When I Know You’re Watching Out for Me / SPN
Title: When I Know You’re Watching Out for Me
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: SPN
Prompt: Write something in the voice of someone who has, until now, been silent.
Summary: Sam observes evolution: in Dean, in Cas, in music, in what they are to each other. (Pre-Dean/Cas. Title from Spoon’s Got Nuffin.)
Dean only had one rule when it came to the Impala, and that rule was simple: don’t douche her up.
But Dean’s definition of douchebaggery blanketed a helluava lot-even Sam (who knew firsthand how much his brother loved that car) managed to break The Rule from time to time. In reality, don’t douche her up translated to the following: don’t paint her a different color, don’t reupholster her seats, don’t hang stupid air fresheners on the mirror, don’t bleed/vomit/excrete on the interior, don’t get crumbs on the floor, don’t get fingerprints on the windows, don’t give her big rims and/or a hydraulic lift, and do not, under any circumstance, digitize her. Digitization included, but wasn’t limited to: modern gauges, HD stereo, and-in Sam’s case-iPod adapters.
Sam would’ve bet his life savings (not that he had one, or a bank account to keep it in) that Dean’s stipulations were set in stone, because Dean had never backed down on The Rule before. But one day, browsing through a Barnes and Noble bookstore (Sam and Cas were captivated by the place; Dean, having thumbed through a few car magazines, was bored out of his skull), Castiel actually wandered over to the music section to look at the featured CD. Sam watched the angel pick up the CD case, study its cover with great intent, and ask a passing employee (a cute girl who didn’t give him a single weird look, which made Sam breathe a sigh of relief-at some point, Dean’s tips about social interaction had actually sunk in) which song was playing.
“Is he talking to someone?” Dean whispered, peering over Sam’s shoulder. Sam, who could’ve sworn Dean was halfway across the store, startled at the sudden question.
“Don’t sneak up like that,” he hissed. (Seriously, Dean needed to save those stealth skills for hunts, not leisure strolls through shops.) “And yes, as a matter of fact. He’s doing a good job, too.”
Dean grunted, and then frowned when the girl laughed at something Castiel said. Sam rolled his eyes, and was relieved when Castiel thanked her, put the CD back, and walked over to them.
“Find yourself something?” Dean asked. Castiel assumed Dean meant the CD-which he did-but Sam could hear the underlying annoyance. Dean didn’t like it when people hit on Cas. Unfortunately, his dumbassery prevented him from realizing why.
“I have found this music very enjoyable,” Castiel informed them. “I was curious as to who performed it. It is a group called Spoon.”
“Spoon?” Dean echoed, making a face. “There’s a group named after eating utensils?”
“Yes,” came the prompt reply. “It is no stranger than the name ‘Led Zeppelin’.”
That was true, and Dean seemed to agree judging by his lack of defensive, Led-kicks-ass response. Instead, he said, “Well, if you like that Spoon album, we can buy it. It’s not often you ever like anything,” which was also true. Castiel was beginning to make his own decisions and develop his own tastes. When they stopped for meals, he used to order coffee just because Dean did-now he ordered tea, because that was his preference.
“You do not have a CD player,” Castiel pointed out, and Dean made another face as Sam started leading them to the cashiers. He was pretty sure their time was up: he and Dean had already spied on Cas by peeping around bookshelves, and he didn’t want to creep out the other patrons any further. He kinda liked the town, and wanted to visit again-but getting kicked out of the local Barnes and Noble for being fuck scary wasn’t a great way to achieve that goal.
That evening, after Castiel had gone and it was just Sam and Dean in the motel room, Dean said (completely out of left field), “No one makes cassettes anymore.”
“It’s nice you’re finally leaving 1985 behind you,” Sam retorted, glancing up from his laptop. “Welcome to 2010. We have the Internet here.”
“Shut your cakehole,” Dean grunted, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “I’m just saying we can’t play anything Cas likes. Like, we can’t play it. I could wire-up a CD player, but it’s not like there's extra cash to buy one.”
Sam focused on his brother, who was spread out on “his” bed, fully clothed from their excursion to the bookstore. He hadn’t even removed his boots yet.
“It’s not like Cas rides around with us all the time,” Sam finally replied. “And he never complains about your tapes.”
Dean waved his hand in the air, as though to brush away Sam’s statement. Surprise, surprise.
“That’s because he doesn’t complain about anything,” which, okay, was pure fact. “And he rides with us enough to memorize most of my music. I was just thinking it sucks that we can’t even do this one thing for him. I mean, c’mon, Spoon. How bad can it be? At least he didn’t decide that Hannah chick highlighted the human music experience.”
“Hannah Montana,” Sam supplied. Dean lifted his head from the mattress to shoot Sam a look.
“Could you be more gay?” he demanded, and one day-one day-Sam swore he’d have a stinging comeback to that particular question.
---
The following morning, a solution came to Sam as he tossed their luggage into the trunk: beneath the passenger seat, in the cassette box, was the iPod adapter Dean had classified as douchery. Sam finished putting away their things, pulled out the flimsy cardboard container, and shuffled through the tapes until he found the small adapter. It took all of two seconds to join the car's cassette deck to the iPod.
He was just starting to flip through his playlist when Dean closed their motel door behind him and joined Sam in the Impala.
“Dude,” he protested. “What did I tell you about that thing? My girl isn’t getting douched up by your techno crap.”
Sam rolled his eyes. It was people like Dean who made Best Buy employees pray for death.
“Look, you want Cas to have music? This is your ticket. It’s called a ‘mp3 player’,” Sam said, speaking extra slowly just to piss Dean off. “It doesn’t run on tape. I’ll give you a few moments to get used to the idea.”
“Bitch,” Dean retorted, but Sam knew his brother wasn't actually angry, because he skipped the whole my-baby-will-never-allow-your-chick-bands spiel and asked, “So we can get music that Cas likes without paying a billion dollars?”
“If we had a billion dollars, you can bet your ass I wouldn’t be sharing a car with you,” Sam muttered. Dean flipped him off.
---
Two days later, when Cas showed up in a diner near the Wyoming border, Sam won Best Brother of the Millennium Award. They’d been eating, see, and between bites of cheeseburger, Dean said, “Hey, we figured out a way to play your music. You tell us what you like, we buy it online, it’s done. Spoon’s already on your playlist.”
“My playlist,” Cas echoed, like Dean was speaking Pig Latin. (Come to think of it, Cas could probably understand Pig Latin without a problem. The guy was a walking lexicon of Rosetta Stones.)
“That way your and Sam's music don’t get mixed up,” Dean explained. “Hard as hell to figure out, though. Sam made it look easy when he made his, but I kept botching yours.”
“You made my playlist,” Castiel clarified. He probably still didn’t understand what a playlist (or a mp3, or an iPod, or even a CD) was, but seemed pleased that Dean had gone to the trouble for him.
Dean shrugged, like it was no big deal, but Sam had been there when Dean first attempted to navigate the menus. Never had Sam heard such creative uses of four-letter words; honestly, his brother had a gift for developing phrases that reached new heights of obscenity. (Sam repeatedly offered to teach Cas himself-he could've done it twice as well in half the time, but Dean had been determined to learn how to use the iPod. He warmed up to it when the basic functions finally sank in.)
“Anyway, point is, I’m no longer allowed to lord over the stereo,” Dean summarized, rolling his eyes (like Sam had stuck a gun to his head or something-seriously, Dean could have kept his radio rights if he'd really wanted them). It wasn’t like he and Sam hadn’t bitched over the Driver-Music/Shotgun-Cakehole rule a thousand times before-but since Cas had expressed an interest in music, the privilege of controlling the Impala's sound system was suddenly easy to divvy up. “So whatever you like, tell us. Except Hannah Montana. Or that boy band, the one Disney pimped out.”
“Jonas Brothers,” Sam supplied, and immediately regretted it, because Dean glared at him and snapped, “Gay.” But Castiel was smiling, like someone had given him a million dollars-no. No, not a million dollars. It was more valuable than money. What they were really giving him were choices, options, the opportunity to let him decide.
Castiel focused that smile on Dean, like the whole iPod thing was his brilliant idea. Dean turned a shade brighter.
---
Castiel liked Spoon. He liked Coldplay and Jack Johnson. He liked Chris Bathgate and Jose Gonzalez and the Steve Miller Band and Israel Kamakawiwo'ole and Hans Zimmer. He wasn’t a huge fan of rap, though he did listen intently when Sam showed him how to preview music online. His taste in music matched his personality: calm, mild, sort of relaxing; Sam appreciated it during long trips, when he was too tired to stand Dean’s usual rock, but needed something soothing to lull him into sleepiness.
Driving through Nevada one night, Sam said, “You know, the whole point of having music in the car is to sing along with it.”
“I do not sing, Sam,” Castiel replied, solemn as death. Sam figured the idea of angels standing around in Heaven and crooning praises to God 24/7 was yet another human misconception, but didn’t voice it.
“Why not?” Dean demanded. “Dude, that’s the whole point of life. You gotta sing as loud as you can, all the time. No one’s going to do it for you.”
Sam appreciated Dean’s sentiment-it was pretty poetic, as far as Dean was concerned-but he wasn’t sure Cas was going to catch the meaning. If past conversations were any clue, he’d assume Dean meant for him to actually sing “all the time”, and then he’d point out that no one else seemed to follow that rule, and then Dean would either explain the symbolism or roll his eyes and let it go.
But Castiel was full of surprises, because he looked at Dean for a moment, and then smiled.
“I see,” he answered (and maybe he really did get it-maybe he realized that he was louder than any other angel, that choosing the rebellious path had made him deafening to the ears of his brothers). Cas didn't sit in silence 24/7, he just never let go-but there, two feet from Dean, listening to some hippy band John Winchester would have frowned upon, Castiel opened up in front of them like a miracle. Dean-because Dean was awesome sometimes-sensed the miracle, too, and instead of laughing or joking, opened his mouth and sang right along with Cas, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, their voices as loud as possible, discernible even over the rushing wind of the desert: I got nothing to lose but darkness and shadows-I got nothing to lose but bitterness and patterns.
FIN.
The song Cas heard in the bookstore. :D
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: SPN
Prompt: Write something in the voice of someone who has, until now, been silent.
Summary: Sam observes evolution: in Dean, in Cas, in music, in what they are to each other. (Pre-Dean/Cas. Title from Spoon’s Got Nuffin.)
Dean only had one rule when it came to the Impala, and that rule was simple: don’t douche her up.
But Dean’s definition of douchebaggery blanketed a helluava lot-even Sam (who knew firsthand how much his brother loved that car) managed to break The Rule from time to time. In reality, don’t douche her up translated to the following: don’t paint her a different color, don’t reupholster her seats, don’t hang stupid air fresheners on the mirror, don’t bleed/vomit/excrete on the interior, don’t get crumbs on the floor, don’t get fingerprints on the windows, don’t give her big rims and/or a hydraulic lift, and do not, under any circumstance, digitize her. Digitization included, but wasn’t limited to: modern gauges, HD stereo, and-in Sam’s case-iPod adapters.
Sam would’ve bet his life savings (not that he had one, or a bank account to keep it in) that Dean’s stipulations were set in stone, because Dean had never backed down on The Rule before. But one day, browsing through a Barnes and Noble bookstore (Sam and Cas were captivated by the place; Dean, having thumbed through a few car magazines, was bored out of his skull), Castiel actually wandered over to the music section to look at the featured CD. Sam watched the angel pick up the CD case, study its cover with great intent, and ask a passing employee (a cute girl who didn’t give him a single weird look, which made Sam breathe a sigh of relief-at some point, Dean’s tips about social interaction had actually sunk in) which song was playing.
“Is he talking to someone?” Dean whispered, peering over Sam’s shoulder. Sam, who could’ve sworn Dean was halfway across the store, startled at the sudden question.
“Don’t sneak up like that,” he hissed. (Seriously, Dean needed to save those stealth skills for hunts, not leisure strolls through shops.) “And yes, as a matter of fact. He’s doing a good job, too.”
Dean grunted, and then frowned when the girl laughed at something Castiel said. Sam rolled his eyes, and was relieved when Castiel thanked her, put the CD back, and walked over to them.
“Find yourself something?” Dean asked. Castiel assumed Dean meant the CD-which he did-but Sam could hear the underlying annoyance. Dean didn’t like it when people hit on Cas. Unfortunately, his dumbassery prevented him from realizing why.
“I have found this music very enjoyable,” Castiel informed them. “I was curious as to who performed it. It is a group called Spoon.”
“Spoon?” Dean echoed, making a face. “There’s a group named after eating utensils?”
“Yes,” came the prompt reply. “It is no stranger than the name ‘Led Zeppelin’.”
That was true, and Dean seemed to agree judging by his lack of defensive, Led-kicks-ass response. Instead, he said, “Well, if you like that Spoon album, we can buy it. It’s not often you ever like anything,” which was also true. Castiel was beginning to make his own decisions and develop his own tastes. When they stopped for meals, he used to order coffee just because Dean did-now he ordered tea, because that was his preference.
“You do not have a CD player,” Castiel pointed out, and Dean made another face as Sam started leading them to the cashiers. He was pretty sure their time was up: he and Dean had already spied on Cas by peeping around bookshelves, and he didn’t want to creep out the other patrons any further. He kinda liked the town, and wanted to visit again-but getting kicked out of the local Barnes and Noble for being fuck scary wasn’t a great way to achieve that goal.
That evening, after Castiel had gone and it was just Sam and Dean in the motel room, Dean said (completely out of left field), “No one makes cassettes anymore.”
“It’s nice you’re finally leaving 1985 behind you,” Sam retorted, glancing up from his laptop. “Welcome to 2010. We have the Internet here.”
“Shut your cakehole,” Dean grunted, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “I’m just saying we can’t play anything Cas likes. Like, we can’t play it. I could wire-up a CD player, but it’s not like there's extra cash to buy one.”
Sam focused on his brother, who was spread out on “his” bed, fully clothed from their excursion to the bookstore. He hadn’t even removed his boots yet.
“It’s not like Cas rides around with us all the time,” Sam finally replied. “And he never complains about your tapes.”
Dean waved his hand in the air, as though to brush away Sam’s statement. Surprise, surprise.
“That’s because he doesn’t complain about anything,” which, okay, was pure fact. “And he rides with us enough to memorize most of my music. I was just thinking it sucks that we can’t even do this one thing for him. I mean, c’mon, Spoon. How bad can it be? At least he didn’t decide that Hannah chick highlighted the human music experience.”
“Hannah Montana,” Sam supplied. Dean lifted his head from the mattress to shoot Sam a look.
“Could you be more gay?” he demanded, and one day-one day-Sam swore he’d have a stinging comeback to that particular question.
---
The following morning, a solution came to Sam as he tossed their luggage into the trunk: beneath the passenger seat, in the cassette box, was the iPod adapter Dean had classified as douchery. Sam finished putting away their things, pulled out the flimsy cardboard container, and shuffled through the tapes until he found the small adapter. It took all of two seconds to join the car's cassette deck to the iPod.
He was just starting to flip through his playlist when Dean closed their motel door behind him and joined Sam in the Impala.
“Dude,” he protested. “What did I tell you about that thing? My girl isn’t getting douched up by your techno crap.”
Sam rolled his eyes. It was people like Dean who made Best Buy employees pray for death.
“Look, you want Cas to have music? This is your ticket. It’s called a ‘mp3 player’,” Sam said, speaking extra slowly just to piss Dean off. “It doesn’t run on tape. I’ll give you a few moments to get used to the idea.”
“Bitch,” Dean retorted, but Sam knew his brother wasn't actually angry, because he skipped the whole my-baby-will-never-allow-your-chick-bands spiel and asked, “So we can get music that Cas likes without paying a billion dollars?”
“If we had a billion dollars, you can bet your ass I wouldn’t be sharing a car with you,” Sam muttered. Dean flipped him off.
---
Two days later, when Cas showed up in a diner near the Wyoming border, Sam won Best Brother of the Millennium Award. They’d been eating, see, and between bites of cheeseburger, Dean said, “Hey, we figured out a way to play your music. You tell us what you like, we buy it online, it’s done. Spoon’s already on your playlist.”
“My playlist,” Cas echoed, like Dean was speaking Pig Latin. (Come to think of it, Cas could probably understand Pig Latin without a problem. The guy was a walking lexicon of Rosetta Stones.)
“That way your and Sam's music don’t get mixed up,” Dean explained. “Hard as hell to figure out, though. Sam made it look easy when he made his, but I kept botching yours.”
“You made my playlist,” Castiel clarified. He probably still didn’t understand what a playlist (or a mp3, or an iPod, or even a CD) was, but seemed pleased that Dean had gone to the trouble for him.
Dean shrugged, like it was no big deal, but Sam had been there when Dean first attempted to navigate the menus. Never had Sam heard such creative uses of four-letter words; honestly, his brother had a gift for developing phrases that reached new heights of obscenity. (Sam repeatedly offered to teach Cas himself-he could've done it twice as well in half the time, but Dean had been determined to learn how to use the iPod. He warmed up to it when the basic functions finally sank in.)
“Anyway, point is, I’m no longer allowed to lord over the stereo,” Dean summarized, rolling his eyes (like Sam had stuck a gun to his head or something-seriously, Dean could have kept his radio rights if he'd really wanted them). It wasn’t like he and Sam hadn’t bitched over the Driver-Music/Shotgun-Cakehole rule a thousand times before-but since Cas had expressed an interest in music, the privilege of controlling the Impala's sound system was suddenly easy to divvy up. “So whatever you like, tell us. Except Hannah Montana. Or that boy band, the one Disney pimped out.”
“Jonas Brothers,” Sam supplied, and immediately regretted it, because Dean glared at him and snapped, “Gay.” But Castiel was smiling, like someone had given him a million dollars-no. No, not a million dollars. It was more valuable than money. What they were really giving him were choices, options, the opportunity to let him decide.
Castiel focused that smile on Dean, like the whole iPod thing was his brilliant idea. Dean turned a shade brighter.
---
Castiel liked Spoon. He liked Coldplay and Jack Johnson. He liked Chris Bathgate and Jose Gonzalez and the Steve Miller Band and Israel Kamakawiwo'ole and Hans Zimmer. He wasn’t a huge fan of rap, though he did listen intently when Sam showed him how to preview music online. His taste in music matched his personality: calm, mild, sort of relaxing; Sam appreciated it during long trips, when he was too tired to stand Dean’s usual rock, but needed something soothing to lull him into sleepiness.
Driving through Nevada one night, Sam said, “You know, the whole point of having music in the car is to sing along with it.”
“I do not sing, Sam,” Castiel replied, solemn as death. Sam figured the idea of angels standing around in Heaven and crooning praises to God 24/7 was yet another human misconception, but didn’t voice it.
“Why not?” Dean demanded. “Dude, that’s the whole point of life. You gotta sing as loud as you can, all the time. No one’s going to do it for you.”
Sam appreciated Dean’s sentiment-it was pretty poetic, as far as Dean was concerned-but he wasn’t sure Cas was going to catch the meaning. If past conversations were any clue, he’d assume Dean meant for him to actually sing “all the time”, and then he’d point out that no one else seemed to follow that rule, and then Dean would either explain the symbolism or roll his eyes and let it go.
But Castiel was full of surprises, because he looked at Dean for a moment, and then smiled.
“I see,” he answered (and maybe he really did get it-maybe he realized that he was louder than any other angel, that choosing the rebellious path had made him deafening to the ears of his brothers). Cas didn't sit in silence 24/7, he just never let go-but there, two feet from Dean, listening to some hippy band John Winchester would have frowned upon, Castiel opened up in front of them like a miracle. Dean-because Dean was awesome sometimes-sensed the miracle, too, and instead of laughing or joking, opened his mouth and sang right along with Cas, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, their voices as loud as possible, discernible even over the rushing wind of the desert: I got nothing to lose but darkness and shadows-I got nothing to lose but bitterness and patterns.
FIN.
The song Cas heard in the bookstore. :D