Chapter 3 - It's the fluorescents
After dinner, Dean slumps onto the couch while Sam reclaims the dining table as his personal study. He drinks a mouthful of cold beer before flipping open Sam's notebook and skimming the bullet points.
"Once, this big guy, Emerson, wrestled a bear on a school field trip. Apparently, it ran away whimpering."
Dean chuckles, and mumbles to himself, "Yeah, sure. Guess they're building 'em tough out here."
"Girl named Alicia graduated a few years ago, was a psychic. Knew the day before if someone was going to be absence and could predict the rain down to the minute."
Dean raises an eyebrow. He's dealt with psychics in the past. They're all a bunch of scam artists. And predicting rain in Forks? That's like guessing the sun'll rise tomorrow.
"Current school record for one mile…"
"Three minutes!" Dean almost shouts.
Sam chuckles from the adjoining room. "Apparently she wasn't even that sporty, like she was more Barbie than track star. Ran it in bare feet and then put her heels back on."
"There's no way." Dean shakes his head. "That's not humanly possible."
"That's the point," Sam says, his voice all know-it-all sing-song.
"What happened to her?"
"Dunno, graduated, moved away. No one seems to know."
"Huh." Dean takes another sip of beer. Why would a monster be enrolled high school anyway? He's got no idea, but running inhumanly fast and then disappearing off the face of the Earth doesn't sound imminent threat, so he moves onto the next point.
"There's a boarded-up house in the woods that's supposedly haunted. No one's lived there for decades, but the yard is always meticulously maintained."
Now that grabs his attention. Haunted house? That's more his speed. He taps his finger on the note, filing it away for later. It's gotta be worth checking it out.
"Some kid fit six hard-boiled eggs in his mouth at once."
The beer goes down the wrong pipe, and he coughs and chokes, banging himself on the chest. "Dude!" he chokes out.
Sam chuckles. "Was waiting for you to get to that one."
"The kids at your school are on crack." Dean shakes his head and flips to the second page to keep reading, but that was all of it. "What, no eating disorders or Speedo padding on the swim team?"
"You think they have a swim team?"
His windshield wipers tap out a steady beat, almost in time with the Twilight Zone blaring from his speakers. Dean's driving the familiar road to work after dropping Sam at school. A week in Forks and the days are already blurring together into a new rhythm of grease under his nails, Sam's obsessive study sessions, and endless rainy skies.
On Saturday, the brothers went on a hike, or at least that's what they called it, when in reality it was more of a wild goose chase through the woods, following Sam's half-formed directions to a supposedly haunted mansion. It had taken them hours to find the turn-off hidden between two overgrown trees, but when they finally got there, the place was a bust.
Yes, there was a mansion hidden in the forest. Yes, it had, honest to god, roller shutters covering each window. Yes, the yard was beautifully maintained. But there were no signs of life or death anywhere and Dean's homemade EMF meter didn't register a blip. Probably owned by some billionaire tech giant who lives in Silicon Valley and only visits once a year. They could easily afford to pay a maintenance company to mow the yard every week.
Sunday was just as fruitless. The ranger at the Fish and Wildlife didn't even look up from his crossword puzzle before confirming what Bobby said about there being no large predators in the area. If there was something out there due to wake up, it looks like it's hitting the snooze button.
A flash of gold beyond the rippling glass pulls Dean from his thoughts. Up ahead, an old Lincoln Continental, the one he saw on that first day at school, sits parked on the side of the shoulder of the road, its hood propped up.
He hesitates for a moment, watching out the window as he drives past it, before muttering, "Aw, hell," and swinging into the next driveway to turn around.
One five-point turn later, Dean drives back down the road and pulls up behind the car. He flicks on his emergency lights and climbs out into the drizzling rain. As he approaches the vehicle, the driver's side door opens and a mop of black hair appears. Tiny pieces of gravel skid under Dean's boots as Mr. Novak, Cas-something, turns around, bright blue eyes snagging on Dean's face.
Dean's heart picks up speed, like a hunter catching sight of its prey.
A flash of fear crosses the man's face—the expression comes and goes so fast Dean briefly wonders if it actually happened—before he ducks his head and digs one hand into the pocket of his trench coat.
"Hello," the man says. Dean had forgotten just how deep his voice was.
"You in some sort of trouble?"
The guy runs a hand through his hair and glances back toward the propped-up hood of his car. He mumbles something but the wind carries it away.
"What was that?" Dean steps a little closer.
Cas turns back, his dry lips forming a straight line. "It's fine. I was just about to call someone for help. Thanks for stopping. That was very thoughtful of you."
"I can take a look for you, if you'd like?" Dean asks, already walking past the man toward the engine bay.
"That's not necessary. I don't want to bother—"
"Nah, I don't mind." Dean places his hands on the cool metal skirts of the car as he ducks under the hood. There's been no coolant explosion, which is a good sign, and there's no steam pouring off the motor. It might be something to do with the gas.
"Really," Cas insists. "I am just about to make a call."
The trench coat disappears from sight and Dean listens as Cas walks to the rear of the car, then starts talking, presumably on his cellphone. Dean straightens up and moves to the side so he can eavesdrop.
"It just made a noise and stopped… Yeah, about a mile past Rufus… That's fine… Thanks, Bobby."
Dean bites his lip to hide his smile as he steps around the bonnet to receive his dismissal.
"Thanks so much for stopping," Cas says, his face very serious. "But I've contacted a friend and they're going to send someone."
"Of course. It's no trouble at all." He claps him on the shoulder as he walks past. "Catch you later, Cas."
Dodging the large puddle on the road, Dean makes his way back to his car and slides into his seat. Baby comes to life with a satisfying rumble. He gives the man a small smile as he swings Baby around and heads back the way he was going.
Five minutes later, he pulls up outside the garage and walks in.
The moment his boots hit the concrete floor, Bobby's calling out to him. "Dean!"
He makes his way to the little side office and pokes his head in. "You need me, boss?"
"I got a client stuck on the side of the road. Jacob's not in this morning, and I'm expecting a drop-off in ten minutes."
"You need me to go help 'em?"
"Yeah." Bobby throws a set of keys at Dean, who snags it out of the air. "Take the tow truck parked out back."
Bobby gives him the lowdown on where to find the car, and makes him promise to be nice, since according to him, "I don't want ya scaring away my customers."
Ten minutes later, Dean's back on the road, a poorly-concealed smirk on his face. He turns on the emergency lights on the top of the truck as he pulls up behind the gold Lincoln for the second time that day. He takes a moment to steel himself as he watches Cas get out of the car again.
He swings the driver's door open and hops down out of the vehicle, his best shit-eating grin on his face. Cas' face drops, and then his eyes narrow.
"You need a hand, sir?" Dean asks. "I hear you're having trouble with your vehicle."
"You work for Bobby Singer?"
"That I do," Dean says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Now, are you gonna let me help ya this time?"
Cas lets out a huff, and nods. "Yes, I… of course, this way." He turns and walks to the front of his car, like Dean doesn't know where to find it.
Instead of following, Dean circles around to the driver's side and pulls open the door. As he sinks into Cas' seat, a soft, warm scent wraps around him, like the dying embers of a campfire. There's a sweetness to it—rich and deep like chocolate or honey. He clears his throat and shakes his head before turning his attention to the dash.
The keys are in the ignition, so he turns it over once. A few icons light up on the dash, the gas gauge rises up to three-quarters—not empty. Shame, since that would've been a nice, easy fix. He turns the key completely and the engine attempts to fire up, but it doesn't catch. He tries a second time and gets the same result.
Cas has moved, now standing a few feet from the open door, watching him with a close eye.
"Looks like it might be the gas pump or maybe even the alternator. I'll have to take it back to Bobby's to get a proper look at it."
"Oh." Cas frowns. "That's unfortunate."
"You need me to drop you somewhere? You headed home or you back at school today?" As soon as he says it, Dean internally winces. Sam's been keeping him up to date and so far, Mr. Novak hasn't returned since his abrupt departure last week.
"It's okay. I can walk."
Dean raises an eyebrow, holds out his hand, and catches a few raindrops within a couple of seconds. "In this? Come on. Let me hook this up and then I'll drop you off."
"I…" Cas swallows and looks at the ground. "I don't want to trouble you."
"It's no trouble at all. Besides, Bobby'll have my ass if he finds out I let you walk home."
Cas presses his lips together, his eyes flickering between the heavy sky and the wet road ahead. Dean can almost see the battle playing out in his mind before the guy finally exhales and nods, as if surrendering to some unseen argument. "Fine."
It takes Dean longer than he would like to get the tow truck in the right position. From inside the old Lincoln, intense eyes watch his every move. Finally, when it's time to hook the car up to the winch, he asks Cas to move to the passenger seat of the truck. Without keen eyes on him, things move a lot smoother, and he gets Cas' car lifted up on the back tray with the wheels secured.
By the time he's done, his jacket is a little more than damp and rain in his hair is dripping down the back of his collar. He hops up into the truck's cab and slams the door shut, rubbing his hands together in front of the vent to warm them up. Cas' scent has filled the warm space and Dean has to swallow it down, trying to remind himself that he's working. Both the case and for Bobby. He doesn't know what Cas is—if he's even anything. There's no time to be getting confusing messages from his downstairs brain.
"So, where're we headed, Cas?" Dean asks, turning to finally look at him.
The man is leaning against the opposite door, tucked as far away from Dean as he can get in the small confined space. Dean raises an eyebrow.
"School," he says, his gruff voice directed at the floor.
"Okay," Dean says, flicking on the turn signal and pulling out onto the road.
Silence settles awkwardly around them. Dean briefly considers asking where Cas has been or what he's been up to, but his nerves get the better of him. The dude's been kinder today… well, less rude… okay, he's still been pretty rude. Maybe Dean should ask why Cas hates him so much?
"You called me Cas," the man says, breaking the silence, and Dean glances at him. "Twice."
Dean taps the steering wheel with his thumbs. "Yeah, I mean, I don't fully remember your name. Charlie told me that day we met but I didn't catch it." He scratches his neck. "Sam calls you 'Mr. Novak', but that kinda feels too high school for me." He shrugs. The man doesn't look that much older than Dean, and it would feel too weird to call him Mr. Novak. Unless… No, he shakes that thought away.
Out the corner of his eye, he sees Cas slide his hand into the pocket of his coat again. It looks like he's about to grab something, but he doesn't pull his hand back out.
Damn it, Dean, he curses himself. This guy could be a monster. He could have been about to pull a weapon on you. But his guard is way down low. He hasn't even thought about reaching for the knife in his boot.
"No one's called me that before," Cas says, his voice soft as he looks away from Dean out his side window.
"Would you prefer I call you something else?"
"No." Cas shakes his head. "I like it."
This guy is definitely weird. But for some reason, Dean's instincts are telling him that it is endearing, rather than something is wrong. He slows the truck as he drives around a sharp corner. Driving the Impala can sometimes be tricky, especially in wet or icy conditions, but she's nothing compared to this rig. This feels like he's in a double decker bus and one wrong turn will have them sideways in a ditch.
"Why'd you move to Forks?" Cas asks, suddenly all Chatty Kathy.
"It's complicated."
Cas smiles. "I'm sure I can keep up."
Smart ass. "Dad wanted us here, so we're here."
"You don't like your father. Why?"
"I never said that." The way Cas stated it, like it was fact, rubs him entirely up the wrong way.
"No but it was in your tone, your posture."
"I love my father, alright? He's a good dad."
"But…"
"No buts." Dean huffs out an angry breath. "Why do you care, anyway?"
Cas shrugs. "Just curious."
Fine, if he's going to be like that. "Why do you live here? Wettest place in the continental US. Not exactly my first choice. Or most people's."
Cas looks out the window. "I like the rain."
"Yeah, why?"
"It's complicated."
Dean chuckles, shaking his head. Of course it is.
They've reached the school, and the parking lot's filling up fast. Not quite a traffic jam, but close enough to test his patience. Every car that hesitates too long at an intersection makes his fingers itch for the horn.
"I find it peaceful," Cas says. "The sounds in nature are more amplified. The animals, the birds… are happier in the rain."
"Ugh," Dean complains as the car in front finally pulls into the parking lot. "It's so wet all the time."
"You get used to it."
There's a gap in the traffic and Dean can get the truck across the road and onto the school grounds. "Yeah, well, maybe I don't wanna get used to it."
"How long are you here?"
"Six months."
Dean pulls up in front of the stairs that lead directly into the school. He shifts the truck into park and turns to face Cas properly for the first time. He's no longer plastered against the wall, having inched himself closer to Dean over the short trip.
Sapphire blue eyes are staring at him again like they can see down to his soul and it makes him want to shudder. The total opposite reaction he had the first time they met.
"Hey," he says, remembering. "Weren't your eyes like, dark or black the last time I saw you?"
Cas stiffens, immediately looking away. One hand brushes against his coat pocket again, the other unbuckling his seatbelt. "Yes, um… it must've been the fluorescence." He opens the door, and the sounds of chatting and laughter from outside fills the cab. "Thank you for the ride."
Considering the height of the truck, he lands gracefully on the wet asphalt after jumping out, his long trench coat billowing out behind him. He doesn't wait for Dean to answer, doesn't look back, just slams the door behind him and walks away, disappearing into the crowd of students.
"You know of any monsters that change their eye color?" Dean asks later that evening.
Sam looks up from his bowl of spaghetti to stare at the wall, his thinking face on. "Not really. I mean, shape-shifters probably can, you know, when they change their body."
Dean shakes his head. It's been bothering him all day, and he's frustratingly come up empty.
"Why'd you ask?"
"Cas… I mean, your English teacher, Mr. Novak. You remember what his eye color was that first time we met him?"
Sam gives him a weird look. "No, not really. Why?"
"I could have sworn they were black, like murderous-black."
"Murderous-black?" Sam scoffs. "I really think you're reading too much into this."
Dean ignores him and stabs a clump of spaghetti. "He was back at school today, wasn't he?"
"Well, yeah… Wait, how did you know?"
"His car broke down this morning. I had to pick him and take the car back to Bobby's." Dean was right, it was the fuel pump that was the issue, but Jacob was the one that got to work on it. Dean was assigned to sorting duty in the back shed. "But his eyes are blue now. Not dark blue, not gray-blue, but blue-blue. Like the color of the sunny sky blue. I definitely would have noticed that the first day I met him."
When Sam doesn't answer, Dean glances up, noticing his brother judging him. He can see it plastered across his stupid face.
"What?"
"You like him."
Dean scoffs, his stomach recoiling at his baseless accusations. "No, I don't."
"You do," Sam says with a triumphant smile on his face, like he's figured out a huge secret and is immensely proud of himself. "You think he's hot and when he brushed you off that first day, you got your panties in a twist."
"What? No, I didn't." I don't even wear panties…
"Mm-hmm," Sam hums, stuffing a forkful of pasta into his face.
Dean rolls his eyes and forces down the flush creeping up his neck. He didn't notice. He didn't. Sure, Dean's not blind. He can see that the guy's got an amazing jawline with a little dimple in the center of his chin, which is kind of unfair. And yeah, the way his eyebrows furrowed causing lines to form on his forehead that makes Dean want to smooth them out. Anyone would notice those things.
"Shut up, and don't 'mm-hmm,' me. I don't like him. I didn't even notice if he's hot or whatever. I'm working a case."
Sam bursts out laughing, leaning back in his chair. And Dean wants to punch him.
"Someone doth protest too much."
"You know what? You're on kitchen duty tonight. I was going to do the dishes for you, but since you're being such a little bitch, you can do it."
"Dean," the kid whines, actually whines like he's five-years-old again. "I've got so much work to do."
"Then scrub fast." Dean stands, leaving his bowl on the table. "And I don't care what you say, you keep an eye on Cas—Mr. Novak—alright? How was he in class today?"
"Fine. Normal. Didn't try to murder anyone," Sam says with exaggerated teenager sarcasm.
"Great. Let's keep it that way," Dean says, as he definitely doesn't run away.
And later that night, when Dean's in the shower, with warm water running in trivets down his body, and he takes himself in hand, he does not think of Cas. He does not think of those piercing blue eyes staring at him like he's something special, or those pink chapped lips that beg to be licked. And he especially doesn't think about that thick dark hair that stands on end like someone's been running their fingers through it, like Dean's been grabbing a hold of it as he tongues into his mouth and breathes in that smoky, honey scent as his deep voice whispers dirty things into his ear.
Nope.
Dean definitely does none of those things as he paints the shower wall with his spend.
He's here on a case, and he's going to get to the bottom of it.