Fic :: Supernatural :: And when you poured us together, it was something
And when you poured us together, it was something
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Summary: After stopping the Apocalypse, Sam and Dean run a coffee shop. Castiel and Ruby help. (Uriel can come too.)
Posting date: January 2009
*
He was my cream, and I was his coffee -
And when you poured us together, it was something.
-Josephine Baker
The embarrassing- the horrifyingly embarrassing- truth of it all is that, Dean actually kinda likes the way his life has ended up. There’s no saving people, there’s no hunting things, and there was a time- as in, his whole damn lifetime- when the thought of doing anything other than hunt was somewhere up there with ‘hey let’s try to breathe underwater’ in the stupidity ranks, but things change. Taking a break from everything becomes signing the lease for an apartment with a fake name, and from there the slope into running your own coffee shop is apparently really goddamn slippery.
Without him ever really meaning it to, things changed.
He still takes his baby out for a spin on the weekends, and somedays it seems like Sam wouldn’t leave if Dean chased him with guns- which is probably a good thing- and that, Dean figures, is all he ever really needed.
They ended up here almost accidentally. Salting and burning spooks had felt more like a chore than the Winchester calling, with the Almost End of Days still smoke on the horizon, and they’d both been pretty free of joie de vivre when Dean’s baby blew a tyre on the edge of town
Dean had figured it was the big guy upstair’s way of telling them to take a break, and Sam had shrugged and nodded when he suggested they stay for a couple- and the kid had been kinda non-responsive back then, so that was pretty much the Sam equivalent of a blessing, far as Dean was concerned.
A couple days became a couple weeks, and once Dean moved through that big ol’ chunk of denial and figured it was time to stop pretending they were going anywhere anytime soon, he got a job at the coffee shop ‘cause the mechanic wasn’t hiring. He got the tiny apartment over the Mexican restaurant, thinking it’d do Sam good to have a real place to live. He got saucepans and bed linen and a new laptop at last.
A few years later, the old gang started trickling in, like rivers running to the sea. Which is to say, inevitably.
Dean’s the second one in, most mornings; or third if Sam stays up all night, less and less these days. He used to aim for first, but there’s just no fucking point trying to race an angel. Even if the guy does sleep- and after all this time, Dean still doesn’t know for sure- he can just flutter into being wherever he wants.
Castiel doesn’t like it when Dean calls it fluttering, but Dean doesn’t like the stupid jokes Castiel’s been trying out lately so he figures they’re even.
“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, once Dean’s unlocked the front door- who needs keys when you can materialise at will, right? -and stepped into the warmth and the smell of fresh brewed coffee.
“Morning, Cass,” Dean says, flicking the store’s lights on, ‘cause Castiel always forgets and Sam just never bothers. He arranges Ruby’s muffins- surprisingly good baking for a chick who’s still technically a demon- in the weird hand-woven baskets she brought back from a trip out of town; the customers seem to like them, so whatever. By the time he’s done with that, there’ll be a cup of coffee waiting for him on the miraculously clean counter-top, hot enough and black enough that he’ll be almost ready to face the early-morning customers once he’s done drinking it.
That’s the way his mornings go now, every one of them, and who knew Dean Winchester was such a creature of habit?
Castiel had been the first, and let’s face it, a grand total of nobody was surprised by that one. He’d hung around for a while, after the End of Days had been so dramatically averted, just talking to the angels from both sides who fancied sticking around now the Earth was as well. He’d been keeping an eye on Sam then, too, with nobody- not even the demons- quite sure what hellfire does to a living person.
They had kept in touch, since then, and Dean had almost been expecting it when he fluttered into town a few years later. He’d put in a good word to his boss, anyway, back when Campbell’s Coffee was still Little’s Coffee House and Dean still wasn’t quite ready to admit that they were maybe here for good.
Ruby puts up the Christmas decorations pretty much as soon as she’s torn the Thanksgiving ones down. She whistles ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’ as she works, pinning streamers all around the store and sticking tinsel around the edge of the counter.
“No more fake snow,” Dean tells her. “Not after what happened last year.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” she says, with a cheery smile, all sparkly white teeth and angelic expression. She ruffles his hair as she stumps by with the step-ladder, intent on decking the halls with boughs of holly or whatever it is people do, but half an hour later- with everything wrapped in tinsel that stayed put long enough and the customers beginning to drift away into the evening- she still hasn’t brought the fake snow out. Little victories.
She has arranged the nativity scene into what is essentially some hardcore king-on-king action, but Castiel rearranges it with a frown as he passes by, collecting dirty mugs.
“Dean,” he says, once he’s reached the counter. “Darth Vader walks in and orders a coffee.”
“Have you even seen Star Wars?”
“No,” Castiel says, soldiering on. “Darth Vader walks in and orders a coffee. You say, ‘With cream?’ Darth Vader says, ‘No, I take my coffee on the dark side.’”
He chuckles, then waits patiently for Dean to do the same.
“That’s great, Cass. That really is.” Dean grimaces, wiping at the counter-top- it’s miraculously clean, as usual- until Castiel gives a satisfied nod and goes back to clearing the tables. People might think that angels don’t do funny, but they’re wrong. It’s just that the angelic sense of humour is bad.
Ruby got Castiel a jokebook last Christmas. Sometimes Dean can’t decide whether she’s trying to seduce the angel or trying to ruin Dean’s life.
The bell on the door rings as Joe the Mechanic is paying for his latte with kinda oily dollar bills, and Dean glances up. He’s only half interested in whoever’s come inside, ‘cause Joe’s telling him about the ’71 Firebird he worked on today, but then he sees it’s Sam.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam says. He’s got his coat buttoned up to his nose, and he’s dripping rainwater everywhere, and he’s smiling in a sheepish sort of way. “Joe,” he adds. “Cass. Kevin.”
Everyone choruses their ‘hello’s like they belong in a wholesome sitcom, and Dean passes Joe his change and his latte, waves him away with a promise to check the Firebird out some day. Ruby flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ behind Joe’s retreating back.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. “You gotta get a life, man. Coming in here on your day off is just sad.”
“Ruby told me she was making cinnamon muffins today,” Sam says, shaking his wet hair out of his face. “I know you’ll eat them all if I’m not here.”
“He saved one for you, Scarface,” Ruby calls from the top of her step-ladder. “Dean-o’s filled with ooey-gooey caramel under that crunchy exterior. Who knew?”
“I’m your boss for ten more minutes tonight,” Dean snaps, but Sam’s just laughing and shaking his head. He leans back against the counter as he waits for Dean to finish up, undoing a couple buttons on his coat and tilting his head back to admire the Christmas decorations, and his scar twists up with the movement of his smile.
Today must be a good day, Dean figures. Most days are now, or at least they aren’t bad, but still. Today must be a good day. That’s- you know. It’s good.
So yeah, Castiel wasn’t much of a surprise, and nor was Ruby, really. Dean didn’t exactly like the chick or anything, but in the end they were the ones she fought with, and that’s got to count for something. It doesn’t hurt that she does awesome baked goods, either.
Uriel had been the unexpected one. Dean hadn’t expected him to choose to fight on the human side of things, and then he hadn’t expected the guy to stick around on Earth afterwards, and then he really hadn’t expected him to turn up in Campbell’s Coffee a couple years after Castiel did.
“We worked together once,” Uriel had said- said to Castiel, anyway, ‘cause him and Dean never exactly bonded, what with the whole ‘I want to smite your brother’ thing. “I hope we can work together again.”
Yeah, Uriel’s a barrel of surprises. Dean keeps him in the kitchen, away from human interference, just in case.
Kevin- is just Kevin, the kid who works the busy shifts and is saving up for college and wonders what the hell kind of war all his colleagues fought together in. He wondered what the hell was up with Sam once, when he’d just started, but Dean’s pretty sure he won’t do that again any time soon.
There was this time Sam spilt hot coffee on his hand. That was a really bad day.
Today is pretty okay, as far as these things go. Dean serves a few dozen people, talks weather with Ms. Ramsbury for five minutes, and then orders Kevin out front to the coffee making. He figures he’s earned himself a ten minute breather.
Against the expectations of what must be the entire goddamn nation, considering how many people always ask him if he can spare a cigarette when he’s out and about, Dean isn’t a smoker. He’s pretty sure Dad had been waiting to catch him with a carton of Marlboro throughout his teenage years, but it just never happened.
Dean figures it’s too late to start a bad habit now, anyway, but there’s an alley round the back of the coffee shop where he likes to go and not smoke. He can see across the street to their apartment, sometimes spot Sam moving around inside when he’s home, and further in the distance are the tree-tops of the tiny local park. They’ll get a dog one day and throw balls for it in there.
Dean is leaning back against the damp brick wall, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he wonders whether Sam would like a Labrador, when Uriel sticks his head around the door.
“Your brother is here,” he says. He pauses, face scrunching up with something other than the usual Sam-related angelic annoyance, but then all he says is, “Kevin took him into the kitchen.”
“Shit,” Dean says. “Don’t try serving the customers, you’ll want to smite them,” he adds. “I’ll send Kevin back out.” He doesn’t have to push past Uriel, because that guy has a sixth sense for knowing when to move out of the way.
Sam’s in the kitchen, as promised. He’s pacing around the middle of the room, with Kevin hovering a safe distance away, small and uncertain. Dean only makes it halfway through a, “Get back to work,” and he doesn’t even have a chance to finish before Kevin hurries away.
Kevin is kinda scared of Sam, most of the time.
“Dean,” Sam says, urgently. He grabs hold of Dean’s arms with shaking hands. “We have to go. I had a vision. There’s this, this fire-”
“Hey, okay, it’s all right,” Dean soothes, manoeuvring Sam down onto the floor, as there aren’t any chairs nearby. “It was just a bad dream.”
Sam’s shaking all over now, but Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t noticed. “No, Dean, it was a vision. There’s a fire in Lawrence, and someone gets caught in it, and I saw - it - you were there, and-”
“That was years ago, Sammy,” Dean says gently. He prises Sam’s fingers away from his arms. “Remember? You don’t have visions anymore. Just a bad dream.”
Sam’s hands drop. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I forgot.”
“I figured.” Dean sits down next to him, leaning back against the cupboard with a wince as his knees protest. He’s not as young as he used to be, and sometimes the bad days are like nothing’s changed at all.
“I forgot,” Sam says again, touching the scar that curls up his face.
What happened was-
Yeah, you know what? It doesn’t really matter what happened. Shit happened, the kind of shit that can take Lilith and Lucifer down in a psychic double-whammy, and Dean didn’t feel much like saying ‘I told you so’ afterwards. He figures Sam would have just said ‘I told you so’ back, if he’d been up to talking.
It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s just a good thing Sam’s more than a pretty face.
They were both right, really.
Nobody wants coffee on Sundays. And if they do, tough shit, ‘cause they’re sure as hell not getting it from Campbell’s. Sundays are Dean’s special day.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didja miss me?”
“I can come back later,” Sam says, “if you need some time alone.”
Dean flips him off, leaning back in his seat with a happy sigh. The upholstery creaks invitingly, urging him to close his eyes and breathe in deep. She smells just like she did last week, which is just like she always does. He turns the key in the ignition by touch, and the rumble of the engine is exactly the way it should be.
“So, where do we gonna go?” he says. “Anywhere you wanna go?”
“Please.” Sam snorts. “Like you actually need a destination. Just drive. Feed your sick habit.”
“I can do that,” Dean says, beaming across at Sam. Sam rolls his eyes, but then he smiles back in a bright, wide grin, just like he always does. It looks perfect.
Really, Dean figures, nothing's changed at all.
*
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Summary: After stopping the Apocalypse, Sam and Dean run a coffee shop. Castiel and Ruby help. (Uriel can come too.)
Posting date: January 2009
*
He was my cream, and I was his coffee -
And when you poured us together, it was something.
-Josephine Baker
The embarrassing- the horrifyingly embarrassing- truth of it all is that, Dean actually kinda likes the way his life has ended up. There’s no saving people, there’s no hunting things, and there was a time- as in, his whole damn lifetime- when the thought of doing anything other than hunt was somewhere up there with ‘hey let’s try to breathe underwater’ in the stupidity ranks, but things change. Taking a break from everything becomes signing the lease for an apartment with a fake name, and from there the slope into running your own coffee shop is apparently really goddamn slippery.
Without him ever really meaning it to, things changed.
He still takes his baby out for a spin on the weekends, and somedays it seems like Sam wouldn’t leave if Dean chased him with guns- which is probably a good thing- and that, Dean figures, is all he ever really needed.
They ended up here almost accidentally. Salting and burning spooks had felt more like a chore than the Winchester calling, with the Almost End of Days still smoke on the horizon, and they’d both been pretty free of joie de vivre when Dean’s baby blew a tyre on the edge of town
Dean had figured it was the big guy upstair’s way of telling them to take a break, and Sam had shrugged and nodded when he suggested they stay for a couple- and the kid had been kinda non-responsive back then, so that was pretty much the Sam equivalent of a blessing, far as Dean was concerned.
A couple days became a couple weeks, and once Dean moved through that big ol’ chunk of denial and figured it was time to stop pretending they were going anywhere anytime soon, he got a job at the coffee shop ‘cause the mechanic wasn’t hiring. He got the tiny apartment over the Mexican restaurant, thinking it’d do Sam good to have a real place to live. He got saucepans and bed linen and a new laptop at last.
A few years later, the old gang started trickling in, like rivers running to the sea. Which is to say, inevitably.
Dean’s the second one in, most mornings; or third if Sam stays up all night, less and less these days. He used to aim for first, but there’s just no fucking point trying to race an angel. Even if the guy does sleep- and after all this time, Dean still doesn’t know for sure- he can just flutter into being wherever he wants.
Castiel doesn’t like it when Dean calls it fluttering, but Dean doesn’t like the stupid jokes Castiel’s been trying out lately so he figures they’re even.
“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel says, once Dean’s unlocked the front door- who needs keys when you can materialise at will, right? -and stepped into the warmth and the smell of fresh brewed coffee.
“Morning, Cass,” Dean says, flicking the store’s lights on, ‘cause Castiel always forgets and Sam just never bothers. He arranges Ruby’s muffins- surprisingly good baking for a chick who’s still technically a demon- in the weird hand-woven baskets she brought back from a trip out of town; the customers seem to like them, so whatever. By the time he’s done with that, there’ll be a cup of coffee waiting for him on the miraculously clean counter-top, hot enough and black enough that he’ll be almost ready to face the early-morning customers once he’s done drinking it.
That’s the way his mornings go now, every one of them, and who knew Dean Winchester was such a creature of habit?
Castiel had been the first, and let’s face it, a grand total of nobody was surprised by that one. He’d hung around for a while, after the End of Days had been so dramatically averted, just talking to the angels from both sides who fancied sticking around now the Earth was as well. He’d been keeping an eye on Sam then, too, with nobody- not even the demons- quite sure what hellfire does to a living person.
They had kept in touch, since then, and Dean had almost been expecting it when he fluttered into town a few years later. He’d put in a good word to his boss, anyway, back when Campbell’s Coffee was still Little’s Coffee House and Dean still wasn’t quite ready to admit that they were maybe here for good.
Ruby puts up the Christmas decorations pretty much as soon as she’s torn the Thanksgiving ones down. She whistles ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’ as she works, pinning streamers all around the store and sticking tinsel around the edge of the counter.
“No more fake snow,” Dean tells her. “Not after what happened last year.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” she says, with a cheery smile, all sparkly white teeth and angelic expression. She ruffles his hair as she stumps by with the step-ladder, intent on decking the halls with boughs of holly or whatever it is people do, but half an hour later- with everything wrapped in tinsel that stayed put long enough and the customers beginning to drift away into the evening- she still hasn’t brought the fake snow out. Little victories.
She has arranged the nativity scene into what is essentially some hardcore king-on-king action, but Castiel rearranges it with a frown as he passes by, collecting dirty mugs.
“Dean,” he says, once he’s reached the counter. “Darth Vader walks in and orders a coffee.”
“Have you even seen Star Wars?”
“No,” Castiel says, soldiering on. “Darth Vader walks in and orders a coffee. You say, ‘With cream?’ Darth Vader says, ‘No, I take my coffee on the dark side.’”
He chuckles, then waits patiently for Dean to do the same.
“That’s great, Cass. That really is.” Dean grimaces, wiping at the counter-top- it’s miraculously clean, as usual- until Castiel gives a satisfied nod and goes back to clearing the tables. People might think that angels don’t do funny, but they’re wrong. It’s just that the angelic sense of humour is bad.
Ruby got Castiel a jokebook last Christmas. Sometimes Dean can’t decide whether she’s trying to seduce the angel or trying to ruin Dean’s life.
The bell on the door rings as Joe the Mechanic is paying for his latte with kinda oily dollar bills, and Dean glances up. He’s only half interested in whoever’s come inside, ‘cause Joe’s telling him about the ’71 Firebird he worked on today, but then he sees it’s Sam.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam says. He’s got his coat buttoned up to his nose, and he’s dripping rainwater everywhere, and he’s smiling in a sheepish sort of way. “Joe,” he adds. “Cass. Kevin.”
Everyone choruses their ‘hello’s like they belong in a wholesome sitcom, and Dean passes Joe his change and his latte, waves him away with a promise to check the Firebird out some day. Ruby flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ behind Joe’s retreating back.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says. “You gotta get a life, man. Coming in here on your day off is just sad.”
“Ruby told me she was making cinnamon muffins today,” Sam says, shaking his wet hair out of his face. “I know you’ll eat them all if I’m not here.”
“He saved one for you, Scarface,” Ruby calls from the top of her step-ladder. “Dean-o’s filled with ooey-gooey caramel under that crunchy exterior. Who knew?”
“I’m your boss for ten more minutes tonight,” Dean snaps, but Sam’s just laughing and shaking his head. He leans back against the counter as he waits for Dean to finish up, undoing a couple buttons on his coat and tilting his head back to admire the Christmas decorations, and his scar twists up with the movement of his smile.
Today must be a good day, Dean figures. Most days are now, or at least they aren’t bad, but still. Today must be a good day. That’s- you know. It’s good.
So yeah, Castiel wasn’t much of a surprise, and nor was Ruby, really. Dean didn’t exactly like the chick or anything, but in the end they were the ones she fought with, and that’s got to count for something. It doesn’t hurt that she does awesome baked goods, either.
Uriel had been the unexpected one. Dean hadn’t expected him to choose to fight on the human side of things, and then he hadn’t expected the guy to stick around on Earth afterwards, and then he really hadn’t expected him to turn up in Campbell’s Coffee a couple years after Castiel did.
“We worked together once,” Uriel had said- said to Castiel, anyway, ‘cause him and Dean never exactly bonded, what with the whole ‘I want to smite your brother’ thing. “I hope we can work together again.”
Yeah, Uriel’s a barrel of surprises. Dean keeps him in the kitchen, away from human interference, just in case.
Kevin- is just Kevin, the kid who works the busy shifts and is saving up for college and wonders what the hell kind of war all his colleagues fought together in. He wondered what the hell was up with Sam once, when he’d just started, but Dean’s pretty sure he won’t do that again any time soon.
There was this time Sam spilt hot coffee on his hand. That was a really bad day.
Today is pretty okay, as far as these things go. Dean serves a few dozen people, talks weather with Ms. Ramsbury for five minutes, and then orders Kevin out front to the coffee making. He figures he’s earned himself a ten minute breather.
Against the expectations of what must be the entire goddamn nation, considering how many people always ask him if he can spare a cigarette when he’s out and about, Dean isn’t a smoker. He’s pretty sure Dad had been waiting to catch him with a carton of Marlboro throughout his teenage years, but it just never happened.
Dean figures it’s too late to start a bad habit now, anyway, but there’s an alley round the back of the coffee shop where he likes to go and not smoke. He can see across the street to their apartment, sometimes spot Sam moving around inside when he’s home, and further in the distance are the tree-tops of the tiny local park. They’ll get a dog one day and throw balls for it in there.
Dean is leaning back against the damp brick wall, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as he wonders whether Sam would like a Labrador, when Uriel sticks his head around the door.
“Your brother is here,” he says. He pauses, face scrunching up with something other than the usual Sam-related angelic annoyance, but then all he says is, “Kevin took him into the kitchen.”
“Shit,” Dean says. “Don’t try serving the customers, you’ll want to smite them,” he adds. “I’ll send Kevin back out.” He doesn’t have to push past Uriel, because that guy has a sixth sense for knowing when to move out of the way.
Sam’s in the kitchen, as promised. He’s pacing around the middle of the room, with Kevin hovering a safe distance away, small and uncertain. Dean only makes it halfway through a, “Get back to work,” and he doesn’t even have a chance to finish before Kevin hurries away.
Kevin is kinda scared of Sam, most of the time.
“Dean,” Sam says, urgently. He grabs hold of Dean’s arms with shaking hands. “We have to go. I had a vision. There’s this, this fire-”
“Hey, okay, it’s all right,” Dean soothes, manoeuvring Sam down onto the floor, as there aren’t any chairs nearby. “It was just a bad dream.”
Sam’s shaking all over now, but Dean’s pretty sure he hasn’t noticed. “No, Dean, it was a vision. There’s a fire in Lawrence, and someone gets caught in it, and I saw - it - you were there, and-”
“That was years ago, Sammy,” Dean says gently. He prises Sam’s fingers away from his arms. “Remember? You don’t have visions anymore. Just a bad dream.”
Sam’s hands drop. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I forgot.”
“I figured.” Dean sits down next to him, leaning back against the cupboard with a wince as his knees protest. He’s not as young as he used to be, and sometimes the bad days are like nothing’s changed at all.
“I forgot,” Sam says again, touching the scar that curls up his face.
What happened was-
Yeah, you know what? It doesn’t really matter what happened. Shit happened, the kind of shit that can take Lilith and Lucifer down in a psychic double-whammy, and Dean didn’t feel much like saying ‘I told you so’ afterwards. He figures Sam would have just said ‘I told you so’ back, if he’d been up to talking.
It doesn’t matter what happened. It’s just a good thing Sam’s more than a pretty face.
They were both right, really.
Nobody wants coffee on Sundays. And if they do, tough shit, ‘cause they’re sure as hell not getting it from Campbell’s. Sundays are Dean’s special day.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didja miss me?”
“I can come back later,” Sam says, “if you need some time alone.”
Dean flips him off, leaning back in his seat with a happy sigh. The upholstery creaks invitingly, urging him to close his eyes and breathe in deep. She smells just like she did last week, which is just like she always does. He turns the key in the ignition by touch, and the rumble of the engine is exactly the way it should be.
“So, where do we gonna go?” he says. “Anywhere you wanna go?”
“Please.” Sam snorts. “Like you actually need a destination. Just drive. Feed your sick habit.”
“I can do that,” Dean says, beaming across at Sam. Sam rolls his eyes, but then he smiles back in a bright, wide grin, just like he always does. It looks perfect.
Really, Dean figures, nothing's changed at all.
*