The diner is half-asleep when they walk in the doors. The three of them sit at the counter and pick apart their greasy breakfast plates. Castiel talks at the waiter about the relevance of spoons, how they don't really work with bacon and pancakes. When he starts in on the history of eating utensils, Dean ducks his face into the palm of his hand. Cas doesn't get it. Dean gets that Cas doesn't get it, but it's still kind of embarassing.
The couple in the booth behind them start to talk, and Sam shrugs like he's wrestling with an invisible weight. He knows what it's like to be called weird. He twists around in his seat, scrapes his chair against the linoleum, and that throws the diner into a modest silence.
At the gas station off US 13, Cas stares at the pump gun a little too long. He holds it in his hand, half-squeezes the trigger, gets a little freaked out by the small river of gasoline that dribbles over the Impala's bumper. Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a rag. He has to resist the urge to hurl it at the clerk who's gawping in the window. Cas puts a thank you and an apology in the same breath. Dean tells him not to sweat it, and then Cas has something to say about the likelihood of a fallen angel sweating gasoline.
They still bring Cas along on witness interviews and meetings with case authorities. He throws them a curve ball every time he opens his mouth. Sam tells Dean Cas keeps them on their toes, and Dean tells Sam not to do that. They arrive at a status quo of weird wherein the Winchesters spend half their time making up for what Mr. Born-Yesterday can't make out of a normal conversation. It's exhausting, but the brothers won't leave Castiel on the sidelines. He's gotta learn.
On a summery night in small town, Mississippi, Dean throws his first swing on the matter. The bar isn't even that busy, there really isn't anyone there to impress, but this guy figures it's funny as hell that Cas doesn't know what football is. And Cas laughs at his own expense, easy, until the tone of the conversation turns derisive. Dean ignores it until he can't hear the game anymore, until his tumbler is empty, until Cas stops smiling.
The cops think Castiel is pretty weird, too. He's humble and apologetic, and he's got on that killer smile. Nothing can really dampen Cas's spirits while he's playing partners-in-crime with Dean. Johnny Law is arresting an angel (fallen or not, it doesn't matter), and Cas is paying them compliments on the police cruiser's wax job. It's not even the first time he's been in handcuffs, and when the cops pull him past Dean, Cas is purposefully humming a Jefferson Starship song. The whole thing is ridiculous. Dean's arms are twisted so bad his shoulders ache, but he can't fight laughing.
That's when Dean starts to think he's been looking at this all wrong.
Sam bails them out in the morning. They're over the state line an hour later, and they pull into a Mom 'n Pop store thirty minutes after that. Dean's right shoulder is still giving him hell and no, he's not a wuss for wanting some painkillers because he's dislocated that arm before and Sam better stop making that face. While Sam's getting into a tussle with the fritzy coffee machine in the back, Dean skims through the aisles while Cas tries to discern the meaning of the decade old pop song playing over the speakers. They're good for a while, but it so happens that the 99 cent toy shelf backs up to the pharmacy; and something about being in a store makes Castiel want to touch everything.
Dean glances up from a pill bottle of off brand, brightly colored something-or-other as a robotic whoosh noise draws closer to him. Judging by the intensity of his stare, Castiel is having some deep thoughts about that plastic lightsaber. He's holding it wrong, and he's hitting the button without even swinging it—it's a friggin' tragedy, really. Then there's a woman five feet to Dean's left trying to control her son, not-really-whispering things to him about being better behaved than that weird fella over there.
"Dean, this isn't what the tag says it is."
Dean reaches out, takes the handle. The plastic kinda sqeaks under Cas's fingers as he lets go. Dean whips the lightsaber around, hitting the button with perfect precision, setting off the sound effects at exactly the right moments. He swings it slow, theatrically demonstrating well practiced prowess, and lands a half-gentle strike against Cas's chest.
Dean smirks. "Yeah, I think it's busted."
The woman is shuffling away. Her kid's giggling.
Cas's eyes are round with understanding. He puts his palm out. "May I?"
A lightsaber in the hands of a (former, whatever) warrior of God? "Hell yeah."
Five minutes later, Cas is sitting on the hood of the Impala, adroitly flipping the toy sword in one hand as if it were the angel blade he'd handled for ages. Dean scoffs at Castiel's swordplay tips, insisting a year in purgatory with nothing but a monster-machete has given him all the know-how he needs. Cas shows off, Dean brags. Somehow, they end up two dollars lighter and another lightsaber heavier, and Sam's calling them children as he leans against the front of the store eating pretzels and finishing his coffee.
They spend the next half hour in the mostly deserted parking lot locked in mock battle. Passersby shoot them weird looks. Dean notices, Cas doesn't, and it's whatever, man, whatever. Everything's good until Sam reappears with a nerf gun and hell no is Team Lightsaber is gonna stand for that.
Cross-posted from AO3, May 24, 2013