Chapter Text
“Fuck’s sake, Bart, can’t this thing go any faster? I’m dying over here.”
Bart takes his eyes off the road just long enough to glare down his nose at Malachi, who’s done nothing but complain since they left Washington, DC about three hours ago. By Castiel’s count, his litany of complaints has included too much AC, too little AC and not enough “hot chicks” in the cars they passed when they were still on the interstate. (That last one seemed particularly odd, given that Mal’s girlfriend Anna is in the backseat next to Castiel.)
“This is my father’s Jeep, Mal,” he says coolly, as though any of them could possibly be unaware of the fact. Bart favors exactly three conversational topics: his father, his father’s wealth and the fact that all that wealth is coming to Bart himself upon the death of said father. “It deserves to be treated with respect.”
Still, the engine roars as Bart pushes down on the gas just a little more, because daddy’s boy or not, Bart is the sort of person who will never miss out on an opportunity to be “one of the guys” among their Alpha Omega fraternity brothers.
In the backseat, Castiel doesn’t comment. He does trade a weary glance with Hannah before turning back to the window to admire the majestic scene unfolding before them. Anna seems disinterested, scrolling through something on her phone.
After three hours of driving amid a constant soundtrack of Mal’s complaints, they’ve finally reached the Appalachian Mountains. Lush green forest rolls off into the distance on either side of the road, as far as the eye can see. Ahead of them, the road climbs heavenward, rising up the side of a mountain until it reaches the distant summit, where the charcoal asphalt meets the pristine blue of the summer sky.
Castiel has been a city dweller for years now, ever since his father sent him to a private college prep school in the DC suburbs, but he grew up surrounded by countryside not unlike this. For the first time in a long time, it occurs to him that he’s missed these wide-open spaces.
Maybe this weekend won’t be the worst. Maybe he won’t spend the rest of his life regretting the fact that he let his father’s snide comments goad him not only into joining a fraternity, but into going on a camping trip to celebrate the end of the academic year with the two fraternity brothers his father considers the most promising “networking opportunities.” (Mostly because he went to college with their fathers, and he likes the size of their bank accounts.) Maybe Mal, Bart and their girlfriends are going to surprise him by not being awful people once you get to know them better.
Good things do happen. Probably. (Though not necessarily in Castiel’s experience.)
“Watch out!” Anna shrieks, and Castiel startles upright.
The Jeep gives a violent lurch, tires squealing as Castiel swivels his head, trying to determine what is going on.
“Fucking shit!” Bart swears when the car regains its equilibrium.
In the passenger seat, Mal cackles. “Almost got your precious Daddy’s car dented by a hillbilly mobile, dude.”
The sound of a honk draws Castiel’s attention to the back of the car. He twists around to peer over his shoulder and out of the back windscreen, where he spots a muscle car covered in road dust that’s stopped along the side of the road. Judging by the position of the car — one front wheel sticking out onto the tarmac — it had been on the verge of pulling back on the highway when Bart almost collided with it.
The muscle car rejoins the road now and Castiel averts his eyes, turning back to face the front. Next to him, Hannah clutches at her chest with a trembling hand. Castiel gives her a small, hopefully reassuring smile. They’re okay.
“I wasn’t particularly planning on dying this weekend, Bart,” Anna says, sweeping her red hair back over her shoulder, her face adopting its default expression of bored disapproval. “So watch the road, won’t you?”
Bart opens his mouth, presumably to offer some sort of retort, but it snaps closed again when they all become aware of a sound that is growing and growing at their rear. It’s the roar of a powerful engine. A muscle car engine.
Castiel swivels around again to find the car they almost hit coming up behind them — and gaining fast.
“Wonderful,” Bart says, glancing anxiously at the rearview mirror.
“We got ourselves a redneck race!” Mal hollers, hooting loud enough that Castiel is seriously tempted to strangle him with the headphone cords that lie curled up in his lap.
“Just let them pass,” Hannah says, leaning forward with a hand clutching the back of the driver’s seat. “C’mon, please?”
“Whatever, babe,” Bart says, but he does slow down ever so slightly.
The car has pulled out from behind them now, and as Bart eases up on the gas, its front draws level with the Jeep’s backseat.
Castiel catches a glimpse of the man on the passenger side — long-haired, flannel-clad, studying them with an expression of profound irritation on his face — before the car speeds past them and leaves them in the proverbial dust.
“Did you see the way they looked at us?” Hannah asks, her eyes wide as she watches the muscle car climb up the slope ahead of them with a throaty roar of its engine. “Scary.”
“Yeah,” Mal agrees, propping his feet up on the dashboard. “People around here are fucking freaks, man.”
“I’ve heard,” Hannah says, “that people in this area are really aggressive toward outsiders.”
Castiel just barely suppresses the instinct to roll his eyes. Out of everyone in this car, Hannah is arguably the least objectionable person, but he’s always suspected her of a tendency toward being prejudiced. “Just because they’re not in a fraternity doesn’t make them freaks,” he says.
“Yeah? Well, I beg to differ, Asstiel.” Mal cackles and hoots at his own “joke;” Bart chuckles along politely.
It’s going to be a long weekend.
“Guys?” Anna’s voice trembles with the closest thing to real fear that Castiel has ever heard her express. Alarmed, he turns in his seat to find her peering over her shoulder and into the trunk. “We forgot the beer.”
***
The convenience store sits dusty and half-forgotten by the side of the highway. The parking area in front contains a single, ancient-looking gas pump as well as assorted debris whose purpose Castiel is at a loss to determine. There’s the tower of old filing cabinets, for one, and the broken fridge that gapes half-open to reveal what may or may not be some sort of nest. Off to one corner of the lot, a small, shirtless boy in denim overalls works to fill a rusty bucket at a water pump.
A few older, weather-beaten individuals sit on a bench underneath the shop awning, watching with lazy curiosity as Bart pulls up in front of the store and each of the Jeep’s inhabitants climbs out, limbs stiff from the long drive.
Looking around, Castiel spots a few other cars in the lot — mostly pickup trucks, but one of them is distinctly familiar: a dusty black muscle car.
“Wonderful,” Anna comments, having obviously spotted the car too.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Bart suggests, in his buck up and don’t make a fuss tone. Castiel suspects he’s inherited that tone from his father as well, though he doesn’t pull it off very convincingly. Castiel can hear an echo of nerves in it.
“I’ll stay out here,” Hannah says, to no one’s particular surprise. “Will you stay with me, Bart?”
“Sure, babe,” Bart answers, with barely disguised relief.
That leaves Castiel, Anna and Mal. Mal leads the way, while Anna trails at the back of the group with her head held high and her eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance, as if she can’t be bothered to notice anything in front of her. As they climb the steps to the store’s entrance, Castiel attempts to exchange a friendly nod with the people gathered on the bench, but everyone seems to have lost interest in them and moved on to discussing what sounds like a recent hunting trip.
“... idjit forgot to check the damn thing was even loaded…” he overhears one of the men say, followed by the resigned reply “That’s Garth for ya.”
Castiel catches a fleeting look and sneer from Anna, as if she’s inviting him to share in a joke at the conversation’s expense. Smiling awkwardly at her, he steps through the creaky screen door and into the cooler interior of the store.
He holds the door for Anna, looking around. Mal has already moved on, addressing the man behind the counter with a curt, “Where’s your beer?”
The man, dark-skinned and with a rough-worn face, peers at Mal with some hostility before conceding reluctantly, “Beer’s in the back.” He then returns his attention to the conversation with the customer currently standing at the counter. With a jolt, Castiel recognizes him as the passenger in the muscle car. He scans the surrounding shelves for Anna, but she’s busy sneering at a display of pornographic magazines in the corner.
Castiel drifts into the nearest aisle of shelves, listening to the conversation at the store counter without really meaning to.
“You got any tarps?” the customer asks, his tall frame bent over some sort of handwritten list spread out before him. “Might need two actually, in case things get messy.” The man behind the counter grunts a negative. “Damn. In that case, just the two cans of gas, and we might as well get our blades sharpened while we’re here.”
“Well, you know where to find the grindstone, boy.” The man’s voice is rough and worn, as if it, too, has been dragged over a grindstone one too many times. “I ain’t lifting a finger on the Sabbath.”
Surprised, Castiel looks up from where he’d been contemplating a shelf of pickled eggs and other assorted snacks. He wasn’t expecting to encounter a member of the Jewish community so deep in the Appalachians. Then again, why not? He frowns at the thought that the prejudices of his frat brothers are rubbing off on him.
“You gonna give me a hand with this or not?”
Castiel turns at the sound of Mal’s irritated voice to find him hovering in the doorway that leads to the store’s back room, two giant cases of Margiekugel at his feet.
“Of course,” Castiel answers wearily, and goes to help with the beer.
***
“Thanks, kid,” Dean tells Jack as he passes over the bucket of water, a soft car-washing mitt already bobbing on top.
“Can I help clean her?” Jack asks, eyes wide and eager.
Dean gives him a sharp look. “Is your homework done?”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Definitely.” Jack bobs up and down on his bare feet with how eager he is to answer that question in the affirmative.
“It ain’t, is it?” Dean keeps watching, and there’s the telltale sign: Jack’s eyes darting away. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, kid. Go do your homework.”
With an aggravated groan, Jack slouches off.
Better late than never, Dean calls after him: “And don’t tell your mom I used bad language in front of you!”
“No promises,” Jack answers, obviously still sore about missing out on car-washing duty. Dean shakes his head as he looks after the kid, who’s kicking rocks now as he goes. He wouldn’t mind spending a bit of time with Jack, especially since an eight-year-old is bound to get bored hanging out with old farts like Bobby and Rufus every afternoon after school, till Kelly finishes up at work. But homework comes first. Dean did alright for himself in the end, but he wouldn’t recommend dropping out of school to anybody else.
“What’s up with Jack?” Sam asks, appearing round the back corner of the store with a couple of newly sharpened machetes.
“He wanted to help with Baby,” Dean tells him, squatting down next to the bucket to squeeze out the mitt. “I told him to go do his homework instead.”
“No wonder he’s mad,” Sam says, humored. “He’s almost as bad about that car as you are.”
Dean glares at his brother as he straightens up and slips his hand into the mitt. “Don’t listen to him, Baby,” he coos, crouching down again to run the mitt’s soft surface lovingly over Baby’s mud-spattered sides. He’ll give her a more thorough clean later, up at the cabin, but for now this’ll have to do. “He just doesn’t understand about how special you are. And I’m sorry I let you get so dirty on that dusty old road up here. We’ll get you all fixed up soon, alright?”
Sam snorts, but doesn’t otherwise mock Dean or really respond at all, which is weird enough that Dean twists around to look up at his little brother. Sam’s distracted by something over Dean’s shoulder — so much so that he still hasn’t put away the machetes. They dangle loosely from each of his hands.
Dean follows the direction of Sam’s gaze and finds a couple of girls in shorts and tank tops, crouching next to a massive, gleaming Jeep less than twenty feet away. They’re college girls, judging by their bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed look. Also, the shorts and tank tops have the look of something that cost way more money than it should have. One girl has dark hair, the other red, and they’re both busy transferring cans of Margiekugel from a box to a cooler.
The redhead seems to be the one who’s caught Sam’s attention as his eyes focus on the flip of her long hair over her shoulder.
“She’s cute,” Dean says, grinning up at his little brother. “Why don’t you go talk to her?”
Sam gives him a flat look, like out of all the ridiculous shit Dean’s ever said, this one somehow takes the cake. “What would I even talk to her about?”
“Don’t ask me,” Dean says, shrugging as he dips the mitt back into the water. “You’re the one who used to be a college boy. Talk to her about college stuff.”
“College stuff,” Sam repeats, incredulous.
“Yeah, sure, or nerd stuff. Whatever. They’ll love you, man. You’re as tall as Lurch and you’ve got, I don’t know, the hair and the puppy dog eyes. Just go for it.”
Sam still looks doubtful. So, quick as a snake, Dean darts to his feet and flicks the sopping-wet mitt at Sam’s head. Sam squawks and stumbles away from him, bumping into the bucket and almost tripping over it.
“Screw you,” he mutters. Then, in response to Dean’s still threateningly raised mitt, “Fine, fine, I’m going.”
Over by the Jeep, Sam’s racket has attracted the girls’ attention, and they’re looking none too favorably inclined, but Sam’ll be fine. He can charm the pants off any college girl he wants to; Dean’s sure of it. He just needs to work on his confidence.
What Dean didn’t reckon with is the fact that Sam still hasn’t put down the machetes. He’s holding them now as he makes his way towards the girls, limping a little from his run-in with the bucket.
Not a great first impression, but probably still salvageable.
Dean returns his attention to Baby’s cleanup, but he keeps his ears wide open, because no matter what happens, this is too good not to eavesdrop. He wishes he could call over Bobby and Rufus to listen, but that would probably draw too much attention.
“Uh… hey,” Sam says. “I’m Sam.”
There’s no response, so Dean sneaks a quick peek out of the corner of his eye — just in time to realize that Sam must’ve forgotten he’s holding the machetes and has stuck out one of his hands to shake. As Dean watches, the two girls start to back away from him, eyeing the blade warily even as Sam lowers it with a sheepish look on his face.
To his credit, Sam tries to start a conversation anyway. “Hey, you guys uh… up here for the weekend?”
Dean moves on to wiping dust off Baby’s hood.
There’s no verbal response to Sam’s question, but one of the girls must at least nod or something, because Sam says, “Cool. So where are you headed? You guys have a cabin?”
Again, no response. Sam chuckles, maybe to make himself seem more friendly, but he’s so painfully awkward about it that Dean can only shake his head and wonder who raised Sam to be such a fucking dork. (It was him. He did. No regrets.)
“You know, uh, one of the cabins up here has a pretty interesting story.” There’s an edge of desperation to Sam’s voice now, and Dean is starting to get concerned. He stops mid-wipe and keeps still to listen to whatever kind of trainwreck this is about to be.
There’s a reluctant-sounding “Oh yeah?” from one of the girls, and apparently that’s all the encouragement Sam needs.
“Yeah,” he says eagerly. “So get this. The cabin used to belong to this guy called Alastair Heyerdahl. People say he was a pretty quiet guy, but one day, he just completely flipped, right? Killed his wife and two sons with a meat cleaver. The bodies were never found, so some people think he actually ate them. Also, when people searched the cabin later, they found all kinds of occult symbols on the walls. Cool, huh?”
Jesus fucking Christ, not the Heyerdahl story. Sam and his unhealthy obsession with serial killer trivia will be the death of Dean one of these days.
Well, he'd better intervene and show the kid how it’s done.
It’s about time too, because Sam is still going strong. “I actually tried to get one of his dinner plates from an online auction,” he says, sounding eager, like this is a completely normal conversation to be having with two complete strangers. “But all the serial killer stuff goes super fast. You know how it is.”
Dean drops the mitt back into the bucket, fixes his hair in the glass of Baby’s nearest window and saunters over to the little group, his best panty-dropper smile firmly in place.
The girls turn towards him with expressions of relief, obviously (and correctly) assuming that their savior has arrived.
That’s when it all goes wrong. Right as Dean gets within hailing distance of Sam and the girls, someone new appears from behind the Jeep and all of Dean’s higher functions shut down.
Look. He’s never been especially secretive about the fact that guys do it for him just as much as girls — maybe more. But he’s always had this issue when it comes to flirting with guys. Chatting up girls is easy — a smile, a wink, a nice word or two and the deal is sealed. Girls know the moves of the game and it’s easy to tell when they want to play. But with guys? He just can’t seem to figure out how to be cool about making his interest known.
And boy is he interested, because the guy joining their little group now… holy shit. He’s easily the hottest thing Dean’s ever laid eyes on. He’s tall — about the same height as Dean, putting him right at perfect kissing level. His hair is full, dark and messy, his shoulders nice and broad, and his jeans are straining to contain a pair of thighs that Dean wants to bite. But his face? His face is just unfair. Plump, kissable lips, a sharply defined jaw to nibble at, and eyes so striking, they should be the dictionary definition of “blue.”
“Eyes,” he says. Wait, what? Son of a bitch, why would he say that? “I mean, hi.”
“Hello?” Dean’s walking wet dream says, his voice rising at the end like he’s not sure he should be talking to someone as obviously disturbed as Dean. He’s studying Dean with those striking blues, his head cocked just slightly to the side — like he’s an owl on the hunt and Dean is a very confusing mouse.
Words. Dean should be making words. He knows how, so why does it seem impossible all of a sudden? Everyone’s fallen silent and turned their attention on him, but Dean doesn’t have any attention of his own to spare for anyone except Blue Eyes.
Words. C’mon, words.
Vaguely, he remembers that he came over to help out Sam. “Sorry about my brother.” There, that’s a start. Encouraged, Dean keeps going, only a little bit distracted by Blue Eyes’ strong, muscular legs now. “He’s a little thigh.” Fuck. “... Shy. He’s shy.”
This is getting worse and worse. Dean risks a glance at the girls, who look pretty thoroughly freaked out now. Yeah, there might be no salvaging this. Probably best for him and Sam to just retreat and lick their wounds in peace.
Except when Dean’s eyes find the guy’s again, there’s something new in them: a little spark of amusement that’s real subtle and yet somehow hits Dean like a lightning strike.
“It’s okay,” he says, and fuck, Dean didn’t really notice before, but his voice is deep. So damn deep and rough that Dean can feel it rattling his bones. “My name is Castiel, and this is—”
That’s as far as Blue Eyes — Castiel — gets before he’s rudely interrupted.
“Hey, you! The fuck’re you doing chatting up our girls?”
Dean spins around to face the threat, minimal as it is: two college-aged guys in polo shirts, collars popped, striding towards them from the far side of the store, where the bathrooms are. The smaller one has beady eyes and an ugly sneer around his mouth. The taller one looks like he’s about two seconds from asking to speak to the manager.
Finally, with a recognizable foe in sight, Dean’s back in his comfort zone. “We were just talking,” he says, keeping his tone neutral for now. Not escalating, but not backing down either.
“They’re scaring us. Please make them go away.” Surprised, Dean twists back to face the girls. He thinks the red-haired girl is the one who spoke, though she doesn’t look that scared at all. In fact, she looks like she’s hiding a smirk. She’s also watching the smaller of the two guys for his reaction, and Dean can almost see the guy’s head swell up under the attention.
“You heard the lady,” Beady Eyes says, stepping up close to Dean and getting in his face. Or, more accurately, his chest, because the top of his head barely reaches Dean’s chin. “Get the fuck outta here.”
The other guy, the taller one, makes a move towards Sam, though he doesn’t look all that happy about it. Nor should he — Sam throws a mean right hook when the occasion calls for it.
“This is stupid,” Castiel says, and Dean’s attention abruptly swivels back to him, like he’s a cat and Castiel is dangling a particularly tantalizing string. “Mal, Bart, just back off. Everyone is fine. We really were just talking.”
There’s a flash of disappointment across the red-haired girl’s face, and the little guy — Mal? — still looks like he wants to start something, but the taller guy, Bart, backs off with obvious relief.
“Well, that’s alright then,” he decides, and adds for good measure, “We’re not looking for any trouble.”
He sidesteps Sam, giving him an almost comically wide berth, to get to the dark-haired girl and wraps his arm around her shoulders. She melts into him, casting apprehensive glances at Sam and Dean.
Dean steps back, accepting the deescalation, but stops in his tracks when a warm hand brushes shyly against his arm.
It’s Castiel. There’s a small, apologetic smile on his face, and how is Dean expected to breathe or stand up straight or do anything else at all when there’s a person in the world who looks this fucking handsome?
“Sorry about this,” he says, quiet and just for Dean. “It was nice to meet you…”
He trails off, and it takes Dean much too long to realize he’s supposed to supply his name. And then it takes him even longer to remember what the fuck his name actually is. “D-Dean,” he finally stammers. “My name is Dean.”
“Dean,” Castiel repeats. Dean’s never liked his name better than when Castiel is the one saying it.
And then he’s gone, taking his ridiculous blue eyes and his whiskey-smooth voice and his shy touch with him. Dean almost wants to call after him, but the smaller guy still kind of looks like he wants to start something, and then there’s Sam pulling on Dean’s arm to get him going.
Castiel. He rolls the name around in his head, wondering how it’d taste on his tongue.
What a shame they’re never going to see each other again.