Your Neighborhood Trader Joe's (1/?)
Here, have an SPN flavored fic bit, starring Dean and Castiel.
Warning: spoilers for 5x02
Apocryphal Pita
Dean stepped out of the Impala, parked somewhat precariously between a crooked minivan and an oversized street lamp, and stared forward with a sigh. "Seriously?"
Castiel climbed from the passenger seat, looking -- well. Looking pretty much the way he always looked, only maybe with a little extra "nonplussed" for spice. "The information I received may have been . . . inaccurate."
"You think?" Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "'Cause I'm thinking we shoulda made a left turn at Albuquerque."
Castiel turned his head, his brows lowering slightly in one of those "what is this human nonsense you're speaking?" looks. "There were several left turns available in Albuquerque."
Dean sighed again and shook his head. "I swear, one of these days I'm gonna tie you to a chair and force you to watch TV."
"Why would you do that?"
Dean threw his hands in the air and started across the lot, assuming his personal angel would follow. "'Trader Joe's'," he said, voice fairly dripping with irony. "'A unique grocery store'. Let me guess, 'unique' is another word for 'waste of our time'?"
"Not that I am aware of."
"Shut the hell up."
The sun had already set in the Los Lunas sky -- Dean had driven most of the day to get here, and it was nearing nine PM. Most of the other stores in the tiny strip mall were already closed, turning the grocery store in front of them into a beacon of bright light, the employees and customers moving about inside looking like actors on a very quiet stage.
"I think they're closed," Dean tried.
"There are customers inside."
"Doesn't mean they're not closed."
"I've found that, generally, it does."
The automatic door slid open as Dean approached, revealing rough, golden wood paneling and a bad oldies soundtrack. He caught sight of the faint, amused tilt of Castiel's head out of the corner of his eye.
"Still doesn't mean it's not closed."
"Then it is a heavenly sign for us to enter."
"I freaking hate you."
"No," said Castiel. "You don't."
Dean clamped his mouth shut as he stalked into the store and was nearly run over by a little old lady pushing a red cart filled with brown paper grocery bags. "Oopsie!" she crowed, and it was all Dean could do to not actually wince. He offered her a weak grin instead. Castiel side stepped her seemingly without even looking and started down the first aisle in long, almost loping steps. Dean had to jog to catch up, making sure to at least glance at the meat in the cooler to their left like he might be thinking of buying . . . organic, skinless, reduced-fat chicken legs. Or baked tofu.
Right. Like that would ever happen.
Castiel hit the end of the aisle and immediately turned to glance at Dean. "Anything?"
Dean stared at him blankly. Castiel's eyes drifted down to Dean's chest.
Oh, right, the amulet. The only reason he was following Castiel around on this wild goose chase in the first place, instead of chasing his own apocalypse-thwarting ideas. Or, you know, his brother.
Saying it was time for them to split up for a bit was one thing. Actually doing it was something else entirely.
"Doesn't even tickle," Dean said.
"It's not meant to tickle." Castiel hooked a right and lead the way past a display of packaged sushi on their left, small, sad looking pomegranates on their right. Dean trailed along behind him like a freaking puppy.
They passed a table holding a handful of pretentious looking baked goods and a milk case which at least looked like a typical milk case, if you ignored the fact that two entire set of shelves was devoted to various organic soy- and rice-based milk alternatives, dodged around a dude in a Hawaiian shirt pushing an enormous cart precariously stacked with cardboard boxes, hooked right again around a sadly barren sample table, then passed a cooler filled with seven different kinds of moldy cheese. When they passed the bread, Dean froze.
Castiel made it halfway down a wall of cereal with names like "twigs and leaves" (okay, so technically it was "twigs, flakes, and clusters", but still) before he noticed.
"Dean?"
Dean shrugged, lifted his hand to his amulet, and started backing up.
Warmer. Warmer. Waaaarmer -- holy fuck. He let go of his amulet with a hiss and stared down at it, expecting to see it glowing. Or maybe smoke rising from his t-shirt. Fucker was hot.
And Castiel was suddenly right there, right in front of him, staring him in the face.
"It burns hot in the presence of God."
Dean shook his hand out in the air. "Ow."
They both turned in place, scanning the store. It wasn't very large, just six or seven aisles laid out in diagonal lines from corner to corner, with shelving units and coolers lining the outer perimeter. From the corner where they stood, they could see straight down one of the aisles to the registers, where a college age kid in a t-shirt patterned with stylized hibiscus flowers stood, looking bored. Halfway down the aisle, a woman in her fifties was looking over the ingredients list on the back of a bottle of moisturizer. A young woman in another hibiscus t-shirt -- apparently an alternative to the Hawaiian button downs for the work uniform -- was unpacking a box of tortilla chip bags. The Hawaiian shirt guy came swinging out through a set of double doors marked "employees only" by the sample table.
None of them looked even remotely God-like.
"The hell?" Dean said. Castiel looked up to stare at the ceiling tiles, and Dean wondered if he thought maybe God was in a rat. Not freaking likely. Still, this was God they were talking about, right? All powerful. Dude could be anything. Dean started turning in a slow circle. Was it his imagination, or was the amulet actually hotter if he was facing in a particular direction?
He looked down.
It was probably the choking sound of a half-hysterical laugh that got Castiel's attention.
"Dean, are you alright?"
Dean closed his eyes and shook his head, an absurdly large grin making its way across his face. "Cass, man, you were wrong."
"What do you mean?"
Dean pointed. He heard the faint rustle of Castiel's trench coat as he crouched down to see what Dean had indicated. Dean opened his eyes and watched Castiel straighten up, a package of whole wheat pocket pita in his hands. The angel's voice, when he spoke, was weighted with a kind of innocent awe.
"God is on a flat bread."
continued in This Fig Walks Into a Bar
Warning: spoilers for 5x02
Apocryphal Pita
Dean stepped out of the Impala, parked somewhat precariously between a crooked minivan and an oversized street lamp, and stared forward with a sigh. "Seriously?"
Castiel climbed from the passenger seat, looking -- well. Looking pretty much the way he always looked, only maybe with a little extra "nonplussed" for spice. "The information I received may have been . . . inaccurate."
"You think?" Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "'Cause I'm thinking we shoulda made a left turn at Albuquerque."
Castiel turned his head, his brows lowering slightly in one of those "what is this human nonsense you're speaking?" looks. "There were several left turns available in Albuquerque."
Dean sighed again and shook his head. "I swear, one of these days I'm gonna tie you to a chair and force you to watch TV."
"Why would you do that?"
Dean threw his hands in the air and started across the lot, assuming his personal angel would follow. "'Trader Joe's'," he said, voice fairly dripping with irony. "'A unique grocery store'. Let me guess, 'unique' is another word for 'waste of our time'?"
"Not that I am aware of."
"Shut the hell up."
The sun had already set in the Los Lunas sky -- Dean had driven most of the day to get here, and it was nearing nine PM. Most of the other stores in the tiny strip mall were already closed, turning the grocery store in front of them into a beacon of bright light, the employees and customers moving about inside looking like actors on a very quiet stage.
"I think they're closed," Dean tried.
"There are customers inside."
"Doesn't mean they're not closed."
"I've found that, generally, it does."
The automatic door slid open as Dean approached, revealing rough, golden wood paneling and a bad oldies soundtrack. He caught sight of the faint, amused tilt of Castiel's head out of the corner of his eye.
"Still doesn't mean it's not closed."
"Then it is a heavenly sign for us to enter."
"I freaking hate you."
"No," said Castiel. "You don't."
Dean clamped his mouth shut as he stalked into the store and was nearly run over by a little old lady pushing a red cart filled with brown paper grocery bags. "Oopsie!" she crowed, and it was all Dean could do to not actually wince. He offered her a weak grin instead. Castiel side stepped her seemingly without even looking and started down the first aisle in long, almost loping steps. Dean had to jog to catch up, making sure to at least glance at the meat in the cooler to their left like he might be thinking of buying . . . organic, skinless, reduced-fat chicken legs. Or baked tofu.
Right. Like that would ever happen.
Castiel hit the end of the aisle and immediately turned to glance at Dean. "Anything?"
Dean stared at him blankly. Castiel's eyes drifted down to Dean's chest.
Oh, right, the amulet. The only reason he was following Castiel around on this wild goose chase in the first place, instead of chasing his own apocalypse-thwarting ideas. Or, you know, his brother.
Saying it was time for them to split up for a bit was one thing. Actually doing it was something else entirely.
"Doesn't even tickle," Dean said.
"It's not meant to tickle." Castiel hooked a right and lead the way past a display of packaged sushi on their left, small, sad looking pomegranates on their right. Dean trailed along behind him like a freaking puppy.
They passed a table holding a handful of pretentious looking baked goods and a milk case which at least looked like a typical milk case, if you ignored the fact that two entire set of shelves was devoted to various organic soy- and rice-based milk alternatives, dodged around a dude in a Hawaiian shirt pushing an enormous cart precariously stacked with cardboard boxes, hooked right again around a sadly barren sample table, then passed a cooler filled with seven different kinds of moldy cheese. When they passed the bread, Dean froze.
Castiel made it halfway down a wall of cereal with names like "twigs and leaves" (okay, so technically it was "twigs, flakes, and clusters", but still) before he noticed.
"Dean?"
Dean shrugged, lifted his hand to his amulet, and started backing up.
Warmer. Warmer. Waaaarmer -- holy fuck. He let go of his amulet with a hiss and stared down at it, expecting to see it glowing. Or maybe smoke rising from his t-shirt. Fucker was hot.
And Castiel was suddenly right there, right in front of him, staring him in the face.
"It burns hot in the presence of God."
Dean shook his hand out in the air. "Ow."
They both turned in place, scanning the store. It wasn't very large, just six or seven aisles laid out in diagonal lines from corner to corner, with shelving units and coolers lining the outer perimeter. From the corner where they stood, they could see straight down one of the aisles to the registers, where a college age kid in a t-shirt patterned with stylized hibiscus flowers stood, looking bored. Halfway down the aisle, a woman in her fifties was looking over the ingredients list on the back of a bottle of moisturizer. A young woman in another hibiscus t-shirt -- apparently an alternative to the Hawaiian button downs for the work uniform -- was unpacking a box of tortilla chip bags. The Hawaiian shirt guy came swinging out through a set of double doors marked "employees only" by the sample table.
None of them looked even remotely God-like.
"The hell?" Dean said. Castiel looked up to stare at the ceiling tiles, and Dean wondered if he thought maybe God was in a rat. Not freaking likely. Still, this was God they were talking about, right? All powerful. Dude could be anything. Dean started turning in a slow circle. Was it his imagination, or was the amulet actually hotter if he was facing in a particular direction?
He looked down.
It was probably the choking sound of a half-hysterical laugh that got Castiel's attention.
"Dean, are you alright?"
Dean closed his eyes and shook his head, an absurdly large grin making its way across his face. "Cass, man, you were wrong."
"What do you mean?"
Dean pointed. He heard the faint rustle of Castiel's trench coat as he crouched down to see what Dean had indicated. Dean opened his eyes and watched Castiel straighten up, a package of whole wheat pocket pita in his hands. The angel's voice, when he spoke, was weighted with a kind of innocent awe.
"God is on a flat bread."
continued in This Fig Walks Into a Bar