I make them spell 'definitely beautiful' (1/4) / SPN
Title: I make them spell 'definitely beautiful' (1/4)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: SPN
Prompt: The backtoschool SPN AU challenge and When I first told me family about _____, they didn't believe me.
Summary: Castiel is a history teacher. Dean is a mechanic. They've known of each other through Sam, but finally meet thanks to Castiel's ancient car. Sparks fly!
Special notes: Betaed by the incredible chaosraven, who was invaluable. The story was okay, but she made it ROCK. The title is taken from Taylor Mali's poem What Teachers Make, one of my favorites! ♥
Castiel’s day so far:
8:00 A.M.: Fumbled with alarm, accidentally knocked alarm onto floor, groped for alarm, managed to hit ‘snooze’ button.
8:10 A.M.: Repeated.
8:20 A.M.: Repeated.
8:30 A.M.: Panicked.
8:31 A.M.: Jumped into shower, brushed teeth, skipped shaving, devoured handful of Frosted Shredded Wheat for breakfast, locked door, ran to car.
8:42 A.M.: Ran back into house, grabbed textbooks and grading chart, ran out again.
8:43 A.M.: Miraculously avoided speeding tickets.
8:53 A.M.: Managed to find a parking spot on campus, grabbed all relevant materials from backseat, sprinted towards classroom-
“Hey, Cas!”
8:54 A.M.: Became sidetracked by Sam Winchester.
Castiel, balancing the bulk of paperwork with his right arm, managed to glance at his watch. Even if he did exchange a few pleasantries with Sam, he still had six solid minutes before his students began wondering (see: hoping) if Professor Novak would be a no-show. There was an exam scheduled for that morning and half of them were undoubtedly praying that someway, somehow, the fifty-question test could be postponed until Wednesday.
“You look worse than usual,” Sam observed. He walked over to Castiel to scoop up half of the cumbersome paper pile without so much as a how do you do. “Let me guess: late night with a novel?”
“An insult is a very poor way to greet someone,” Castiel retorted, ignoring Sam’s question and straightening his tie instead. Was his appearance really that telling? “I look the same as always.”
“Vagrantly,” Sam supplied as they began down the hideously taupe hallway and towards Castiel’s classroom. “You haven’t shaved and let's not mention the hair. Anyone else would think you spent a wild night at a ‘den of iniquity’.”
Castiel suppressed a sigh at Sam's eyebrow wiggle. That particular inside joke was well worn, so why did Sam insist on bringing it up at every opportunity? Yes, ‘den of iniquity’ was a dated phrase. Castiel got it already.
“I don’t understand why you find that so humorous,” he muttered. “I only said it once.”
“Yeah, at Chuck’s bachelor party. To the stripper. I’ll never forget the way she yelled at you.”
“We were simply asked to leave.”
“We had to sneak through the back door!”
“I told you it was a bad idea to invite me.”
Sensing Castiel's embarrassment, Sam suggested, “Why don’t you tell me about the book you spent all night reading."
“All right,” Castiel conceded, because Sam’s literary curiosity was a force to be reckoned with. “I recently started an excellent novel called ‘The Pillars of the Earth’. I can hardly put it down. Plus, there’s a sequel of sorts. I am very excited to read them both.”
“You’ll have to lend it to me when you’re done,” Sam said, knowing full well he didn’t have the time to read the Sunday paper, much less a huge novel. Castiel knew it too, and shot Sam a careful look.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, stopping as they reached his classroom door. He took back the pile Sam was carrying and nodded his thanks. “Will you be at lunch?”
“Sure,” Sam replied. “Choking down Dean’s cooking like usual. I honestly don’t know why I let him near the stove. He’s trying to kill me with fried meat and excess carbohydrates.”
Castiel knew-despite the regular complaints about his brother’s loud music, terrible computer skills, and death-defying diet-that Dean was an integral part of Sam’s life, and anyway, Castiel liked hearing Sam’s sibling-related grumbling. It infused a bit of humor into Castiel’s day, and he often found himself trying to imagine being in Sam’s shoes: having a family that loved him dearly; living in a home that didn’t sit in silence.
“Here,” Castiel said. He reached for his lunch bag and rummaged for the red apple he’d stashed inside. He gave it to Sam. “Maybe this will stave off your daily heart attack, despite your brother’s best efforts.”
“God, produce,” Sam said reverently, and took a huge bite right in the middle of the hall. “I owe you, dude. Seriously.”
As he chewed, Sam peeked through the door’s tiny window and into the classroom, where the students were bowed over their textbooks, desperately trying to absorb as much information as possible. He could never understand why they put off studying until ten minutes before the exam.
“Doesn’t look good in there,” he observed. “You curve grades?”
“Depending on the class,” Castiel answered. He gently pushed Sam aside and took a look for himself. Sam patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. Castiel made a face as he realized it was nine o'clock on the dot. He sighed, half-heartedly straightened his tie one last time, and walked inside.
---
It was as horrible as he’d feared. The period was spent watching students anxiously bite their pencils and flip through questions, hoping to find one they could actually answer. He didn’t understand-was his teaching style so bad? He held test reviews and typed up handouts for them to study. He even reserved books at the campus library so students could simply photocopy the material instead of purchasing the expensive textbook. It saved them seventy dollars by his estimation, but they only repaid his efforts with tepid responses to the essay questions and haphazard guesses on the matching portion.
With another forty-five minutes until his next class, there wasn’t much to do except start grading. Castiel wished he’d brought his novel with him. It was a riveting escape to the fact that his students found no interest in subject he was trying to teach. He’d always loved history, but not everyone was excited about Troy or the Crusades or the 1497 Falò delle vanità.
He took out his red pen and got to work. He stopped when his ten thirty students began trickling in, and lectured until eleven forty-five. Once the last of the students had left the classroom, he gladly wiped off the whiteboard, shoved everything into his bag, and headed towards the faculty lounge.
Chuck was already there, hunched over a Mystery Meat combo from Taco Bell. Castiel made a face and removed yesterday’s orange and diet soda from the fridge before taking a seat across from him.
“Hey,” Chuck greeted. “I’m digging the wrinkled trench. What’d you do, sleep in a tree?”
“I will hurt you,” Castiel calmly retorted. He took a small bite of the orange, pressing a firm indent into its skin with his teeth and then began methodically peeling off pieces starting at the indentation and working his way around.
“Please. Who else will DVR your History Channel specials?” Chuck asked, and then glanced at the meager lunch in Castiel’s hands. He pushed some tacos towards Castiel in a silent offering, but the other man simply wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Chuck sighed and dragged the tacos back towards himself.
“So,” he said, “word around the water color is you gave a test today. Should I ask how it went, or divert the conversation to the weather?”
A small collection of orange peelings were building on the table.
“I believe the weather would be a preferable topic,” Castiel replied, concentrating on the task at hand. He finished peeling a moment later, carefully split the orange, and popped a slice into his mouth. “Only seven students have earned A's so far, and half the class will have a failing grade at midterm. How do you have such luck with your students?”
“Most of my students take creative writing as an elective,” Chuck answered. “They aren’t required to take it for graduation, and therefore do better. It’s a Catch-22, my friend.”
Castiel wasn’t sure it was exactly a Catch-22, but he could see where Chuck was making the connection. Still, it didn’t help Castiel answer the question of why. Was he destined to spend his entire career teaching blank-eyed classes about Greek culture or Roman ingenuity?
“Hey, want to come watch some football this weekend? I'll invite Sam, too. It might take your mind off classes,” Chuck offered, seemingly tuned in to Castiel’s resigned mood.
“The last time we tried to watch football, we ended up watching NOVA instead,” Castiel pointed out. He peeled away another segment of orange, chewing contently as Chuck visibly prepared himself to defend educational programming.
His impending crusade was cut short by the entrance of Sam. Chuck glanced at Castiel and then Sam, as though trying to decide whether to wax poetic about public television or simply extend his invitation to Sam instead.
“Hey,” Sam greeted, clearly unaware of Chuck’s internal debate. He tossed his bag onto the lumpy couch and made a beeline for the fridge. He withdrew his usual Tupperware container and unceremoniously shoved it into the microwave. Castiel was sure it oozed radiation. Sam, ignoring the microwave’s usual ominous groans, plopped in a chair.
“Sam. Sammy. Football. You, me, this weekend,” Chuck said.
“We always end up watching NOVA,” Sam replied, reaching over to steal one of Chuck’s soft tacos. “Of course, I like NOVA, so sure. You coming too, Cas?”
Castiel, despite the bad start to his day, found himself smiling. “Yes,” he answered. “Of course. But only if Becky makes nachos.”
“God, yes. Becky can make nachos anytime.”
Chuck shot them both a beady look. “I’m not comfortable with this blatant coveting of my wife’s nachos. It creeps me out.”
Sam laughed with his mouth open, a dimple appearing on each side of his face.
“Swallow!” Chuck squeaked, shielding his eyes with his hands. “Swallow! How many times have I said, ‘Sam, don’t laugh while you’re eating’? It’s enough to make me throw up a little.” The panicked complaint only made Sam laugh harder.
Chuck turned towards Castiel. “He’s disgusting, right? Tell me I’m right.”
Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment, and then, out of nowhere, dropped his jaw to reveal half-eaten orange.
“You too? I’m going to go blind! How do you two expect me to eat now? I’m not a biology teacher, okay? I don’t appreciate the miracle of the digestive system.” Chuck's ranting was obscured by Sam’s now-uncontrollable guffaws and Castiel’s own amusement.
Deep down, past the rules and professionalism and schooling, Castiel was sure they were all still seven-year-old boys.
---
Despite a mood-boosting lunch, Castiel felt the weight of the day at the end of his six o'clock class. After his students filed out, Castiel packed up his grade book, tests, and text. He turned out the lights, locked the door behind him, and then made a quick stop by his office before giving it the same treatment.
It was nippy as he trudged to his car, and he barely had the energy to toss his belongings in the backseat. The car sputtered to life, and reluctantly turned out of the parking lot and on to the main road. Castiel noticed it was idling rather roughly, but was too tired to be concerned. He simply hoped it would get him home.
The ride to his house was uneventful and silent. The stereo was busted, and the speakers were cheap anyway. He turned into his driveway and came to a stop in front of the garage.
He dumped his bag, overflowing with notebooks and papers, on the dining room table.
He debated cooking dinner. He debated getting some extra grading in.
Instead, Castiel closed his eyes and said his prayers. He thanked God for his job and Chuck and Sam, and then he fell asleep in the silence of the house.
---
“I don’t know how you stand teaching the same boring crap every semester,” Dean said around a mouthful of breakfast. He picked up Sam’s well-worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels, glanced at the cover, and carelessly tossed it back towards his brother. “A dude goes sailing, gets shot by a town full of Thumbelinas, then goes home. What’s the big deal?”
“I’ve explained it to you a hundred times,” Sam replied, taking his own bite of food. “It’s social commentary. Swift was trying to make a point.”
“By writing about little people who tie big people to the ground? Sounds more like he’s getting his kink on.”
“That’s because you’re an intellectual wasteland,” Sam retorted. He reclaimed his book-just because it was old didn’t mean it needed to get thrown around-and set it aside. “I’m giving an exam on it next week.”
“Next week is midterms, right?” Dean asked. At Sam’s nod, Dean made a face. “Damn it, I hate midterms. I hate finals more. You always get so bitchy and stressed.”
Sam flipped him off.
Dean’s resulting laughter was interrupted by the cheerful ring of Sam’s cell phone. Sam fished the phone from his bag and opened it. He was greeted by the blurry, frowning face of Castiel as well as his name scrolling across the top of the screen. Cas didn’t usually call for friendly chats-that was more Chuck’s habit.
“Hey Cas,” Sam greeted. Across from him, Dean rolled his eyes and gulped down the rest of his coffee.
“That’s my cue,” he said, rising from his seat to take their plates to the sink. He disappeared into the kitchen, followed shortly by the sound of running water and clinking silverware.
“Sam,” Castiel said, sounding apologetic from his end of the line. “I apologize if I’m disturbing your morning.”
“Don’t sweat it. Dean and I just finished breakfast,” Sam reassured, leaning back into his chair and pushing away Gulliver’s Travels. “What’s up?”
He was answered by an embarrassed silence, and finally Castiel said, “My car will not start. I thought perhaps your brother might have a look at it when he’s available.”
“That rust-bucket finally gave up the ghost? Well, that’s kind of a relief. I thought it would outlive us all,” Sam replied. He could practically hear Castiel’s frown, and Sam regretted his words. The loss of a running vehicle was seriously crippling, and unlike Sam, not everyone had the luxury of having a mechanic for a brother. “Cas, don’t worry. I’ll tell Dean and he’ll fix her up, good as new. You need me to give you a lift to work?”
“I don’t want to bother you,” Castiel replied. “I am perfectly capable of taking the bus.”
“Don’t be stupid, Stupid. We work in the same building. I’ll be around in about fifteen minutes.” Sam checked his watch. If he packed quickly, he and Cas could be stuffing information into students’ head by nine o'clock with no sweat. “I’ll even sweeten the deal with a bacon and egg biscuit. Dean made eight.”
“They reheat well!” Dean shouted from the kitchen, having picked his name out of Sam’s one-sided conversation.
Castiel laughed. It was a rare sound, and Sam felt good that his family could be of some help. “Thank you very much, Sam. I will call a tow truck and have it taken to your brother’s garage. Do you know the address?”
“Dean’s garage has a truck already. He’ll tow it for you,” Sam promised. “See you in fifteen.”
Upon hearing his name for the second time, Dean abandoned the dishes and leaned against the kitchen threshold instead, intent on Sam’s conversation. Castiel thanked him again and hung up. Sam flipped his own phone shut, and began packing up his books. Dean crossed his arms, thoroughly unimpressed.
“You making promises about helping that friend of yours?” he asked. At Sam’s guilty silence, Dean knew he’d guessed right. “Damnit Sammy, I got a ton of work already. I can’t just drop everything to help your fellow geek.”
“Don’t be a drama queen,” Sam said, brushing past his brother to reach the kitchen. He pulled a sandwich bag out of the Ziploc box and packed two of Dean’s admittedly delicious bacon and egg biscuits. Between biscuits and Chuck’s tacos, they might get Cas fed yet. “It’s not like you work at the garage on your own. Dad and Bobby are there. And besides, you tow cars all the time. Helping Cas is like any other job.”
“Yeah, a job he’ll probably expect me not to charge for,” Dean groused.
“You didn’t charge Chuck when he needed his brakes done,” Sam pointed out, taking the biscuits into the dining room with him. He double-checked his bag, patted his pockets for his keys, and made sure his cell phone was in hand before heading for the front door. Dean trailed him the entire time.
“Chuck’s different. I like Chuck. His wife makes great nachos.”
“You’ll like Cas, too,” Sam promised. “Now stop being a jerk and go get his car. It’s a piece of crap, but I’m sure you can make it run like new. I have faith in you.”
Dean tossed his hands up in surrender. “I love how you never give me a choice,” he complained. “Bitch.”
Sam, smug with victory, whistled all the way to his own car, and drove off to pick up Castiel.
---
When Dean arrived for work, Bobby and John were already crowded around the garage’s hideously dated coffee maker.
“Hey Dad, Bobby,” he greeted, tossing his sack lunch into the equally-dated refrigerator (it was yellow, and the inside smelled like eggs, which sort of creeped him out since they never stored eggs in there).
“Mornin’, kid. You want some joe?” Bobby asked, nodding to the pitch-black liquid happily gurgling in the pot. Dean managed not to make a face. He liked strong coffee, but John and Bobby’s brew was like drinking a death sentence.
“Can’t,” he answered. “Sam’s assigned me a civic duty today. I gotta tow his friend’s rust heap back here and give it a once-over.”
John nodding understandingly as Bobby pulled the truck keys from his pocket. He handed them to Dean and said, “Boy, that brother of yours is gonna have you huggin’ trees and adopting homeless kittens soon enough.”
An hour later, Dean found himself back in the garage, flanked on either side by his father and Bobby. The three stood in silence, staring at Castiel Novak’s car like biologists who had discovered a new species of life.
“This is a fuckin’ tragedy,” Bobby muttered, and Dean couldn’t agree more.
The drive to Castiel Novak’s house had been a pleasant one. He didn’t live too far from Sam and Dean’s place, and Dean had guessed which house was Castiel’s without looking at the address first. The house was a split-level with white siding and a yard that was letting itself go. At the front end of the driveway was, as promised, a vehicle with a rusted bumper, slightly flat tire, and a heartbreaking stereo situation. He’d almost felt bad for the car, until he realized what type it was.
It was embarrassing enough to have the thing hooked up to the truck. Dean couldn't imagine being the one to drive it regularly.
“A 1982 Cadillac Cimarron,” John said, squatting to get a better look at the bumper. “And here I thought these were just urban legends.”
Even the lousiest mechanic knew the Cimarron was Cadillac’s biggest shame, but to actually see one that still ran? Well, Jesus. Dean has worked on a lot of shitty cars in his time, but Novak’s little beauty took the cake. He shot Bobby a pleading look, but the older man simply laughed and slammed a wide palm against Dean’s shoulder.
“This’ll learn you not to go doing charity work for Sam’s friends,” he said. “Good luck, kid. You’re going to need a shitload of it.”
Dean watched his father and Bobby give the Cimarron one last disbelieving look and then head for the other cars and trucks in their care. With a sigh, he whipped out his cell phone and texted you owe me forever, sammy to Sam, uncaring whether the little brat was currently teaching a class. Jesus Christ, a Cimarron-what sort of person was this Castiel guy to own one of the worst cars in automobile history?
---
On his way to lunch two days later, Sam received the latest in a series of texts from Dean: Novaks car is done he can come by this afternoon did i tell you its a cimarron what a piece of crap.
Sam vaguely recalled Dean’s rant about Castiel’s car, but he’d tuned out when Dean had begun talking about body styles and transmission. Dean had a terrible habit of launching into car-related discussions that sounded like he was reading straight from the manual.
Sam paused by the water fountain to type back, I’ll let him know, but FYI: some mechanics actually call the car owner, not the owner’s friends. It might be a business practice worth looking into.
He hit ‘send’ and made his way to the lounge. Castiel and Chuck had already beaten him there. Castiel was, predictably, eating a woefully inadequate meal of canned soup; Chuck, on the other hand, was lording over five Arby's sandwiches and a large order of curly fries.
“Good afternoon, Sam,” Castiel said, as Chuck managed to greet, “Hey Sam,” while annihilating the fries. Sam walked over to the fridge, removed his own lunch of leftover spaghetti, and placed it inside the rickety microwave. There was something relaxing about their routine, he decided.
“Dean just texted me,” Sam announced, pulling a chair over and reaching for one of Chuck’s sandwiches. It was more rewarding to steal food from Chuck rather than Cas. Cas never protested-half the time he offered-but Chuck always wore an expression of mortal offense when culinary items were swiped from right beneath his nose. “He says your ride is ready to rock. You can pick it up this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Castiel replied. “I’ll call a cab and go over there today.”
“Alone?” Chuck demanded, moved enough by the conversation to spare Sam his ‘eat my food and die’ glare. “You can’t go by yourself. It’d be like abandoning a child in the middle of a grocery store. One second the kid’s choosing between Lucky Charms and Trix, the next he’s making friends at the orphanage.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You had one bad experience at the garage and now you’re a wuss about it.”
“Bad experience? Bad? I got lost in the piles of cars! I had to call you to come and find me!”
“You were able to describe the specific pile,” Sam reminded him. “The blue Ford on top of the green Chevy. Dad found you in less than a minute.”
Chuck, clearly frustrated that he wasn’t getting through to Sam, turned his efforts towards Castiel.
“Cas,” he tried again, “there are bullets by the cash register, rusted parts everywhere-it’s a tetanus paradise, I swear-and Robert Singer curses like a sailor. Your ears might fall off.”
“I think you’re being a little melodramatic,” Castiel said, unable to hide his smile. “But if it makes you feel better, I will try my best not to get lost, shot, or misplace my ears.”
Chuck was clearly unhappy that his warnings weren't being taken seriously, but simply stuffed fries into his mouth and said, “Fine, but it’s your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
---
When the cab dropped him off at Winchester’s Auto R&R (Restore and Repair, Sam had explained), Castiel was beginning to reconsider Chuck’s warning. He certainly hadn’t exaggerated about the rusted pieces littering the sandy ground, or the piles of busted cars dotting the property, or the fact that it would be very easy to get lost: there were no signs or directions to follow, so Castiel simply started walking from the mailbox towards what he hoped was the yard’s center.
A ramshackle building materialized after a minute or two. Castiel felt extremely out of place as he approached it. Rock music was blasting from the immense garage doors, and snippets of rough conversation could be heard over whatever was currently playing on the stereo. Castiel slowly approached, hoping he’d find someone outside first, but was out of luck. The mechanics, one of whom had to be Dean, were all in the garage, intent on their work.
The first man, wearing a plaid shirt and baseball cap, was concentrating on a pair of busted headlights-but looked far too old to be Sam’s brother. Another man was working on a tire rim two cars down. He was slightly younger, and wore stained jeans and a greasy button-up shirt; still, Castiel had a feeling that wasn’t Dean, either. He wished he’d asked for a description before getting into the cab, but Sam had already been in the middle of class.
“Excuse me!” Castiel called, trying to get either man’s attention over the sound of classic rock.
He took an uneasy step inside, and then another, until he was standing in the middle of the garage. The new vantage point revealed several things: first of all, there were bullets by the cash register, and secondly, his car was still in the garage, and two legs were sticking out from underneath it. Castiel quickly walked over to where his Cadillac was waiting.
He wanted to clear his throat to get the person’s-hopefully Dean, though he couldn’t tell by legs alone-attention, but the sound would be undetectable in the midst of the blaring music. He glanced at his shoes. Should he nudge the leg? Or stoop down to the mechanic’s level? Should he simply wait by the register and hope someone noticed his presence?
His options became irrelevant when the person suddenly rolled out from beneath the car, caught sight of a stranger looming over him, and jumped out of his skin.
Castiel felt the impulsive need to apologize, but knew the words would only be drowned out. The young man, who Castiel felt confident was Sam’s brother, scrambled up and reached over towards the wall, yanking a plug right out of the outlet. An abrupt, deafening silence replaced the noise that had previously filled the garage, and Castiel’s apparent invisibility was broken with the sudden attention of all three mechanics.
“Can I help you?” Dean demanded, clearly displeased with how he’d been approached.
Castiel felt an acute flush of embarrassment rise up his neck. “Yes,” he managed to answer. “I am Castiel Novak. Are you Dean?”
Dean relaxed at that, and leaned against the Cimarron with his hip. His brown hair was messy with sweat, and patches of his skin were smeared with grease. He smelled, too, but not unpleasantly. It was the scent of sweat and work, like a man who used his muscles to make a living instead of his mind. He wore an old t-shirt that was stained with all matter of things: dirt, oil, and whatever else was in the garage, but it still fit him attractively. Castiel glanced away.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he acknowledged. “Sorry for barking at you. You just startled me, is all.”
“It’s my fault,” Castiel quickly cut in. “The music was too loud for me to get your attention, so I was trying to find another way.”
Dean grinned sheepishly, and scratched the back of his neck. His muscles shifted beneath his shirt, and Castiel felt the sudden need to call Sam and give him a good talking to. He hadn’t told Castiel about-about Dean, about how he was...how he just was.
“Totally my bad. I’m the one who usually cranks it up.” He removed his hand from his neck, and wiped it against his pants leg before holding it out. “Dean Winchester.”
They shook hands. Dean’s hand was exceptionally warm, almost hot. “Please call me Castiel, or Cas. That seems to be the nickname most people give me.”
“Okay, Cas.” He pointed over to the two older gentlemen. “That’s my dad, John, and over there’s Bobby Singer. Sam mighta mentioned them at some point.”
“He’s talked about them both many times,” Castiel confirmed. “Chuck has as well, though his experience was less... positive, you might say.”
Dean laughed. “I’ll never forget the time he got lost in all the cars. Poor guy hasn’t been back since.”
Castiel smiled, recalling Chuck’s ominous tale. It was pretty funny, now that he thought about it. Chuck was immensely sweet, but tended to be a little high-strung and anxious. Undoubtedly Chuck had been in less danger than he had thought, but Castiel would be good enough not to mention it.
“All right,” Dean said, patting the Cimarron’s hood. “I was just finishing up. You want the run-down on your girl?”
Castiel blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, belatedly realizing Dean was referring to the Cadillac. “Oh, yes. If you don’t mind.”
Dean smiled again. “Sure thing, Cas,” he said, turning to pop the hood. Castiel had never been knowledgeable about motors, but Dean seemed to be used to customers’ ignorance and explained it as simply as he could, pointing out the parts that were repaired or replaced.
“Thank you,” Castiel said at the end, and reached into his back pocket. “This work looks very good. How much is the total?”
Dean frowned, his eyes flicking to John and Bobby for just a moment. He shrugged. “On the house,” he said. “It’s your reward for dealing with Sam. I do Chuck’s brakes from time to time, so-”
“Dean, I would like to pay you. It isn’t easy to find a dependable mechanic,” Castiel cut in. He removed his wallet. “Do you take personal checks?”
Dean shook his head again. “No way, Cas. Any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine, and I don’t charge friends. End of story.”
“I will simply ask Sam your usual fee and have him give you the money. It would be less trouble if you told me now,” Castiel pointed out. He withdrew a pen from his coat pocket and poised it over a blank check.
The mood of the garage was suddenly broken by the sound of a car horn.
“Look,” Bobby cut in. “This little episode of ‘Who’s on First’ has been entertaining, but the pizza guy’s here. If you two haven’t figured out something by the time we get back, I’ll knock your heads together.”
John rolled his eyes at Bobby’s gruffness, but then pointed to Castiel. “It’s not often I get to meet Sam’s friends, so don’t go anywhere,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”
Castiel found himself tensing in the resulting silence. Dean, too, watched them go with an expression of discomfort. Castiel felt ridiculous that his checkbook was still in his hands.
“So,” Dean said, moving from the car towards the counter, ignoring the issue of payment and graciously filling the space between them with words. “Sam talks about you sometimes. You teach history, right?”
“Yes.” Castiel felt relieved that he had something competent to say; if Dean had attempted to engage him in a conversation about cars, it would be an extremely short discussion. “Early Civilizations, Greco-Roman, and European History to 1700. Occasionally American history as well, if it’s needed. Now about the cost-”
“The whole history of the world is in your head?” Dean interrupted. “How do you remember it all?”
Castiel wondered whether Dean was mocking him, but the frank openness of Dean’s expression didn’t suggest it.
“History is actually the simplest to remember, because it doesn’t change much,” Castiel answered. There was a familiar inclination to just start rambling about history and its many facets, but personal experience advised him to condense his love for the subject into two or three sentences. “Ancient history is my specialty-the Egyptians, Greeks, Phoenicians, their languages. Their art is wonderful as well, though I prefer medieval and Renaissance paintings in general. The depictions of religious iconography are incredibly intense.”
One glance at Dean told Castiel he’d said too much. Dean’s expression was perplexed, as though he hadn’t fully understood what he’d been told. Castiel felt an embarrassed flush start at his neck and climb to his face. Why did Sam and Chuck always claim he never talked enough? It was obvious he talked too much.
“Hey,” Dean quickly said. “I’m sorry; I just never paid much attention in school. It’s cool that you like that stuff. Me, I’m just a mechanic.”
“At least your knowledge is practical,” Castiel said. “It helps people. I can assure you no one’s livelihood depends on whether I can recall Cleopatra’s birth date.”
“I don’t exactly hold anyone’s livelihood in my hands, either,” Dean replied, hopping up to sit on the counter. He rolled some of the bullets away and turned to face Castiel, who said, “A person’s car is one of their greatest assets. It was extremely kind of your brother to drive me to work this past week, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to be stuck with that task forever.”
Dean grinned widely. “I’m sure Sasquatch wouldn’t mind. Aren’t you guys like BFFs or something?”
Castiel’s lips quirked. He glanced down at his shoes, and then realized there was no point in holding onto the check like a stubborn fool. He placed his wallet back into his pocket. He’d simply ask Sam whether he knew Dean’s usual fee and send the payment by mail. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”
A long pause stretched between them.
“You both have midterms coming up, right?” Dean asked, when it became clear Castiel didn’t have much else to add. “Do you get frazzled like Sam? He’s impossible to live with when it comes to the big tests.”
“Certainly, but the students are even more frazzled. My interest in history isn’t usually shared by my classes.” Castiel wished he had more to say about it. Dean was clearly trying to extend the conversation to avoid an awkward silence, but he had no idea what their shared hobbies were. Castiel knew nothing about automobiles, and he had a feeling that academia wasn’t Dean’s preference. Grasping at straws for an appropriate topic, he said, “Your brother is an exceptional instructor. Do you share his interest in reading?”
Dean rubbed the back of his neck again, as though embarrassed. “I’m more of a magazine man myself. Why, you reading something good right now?”
“Yes,” Castiel instantaneously replied, grateful for the commonality between them. It made no difference that Dean was more interested in magazines. In fact, Castiel scolded himself for not thinking of the topic sooner. He’d found that strangers could always discuss reading despite the initial discomfort of a first meeting. “It’s a historical novel and extremely engaging-”
The approaching sound of Bobby and John’s voices ceased any further conversation, and a moment later the two men were back with three boxes of pizza and a two liter of Pepsi.
“Two pepperonis and one veggie for your hippy brother,” Bobby announced. “I’ll never understand that boy’s love for rabbit food.”
“I believe Sam is simply trying to make up for some of the things Dean cooks,” Castiel offered.
“What’s the supposed to mean?” Dean demanded, but his smile was wide. Sam had always described his brother as a rough-n-tumble sort of person, but the man standing in front of Castiel was entertaining and at ease with his surroundings. “You saying a week’s worth of Philly cheese steak isn’t healthy? Guess that means you don’t want any of this pizza, then.” He walked over and flipped open the tops until he found the veggie one. He lifted the box in Castiel’s direction. “Seriously, you hungry? Contrary to what Sam says, I can’t actually eat an entire box of pizza on my own.”
“Thank you, but no. I should be getting home,” Castiel replied. “I have a lot of grading to do, unfortunately.”
“You just got here,” John protested. “How am I supposed to embarrass my youngest son if you won’t stay to listen?”
Castiel smiled. “Another time,” he promised. “I would honestly enjoy hearing his horrible childhood stories. It will be refreshing to hang something over his head for once.”
John laughed as he moved to trade handshakes; Bobby nodded and did the same. Dean, for his part, walked back around the register, pulled open a drawer, and rummaged through its contents until he pulled out Castiel’s car keys. He gestured for Castiel to join him by the Cimarron.
“It was great to meet you,” Dean said, and they shook hands again. John and Bobby’s voices littered the background. “You and Chuck are pretty much the only thing that keeps Sam going. Hey, before you go, I’ve been meaning to ask-” He grinned a little, and shook his head. “Aren’t you the same guy who got Chuck kicked out of his own bachelor party?”
Castiel felt heat color his face. “Sam told you about that? I will kill him.”
Dean’s grin only widened. “Nah, don’t kill him. Just come around one of these days and let Dad regale you with tales from Sasquatch’s teenage emo years. You’ll have enough blackmail material to last you a lifetime.”
With that, Dean handed over the keys. Castiel accepted with a smile and got into his car. He wished Dean a good evening, and drove away. Somehow, meeting Dean felt like a simultaneous success and failure. He’d at last met the most important person in Sam’s life, which felt significant considering Sam was one of Castiel’s two best friends. The failure, however, came with knowing that someone as beautiful as Dean Winchester would never give Castiel Novak a second glance.
---
The morning after Castiel Novak picked up his car and drove off, Dean woke feeling unsettled and strangely dissatisfied. He’d gone to sleep feeling the exact same way, but at least Sam hadn’t been there to witness it. The morning would be less kind, given that Dean and Sam always had breakfast together. He took a long shower in an attempt to shake off whatever cloud was looming over his head. Once he was clean, he headed to the kitchen and scrambled eight eggs for their usual shared breakfast.
Not only did Dean feel out of sorts, but he also felt like an idiot. Ever since the mysterious Castiel had become a part of Sam’s life, Dean had assumed that he was another Chuck or Sam or even a crazy Doc Brown-ish professor, but Castiel wasn’t any of those. He was something else, something that made Dean unreasonably self-conscious and careful. He wondered if it was the same on Castiel’s end: had Sam mentioned Dean? Had Cas envisioned Dean as a gluttonous, dumb mechanic with only a GED to his name? Someone who drank their weight in alcohol and never picked up books, or read the news, or looked at paintings and thought they were beautiful?
He heard Sam clomp down the stairs and walk into the kitchen. Dean concentrated on pouring two glasses of orange juice, and hoped Sam would fill the awkwardness with complaints about the upcoming midterms. He was in the mood for a little normalcy, even if the normalcy came in the form of Sam's bitching.
Instead, Sam accepted breakfast with a quick thanks, stuffed a forkful of eggs in his mouth, and asked, “Did Cas get his car okay?”
Dean glanced up.
“Yeah,” he managed to answer. “It was no problem.”
“Did you meet him?” came the next question. “Please tell me he didn’t get lost in all the trash piles. You and Dad really need to get some signs up or people’ll never find the actual garage.”
“I met him. He was nice. Likes reading,” Dean replied. Maybe his staccato answers would divert his brother away from the conversation and onto another topic.
Sam just snorted. “You’re telling me. For a history professor, he could just as easily teach my lit classes.”
Dean considered the statement, and took a big swallow of juice. Then he said, as neutral as he could manage, “Bet it drives his wife or whatever nuts. I know Becky hates shoving all of Chuck’s books around.”
Sam snorted in disbelief, like the mental image was simply incomprehensible. “Cas, married? That’ll be the day, dude.”
Dean let the subject drop-because what did it matter if Cas wasn’t married or seeing anyone? It wasn't like the guy was going to fall for some prick who barely finished high school-and drifted into the comfort of Sam’s Usual Conversation Topics: school, problem students, his hatred of online classes, asking about Dad and Bobby, and then forcing Dean to talk, too. Dean was grateful. He didn’t like to think about what sort of person he’d be without Sammy.
---
“Oh, good. You’re still alive,” Chuck greeted, swallowing down the last bit of banana milkshake to make room for the words in his mouth. “I was seriously going to call you last night, but Becky said I was being ridiculous. According to her, you have a much better sense of direction than yours truly.”
Castiel smiled at his friend’s concern and sat down at their usual table. Sam was already tucking into some sort of sandwich with bacon on it-Sam made a face and removed the bacon a moment later-while Chuck emptied a seemingly endless bag of Sonic food.
“I am very much alive, thank you,” Castiel said. Sam leaned over to swipe a handful of Chuck’s tater-tots and Chuck attempted to slap the thieving hand away. The gesture proved to be as ineffective as usual.
“Your brother was very kind,” Castiel told Sam. Sam’s eyebrows rose, and he hastily chewed the stolen tater-tots in order to reply.
“Seriously? Dean was ‘very kind’? Are you sure you weren’t talking with Dad or something?”
“I’m quite sure, Sam,” Castiel replied. He removed his peanut-butter sandwich from his lunch bag and began eating. “He wouldn’t let me to pay him, but I can’t let him do that work for free. I realize my car is outdated, and I’m sure he had his hands full with it.”
“Your car’s a piece of crap,” Chuck agreed. “I can’t believe it even rolls anymore.”
“Thank you, Chuck,” Castiel retorted pleasantly. “I won’t forget you said that.”
Sam shook his head and grinned at Chuck’s oh shit wince. “Look, I’m just glad he treated you okay. I love the guy, but there are times I wonder how we can be related.”
Castiel glanced at Sam, and then Chuck, who was currently trying to regain Castiel’s goodwill by offering the remainder of his tater-tots. He refused them, unsurprisingly, but was still gratified by the attempt, and by the fact his two lunch mates were a part of his day. They were more than that; they were his best friends, the only two constants in his life, in school and out. Having lunch with them was a welcome ritual, one Castiel gladly embraced-especially if it got his mind off Dean Winchester, off his t-shirts and smell and all the other tidbits Castiel had noticed during their brief meeting the night before.
“You’re certainly related. The resemblance is clear,” he said. And wasn’t that strange? Castiel had never been attracted to Sam. He knew Sam was attractive: tall, sweet-faced, funny, but Castiel had never considered Sam as anything more than a friend. Chuck, too, would’ve been desirable in his own scruffy manner if not for the fact he was 1) married, and 2) Chuck. Castiel couldn’t explain it any other way. “But I agree your personalities are very different.”
“As in, I have the better one?” Sam amended, and then grinned to show he was joking. “It’s okay to say it. Dean grows on you after a while, though. His girlfriends never stick around long enough to find that out.”
“Dean has no girlfriend?” Castiel asked, wanting to cringe as soon as the words left his mouth. Did he have to sound so surprised and earnest? He immediately tried to salvage his faux pas by adding something nonchalant and diverting to the conversation, but nothing came to mind. He could only watch as Sam and Chuck set down their respective lunches and exchanged looks over the table. Their eyes focused on Castiel a moment later.
“Dude,” Sam said.
“Dean?” Chuck asked.
“Not that I’m judging.”
“Me either. But we’ve tried introducing you to guys before-”
“-all of which were infinitely more educated and better mannered than my brother-”
“-and they all turned out to be disasters.”
Castiel had mental whiplash trying to follow the jointed remark, and felt frustrated by the resulting lapse into silence. What did it matter whether or not he liked Dean? It wasn’t as though he knew him well, and in any case, dating his friend’s brother seemed like a recipe for trouble.
“Those men were not ‘disasters’, as you say,” Castiel argued. He felt the tips of his ears burn, but ignored it. Perhaps Sam and Chuck would be so kind to do the same. “We just weren’t compatible.”
“Not compatible?” Chuck echoed. “Ash is compatible with everyone! He loves the whole world!”
“He crushes beer cans with his forehead,” Castiel reminded him. Truthfully, Ash was very sweet, but in addition to the forehead-crushing, he also had a tendency to simply slit the bottom of his beer can and drink from there instead of using the tab. The mullet had been off-putting as well.
“What about Crowley?” Sam asked. “He was respectable. Nice house, good job.”
“Have you ever been to his house?” Castiel asked.
Sam winced. “No. Bad?”
“Lovely, with the exception of a hound dog that reached my waist. It wanted to eat me.”
“Okay,” Chuck cut in, snapping his fingers like he’d just thought of something. “What about the owner of that restaurant. What was it called, Cupid's? It has the Valentine’s decorations up all year? He was nice.”
“He hugged.”
“There’s nothing wrong with hugging,” Sam said. “You're just being finicky.”
“He hugged a lot. If it was possible to quantify the amount of hugging that occurred on our first date, then perhaps you would understand.”
“So you’re saying Dean Winchester is somehow your ideal man?” Chuck asked. “Look, I like Dean. But he’s rude, crude, and can down a six-pack in half an hour. He just doesn’t seem like your type.”
“And what would my type be?” Castiel asked. “I happen to like dedicated, hard-working men. In any case, I don’t believe this is even an issue.”
“Not an issue? How can it not be an issue? You have the hots for Gigantor’s big brother,” Chuck said, nodding towards Sam as though Castiel might misunderstand who Gigantor referred to.
“Because,” Castiel promptly replied, “I very much doubt that I am Dean’s type. If you think that men like Dean fall over themselves to date me, then I can assure you that is not the case,” and then he took a bite of his sandwich to signal the end of the conversation.
Part II
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: SPN
Prompt: The backtoschool SPN AU challenge and When I first told me family about _____, they didn't believe me.
Summary: Castiel is a history teacher. Dean is a mechanic. They've known of each other through Sam, but finally meet thanks to Castiel's ancient car. Sparks fly!
Special notes: Betaed by the incredible chaosraven, who was invaluable. The story was okay, but she made it ROCK. The title is taken from Taylor Mali's poem What Teachers Make, one of my favorites! ♥
Castiel’s day so far:
8:00 A.M.: Fumbled with alarm, accidentally knocked alarm onto floor, groped for alarm, managed to hit ‘snooze’ button.
8:10 A.M.: Repeated.
8:20 A.M.: Repeated.
8:30 A.M.: Panicked.
8:31 A.M.: Jumped into shower, brushed teeth, skipped shaving, devoured handful of Frosted Shredded Wheat for breakfast, locked door, ran to car.
8:42 A.M.: Ran back into house, grabbed textbooks and grading chart, ran out again.
8:43 A.M.: Miraculously avoided speeding tickets.
8:53 A.M.: Managed to find a parking spot on campus, grabbed all relevant materials from backseat, sprinted towards classroom-
“Hey, Cas!”
8:54 A.M.: Became sidetracked by Sam Winchester.
Castiel, balancing the bulk of paperwork with his right arm, managed to glance at his watch. Even if he did exchange a few pleasantries with Sam, he still had six solid minutes before his students began wondering (see: hoping) if Professor Novak would be a no-show. There was an exam scheduled for that morning and half of them were undoubtedly praying that someway, somehow, the fifty-question test could be postponed until Wednesday.
“You look worse than usual,” Sam observed. He walked over to Castiel to scoop up half of the cumbersome paper pile without so much as a how do you do. “Let me guess: late night with a novel?”
“An insult is a very poor way to greet someone,” Castiel retorted, ignoring Sam’s question and straightening his tie instead. Was his appearance really that telling? “I look the same as always.”
“Vagrantly,” Sam supplied as they began down the hideously taupe hallway and towards Castiel’s classroom. “You haven’t shaved and let's not mention the hair. Anyone else would think you spent a wild night at a ‘den of iniquity’.”
Castiel suppressed a sigh at Sam's eyebrow wiggle. That particular inside joke was well worn, so why did Sam insist on bringing it up at every opportunity? Yes, ‘den of iniquity’ was a dated phrase. Castiel got it already.
“I don’t understand why you find that so humorous,” he muttered. “I only said it once.”
“Yeah, at Chuck’s bachelor party. To the stripper. I’ll never forget the way she yelled at you.”
“We were simply asked to leave.”
“We had to sneak through the back door!”
“I told you it was a bad idea to invite me.”
Sensing Castiel's embarrassment, Sam suggested, “Why don’t you tell me about the book you spent all night reading."
“All right,” Castiel conceded, because Sam’s literary curiosity was a force to be reckoned with. “I recently started an excellent novel called ‘The Pillars of the Earth’. I can hardly put it down. Plus, there’s a sequel of sorts. I am very excited to read them both.”
“You’ll have to lend it to me when you’re done,” Sam said, knowing full well he didn’t have the time to read the Sunday paper, much less a huge novel. Castiel knew it too, and shot Sam a careful look.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, stopping as they reached his classroom door. He took back the pile Sam was carrying and nodded his thanks. “Will you be at lunch?”
“Sure,” Sam replied. “Choking down Dean’s cooking like usual. I honestly don’t know why I let him near the stove. He’s trying to kill me with fried meat and excess carbohydrates.”
Castiel knew-despite the regular complaints about his brother’s loud music, terrible computer skills, and death-defying diet-that Dean was an integral part of Sam’s life, and anyway, Castiel liked hearing Sam’s sibling-related grumbling. It infused a bit of humor into Castiel’s day, and he often found himself trying to imagine being in Sam’s shoes: having a family that loved him dearly; living in a home that didn’t sit in silence.
“Here,” Castiel said. He reached for his lunch bag and rummaged for the red apple he’d stashed inside. He gave it to Sam. “Maybe this will stave off your daily heart attack, despite your brother’s best efforts.”
“God, produce,” Sam said reverently, and took a huge bite right in the middle of the hall. “I owe you, dude. Seriously.”
As he chewed, Sam peeked through the door’s tiny window and into the classroom, where the students were bowed over their textbooks, desperately trying to absorb as much information as possible. He could never understand why they put off studying until ten minutes before the exam.
“Doesn’t look good in there,” he observed. “You curve grades?”
“Depending on the class,” Castiel answered. He gently pushed Sam aside and took a look for himself. Sam patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. Castiel made a face as he realized it was nine o'clock on the dot. He sighed, half-heartedly straightened his tie one last time, and walked inside.
---
It was as horrible as he’d feared. The period was spent watching students anxiously bite their pencils and flip through questions, hoping to find one they could actually answer. He didn’t understand-was his teaching style so bad? He held test reviews and typed up handouts for them to study. He even reserved books at the campus library so students could simply photocopy the material instead of purchasing the expensive textbook. It saved them seventy dollars by his estimation, but they only repaid his efforts with tepid responses to the essay questions and haphazard guesses on the matching portion.
With another forty-five minutes until his next class, there wasn’t much to do except start grading. Castiel wished he’d brought his novel with him. It was a riveting escape to the fact that his students found no interest in subject he was trying to teach. He’d always loved history, but not everyone was excited about Troy or the Crusades or the 1497 Falò delle vanità.
He took out his red pen and got to work. He stopped when his ten thirty students began trickling in, and lectured until eleven forty-five. Once the last of the students had left the classroom, he gladly wiped off the whiteboard, shoved everything into his bag, and headed towards the faculty lounge.
Chuck was already there, hunched over a Mystery Meat combo from Taco Bell. Castiel made a face and removed yesterday’s orange and diet soda from the fridge before taking a seat across from him.
“Hey,” Chuck greeted. “I’m digging the wrinkled trench. What’d you do, sleep in a tree?”
“I will hurt you,” Castiel calmly retorted. He took a small bite of the orange, pressing a firm indent into its skin with his teeth and then began methodically peeling off pieces starting at the indentation and working his way around.
“Please. Who else will DVR your History Channel specials?” Chuck asked, and then glanced at the meager lunch in Castiel’s hands. He pushed some tacos towards Castiel in a silent offering, but the other man simply wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Chuck sighed and dragged the tacos back towards himself.
“So,” he said, “word around the water color is you gave a test today. Should I ask how it went, or divert the conversation to the weather?”
A small collection of orange peelings were building on the table.
“I believe the weather would be a preferable topic,” Castiel replied, concentrating on the task at hand. He finished peeling a moment later, carefully split the orange, and popped a slice into his mouth. “Only seven students have earned A's so far, and half the class will have a failing grade at midterm. How do you have such luck with your students?”
“Most of my students take creative writing as an elective,” Chuck answered. “They aren’t required to take it for graduation, and therefore do better. It’s a Catch-22, my friend.”
Castiel wasn’t sure it was exactly a Catch-22, but he could see where Chuck was making the connection. Still, it didn’t help Castiel answer the question of why. Was he destined to spend his entire career teaching blank-eyed classes about Greek culture or Roman ingenuity?
“Hey, want to come watch some football this weekend? I'll invite Sam, too. It might take your mind off classes,” Chuck offered, seemingly tuned in to Castiel’s resigned mood.
“The last time we tried to watch football, we ended up watching NOVA instead,” Castiel pointed out. He peeled away another segment of orange, chewing contently as Chuck visibly prepared himself to defend educational programming.
His impending crusade was cut short by the entrance of Sam. Chuck glanced at Castiel and then Sam, as though trying to decide whether to wax poetic about public television or simply extend his invitation to Sam instead.
“Hey,” Sam greeted, clearly unaware of Chuck’s internal debate. He tossed his bag onto the lumpy couch and made a beeline for the fridge. He withdrew his usual Tupperware container and unceremoniously shoved it into the microwave. Castiel was sure it oozed radiation. Sam, ignoring the microwave’s usual ominous groans, plopped in a chair.
“Sam. Sammy. Football. You, me, this weekend,” Chuck said.
“We always end up watching NOVA,” Sam replied, reaching over to steal one of Chuck’s soft tacos. “Of course, I like NOVA, so sure. You coming too, Cas?”
Castiel, despite the bad start to his day, found himself smiling. “Yes,” he answered. “Of course. But only if Becky makes nachos.”
“God, yes. Becky can make nachos anytime.”
Chuck shot them both a beady look. “I’m not comfortable with this blatant coveting of my wife’s nachos. It creeps me out.”
Sam laughed with his mouth open, a dimple appearing on each side of his face.
“Swallow!” Chuck squeaked, shielding his eyes with his hands. “Swallow! How many times have I said, ‘Sam, don’t laugh while you’re eating’? It’s enough to make me throw up a little.” The panicked complaint only made Sam laugh harder.
Chuck turned towards Castiel. “He’s disgusting, right? Tell me I’m right.”
Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment, and then, out of nowhere, dropped his jaw to reveal half-eaten orange.
“You too? I’m going to go blind! How do you two expect me to eat now? I’m not a biology teacher, okay? I don’t appreciate the miracle of the digestive system.” Chuck's ranting was obscured by Sam’s now-uncontrollable guffaws and Castiel’s own amusement.
Deep down, past the rules and professionalism and schooling, Castiel was sure they were all still seven-year-old boys.
---
Despite a mood-boosting lunch, Castiel felt the weight of the day at the end of his six o'clock class. After his students filed out, Castiel packed up his grade book, tests, and text. He turned out the lights, locked the door behind him, and then made a quick stop by his office before giving it the same treatment.
It was nippy as he trudged to his car, and he barely had the energy to toss his belongings in the backseat. The car sputtered to life, and reluctantly turned out of the parking lot and on to the main road. Castiel noticed it was idling rather roughly, but was too tired to be concerned. He simply hoped it would get him home.
The ride to his house was uneventful and silent. The stereo was busted, and the speakers were cheap anyway. He turned into his driveway and came to a stop in front of the garage.
He dumped his bag, overflowing with notebooks and papers, on the dining room table.
He debated cooking dinner. He debated getting some extra grading in.
Instead, Castiel closed his eyes and said his prayers. He thanked God for his job and Chuck and Sam, and then he fell asleep in the silence of the house.
---
“I don’t know how you stand teaching the same boring crap every semester,” Dean said around a mouthful of breakfast. He picked up Sam’s well-worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels, glanced at the cover, and carelessly tossed it back towards his brother. “A dude goes sailing, gets shot by a town full of Thumbelinas, then goes home. What’s the big deal?”
“I’ve explained it to you a hundred times,” Sam replied, taking his own bite of food. “It’s social commentary. Swift was trying to make a point.”
“By writing about little people who tie big people to the ground? Sounds more like he’s getting his kink on.”
“That’s because you’re an intellectual wasteland,” Sam retorted. He reclaimed his book-just because it was old didn’t mean it needed to get thrown around-and set it aside. “I’m giving an exam on it next week.”
“Next week is midterms, right?” Dean asked. At Sam’s nod, Dean made a face. “Damn it, I hate midterms. I hate finals more. You always get so bitchy and stressed.”
Sam flipped him off.
Dean’s resulting laughter was interrupted by the cheerful ring of Sam’s cell phone. Sam fished the phone from his bag and opened it. He was greeted by the blurry, frowning face of Castiel as well as his name scrolling across the top of the screen. Cas didn’t usually call for friendly chats-that was more Chuck’s habit.
“Hey Cas,” Sam greeted. Across from him, Dean rolled his eyes and gulped down the rest of his coffee.
“That’s my cue,” he said, rising from his seat to take their plates to the sink. He disappeared into the kitchen, followed shortly by the sound of running water and clinking silverware.
“Sam,” Castiel said, sounding apologetic from his end of the line. “I apologize if I’m disturbing your morning.”
“Don’t sweat it. Dean and I just finished breakfast,” Sam reassured, leaning back into his chair and pushing away Gulliver’s Travels. “What’s up?”
He was answered by an embarrassed silence, and finally Castiel said, “My car will not start. I thought perhaps your brother might have a look at it when he’s available.”
“That rust-bucket finally gave up the ghost? Well, that’s kind of a relief. I thought it would outlive us all,” Sam replied. He could practically hear Castiel’s frown, and Sam regretted his words. The loss of a running vehicle was seriously crippling, and unlike Sam, not everyone had the luxury of having a mechanic for a brother. “Cas, don’t worry. I’ll tell Dean and he’ll fix her up, good as new. You need me to give you a lift to work?”
“I don’t want to bother you,” Castiel replied. “I am perfectly capable of taking the bus.”
“Don’t be stupid, Stupid. We work in the same building. I’ll be around in about fifteen minutes.” Sam checked his watch. If he packed quickly, he and Cas could be stuffing information into students’ head by nine o'clock with no sweat. “I’ll even sweeten the deal with a bacon and egg biscuit. Dean made eight.”
“They reheat well!” Dean shouted from the kitchen, having picked his name out of Sam’s one-sided conversation.
Castiel laughed. It was a rare sound, and Sam felt good that his family could be of some help. “Thank you very much, Sam. I will call a tow truck and have it taken to your brother’s garage. Do you know the address?”
“Dean’s garage has a truck already. He’ll tow it for you,” Sam promised. “See you in fifteen.”
Upon hearing his name for the second time, Dean abandoned the dishes and leaned against the kitchen threshold instead, intent on Sam’s conversation. Castiel thanked him again and hung up. Sam flipped his own phone shut, and began packing up his books. Dean crossed his arms, thoroughly unimpressed.
“You making promises about helping that friend of yours?” he asked. At Sam’s guilty silence, Dean knew he’d guessed right. “Damnit Sammy, I got a ton of work already. I can’t just drop everything to help your fellow geek.”
“Don’t be a drama queen,” Sam said, brushing past his brother to reach the kitchen. He pulled a sandwich bag out of the Ziploc box and packed two of Dean’s admittedly delicious bacon and egg biscuits. Between biscuits and Chuck’s tacos, they might get Cas fed yet. “It’s not like you work at the garage on your own. Dad and Bobby are there. And besides, you tow cars all the time. Helping Cas is like any other job.”
“Yeah, a job he’ll probably expect me not to charge for,” Dean groused.
“You didn’t charge Chuck when he needed his brakes done,” Sam pointed out, taking the biscuits into the dining room with him. He double-checked his bag, patted his pockets for his keys, and made sure his cell phone was in hand before heading for the front door. Dean trailed him the entire time.
“Chuck’s different. I like Chuck. His wife makes great nachos.”
“You’ll like Cas, too,” Sam promised. “Now stop being a jerk and go get his car. It’s a piece of crap, but I’m sure you can make it run like new. I have faith in you.”
Dean tossed his hands up in surrender. “I love how you never give me a choice,” he complained. “Bitch.”
Sam, smug with victory, whistled all the way to his own car, and drove off to pick up Castiel.
---
When Dean arrived for work, Bobby and John were already crowded around the garage’s hideously dated coffee maker.
“Hey Dad, Bobby,” he greeted, tossing his sack lunch into the equally-dated refrigerator (it was yellow, and the inside smelled like eggs, which sort of creeped him out since they never stored eggs in there).
“Mornin’, kid. You want some joe?” Bobby asked, nodding to the pitch-black liquid happily gurgling in the pot. Dean managed not to make a face. He liked strong coffee, but John and Bobby’s brew was like drinking a death sentence.
“Can’t,” he answered. “Sam’s assigned me a civic duty today. I gotta tow his friend’s rust heap back here and give it a once-over.”
John nodding understandingly as Bobby pulled the truck keys from his pocket. He handed them to Dean and said, “Boy, that brother of yours is gonna have you huggin’ trees and adopting homeless kittens soon enough.”
An hour later, Dean found himself back in the garage, flanked on either side by his father and Bobby. The three stood in silence, staring at Castiel Novak’s car like biologists who had discovered a new species of life.
“This is a fuckin’ tragedy,” Bobby muttered, and Dean couldn’t agree more.
The drive to Castiel Novak’s house had been a pleasant one. He didn’t live too far from Sam and Dean’s place, and Dean had guessed which house was Castiel’s without looking at the address first. The house was a split-level with white siding and a yard that was letting itself go. At the front end of the driveway was, as promised, a vehicle with a rusted bumper, slightly flat tire, and a heartbreaking stereo situation. He’d almost felt bad for the car, until he realized what type it was.
It was embarrassing enough to have the thing hooked up to the truck. Dean couldn't imagine being the one to drive it regularly.
“A 1982 Cadillac Cimarron,” John said, squatting to get a better look at the bumper. “And here I thought these were just urban legends.”
Even the lousiest mechanic knew the Cimarron was Cadillac’s biggest shame, but to actually see one that still ran? Well, Jesus. Dean has worked on a lot of shitty cars in his time, but Novak’s little beauty took the cake. He shot Bobby a pleading look, but the older man simply laughed and slammed a wide palm against Dean’s shoulder.
“This’ll learn you not to go doing charity work for Sam’s friends,” he said. “Good luck, kid. You’re going to need a shitload of it.”
Dean watched his father and Bobby give the Cimarron one last disbelieving look and then head for the other cars and trucks in their care. With a sigh, he whipped out his cell phone and texted you owe me forever, sammy to Sam, uncaring whether the little brat was currently teaching a class. Jesus Christ, a Cimarron-what sort of person was this Castiel guy to own one of the worst cars in automobile history?
---
On his way to lunch two days later, Sam received the latest in a series of texts from Dean: Novaks car is done he can come by this afternoon did i tell you its a cimarron what a piece of crap.
Sam vaguely recalled Dean’s rant about Castiel’s car, but he’d tuned out when Dean had begun talking about body styles and transmission. Dean had a terrible habit of launching into car-related discussions that sounded like he was reading straight from the manual.
Sam paused by the water fountain to type back, I’ll let him know, but FYI: some mechanics actually call the car owner, not the owner’s friends. It might be a business practice worth looking into.
He hit ‘send’ and made his way to the lounge. Castiel and Chuck had already beaten him there. Castiel was, predictably, eating a woefully inadequate meal of canned soup; Chuck, on the other hand, was lording over five Arby's sandwiches and a large order of curly fries.
“Good afternoon, Sam,” Castiel said, as Chuck managed to greet, “Hey Sam,” while annihilating the fries. Sam walked over to the fridge, removed his own lunch of leftover spaghetti, and placed it inside the rickety microwave. There was something relaxing about their routine, he decided.
“Dean just texted me,” Sam announced, pulling a chair over and reaching for one of Chuck’s sandwiches. It was more rewarding to steal food from Chuck rather than Cas. Cas never protested-half the time he offered-but Chuck always wore an expression of mortal offense when culinary items were swiped from right beneath his nose. “He says your ride is ready to rock. You can pick it up this afternoon.”
“Thank you,” Castiel replied. “I’ll call a cab and go over there today.”
“Alone?” Chuck demanded, moved enough by the conversation to spare Sam his ‘eat my food and die’ glare. “You can’t go by yourself. It’d be like abandoning a child in the middle of a grocery store. One second the kid’s choosing between Lucky Charms and Trix, the next he’s making friends at the orphanage.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You had one bad experience at the garage and now you’re a wuss about it.”
“Bad experience? Bad? I got lost in the piles of cars! I had to call you to come and find me!”
“You were able to describe the specific pile,” Sam reminded him. “The blue Ford on top of the green Chevy. Dad found you in less than a minute.”
Chuck, clearly frustrated that he wasn’t getting through to Sam, turned his efforts towards Castiel.
“Cas,” he tried again, “there are bullets by the cash register, rusted parts everywhere-it’s a tetanus paradise, I swear-and Robert Singer curses like a sailor. Your ears might fall off.”
“I think you’re being a little melodramatic,” Castiel said, unable to hide his smile. “But if it makes you feel better, I will try my best not to get lost, shot, or misplace my ears.”
Chuck was clearly unhappy that his warnings weren't being taken seriously, but simply stuffed fries into his mouth and said, “Fine, but it’s your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
---
When the cab dropped him off at Winchester’s Auto R&R (Restore and Repair, Sam had explained), Castiel was beginning to reconsider Chuck’s warning. He certainly hadn’t exaggerated about the rusted pieces littering the sandy ground, or the piles of busted cars dotting the property, or the fact that it would be very easy to get lost: there were no signs or directions to follow, so Castiel simply started walking from the mailbox towards what he hoped was the yard’s center.
A ramshackle building materialized after a minute or two. Castiel felt extremely out of place as he approached it. Rock music was blasting from the immense garage doors, and snippets of rough conversation could be heard over whatever was currently playing on the stereo. Castiel slowly approached, hoping he’d find someone outside first, but was out of luck. The mechanics, one of whom had to be Dean, were all in the garage, intent on their work.
The first man, wearing a plaid shirt and baseball cap, was concentrating on a pair of busted headlights-but looked far too old to be Sam’s brother. Another man was working on a tire rim two cars down. He was slightly younger, and wore stained jeans and a greasy button-up shirt; still, Castiel had a feeling that wasn’t Dean, either. He wished he’d asked for a description before getting into the cab, but Sam had already been in the middle of class.
“Excuse me!” Castiel called, trying to get either man’s attention over the sound of classic rock.
He took an uneasy step inside, and then another, until he was standing in the middle of the garage. The new vantage point revealed several things: first of all, there were bullets by the cash register, and secondly, his car was still in the garage, and two legs were sticking out from underneath it. Castiel quickly walked over to where his Cadillac was waiting.
He wanted to clear his throat to get the person’s-hopefully Dean, though he couldn’t tell by legs alone-attention, but the sound would be undetectable in the midst of the blaring music. He glanced at his shoes. Should he nudge the leg? Or stoop down to the mechanic’s level? Should he simply wait by the register and hope someone noticed his presence?
His options became irrelevant when the person suddenly rolled out from beneath the car, caught sight of a stranger looming over him, and jumped out of his skin.
Castiel felt the impulsive need to apologize, but knew the words would only be drowned out. The young man, who Castiel felt confident was Sam’s brother, scrambled up and reached over towards the wall, yanking a plug right out of the outlet. An abrupt, deafening silence replaced the noise that had previously filled the garage, and Castiel’s apparent invisibility was broken with the sudden attention of all three mechanics.
“Can I help you?” Dean demanded, clearly displeased with how he’d been approached.
Castiel felt an acute flush of embarrassment rise up his neck. “Yes,” he managed to answer. “I am Castiel Novak. Are you Dean?”
Dean relaxed at that, and leaned against the Cimarron with his hip. His brown hair was messy with sweat, and patches of his skin were smeared with grease. He smelled, too, but not unpleasantly. It was the scent of sweat and work, like a man who used his muscles to make a living instead of his mind. He wore an old t-shirt that was stained with all matter of things: dirt, oil, and whatever else was in the garage, but it still fit him attractively. Castiel glanced away.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he acknowledged. “Sorry for barking at you. You just startled me, is all.”
“It’s my fault,” Castiel quickly cut in. “The music was too loud for me to get your attention, so I was trying to find another way.”
Dean grinned sheepishly, and scratched the back of his neck. His muscles shifted beneath his shirt, and Castiel felt the sudden need to call Sam and give him a good talking to. He hadn’t told Castiel about-about Dean, about how he was...how he just was.
“Totally my bad. I’m the one who usually cranks it up.” He removed his hand from his neck, and wiped it against his pants leg before holding it out. “Dean Winchester.”
They shook hands. Dean’s hand was exceptionally warm, almost hot. “Please call me Castiel, or Cas. That seems to be the nickname most people give me.”
“Okay, Cas.” He pointed over to the two older gentlemen. “That’s my dad, John, and over there’s Bobby Singer. Sam mighta mentioned them at some point.”
“He’s talked about them both many times,” Castiel confirmed. “Chuck has as well, though his experience was less... positive, you might say.”
Dean laughed. “I’ll never forget the time he got lost in all the cars. Poor guy hasn’t been back since.”
Castiel smiled, recalling Chuck’s ominous tale. It was pretty funny, now that he thought about it. Chuck was immensely sweet, but tended to be a little high-strung and anxious. Undoubtedly Chuck had been in less danger than he had thought, but Castiel would be good enough not to mention it.
“All right,” Dean said, patting the Cimarron’s hood. “I was just finishing up. You want the run-down on your girl?”
Castiel blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, belatedly realizing Dean was referring to the Cadillac. “Oh, yes. If you don’t mind.”
Dean smiled again. “Sure thing, Cas,” he said, turning to pop the hood. Castiel had never been knowledgeable about motors, but Dean seemed to be used to customers’ ignorance and explained it as simply as he could, pointing out the parts that were repaired or replaced.
“Thank you,” Castiel said at the end, and reached into his back pocket. “This work looks very good. How much is the total?”
Dean frowned, his eyes flicking to John and Bobby for just a moment. He shrugged. “On the house,” he said. “It’s your reward for dealing with Sam. I do Chuck’s brakes from time to time, so-”
“Dean, I would like to pay you. It isn’t easy to find a dependable mechanic,” Castiel cut in. He removed his wallet. “Do you take personal checks?”
Dean shook his head again. “No way, Cas. Any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine, and I don’t charge friends. End of story.”
“I will simply ask Sam your usual fee and have him give you the money. It would be less trouble if you told me now,” Castiel pointed out. He withdrew a pen from his coat pocket and poised it over a blank check.
The mood of the garage was suddenly broken by the sound of a car horn.
“Look,” Bobby cut in. “This little episode of ‘Who’s on First’ has been entertaining, but the pizza guy’s here. If you two haven’t figured out something by the time we get back, I’ll knock your heads together.”
John rolled his eyes at Bobby’s gruffness, but then pointed to Castiel. “It’s not often I get to meet Sam’s friends, so don’t go anywhere,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”
Castiel found himself tensing in the resulting silence. Dean, too, watched them go with an expression of discomfort. Castiel felt ridiculous that his checkbook was still in his hands.
“So,” Dean said, moving from the car towards the counter, ignoring the issue of payment and graciously filling the space between them with words. “Sam talks about you sometimes. You teach history, right?”
“Yes.” Castiel felt relieved that he had something competent to say; if Dean had attempted to engage him in a conversation about cars, it would be an extremely short discussion. “Early Civilizations, Greco-Roman, and European History to 1700. Occasionally American history as well, if it’s needed. Now about the cost-”
“The whole history of the world is in your head?” Dean interrupted. “How do you remember it all?”
Castiel wondered whether Dean was mocking him, but the frank openness of Dean’s expression didn’t suggest it.
“History is actually the simplest to remember, because it doesn’t change much,” Castiel answered. There was a familiar inclination to just start rambling about history and its many facets, but personal experience advised him to condense his love for the subject into two or three sentences. “Ancient history is my specialty-the Egyptians, Greeks, Phoenicians, their languages. Their art is wonderful as well, though I prefer medieval and Renaissance paintings in general. The depictions of religious iconography are incredibly intense.”
One glance at Dean told Castiel he’d said too much. Dean’s expression was perplexed, as though he hadn’t fully understood what he’d been told. Castiel felt an embarrassed flush start at his neck and climb to his face. Why did Sam and Chuck always claim he never talked enough? It was obvious he talked too much.
“Hey,” Dean quickly said. “I’m sorry; I just never paid much attention in school. It’s cool that you like that stuff. Me, I’m just a mechanic.”
“At least your knowledge is practical,” Castiel said. “It helps people. I can assure you no one’s livelihood depends on whether I can recall Cleopatra’s birth date.”
“I don’t exactly hold anyone’s livelihood in my hands, either,” Dean replied, hopping up to sit on the counter. He rolled some of the bullets away and turned to face Castiel, who said, “A person’s car is one of their greatest assets. It was extremely kind of your brother to drive me to work this past week, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to be stuck with that task forever.”
Dean grinned widely. “I’m sure Sasquatch wouldn’t mind. Aren’t you guys like BFFs or something?”
Castiel’s lips quirked. He glanced down at his shoes, and then realized there was no point in holding onto the check like a stubborn fool. He placed his wallet back into his pocket. He’d simply ask Sam whether he knew Dean’s usual fee and send the payment by mail. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”
A long pause stretched between them.
“You both have midterms coming up, right?” Dean asked, when it became clear Castiel didn’t have much else to add. “Do you get frazzled like Sam? He’s impossible to live with when it comes to the big tests.”
“Certainly, but the students are even more frazzled. My interest in history isn’t usually shared by my classes.” Castiel wished he had more to say about it. Dean was clearly trying to extend the conversation to avoid an awkward silence, but he had no idea what their shared hobbies were. Castiel knew nothing about automobiles, and he had a feeling that academia wasn’t Dean’s preference. Grasping at straws for an appropriate topic, he said, “Your brother is an exceptional instructor. Do you share his interest in reading?”
Dean rubbed the back of his neck again, as though embarrassed. “I’m more of a magazine man myself. Why, you reading something good right now?”
“Yes,” Castiel instantaneously replied, grateful for the commonality between them. It made no difference that Dean was more interested in magazines. In fact, Castiel scolded himself for not thinking of the topic sooner. He’d found that strangers could always discuss reading despite the initial discomfort of a first meeting. “It’s a historical novel and extremely engaging-”
The approaching sound of Bobby and John’s voices ceased any further conversation, and a moment later the two men were back with three boxes of pizza and a two liter of Pepsi.
“Two pepperonis and one veggie for your hippy brother,” Bobby announced. “I’ll never understand that boy’s love for rabbit food.”
“I believe Sam is simply trying to make up for some of the things Dean cooks,” Castiel offered.
“What’s the supposed to mean?” Dean demanded, but his smile was wide. Sam had always described his brother as a rough-n-tumble sort of person, but the man standing in front of Castiel was entertaining and at ease with his surroundings. “You saying a week’s worth of Philly cheese steak isn’t healthy? Guess that means you don’t want any of this pizza, then.” He walked over and flipped open the tops until he found the veggie one. He lifted the box in Castiel’s direction. “Seriously, you hungry? Contrary to what Sam says, I can’t actually eat an entire box of pizza on my own.”
“Thank you, but no. I should be getting home,” Castiel replied. “I have a lot of grading to do, unfortunately.”
“You just got here,” John protested. “How am I supposed to embarrass my youngest son if you won’t stay to listen?”
Castiel smiled. “Another time,” he promised. “I would honestly enjoy hearing his horrible childhood stories. It will be refreshing to hang something over his head for once.”
John laughed as he moved to trade handshakes; Bobby nodded and did the same. Dean, for his part, walked back around the register, pulled open a drawer, and rummaged through its contents until he pulled out Castiel’s car keys. He gestured for Castiel to join him by the Cimarron.
“It was great to meet you,” Dean said, and they shook hands again. John and Bobby’s voices littered the background. “You and Chuck are pretty much the only thing that keeps Sam going. Hey, before you go, I’ve been meaning to ask-” He grinned a little, and shook his head. “Aren’t you the same guy who got Chuck kicked out of his own bachelor party?”
Castiel felt heat color his face. “Sam told you about that? I will kill him.”
Dean’s grin only widened. “Nah, don’t kill him. Just come around one of these days and let Dad regale you with tales from Sasquatch’s teenage emo years. You’ll have enough blackmail material to last you a lifetime.”
With that, Dean handed over the keys. Castiel accepted with a smile and got into his car. He wished Dean a good evening, and drove away. Somehow, meeting Dean felt like a simultaneous success and failure. He’d at last met the most important person in Sam’s life, which felt significant considering Sam was one of Castiel’s two best friends. The failure, however, came with knowing that someone as beautiful as Dean Winchester would never give Castiel Novak a second glance.
---
The morning after Castiel Novak picked up his car and drove off, Dean woke feeling unsettled and strangely dissatisfied. He’d gone to sleep feeling the exact same way, but at least Sam hadn’t been there to witness it. The morning would be less kind, given that Dean and Sam always had breakfast together. He took a long shower in an attempt to shake off whatever cloud was looming over his head. Once he was clean, he headed to the kitchen and scrambled eight eggs for their usual shared breakfast.
Not only did Dean feel out of sorts, but he also felt like an idiot. Ever since the mysterious Castiel had become a part of Sam’s life, Dean had assumed that he was another Chuck or Sam or even a crazy Doc Brown-ish professor, but Castiel wasn’t any of those. He was something else, something that made Dean unreasonably self-conscious and careful. He wondered if it was the same on Castiel’s end: had Sam mentioned Dean? Had Cas envisioned Dean as a gluttonous, dumb mechanic with only a GED to his name? Someone who drank their weight in alcohol and never picked up books, or read the news, or looked at paintings and thought they were beautiful?
He heard Sam clomp down the stairs and walk into the kitchen. Dean concentrated on pouring two glasses of orange juice, and hoped Sam would fill the awkwardness with complaints about the upcoming midterms. He was in the mood for a little normalcy, even if the normalcy came in the form of Sam's bitching.
Instead, Sam accepted breakfast with a quick thanks, stuffed a forkful of eggs in his mouth, and asked, “Did Cas get his car okay?”
Dean glanced up.
“Yeah,” he managed to answer. “It was no problem.”
“Did you meet him?” came the next question. “Please tell me he didn’t get lost in all the trash piles. You and Dad really need to get some signs up or people’ll never find the actual garage.”
“I met him. He was nice. Likes reading,” Dean replied. Maybe his staccato answers would divert his brother away from the conversation and onto another topic.
Sam just snorted. “You’re telling me. For a history professor, he could just as easily teach my lit classes.”
Dean considered the statement, and took a big swallow of juice. Then he said, as neutral as he could manage, “Bet it drives his wife or whatever nuts. I know Becky hates shoving all of Chuck’s books around.”
Sam snorted in disbelief, like the mental image was simply incomprehensible. “Cas, married? That’ll be the day, dude.”
Dean let the subject drop-because what did it matter if Cas wasn’t married or seeing anyone? It wasn't like the guy was going to fall for some prick who barely finished high school-and drifted into the comfort of Sam’s Usual Conversation Topics: school, problem students, his hatred of online classes, asking about Dad and Bobby, and then forcing Dean to talk, too. Dean was grateful. He didn’t like to think about what sort of person he’d be without Sammy.
---
“Oh, good. You’re still alive,” Chuck greeted, swallowing down the last bit of banana milkshake to make room for the words in his mouth. “I was seriously going to call you last night, but Becky said I was being ridiculous. According to her, you have a much better sense of direction than yours truly.”
Castiel smiled at his friend’s concern and sat down at their usual table. Sam was already tucking into some sort of sandwich with bacon on it-Sam made a face and removed the bacon a moment later-while Chuck emptied a seemingly endless bag of Sonic food.
“I am very much alive, thank you,” Castiel said. Sam leaned over to swipe a handful of Chuck’s tater-tots and Chuck attempted to slap the thieving hand away. The gesture proved to be as ineffective as usual.
“Your brother was very kind,” Castiel told Sam. Sam’s eyebrows rose, and he hastily chewed the stolen tater-tots in order to reply.
“Seriously? Dean was ‘very kind’? Are you sure you weren’t talking with Dad or something?”
“I’m quite sure, Sam,” Castiel replied. He removed his peanut-butter sandwich from his lunch bag and began eating. “He wouldn’t let me to pay him, but I can’t let him do that work for free. I realize my car is outdated, and I’m sure he had his hands full with it.”
“Your car’s a piece of crap,” Chuck agreed. “I can’t believe it even rolls anymore.”
“Thank you, Chuck,” Castiel retorted pleasantly. “I won’t forget you said that.”
Sam shook his head and grinned at Chuck’s oh shit wince. “Look, I’m just glad he treated you okay. I love the guy, but there are times I wonder how we can be related.”
Castiel glanced at Sam, and then Chuck, who was currently trying to regain Castiel’s goodwill by offering the remainder of his tater-tots. He refused them, unsurprisingly, but was still gratified by the attempt, and by the fact his two lunch mates were a part of his day. They were more than that; they were his best friends, the only two constants in his life, in school and out. Having lunch with them was a welcome ritual, one Castiel gladly embraced-especially if it got his mind off Dean Winchester, off his t-shirts and smell and all the other tidbits Castiel had noticed during their brief meeting the night before.
“You’re certainly related. The resemblance is clear,” he said. And wasn’t that strange? Castiel had never been attracted to Sam. He knew Sam was attractive: tall, sweet-faced, funny, but Castiel had never considered Sam as anything more than a friend. Chuck, too, would’ve been desirable in his own scruffy manner if not for the fact he was 1) married, and 2) Chuck. Castiel couldn’t explain it any other way. “But I agree your personalities are very different.”
“As in, I have the better one?” Sam amended, and then grinned to show he was joking. “It’s okay to say it. Dean grows on you after a while, though. His girlfriends never stick around long enough to find that out.”
“Dean has no girlfriend?” Castiel asked, wanting to cringe as soon as the words left his mouth. Did he have to sound so surprised and earnest? He immediately tried to salvage his faux pas by adding something nonchalant and diverting to the conversation, but nothing came to mind. He could only watch as Sam and Chuck set down their respective lunches and exchanged looks over the table. Their eyes focused on Castiel a moment later.
“Dude,” Sam said.
“Dean?” Chuck asked.
“Not that I’m judging.”
“Me either. But we’ve tried introducing you to guys before-”
“-all of which were infinitely more educated and better mannered than my brother-”
“-and they all turned out to be disasters.”
Castiel had mental whiplash trying to follow the jointed remark, and felt frustrated by the resulting lapse into silence. What did it matter whether or not he liked Dean? It wasn’t as though he knew him well, and in any case, dating his friend’s brother seemed like a recipe for trouble.
“Those men were not ‘disasters’, as you say,” Castiel argued. He felt the tips of his ears burn, but ignored it. Perhaps Sam and Chuck would be so kind to do the same. “We just weren’t compatible.”
“Not compatible?” Chuck echoed. “Ash is compatible with everyone! He loves the whole world!”
“He crushes beer cans with his forehead,” Castiel reminded him. Truthfully, Ash was very sweet, but in addition to the forehead-crushing, he also had a tendency to simply slit the bottom of his beer can and drink from there instead of using the tab. The mullet had been off-putting as well.
“What about Crowley?” Sam asked. “He was respectable. Nice house, good job.”
“Have you ever been to his house?” Castiel asked.
Sam winced. “No. Bad?”
“Lovely, with the exception of a hound dog that reached my waist. It wanted to eat me.”
“Okay,” Chuck cut in, snapping his fingers like he’d just thought of something. “What about the owner of that restaurant. What was it called, Cupid's? It has the Valentine’s decorations up all year? He was nice.”
“He hugged.”
“There’s nothing wrong with hugging,” Sam said. “You're just being finicky.”
“He hugged a lot. If it was possible to quantify the amount of hugging that occurred on our first date, then perhaps you would understand.”
“So you’re saying Dean Winchester is somehow your ideal man?” Chuck asked. “Look, I like Dean. But he’s rude, crude, and can down a six-pack in half an hour. He just doesn’t seem like your type.”
“And what would my type be?” Castiel asked. “I happen to like dedicated, hard-working men. In any case, I don’t believe this is even an issue.”
“Not an issue? How can it not be an issue? You have the hots for Gigantor’s big brother,” Chuck said, nodding towards Sam as though Castiel might misunderstand who Gigantor referred to.
“Because,” Castiel promptly replied, “I very much doubt that I am Dean’s type. If you think that men like Dean fall over themselves to date me, then I can assure you that is not the case,” and then he took a bite of his sandwich to signal the end of the conversation.
Part II