A/N: First of all, this IS NOT a standard death fic. Yes, Sam dies, but he stays dead for all of four hundred words. Yes, Sam is a ghost, but he's still present and still interacting with Dean. If you have a problem with ghost!Sam, then avoid this fic, but he's is still the bitchy, touchy-feely, too-smart, huggable moose we all know and love.
Massive, massive, thirty-four-thousand word (!) fic I wrote in, like, a week, because clearly I have no life. My friend asked for something fluffy and smutty and plotty and with a lot of Sam, not just as a secondary character with the role as awesome brother, but as an intergral part of the story. So naturally, the very first thing I do is kill Sam. I fail so hard.
They lose Sammy when Dean is twelve.
Dean hates that phrase- 'lost Sammy', like he'd simply misplaced his baby brother. Like all he has to do is a mad hunt, like when his father loses his car keys, and Sam will turn up again. Like he hadn't stood in the bitter Kansas winter, eyes red and heart hollow, and watched as they lowered that lacquered black box into the ground.
It's not Dean's fault. Everyone they met that day told him that- it's not your fault, Dean- until Dean could recite it in his sleep, until it echoed in his ears in a thousand different voices. It was even true, in a way- it wasn't his fault, he wasn't their father, it shouldn't have been on his shoulders to look after his brother on his own, he's just a kid- but in the end, it amounts to something very simple: Sam is dead and Dean is not. That is not how it should be.
From the moment they get the news in the hospital, John never quite looks at Dean again. He seems to simply block out his oldest- his only- son's presence. They stand next to each other at the funeral but there's a gulf big as the sky between them.
The only thing John says to Dean, after that moment when he opens the door to find a somber-faced police officer on the doorstep, is, "At least your mother isn't here to see this."
John leaves Dean at Bobby Singer's house, regardless of the touch-and-go nature of his friendship with the man, regardless of Bobby's own recent wounds- he'd lost his wife not a year previous- regardless of the fact that Bobby is hardly people-friendly and definitely not kid-friendly. He doesn't look back. It's the best thing he could have done for Dean, Dean will admit, but only years later. The betrayal will fade, but the disappointment and resentment will not.
"You miss yer brother?" Bobby asks him the first night, over a dinner of Chinese takeout. Dean looks at him, solemn green eyes in a freckled face that is already showing signs of the charming handsomeness Dean will wield like a weapon for the rest of his life, and says nothing. It sounds- it's not your fault, Dean- like a trap.
"We'll figure it out," Bobby says after a while, and Dean picks at his sweet-and-sour chicken and pockets three fortune cookies when he thinks Bobby isn't looking.
Sam comes back to him before the week is out.
Sam grows up.
It's peculiar, because everything Dean ever finds on ghosts says that everything vaguely life-related, such as growing, stops upon death. But Sam definitely grows up, and up, until he's taller and broader across the shoulders than Dean. He's lanky for all his extra height, though, and he keeps his hair falling-in-his-eyes long and wears ratty t-shirts and flannel overshirts. He's smart, almost painfully so, and Dean chafes and burns at the general unfairness of it all, that his genius brother should die at age eight and be reduced to ghost-hood while Dean, who's good only as eye candy, lives to some ripe old age. Or not so old, perhaps, but anything over ten feels old to an eight-year-old.
He likes to read. Dean gets tired of flipping pages in no time flat, but the books Sam is interested in- mainly the occult, for the obvious reasons- aren't available as books on tape or whatever. He likes watching the Discovery and History channels, for which Dean gives him the appropriate amount of hell, but he gets used to falling asleep to a room lit by the flickering TV. He likes indie and new age music, which is where Dean draws the line. He singlehandedly gets Dean through chemistry and calculus in high school and bitches nonstop for three months when Dean laughs in his face at the merest suggestion of college.
He doesn't talk about the day he died. He doesn't talk about what happened after, where he went or anything like that. Dean doesn't think he remembers, just based on how defensive and angry he gets when Dean asks. He'll leave, sometimes, heading off to just explore the city and other things like that, but eventually, ultimately, he always ends up right back at Dean's side, as if magnetically drawn there.
Dean's the only one who can see him, and while he feels guilty as hell for it- Bobby's more a father to him than John Winchester ever was- he keeps it to himself. He can easily imagine what the psychiatrists would have to say about it.
Sam is fond of saying- with only a trace of bitterness- that life is full of surprises. Dean is inclined to agree, although he's never so tactless as to actually do so where his not-living brother can hear him. One of the biggest to date, aside from the whole ghost thing, is when Dean became a barista.
He never actually set out to become the caffeine world's Luke Skywalker, fighting the evil Starbucks Empire. He just kind of… inherited the role. He'd moved back to Kansas City at age nineteen, and a few years later had taken to stopping by this one particular coffee shop on his way in to work- job number three of the year, so far- a place that specialized in mixed coffees. Their main call to fame was alcohol-infused coffee, which Dean thought was just the most awesome thing in the history of ever. He'd stop by twice a day, sometimes more, and even hung around after hours to help the owner and come up with new mixes.
About two years after he'd discovered the place, Dean had gotten a call. The old owner had died and left him the coffee shop in his will. It had gone, the old man who said, to the one person who appreciated it most, which Sam found both totally ironic and extremely amusing, cheerfully telling Dean that for once his addictive tendencies served him well.
Dean had gone into the coffee business with great confidence, thinking that since the shop was essentially a gift, in a building he now owned, he could protect whatever measly savings he'd accrued so far and run the place for pure profit.
He had been wrong.
Dean freely admits that the shop's status as a city landmark is pretty much the only thing that kept him afloat in that dark time. On the other hand, he made friends, learned the taste of humility, found out that Sam is a giant bitchy girl, and gets to drink coffee and booze all day. And he gets to play mad scientist, which is something every little boy dreams of, and as Dean never really grew out of the make-things-go-boom stage, it's ideal. And if he's never really rich, he's no longer reduced to hustling pool on his nights off to make sure ends meet.
Dean is twenty-seven when Sam discovers his True Calling.
It happens entirely on accident, as these things tend to. Dean's at Wendy's eating a burger and a chocolate milkshake, which is really the only reason anyone comes to Wendy's, and Sam is sitting across the table from him watching the other people in the restaurant. Dean's never really been able to tell if Sam misses little things like eating. If he does, he's good at hiding it.
Then Sam says his name in an oh shit sort of tone and Dean looks up as he slurps at his milkshake and watches as Sam watch a pair of teenage girls flounce out of the restaurant.
"What's up?" Dean asks around a French fry. Sam looks back at him, brows furrowed.
"I don't- I think they're going to die," he says, and Dean frowns.
"What, like right now?"
"Yes, like right now!" Sam shoots to his feet- standing literally in the middle of the table, right in Dean's food, and incorporeal or not that's just not cool- and makes hurry-up gestures at his brother. "Come on, Dean, just leave it!"
So Dean does, mournfully, sliding out of that stupid plastic booth that isn't designed for anyone over five-foot-five and stumbling-lunging after the two teenage girls like some sort of mentally defective pervert. Once he's outside he turns left, heading for the parking lot, only to double back when Sam bellows for him.
Beyond the Wendy's parking lot is a strip mall. The two girls are heading down a walkway between two of the stores, and behind them is a guy in a black hoodie and sunglasses- classic criminal chic. He's fiddling with something in the hoodie pocket.
Dean doesn't bother to swear. He saves his breath for running, heading after the girls and their soon-to-be killer. He reaches them just as the creep slides a crappy little revolver out of his pocket and starts to raise it; one of the girls notices and screams, and the guy opens his mouth, and Dean hits him like a linebacker.
Nine years of hanging around bars and hustling pool has taught Dean a few things. How to best win a fight, especially if you have little regard for the rules, is one of them. He uses this and his size advantage, punching the creep in the jaw and sending him reeling. The gun hits the pavement.
The girl screams again and the other one is talking on her phone- the cops, Dean hopes. Sam is jabbering rapid-fire at both of them, trying to calm them down from the sound of it, although of course they can't hear him so all he's really doing is adding to the chaos. The creep recovers quickly from the punch and lunges at Dean like the scrawny little twig has any hope of actually winning against someone who weighs more than ninety pounds. The second time Dean puts him down, he stays there.
"Oh my god," the non-panicky girl says, while the other one continues to scream. "Trevor?"
Trevor whimpers.
"You were going to-" She looks back at the gun, harmless on the pavement well beyond Trevor's reach, and goes pale. "You jerk!"
And she kicks him, hard, right in the balls.
A police car turns into the parking lot a few seconds later, siren wailing and lights flashing, saving poor Trevor from any more kicks- not that he doesn't deserve it, Dean thinks, and so doesn't step in when the girl kicks him a second time before going back to her friend. Dean watches the car park as close as it can get and the cop slide out, hand on his gun but not actually drawing yet, then he looks over at Sam.
Sam looks like he's just discovered sex and Christmas and chocolate all at once. He's grinning hugely and practically vibrating with excitement. "We just did that," he says, as if Dean had somehow missed it.
The calmer girl is trying to get her hyperventilating friend to settle down. Still, she smiles when she sees Dean watching them. It's a look of desperate gratefulness. If she weren't a teenager- well, there's upsides to this saving lives business, apparently.
Then the cops arrive.
Joanna Beth Harvelle is one of Dean's regulars at the shop. Her mother owns a bar called the Roadhouse and makes the best pie in the whole damn world, as far as Dean's concerned, and expressly forbid her daughter from following her father's footsteps and becoming a cop. As near as Dean can tell, that encouraged Jo's choice probably as much as her father's legacy. He's glad she's here, even though she's looking at him like he's sprouted a third eye, because it's really only starting to sink in for Dean. He feels kinda like Sam looks, and figures it will only get worse.
Then Jo goes over to the girls- which makes sense; she's petite and blond and only a handful of years older than them, of course they'll open up to her more than her partner- and leaves Dean with the other cop, a tall bald goateed guy who has always given Dean the impression that he disapproves of Dean's very existence.
Things sort of slip out of control at that point, and by the end of his short and increasingly noisy conversation with Officer Hateful, Dean isn't exactly under arrest, per se, but he does get the honor of riding to the station in the backseat with Trevor.
"Only you could get arrested for saving someone's life," Sam says scornfully. Dean doesn't bother looking back at him, he just holds up one middle finger in Sam's general direction. He wants to say shut up, bitch, but can't, because Officer Hateful- excuse me, Officer Henriksen- will hear him and add yet another bullshit charge to the ever-growing list.
Dean still isn't under arrest, per se, but Officer Henriksen is lobbying very hard for it.
Henriksen comes over to Dean, standing in front of him on the friendly side of the bars. He has detective wannabe written all over him, and Dean kinda hates him just on principle. "So this is how they say it went: You ran out of Wendy's after the two girls and tackled a guy with a gun. You're a hero."
Dean snorts and leans against the bars, arms folded around and through the bars. He's in the drunk tank, somewhere he's been before, on account of his belligerence. He deserves this, he openly admits it. He was about two seconds from punching a police officer, after all. There's another guy in here with him, wearing what might have been a three-piece suit before he went to a strip club and got mauled by the staff- his clothes are torn and he's covered in glitter and makeup smudges.
"This how you treat heroes around here?" he drawls.
"Miss Fleming says you saved her life," Henriksen says, gesturing with his chin to indicate the smarter, kicky teen. She sees Dean looking and waggles her fingers and juts her hip out in a suggestive sort of way; Dean gives her a smile that's almost a grimace and half-waves back. Flirting with jailbait in front of an angry cop, yeah, that's a great idea.
"So why am I in here?" Dean asks, forcing himself to focus on Henriksen so Miss Fleming doesn't get any more suggestive and thus bury him that much deeper in shit.
"How exactly did you know Trevor McIntyre was intending to hurt them?" Henriksen asks. Jo wanders over and stands a few feet behind him, hands on her hips and eyebrows high as she regards Dean.
"Uh, I'm psychic," Dean says, which is honest-to-god the only thing he can think of.
The stripper mauling guy barks a laugh. Jo smirks. Sam says "Oh my god," in an I-can't-believe-I'm-related-to-you sort of way, which Dean thinks is really unfair, because if Sam thought he could do better then he damn well should have said something before Dean humiliated himself in front of everyone.
"Right," Henriksen replies, looking at Dean now as if he's measuring the crazy man for his straightjacket. And finally, finally, like an angel descending from on high, Jo steps forward.
"Let it go, Victor," she says. "He's the harmless kind of crazy." She takes out the keys and opens the drunk tank door and Dean gratefully walks out, smiling the cheerfully obnoxious smile of a free man at Henriksen.
"You owe me," Jo tells him as she walks out of the building with him.
"I'll take it off your tab," Dean shoots back. "Can I get a ride? My car's on the other side of town."
"There's a bus stop about four blocks from here," Jo says, snide little brat that she is. "Only the bus gets there in about five minutes, so you might wanna start running."
Dean very kindly informs her of how much he hates her right now before he does exactly that.
He misses the bus, of course. After a bit of debate, he decides to walk, since it's not like he's got anywhere to be anytime soon.
He's got one of those Bluetooth earpieces for his cell phone, which he detests with every fiber of his old-school-loving being, but he puts it on now because it makes people stop looking at him funny while he's talking to Sam.
"All right," he says. "How the hell did you do that?"
"I don't know," Sam says helplessly, still giddy despite Dean's embarrassing performance in the police station. He's all but bouncing on his heels as he walks. Dean figures, after fifteen years of being able to speak to and be seen by only one person and having absolutely no effect on the world, suddenly being able to save someone's life has got to be one hell of a trip.
"Henriksen's trying to say I was in on that, Sam," Dean snaps. " 'I don't know' doesn't cut it this time."
"I just… knew, somehow, that they were in danger," Sam says with a shrug. "Don't give me that look, Dean, that's all I've got. I just felt it."
Dean scowls but he can't fight that, can't call bullshit when there is no other answer.
"All right, fine," he grumbles. "That was fun. Let's never do that again."
"Dean…" Sam begins, somehow managing to mix hope and disappointment and scolding and condescension into one simple word, and Dean throws his arms into the air with an overly dramatic fine and storms off, the living epitome of maturity, and tries very hard not to think about what a self-centered jackass he really is.
The thing is, once Sam starts sensing people's impending demise, he doesn't stop. He seems to be seeking these people out, in fact, and making his very best bitchface at Dean until he caves and tells them their life is in imminent danger.
Dean's already got a semi-reputation around town, mostly based on his sex life and his drinking and antics therein. This new tendency of his of turning up right when things are about to hit, or are in the process of hitting, the fan gets him firmly pigeonholed in a whole different category. To those few he's helped, he's a saint. To the rest of the town, he's a lunatic.
To one or two, like Henriksen, he's a Moriarty-level criminal mastermind, engineering a string of muggings and petty disputes and natural accidents in order to prevent them so as to make himself appear a hero.
He gets arrested twice and hauled into the station on suspicion of general evilness about five times before he gets tired of it and puts serious effort into learning how to slip away before the cops show up. Most of that is on Sam, who has to learn to keep his distance during a fight- Dean can't help but instinctively think of Sam as a living person who can help and can get hurt, and tends to react accordingly when it starts getting violent- so as to not distract his brother. He keeps an eye out for cops and warns Dean when it's time to go. They perfect their routine, smooth as silk, and thus Dean gets a sort of secondary career as Batman without the cape.
It's simultaneously the coolest and most embarrassing thing Dean has ever done. But his opinion of it isn't important. Saving lives is all well and good, but make no mistake- he does this for Sam.
For the first time in his non-life, Sam is doing something. He's ridiculously happy, and it shows. Whatever his great grand can't-tell-Dean afterlife mission is, it's not fulfilling enough for him. But now he's saving lives. He's making a difference, however indirectly. And that's good enough for Dean, good enough that he keeps doing it even though he's fairly sure one of these times he's going to get shot or stabbed or- possibly worse- won't walk out of jail after only a few hours of hassle.
But Sam is truly happy is for the first time in fifteen years, and that's all Dean needs. So he carries on for four years, saving lives and brewing coffee and bitching at his brother and avoiding all the cops who aren't Jo, and even Jo sometimes on the really bad days. And that's what life is, for four years.
And then there was Cas.
The first thing that registers with Dean about the new cop in town is eyes blue as sin, framed with thick dark lashes, big and oddly vulnerable. The second thing is a voice that brings to mind things like gravel and broken glass and cheap whiskey and cigarettes and marathon sex; he could be reciting the periodic table, for all Dean cares, just so long as he keeps talking, because each word in that beautiful wreck of a voice slides under Dean's skin to pool like liquid heat low in his stomach. The third thing that registers, after a bit of a delay, is what the man is saying- namely, he's informing Dean of his Miranda rights, because he's arresting Dean.
It's not the best first impression Dean could have left him with.
"What'm I arrested for?" he asks Sam in the car a few minutes later, while the cop circles around to the driver's door. Sam, sitting in the backseat with him in some attempt at solidarity, pulls a bitchface and folds his arms over his chest.
"Drunk and disorderly," he says, and he's brewing for a lecture when the cop opens the door and Dean's eyes snap over to him like they're magnetically locked.
And Sam goes, "Oh, oh," like he suddenly gets it. Dean tosses him a scowl and sinks low into his seat and tries not to sulk, because of course it's the new cop on the force who doesn't have Dean Winchester, Nut Job marked firmly on his internal register, who arrests him tonight. Not Henriksen or Jo or any one of the other cops he's met and/or been arrested by, but the hot new guy.
So Dean gets a free ride and overnight stay in the police station, stuck with stinky-face Sam and a guy who probably knew Dean's reputation as Public Menace # 1 before he knew what Dean looked like. On the other hand, it's not like the guy's opinion of him can sink any further. There's nowhere to go from here but up.
Sam does his research- read: spies- on the new guy and reports to Dean the following morning.
"He's a detective, just promoted," he says as Dean sips at his coffee and digs through the newspaper. Thanksgiving is next week, and all the papers are already loaded down with sleek glossy ads for Black Friday shopping. "There's a lot of talk about family connections and favoritism and all that. Apparently he's related to the mayor or something." He shrugs helplessly. There's only so much you can learn from conversations you aren't actively participating in.
Then Sam adds, "He's kinda hot, right?" and Dean knows his brother is, however heavy-handedly, trying to play him. Even though he has the ultimate blank pass to all sorts of deviant, voyeuristic behavior, Sam is a prude, and what little interest he's shown in people, it's always been in the female sort of people. He doesn't think Castiel is hot, but he knows Dean does.
"Yeah," Dean scoffs. "Maybe I should ask him out." He waggles his eyebrows at Sam as he swallows the last of his coffee. Sam- bad, bad Sam- actually looks thoughtful.
"Why not?" he asks.
"The guy arrested me, Sam," Dean snaps, dumping the mug in the sink. "Not even forty-eight hours ago. Not exactly the best start. 'Hey, it's me, Dean, y'know, the drunk from the other night?'"
"Well, at least you know he'll remember you," Sam says philosophically. Dean throws the dish towel at him.
"I'm not some creepy stalker," he says defensively, because he really kinda is.
"Right," his brother scoffs, thus proving that he actually can read Dean's mind. "That's why you've got a ghost stalking him instead."
Dean heads into the bathroom to escape the conversation and slams the door shut behind him.
Two days later Dean is locking the shop door when Sam says his name. He looks up and there's Detective Castiel Milton himself, in the flesh, hands in his pockets and nose and ears tipped with red. Dean feels colder just looking at him.
"Hi," he says, instead of asking why the hell the idiot's wandering around in that trench coat instead of a real coat.
"I want to know how you know," the detective says without preamble. Dean blinks at him.
"How I know…?" he begins. He can't help but stare at the other man's lips, especially when Castiel lets his breath out in a rush, the warm air crystallizing in the winter cold instantly.
"In the past four years, you have interrupted and prevented seven murders," Castiel says. "Possibly more. I want to know how you know."
Sam is standing next to the cop, giving Dean a big grin and a thumbs up. Dean ignores him.
"Sure, all right," he says with a shrug, and unlocks the door. "C'mon in, no use freezing outside."
If this were a chick flick, Castiel would take off his suit jacket and his coat and roll up his sleeves and sit a little too close, and one thing would lead to another and this would end in happy fun sexytimes for both of them. Dean likes that sort of chick flick moments. Instead, the cop keeps his coat on and sits at the table across from Dean. He's stiff and awkward and quiet, his stare a penetrating blue laser, and it's a little creepy. Says the guy who lives with the ghost of his twenty-year-dead brother.
"You are not psychic," Castiel says as Dean passes him his coffee. He takes one polite, perfunctory sip before he sets it aside. Dean tries not to be insulted.
Sam is gone, giving Dean privacy in which to operate. Dean misses him, somewhat, because he knows he's going to need the backup. He's also desperately grateful Sam is gone, since he probably doesn't want an audience for this.
"Yeah, no, that was just sometime I said to… to… piss off Henriksen." Dean huffs a laugh, feeling about as awkward as he could possibly be, trying to straddle the fine line between almost-truth and not looking like a total basketcase for the nice detective. He spoons sugar into his coffee, which he normally considers almost blasphemy, for something to do with his hands.
"It's just, I get these bad feelings, and sometimes I get lucky," he says, sucking on the spoon and trying not to squirm as Castiel's eyes go narrow- indication of a fine bullshit detector. All that intense focus is overwhelming in the best way possible, like Dean is the only thing Castiel is thinking about, like looking at Dean and talking to him is the only thing in the world for him right now. Dean maybe takes a minute to daydream about how totally awesome such complete focus would be during sex.
Then he forces his mind off that track, because Castiel is looking at him like a cop looks at an uncooperative suspect. And he is a cop; Dean can't let himself forget that, no matter the pretty. Castiel is in the perfect position to declare Dean a psychotic and dangerous to himself and-or others and have him committed in some mental hospital somewhere.
Castiel looks at him for a few moments longer, far beyond the social norm for staring. Then he stands up and reaches into his pocket, places a card and money for the coffee he barely touched on the table.
"If you get another bad feeling," he says, and Dean hadn't known it was possible to pack so much scorn and disbelief into such a level tone, "call me. Preferably before you do something stupid."
Dean watches him leave and drinks his coffee. After a long minute he picks up the card and stares at Castiel's name and number and thinks.
"My brother died when I was a kid," Dean says, three days later, as he picks his way carefully along the icy sidewalk. He immediately wants to kick himself- he has no idea why he said that, except maybe because the awkward silence is finally starting to screw with his head. Castiel walks next to him, single-minded focus locked on the woman a hundred yards or so ahead of them. He's still wearing only that stupid trench coat, but he isn't shivering. Dean kind of wants to poke him and make sure he's actually human and this isn't another ghost thing.
Most people, when hearing something like that, apologize and stage a strategic verbal retreat. Not Castiel. "What happened?"
Dean hesitates, feeling oddly resentful towards the other man for a moment. It's not his fault; Dean had brought it up, voluntarily and with no prompting, and even after only a few meetings Dean knows him well enough to know not to expect the socially accepted response from this guy. Castiel says what he's thinking, and damn the consequences. It's oddly endearing.
"Murdered," Dean says gruffly, hunching his shoulders up. "I was supposed to be watching him," he adds, and can't seem to find any words after that. Castiel looks at him- it's not your fault, Dean- but doesn't say the hated words. There's no sympathy or pity or understanding there, just acceptance.
Castiel says, "My sister died in a car accident when I was nine," and Dean somehow knows that Castiel just gets it. He doesn't know how, or even what there is to get, but Castiel gets it.
Then Sam, who's been following the woman up ahead, closer than Dean and Castiel could get, suddenly bellows, "Dean!"
Dean doesn't even bother looking. He just breaks into a run, charging towards the woman who is about to die. She's checking something on her phone and stepping out onto a road and Sam is staring hard at something off to the left that Dean can't see. He reaches her and grabs her by the fur-lined hood of her coat, hauling her backwards even as he throws himself desperately back. He slips in the slush in the curb and falls on his side and the woman lands on top of him, all elbows in his ribs and a knee slamming into his inner thigh, dangerously close to more vulnerable regions, and she says something very unkind directly into his ear and readies her fist to punch him-
A sedan comes thundering down the road, sliding sideways down the icy hill. Dean gets an impression of the driver- wide eyes, mouth an 'o' of horror and shock- before it's past, a red blur of metal and grey slush. For a long moment the entire tableau- woman, man, man, and ghost- freezes until there comes the shattering crash of a vehicle in motion fetching up against a solid unmovable object. A moment later a car alarm begins a half-hearted sort of wail.
Castiel reaches Dean a second later and kneels down beside him, just long enough to look them both over critically, checking for any obvious injuries. Then he's gone, heading down the hill, presumably to check on the driver.
"Oh my god," the girl says, still staring at the waving line of tire tracks the sedan had left in the snow on the road, thus making her officially the last one to the party. Dean twists a bit beneath her, trying to edge her knee away from his groin, and gets half-melted slush down the back of his shirt for his trouble.
"Well, you definitely impressed him," Sam says, and Dean really shouldn't feel like the nerdy guy who just got noticed by the head cheerleader, but he kinda does anyway.
"Oh my god," the girl says again. She looks down at Dean and says again, "Oh, my god!"
"You're welcome," Dean says with his best grin.
She takes him out for tacos and tequila as a thank-you-for-saving-my-life thing. Sam sits in the booth beside her and rolls his eyes and sighs loudly every time he thinks Dean's getting a little too interested in her charms. Dean ignores him.
She kisses him outside the restaurant. Dean decides he likes the feel of those soft, round breasts pressing against him, but he can live without them. He wants to see what Castiel's blue eyes look like, wide with anticipation and dark with ecstasy, wants to know what that sunlight-bright intensity feels like when it's focused on Dean's body. So Dean thanks her again for the food and gets in his car, alone, and pulls out his cell phone.
"How's the driver?" he asks without preamble.
"He's in the hospital. The doctors say he will live." Castiel says. He's silent after that, because he's never been one for carrying the burden on the conversation, and Dean tries to figure out what to say next. The main point of this call is to tell Castiel that, even though he left with the woman, he isn't with her still. She's gone. It's too much to hope Castiel will figure that out on his own, though, or that he'll even care.
"You're not gonna ask how again?" he says. Castiel sighs.
"Would you tell me if I did?" he counters.
"Probably not," Dean admits with a smirk. He looks out the Impala's heat-fogged windows. "Are you busy?"
"Not at this moment. Why?"
He holds out his hand, looks at it carefully. He'd only had a little bit to drink, barely enough to hit tipsy, but he remembers that car sliding past and can see his hand shaking.
"I kinda need a ride," he says. Next to him Sam snorts and shakes his head and says something that sounds like real smooth, Dean. Dean sticks his tongue out at him.
A few minutes later, the same standard-issue unmarked sedan he'd been loaded into the night he and Castiel met pulls into the spot beside the Impala, and Dean can't help but smile.