fic, Supernatural: Just Some Love (Dean/Castiel), PG13, crack all the way
Okay, I was done with this, let's go with it. At least I'm starting with the stuff I owe. I swear the rest is coming soon.
Title: Just Some Love
Rating: PG, and the P is because of the swearing probably
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Words: 1812
Summary: That bastard son of a bitch of a ghost of a country singer had turned all of his collection into Keith Urban tapes.
Spoilers: uh, let's say general S4. No specific episodes but it's set after, so..
Disclaimer: not mine, definitely not mine.
A/N/Warnings: okay, so at that meme ibroketuesday asked for Dean/Castiel crack and... uh, clearly this isn't a drabble but I can't do drabbles, especially if crack, and I fear that the premise is crack but then it got kinda on the sweet side, but I tried. ;) Using also for sacred_20 #10, curse. Warning: a lot of Keith Urban. -nod- (And I actually like him. I'm just objective, but I love him anyway *cough*).
So. If there’s a thing Dean hates, and by hating we mean hating, is spirits who believe that they have a sense of humor. Because in his experience, spirits rarely have a sense of humor, and this one they just put to rest did definitely not have one. And right now he’d kill that son of a bitch again, if only he hadn’t died twice already.
It’s bad enough when you find yourself haunting the spirit of a fucking country singer who died when his tour bus crashed in some highway in central Louisiana, and who, before they managed to track his body which had got lost in some swamp, had caused a number of similar accidents in the same section of the highway. But fuck, he shouldn’t have made any comments about country music while he and Castiel were searching for his remains (Sam had managed to splint his wrist the day before and wouldn’t have been of any help). Because that bastard, when he realized that they were going to send him to rest for good, had seen fit to put a freaking blasted curse upon his precious tapes instead of trying to fight them.
He found it out when he put on what was supposed to be a Kansas mixtape and a disgusting and cheesy and downright awful country song about a guy who says that nobody drinks alone started. He pulled the tape off, horrified when he saw that the label read Be Here - Keith Urban. Then dread took hold of him and he stopped the car. His hands trembled as he read through the labels on his tapes, which were all changed.
Golden Road.
Defying Gravity.
Keith Urban - 1991
Keith Urban - 1999.
The Ranch.
Be Here.
Love, Pain And The Whole Crazy Thing.
And since it was only seven records and he owned at least fifty tapes, there were more than one with the same record.
That bastard son of a bitch of a ghost of a country singer had turned all of his collection into Keith Urban tapes.
He might as well have committed harakiri then, but it wouldn’t have been the greatest idea with Castiel sitting next to him and looking at him perplexed, like he couldn’t get what was so wrong with the world.
“… fuck,” Dean says raising his hands in defeat. “I can’t deal with this.”
He is about to ask Castiel whether he could reverse it, except… fallen angel here, who had actually waited for the apocalypse to be over to fall, so no powers. Damn.
“Maybe Sam will find a way to reverse this. He’d better find a way to reverse this.”
“May I ask what’s so terrible about it?”
“Cas, man, it’s… Keith Urban. I mean, he’s evil. Like, evil. My poor tapes.”
Castiel doesn’t look too convinced, but still, Dean shakes his head and then takes the highway back to their motel, but after maybe five minutes he has to stop in front of a long, long, long line of cars.
“Oh, crap.”
He gets out of the car and asks the driver in front of him, then gets back behind the wheel. “Well, we’re stuck. There’s a wreck some ten miles ahead and the police is still there. Fuck.”
Castiel nods and Dean decides that this is unfair. Fuck, it’s Louisiana and it’s hot. And of course the radio isn’t catching a frequency which isn’t a local station informing him about some local kid winning some spelling championship. And he can’t stay without music when stuck in a line, but he just won’t…
“Do you mind if I turn it on?”
Fuck. Ah, well. Figures it was going to happen.
“Knock yourself out. You have seven choices. Fuck, Keith Urban.”
It’s a testament to Dean’s force of will that he doesn’t go crazy in the next two hours. Because, you see, he’s stuck in a line in Louisiana in July and he’s frying, not to mention the mosquitoes; at least five police cars pass them by at full speed, he doesn’t have anything to eat and they just have a bottle of water in two, and what does he have for a background music? For instance…
Oh, now there’s a place for you and me where we can dream as big as the sky.
And it’s the sweet love you give to me that makes me believe we can get through anything, ‘cause when it all comes down and I’m feeling like I’ll never last, I just lean on you ‘cause baby you’re my better half.
My grandmama was a wise old soul, took me by the hand not long ago.
I wanna steal your attention like a bad outlaw.
And I’m gonna make you a promise, if there’s life after this, I’m gonna be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss.
When you put your arms around me you let me know there’s nothing in this world I can’t do.
I hope everyday I see in me a little more of my father in me.
After two hours of this, Dean wants to smash something. Fuck that spirit. Not only country music. Cheesy country music. Fuck, couldn’t he pick Johnny Cash or even Willie Nelson? Hell, he’d have settled for Merle Haggard if he really had to. The problem is that Castiel doesn’t exactly look as horrified as it’d be proper.
Dean ignores it.
And maybe it’s a little too early to know if this is gonna work, all I know is that you’re sure looking good in my shirt, the radio croaks, and Dean can’t wrap his head around Castiel actually smiling.
“Cas, you can’t seriously like this.”
“Well, I was merely thinking that it should sound familiar to you.”
Point taken. It isn’t like the first night after Castiel showed up outside his door after, well, after, in the morning he hadn’t put on Dean’s shirt. It’s not like he isn’t wearing a shirt of Dean’s right now.
Fuck.
That’s not what he needs to think about, not when he’s lacking air around here. Still, this thing sucks.
It’s another half an hour before the line moves; Dean leaves the radio on though, too tired to actually be freaked out at the fact that Cas is seemingly digging a lot some crap where the guy pleads the girl not to shut him out because they can talk about it and she might have doubts but they might be unfounded and she has to have a little faith to make it through. Say the word faith and here we are.
Fuuuck.
He stops the car outside a diner saying he’s going to get some food and just rolls his eyes when Castiel asks if he could keep the radio on.
It’s scary. And that curse has to be reversible, it’s not like you find tapes anymore these days. If it wasn’t… well, in Dean’s world it’d have come just shorter of the Apocalypse itself, and Dean has fucking stopped one, so you get the drill.
He gets out of the diner with one of those vegetarian burgers Castiel likes and he can’t even mock him because they actually were tasty, the two times he tried them. Meanwhile he eats his own bacon burger, and he has rarely tasted a better one, or so it seems now. Maybe he should adjust his perspectives. He hands Cas the paper bag and bites his lip in disgust when he hears what’s coming from the radio.
I heard the rumor that we’re calling it off and we won’t last too long
But I get the feeling, when I’m looking at you, baby, they’ couldn’t be more wrong
They’ve been saying it’s a shaky romance, but they don’t give the two of us too much of a chance
“Fuck, Cas, gimme a break. How can you stand that?”
But if the Grand Canyon was just some ditch, Dorothy and Toto fought just some witch
And if Babe Ruth was just some guy with a glove, then baby, this is just some love
“I believe you’re not listening to it accurately.”
“What’s to listen? It’s all cheesy chick flicks and it lacks guitars. Also, he can’t fucking sing.”
Cas smiles a little and shakes his head as he takes a bite from the burger.
I speak my mind baby, that’s for sure, you’ve got a temper or two
So when they see us start to fuss and fight, I guess they think we’re through
But if they’re judging us from what they see, they don’t have a clue about you and me
And Dean thankfully hasn’t started the car and isn’t eating anything because hell, well, maybe he can see Cas’ point but still, it’s fucking cheesy country music and seriously, and if Humphrey Bogart was just some though then baby, this is just some love? Who the fuck even writes this crap at all?
But argh, Castiel is tapping his knuckles softly against the door of the car and Dean can just imagine what is he thinking about because he’s thinking about the same thing and no, his head just hasn’t taken that road, except that it has and if the Grand Canyon was just some ditch and all that crap and fuck, he can’t believe that he actually grabbed Castiel’s hand which was resting on the brake.
He’s never going to live this shit down. And he’s thankful that Sam isn’t there, because holding hands with Castiel while listening to fucking Keith Urban in the middle of a rest area’s parking lot after hunting a country singer who cursed his tapes is too much for Dean’s pride to take. Except that Castiel grips his hand tighter and fuck, he’s getting too soft.
And then he notices that there’s another tape in the compartment under the wheel; he picks it up, turns it, sees the label.
Well, that spell must have not gone exactly right, what a lame ghost it was really, because this label says Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson - VH1 storytellers, which is way more than Dean could have hoped for. And then… then.
“Dean? Did that one survive?”
Dean can’t help noticing that it’s clear that Cas hopes it hasn’t. Well, figures he’ll gain points for sainthood in his next life, because no one can deny that what he’s about to do is an act of fucking martyrdom.
“Nope. It’s another Defying Gravity. Oh, let’s just get outta here. My teeth are rotting and a dentist is the last thing I fucking need.”
Cas nods and Dean just shrugs and starts the car as Keith proclaims that he never works on a Sunday. And if once in a while he rests his hand on the brake and soft fingers grab it, he figures he can endure another hour of shitty music.
End.
Title: Just Some Love
Rating: PG, and the P is because of the swearing probably
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Words: 1812
Summary: That bastard son of a bitch of a ghost of a country singer had turned all of his collection into Keith Urban tapes.
Spoilers: uh, let's say general S4. No specific episodes but it's set after, so..
Disclaimer: not mine, definitely not mine.
A/N/Warnings: okay, so at that meme ibroketuesday asked for Dean/Castiel crack and... uh, clearly this isn't a drabble but I can't do drabbles, especially if crack, and I fear that the premise is crack but then it got kinda on the sweet side, but I tried. ;) Using also for sacred_20 #10, curse. Warning: a lot of Keith Urban. -nod- (And I actually like him. I'm just objective, but I love him anyway *cough*).
So. If there’s a thing Dean hates, and by hating we mean hating, is spirits who believe that they have a sense of humor. Because in his experience, spirits rarely have a sense of humor, and this one they just put to rest did definitely not have one. And right now he’d kill that son of a bitch again, if only he hadn’t died twice already.
It’s bad enough when you find yourself haunting the spirit of a fucking country singer who died when his tour bus crashed in some highway in central Louisiana, and who, before they managed to track his body which had got lost in some swamp, had caused a number of similar accidents in the same section of the highway. But fuck, he shouldn’t have made any comments about country music while he and Castiel were searching for his remains (Sam had managed to splint his wrist the day before and wouldn’t have been of any help). Because that bastard, when he realized that they were going to send him to rest for good, had seen fit to put a freaking blasted curse upon his precious tapes instead of trying to fight them.
He found it out when he put on what was supposed to be a Kansas mixtape and a disgusting and cheesy and downright awful country song about a guy who says that nobody drinks alone started. He pulled the tape off, horrified when he saw that the label read Be Here - Keith Urban. Then dread took hold of him and he stopped the car. His hands trembled as he read through the labels on his tapes, which were all changed.
Golden Road.
Defying Gravity.
Keith Urban - 1991
Keith Urban - 1999.
The Ranch.
Be Here.
Love, Pain And The Whole Crazy Thing.
And since it was only seven records and he owned at least fifty tapes, there were more than one with the same record.
That bastard son of a bitch of a ghost of a country singer had turned all of his collection into Keith Urban tapes.
He might as well have committed harakiri then, but it wouldn’t have been the greatest idea with Castiel sitting next to him and looking at him perplexed, like he couldn’t get what was so wrong with the world.
“… fuck,” Dean says raising his hands in defeat. “I can’t deal with this.”
He is about to ask Castiel whether he could reverse it, except… fallen angel here, who had actually waited for the apocalypse to be over to fall, so no powers. Damn.
“Maybe Sam will find a way to reverse this. He’d better find a way to reverse this.”
“May I ask what’s so terrible about it?”
“Cas, man, it’s… Keith Urban. I mean, he’s evil. Like, evil. My poor tapes.”
Castiel doesn’t look too convinced, but still, Dean shakes his head and then takes the highway back to their motel, but after maybe five minutes he has to stop in front of a long, long, long line of cars.
“Oh, crap.”
He gets out of the car and asks the driver in front of him, then gets back behind the wheel. “Well, we’re stuck. There’s a wreck some ten miles ahead and the police is still there. Fuck.”
Castiel nods and Dean decides that this is unfair. Fuck, it’s Louisiana and it’s hot. And of course the radio isn’t catching a frequency which isn’t a local station informing him about some local kid winning some spelling championship. And he can’t stay without music when stuck in a line, but he just won’t…
“Do you mind if I turn it on?”
Fuck. Ah, well. Figures it was going to happen.
“Knock yourself out. You have seven choices. Fuck, Keith Urban.”
It’s a testament to Dean’s force of will that he doesn’t go crazy in the next two hours. Because, you see, he’s stuck in a line in Louisiana in July and he’s frying, not to mention the mosquitoes; at least five police cars pass them by at full speed, he doesn’t have anything to eat and they just have a bottle of water in two, and what does he have for a background music? For instance…
Oh, now there’s a place for you and me where we can dream as big as the sky.
And it’s the sweet love you give to me that makes me believe we can get through anything, ‘cause when it all comes down and I’m feeling like I’ll never last, I just lean on you ‘cause baby you’re my better half.
My grandmama was a wise old soul, took me by the hand not long ago.
I wanna steal your attention like a bad outlaw.
And I’m gonna make you a promise, if there’s life after this, I’m gonna be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss.
When you put your arms around me you let me know there’s nothing in this world I can’t do.
I hope everyday I see in me a little more of my father in me.
After two hours of this, Dean wants to smash something. Fuck that spirit. Not only country music. Cheesy country music. Fuck, couldn’t he pick Johnny Cash or even Willie Nelson? Hell, he’d have settled for Merle Haggard if he really had to. The problem is that Castiel doesn’t exactly look as horrified as it’d be proper.
Dean ignores it.
And maybe it’s a little too early to know if this is gonna work, all I know is that you’re sure looking good in my shirt, the radio croaks, and Dean can’t wrap his head around Castiel actually smiling.
“Cas, you can’t seriously like this.”
“Well, I was merely thinking that it should sound familiar to you.”
Point taken. It isn’t like the first night after Castiel showed up outside his door after, well, after, in the morning he hadn’t put on Dean’s shirt. It’s not like he isn’t wearing a shirt of Dean’s right now.
Fuck.
That’s not what he needs to think about, not when he’s lacking air around here. Still, this thing sucks.
It’s another half an hour before the line moves; Dean leaves the radio on though, too tired to actually be freaked out at the fact that Cas is seemingly digging a lot some crap where the guy pleads the girl not to shut him out because they can talk about it and she might have doubts but they might be unfounded and she has to have a little faith to make it through. Say the word faith and here we are.
Fuuuck.
He stops the car outside a diner saying he’s going to get some food and just rolls his eyes when Castiel asks if he could keep the radio on.
It’s scary. And that curse has to be reversible, it’s not like you find tapes anymore these days. If it wasn’t… well, in Dean’s world it’d have come just shorter of the Apocalypse itself, and Dean has fucking stopped one, so you get the drill.
He gets out of the diner with one of those vegetarian burgers Castiel likes and he can’t even mock him because they actually were tasty, the two times he tried them. Meanwhile he eats his own bacon burger, and he has rarely tasted a better one, or so it seems now. Maybe he should adjust his perspectives. He hands Cas the paper bag and bites his lip in disgust when he hears what’s coming from the radio.
I heard the rumor that we’re calling it off and we won’t last too long
But I get the feeling, when I’m looking at you, baby, they’ couldn’t be more wrong
They’ve been saying it’s a shaky romance, but they don’t give the two of us too much of a chance
“Fuck, Cas, gimme a break. How can you stand that?”
But if the Grand Canyon was just some ditch, Dorothy and Toto fought just some witch
And if Babe Ruth was just some guy with a glove, then baby, this is just some love
“I believe you’re not listening to it accurately.”
“What’s to listen? It’s all cheesy chick flicks and it lacks guitars. Also, he can’t fucking sing.”
Cas smiles a little and shakes his head as he takes a bite from the burger.
I speak my mind baby, that’s for sure, you’ve got a temper or two
So when they see us start to fuss and fight, I guess they think we’re through
But if they’re judging us from what they see, they don’t have a clue about you and me
And Dean thankfully hasn’t started the car and isn’t eating anything because hell, well, maybe he can see Cas’ point but still, it’s fucking cheesy country music and seriously, and if Humphrey Bogart was just some though then baby, this is just some love? Who the fuck even writes this crap at all?
But argh, Castiel is tapping his knuckles softly against the door of the car and Dean can just imagine what is he thinking about because he’s thinking about the same thing and no, his head just hasn’t taken that road, except that it has and if the Grand Canyon was just some ditch and all that crap and fuck, he can’t believe that he actually grabbed Castiel’s hand which was resting on the brake.
He’s never going to live this shit down. And he’s thankful that Sam isn’t there, because holding hands with Castiel while listening to fucking Keith Urban in the middle of a rest area’s parking lot after hunting a country singer who cursed his tapes is too much for Dean’s pride to take. Except that Castiel grips his hand tighter and fuck, he’s getting too soft.
And then he notices that there’s another tape in the compartment under the wheel; he picks it up, turns it, sees the label.
Well, that spell must have not gone exactly right, what a lame ghost it was really, because this label says Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson - VH1 storytellers, which is way more than Dean could have hoped for. And then… then.
“Dean? Did that one survive?”
Dean can’t help noticing that it’s clear that Cas hopes it hasn’t. Well, figures he’ll gain points for sainthood in his next life, because no one can deny that what he’s about to do is an act of fucking martyrdom.
“Nope. It’s another Defying Gravity. Oh, let’s just get outta here. My teeth are rotting and a dentist is the last thing I fucking need.”
Cas nods and Dean just shrugs and starts the car as Keith proclaims that he never works on a Sunday. And if once in a while he rests his hand on the brake and soft fingers grab it, he figures he can endure another hour of shitty music.
End.