottle was discarded. You rolled your eyes at his excitement, shifting your position on the carpet, picking at a woolen pill that had adhered itself to the denim of your jeans.

“C’mon, Y/n, we’re all friends her,” Sam chuckled, shooting his brother a glance on the sly as he spoke, something you weren’t intended to witness, something with deeper meaning than mere eye contact, a meaning you didn’t have the time nor patience to discover. Dean bit his lip in an effort to rein-in the hysterics bubbling in his broad chest, the lull of alcohol and the thrill of comfort shattering his steely composure. He ducked his head to mask his chortles, his brother once more gesturing to you to spin the bottle, Sam’s eyes softening on yours, one last plea playing along your sympathies. The eyes of a wounded puppy bored into your very soul, plucking at your heartstrings, weakening your reserve. Hell you could even hear Sarah McLaughlin crooning on about her angels and dirty animals, begging you over her own voice to donate half of your monthly salary to keeping the formerly abused kittens in crates for the rest of their lives. With a sigh, you gave in to his stare, fulfilling his request, the slightly sweaty palm of your hand moving to rest on the cooling, smooth neck of the drained beer bottle, your stomach chock-full of panicking insects trying to gnaw their way free of their flesh enclosure.

“This is stupid…” you whispered, mostly to yourself, before flicking your wrist and sending the bottle into dizzying motion, light reflecting off of the turning pointer as it traveled clockwise about the circle, a murky sheen deciding your fate as the container slowed. You watched the mouth of the bottle, your mind racked with thoughts of what you had just agreed to do, of who you might end up locking lips with, of your alternative methods of escape (the window was looking pretty nice; straight shot to grass from a first-floor room, nothing but highway ahead), your brain functions scrambling like an egg on an August blacktop. The bottle spun from you to Dean to Sam to Cas and back, slowing to a rolling stop, your pulse hammering away like the Seven Dwarfs at your eardrum, all pickaxes and whistling and anxiety bundled together with a feverish bow. The temperature of your body increased by a lethal digit, your eyes raising to Castiel’s terror-stricken face, his sapphire eyes innocent and worried as yours surely were. Dean clapped his hands, whistling through his teeth as his brother slapped Cas on the back, the jerking motion propelling Castiel forward, where he stumbled on his knees, struggling back to his kneeling pose with a delicate blush painted onto the apples of his cheeks. It was then that you redirected your gaze to the bottle… only to find that the mouth had been pointed towards Castiel’s former seat. Your eyes widened on their own accord as the Winchesters whistled like prepubescent teens that had snuck into an X rated film, laughing without sympathy at the matching masks of horror adorning both Castiel’s face and your own.

“Well, get on with it!” Dean urged, clearly enjoying himself in the light of your obvious vexation, emerald irises ignited by his dedication to the cause, here meaning he wouldn’t rest until your cheeks were glowing embers. A true older brother, Dean never failed to disappoint. Sam nudged Castiel again, the angel scootching much closer to you, the fabric of his suit pants brushing against your knee, his hands trembling ever so slightly at your proximity. Desperate for relief from the heat sparking through your body in light of your embarrassing predicament, you scavenged for bones.

“Shut up, he doesn’t- do you even know this game?” You asked, aiming your question towards Castiel, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped, his head nodding tentatively, your plans of forfeit by lack of intelligence dashing to bits at your feet.

“…Yes, I- I do. I understand the concept quite well. It was explained to me beforehand.” He stuttered, husky voice deepening in his humiliation. You glared at Sam, who shrugged, pride cracking his facade. He was behind this?

Who were you kidding? Of course he was, the little shit.

Dean repeated his demand, motioning for your cooperating in a lazy flap of his hand, stirring the air as he directed you in the angel’s direction form his seat beside his brother, guiding your eyes back to Castiel, who once more rearranged himself, shifting along the final inches between you two until he was close enough to count your pores, his jaw clenching softly. His shaky, uneven breath was disturbing the hairs that fell onto your cheeks, his every insubstantial exhale smelling of sweet cinnamon and pine trees. He licked his lips, eyes boring into yours with graceful uncertainty, testing the waters with the clear understanding that if you wanted to back out, he would allow it. He was very much the type to keep you from uncomfortable situations, and he would surely defend you if you were extremely uneasy. For some strange reason, perhaps it was the intensity of his stare or the galaxies painted within his iris, you did not pull away, did not motion to him that you wanted out. He leaned towards you, eyes drifting to your lips before closing, his lashes fluttering, his mouth a whisper against your own before pressing more fully into you. You felt your body hum, the butterflies that had been rioting in your core now dancing, elated, as he pulled away… only to press his lips to yours again, never breaking contact. His skin was heated, flawless, smoother than precision-cut metal as the taste of him infiltrated your mind, a choir of bells jingling with deafening determination. His lips lingered, unmoving, for two seconds before he finally leaned back, his eyes sparkling, mouth set in an unassuming line. You inhaled, a gradual, slow sensation as the noise in your head decreased, Dean and Sam guffawing wordlessly at the angel’s courage. Your fingers drifted to your mouth, tracing your lips in awe, quickly passing the gesture off as wiping at a crumb or, in a more appropriate case, saliva, to lessen the strange looks you would surely get if you sat massaging your lips. Like a psychopath. The tingle was still playing across the surface… Suddenly, a hand was pulling you to your feet. You gazed up in shock as Dean ushered you to the wall, confusion stealing your will to speak. He slid open the closet door, horror sinking into your toes as you realized what he intended to do.

HE. WOULDN’T. DARE.

This was not part of the bargain. You didn’t sign up for this. Hell, you hardly signed up for the kiss! You were jolted into the cupboard, hand slapping against the wall to steady your fall, regaining your balance only to have a full-grown man slung into your stomach by your unlikely captors, said man apologizing profusely as you flipped him away from your body, clawing at the closet’s door seconds after it had slammed shut, Dean’s overly dramatic maniacal peal signalling his victory, the very sound grating against your ears.

“Seven minutes, lovebirds. You know the drill.” he called, the door muffling his voice. Castiel shifted against the wall as you slid your back down the plaster adjacent to the wooden door, mortified. Here you were, imprisoned by a bunch of middle schoolers, insisting you play seven minutes in Heaven with the man you had realized you had a crush on mere minutes ago, the time of your first kiss. God, coming to terms with the infatuation was a whole other level of embarrassment, your cheeks flushing in the darkness. These were the worst kinds, the ones that sprung out from behind doors to sock you like half a ton of bricks, the crushes that brought you to your knees… or, you supposed, to a closet. You let your face fall into your hands, pushing your hair back as you battled with the overwhelming urge to hyperventilate. Castiel’s hand found your shoulder, sending bolts of vivid electricity up your arm, where it pulsed and fizzled to nothing in your fingertips.

“I take it you were told about this game too?” You moaned, the darkness blurring his features, casting them into shadow. He nodded, quiet. A silence burnt at your ears, phantom electronic whirs filling the space to replace speech. Castiel’s hand twitched before spontaneously curling around the back of your neck, his other hand cradling your cheek when you turned in shock, callouses smoothing over your skin as his lips crashing to yours. Your breath came quickly, his teeth grazing your lower lip as he tugged on your mouth, exhaling hungrily as he pulled away, pulling your body to his chest, an oddly gentle gesture. He paused, awaiting your response, body coiled in preparation of anything from a slap in the face to your next course of action, your body molding to his, your lips meeting his, encouraging him to continue, affection blurring your previously mortified preoccupation. His tongue darted over your lips, tender attention overpowering the unpremeditated lust, his eager, sloppy kisses transforming into the rare, timid, loving exchange, sapping the cheapness from the scenario, dipping every second in gold, the moments shimmering by. His fingertips trailed across your cheekbones, fluttering down your neck and across your collarbone before grazing back upwards, settling underneath your jaw, angling your face to his. His touch shocked you, sparks igniting on the canvas of your eyelids, his mouth elegantly engaging your own in a ballroom dance, of sorts, the dark, musty closet a surprisingly beautiful (and admittedly, if stupidly, romantic) environment. He pulled away from the doting exchange, his forehead resting on yours, fingers pulling through your hair as he caught his breath, a smile plastered onto his face like he had just won the lottery, dim scraps of light settling on his gleaming teeth. He pressed his lips to yours once more, swiftly pulling away, stroking your cheek with the rough pad of his thumb.

“Y/n,” he breathed, voice barely audible. “I have wanted to do that for a very long time.” he whispered, baby-soft hands caressing your face. You grinned, angling your face to his once more.He leaned in-

The door was whipped open, Dean playing the role of uptight high school formal chaperon as he intruded on the moment he had elicited, his eyes dancing from within a steely mask as he held the door open for you, firing a knowing stare in your direction, raising his eyebrows at your tousseled hair. Castiel emerged behind you, casually intertwining his fingers through yours on your way out, Dean’s gaze dropping to your hands with a satisfied smirk, wiggling his eyebrows in his brother’s direction before stepping out of your way, the angel leaning playfully into your side as you resumed your discussion on the carpet, the atmosphere very much changed.

Funny, how they call it Heaven.