A/N: Based off of the infamous Tumblr post.
Disclaimer: This is a two step process. First, scroll up a bit. Is my username "Erik Kripke?" No? Alright then. Next step. Check the url of the website you're on. Is it a fanfiction website? Oh, I see! I must not own Supernatural or any of its characters… Pity.
Summary: Jimmy decides that Castiel needs nothing more than to grab Dean's butt. Destiel (duh). T for language.
-o-O-o-
Grab his ass.
The first time the demand was made, Castiel was standing in the corner of what used to be the living room of a nice house, but time had since done its job on the place and left only colors belonging to the gray-scale behind. Despite its undesirable appearance, the Winchesters had set up camp in it for the duration of their hunt.
Castiel was attempting to pay attention to Sam's mini-briefing, and that was absolutely what he was doing. He certainly wasn't using Sam's current distracted state to stare at Dean's ass. Nope. No way. He was an angel of the Lord. He was far too dignified to do anything of the sort.
You heard me. Just grab it.
Jimmy had recently decided that Dean and Castiel needed to get their act together, and so he had taken it upon himself to "resolve the unresolved."
Do it.
Castiel felt his cheek twitch in response to the internal conversation. "Shut up," he mumbled to Jimmy.
Sam turned his head away from the book he was using to illustrate his point in their ongoing ghosts-are-ridiculous-douchebags discussion. "What?" he asked, having sincerely not heard.
Dean glared at Castiel, having very clearly heard what the angel had said to his little brother.
Grab his ass. Right now. Just do it.
Castiel flinched again and felt his face heat up. "Nothing," he said in an attempt to cover for himself. "I was just… thinking aloud. What if we were to… shut… the ghost up… in a ring of salt?"
Sam and Dean looked at him as if he'd lost his marbles—again.
Dean spoke first. "You think it's going to just hold still while we 'shut it up' in a salt circle?" he inquired sarcastically.
Castiel shrugged helplessly.
Sam nodded in agreement with his brother. "Call me old-fashioned, but I don't think that'll work."
After that, it took the Winchesters all of four minutes to conclude the discussion, pack up, and head out, Castiel following close on their heels.
You missed your chance, man.
-o-O-o-
The demand was reiterated twice a day for twenty-four days following the end of the ghost hunt. Forty-eight orders to "grab his ass" were, in Castiel's humble opinion, forty-eight too many.
Why couldn't Jimmy just stay silent the way he used to?
Grab his ass.
It was thirteen days since the last time Castiel had met up with the Winchesters, a streak that had been broken by Dean calling him in for help on a werewolf case, as well as his own inability to tolerate Jimmy.
Castiel had hoped that through rejoining the Winchesters he'd given Jimmy enough of what he wanted that he'd relax with his demands, but it seemed that Jimmy was in no mood to give up. If anything, the proximity only made Jimmy worse.
Please? With a cherry on top?
Castiel was standing next to the Impala where it was waiting in the parking lot of one of the hundreds of nameless mini-marts the Winchesters frequented. Dean was inside—Castiel could just make him out paying for their food through the grimy front window—, and Sam was sitting in the passenger's seat of the Impala, staring down at his laptop where it rested on his knees.
Dude. I'll bet it'll be nice and firm. You know you want to…
Castiel huffed in annoyance. He'd tried everything. Ignoring him, acknowledging him… everything except actually giving in to him. At this point, he'd circled back to "Ignore Jimmy" mode. It was easier than the alternatives.
This is what God intended. This is your purpose. Grab his ass.
"Shut up," Castiel pleaded, the sentence punctuated by a sigh. The phrase had long since become one that he was far too practiced in uttering. "Just shut up. Please."
"Cas?" Sam asked, poking his head out of the Impala's window. "Who're you talking to?"
Maybe Castiel hadn't concealed the words as effectively as he'd thought. "No one," he replied, albeit too quickly.
Sam obviously wasn't buying it.
Castiel held his gaze steady a moment longer, then added, "Some angels on—I believe you call it 'angel radio'—have been… chattering. Loudly. It's become something of a nuisance."
"Ah," Sam said in a politely sympathetic tone, his expression that of someone entirely out of their depth of understanding. "That must be, uh—"
But Sam was saved from needing to come up with an appropriate response when Dean made his reappearance.
"I got pie!" Dean cried with a flourish, sliding into the driver's seat. "They had pie, Sammy!" He paused and glanced out the window at Castiel, who was still standing outside the rear-driver's-side-door. "You comin', Cas?"
Castiel started at the sound of his name. "Of course," he replied, as he popped the door open. He could feel Jimmy's frustration building in the back of his mind while he arranged himself in the backseat. He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the internal lecture he was about to receive
Coward. It doesn't take any brains, just grab his dumb ass, dumbass!
And so, it began.
-o-O-o-
Over the next few weeks, Sam and Dean began to notice when Jimmy was making his demand—the only thing the suppressed soul seemed to care about anymore—, but Castiel continued to play it off as "angle radio issues."
Dean would hold his stare for an extra second, as if unsure whether to accept his story or not, then shake his head and re-busy himself with whatever Castiel's flinch or soft plea of "shut up" had interrupted.
Sam, on the other hand, wouldn't let it go as easily. He liked to ask questions about the way in which angel radio worked, how there could be "technical difficulties" with a communication system designed by—and for—angels, why Castiel couldn't just tune out and ignore it like he used to…
Occasionally, Castiel would walk into a room and the brothers would cut off their conversation so abruptly that he knew they had been talking about him.
Sam would look concerned, but as soon as he noticed Castiel, he'd all but throw the book he had in his hands at the nearest shelf. Dean didn't even try to hide the research they were doing—he left the few books they were able to find on angel sicknesses and ailments on tables and in the backseat of the Impala, perhaps to let Castiel know that he knew something was going on. Maybe that was Dean-speak for "I'm worried about you."
Yet Castiel couldn't find it in himself to care all that much. It wasn't like they'd ever be able to guess what was truly bothering him, though he did find it sweet that they both cared so much about him and his wellbeing.
But Jimmy was wearing him down. Soon, Castiel knew, he would have to give in to him, if only to make him shut up. But not yet. Not yet.
Soon, though.
-o-O-o-
Grab his ass.
The flinch.
Grab his ass.
A muttered "shut up."
Grab his ass.
Sam and Dean gave him that funny look.
Grab his ass.
Castiel opened his mouth to spout some nonsense about angel radio and its ongoing issues.
But this time—this time, he didn't. He couldn't seem to make words, much less sounds, come out of his mouth. Castiel simply stood there, halfway down the main hallway of the— literally—haunted house, and stared at Dean. Or, more specifically, he stared at his ass.
The lights, already dim from old-age, flickered once.
Grab his ass.
A floorboard creaked somewhere upstairs.
Grab his ass.
They were probably in imminent danger.
Grab his ass.
Dean stared back at Castiel, his confusion written plainly across his face.
Grab his ass.
There it was.
Castiel snapped. He really, truly snapped. He, Castiel, angel of the Lord, took the two necessary steps forward.
Dean still seemed confused, but Castiel didn't much care. He simply reached his hand out, slowly, resisting all the while, and grabbed a fistful of the ass in question.
Then, with a voice more commonly heard exiting the mouth of practiced opera singer, Castiel shrieked, "Are you happy now?"