Lost in Translation
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
"You sure you don't want anything?" Sam popped his head through the door, his fingers twirling the keys to Dean's beloved Impala – his precious.
Dean heaved himself out of the lumpy bed and slumped down on the equally uncomfortable chair. He shifted around. They had had a fair share of Winchester Motel Disaster but at the rate of one to ten, he'd give the place a generous 3.5. "You know what I want? I want that son-of-the-irresponsible-runaway-God to get his winged ass down here."
Sam snorted, the crease between his eyes faltering a bit. "Right, I'll see if they have some honey garlic chicken wings."
"Barbeque!" Dean shouted at the closed door before rubbing his hands on his face. "Damn it, Cass, where the hell are you?" He asked the cheap replica of The Son of Man hanging above the bed, a green gentleman in a suit with an apple blocking his face. He should know; Thomas Crown Affair, 1999.
His fingers were drumming against the surface of the table, his patience growing thinner by the second. There's some demonic being out there, most likely one of the Horsemen, on a killing rampage and Cass chose to play hide and seek with them. Cass always knew when his presence was needed the most. Jackass.
"Cass?" He tried again, using a more gentle tone this time. He broke into a grin. "Come on, Cass, come out here, buddy!" He was tempted to add a whistle but decided against it. Pay some respect, Dean. He's still an angel. Your lifesaver nonetheless.
Silent.
As always, Cass seemed to also know just how to make him look like a total idiot.
His thumb hovered over the speed dial he'd assigned for Cass. Damnit, no. He had had probably eight failed attempts before. That damn angel was a disgrace to the wonder of technology. He would make Steve Job what-his-name weep without even using his Godly power.
"Fine, have it your way! Just don't show up in front of me when you find one of your toys is missing!"
Dean finally gave up on the chair and wandered back to Sam's bed, grabbing a bag of half eaten potato chips from the table. His brother wouldn't approve – what else is new—but ask him if he cared.
He scanned the room as he's chewing and drizzling crumbs onto the flamingo patterned sheets. His eyes were moving hastily over the closet without doors, coffee pot without coffee, and the dangling disco ball without lighting in the center of the room, when he caught a small volume of book on the corner of the bedside table. The color of the cover jacket was as brown as the table that he'd missed it the first time.
Conversation Guidebook: French – English.
Frowning, he popped a handful of chips into his mouth before skimming through the pages. Maybe somewhere right now there's a French tourist who's having troubles stringing words together: 'Where is the restroom, puh-lease?'
"Castiel, Vous êtes un salaud," Calling him bastard was putting it mildly… He flipped back to the earlier pages. "Bonjour! Mon nom est Dean Winchester. Sexy. Je suis sexy? Super sexy." He rolled the words on his tongue, testing them. Oh yeah, he knew what he wanted to do with his tongue alright…
He grimaced after a while; the foreign words were giving him headache. Seeing he wouldn't eat in any French restaurant for dinner or fly to Paris unless God was hiding under the Eiffel Tower, he'd prefer his super sexy hamburger anydays, thank you very much.
"Cass, où allez-vous?"
"Nulle part,"
Silent. Dean blinked twice.
"That means 'nowhere'," Cass explained, standing by the round table. "You asked me where I was going."
Dean opened his mouth only to close it again moments later. For a short time they were just staring at each other (though for Dean it was more like gaping). He threw the book aside and jumped off the bed, conveniently spilling what's left inside the chips bag onto Sam's bed. When they were finally standing face to face, he left a good foot between them. Personal space, always personal space.
"Un-freaking-believable! What the hell, Cass! Now you showed up? Do I have to come up with some Frenchie mojo everytime to call you?" His eyebrow rose high in suspicion. "Just how long have you been here?"
Cass shrugged. "Long enough."
"I was bored and there's this book of knowledge lying around," Dean stopped abruptly. He hardly ever saw Cass smile or express any emotions, but he was convinced that there was a shadow a smile on the corner of his lips. "Why do I have to explain myself to you? You know what, stay right here, I got bowel movement seeing you. Got it, Cass? Stay, or I swear to God, whatever God out there who hasn't chickened out, that I'll-,"
"I'll stay, Dean," Cass calmly answered in that trademark tilt of his head which Dean had come to familiarized with. "Sam will be here any minutes."
Throwing Cass one long dirty look, Dean turned around and headed to the toilet.
"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"
"Dude…," Dean breathed, looking at Cass with wide eyes. He was no fool. Somewhere in the trunk of his car, the old cassette with 1975 LaBelle's Lady Marmalade was lurking. But to be asked that by an angel, by Cass nonetheless… He felt an involuntarily shudder down his spine. He had been having that a lot whenever a certain angel was around and he wasn't entirely pleased by it.
Cass lifted the book, his wide dark eyes boring into his in what seemed to be an innocent way like they always appeared to be. "The person who left it had highlighted it, or was it you?"
"I thought you angels didn't sleep. Literally and metaphorically. Stay." Dean stammered before slamming the bathroom door behind him, closing the discussion for the time being.
One of these days, he would even the score and make Cass feel like an idiot.
That was a promise.
I don't like Lisa. I really don't :(