Chapter Text
It started with a pop.
Dean knew he shouldn’t have ignored it but he was only about two hundred miles into this drive and something just couldn’t be going wrong now.
But then the hissing started.
Then his temperature gauge started climbing.
The engine sputtered – the manifold shook.
And now, here he is—stuck between nowhere and where the fuck with a smoking engine and absolutely no patience.
His brother might've been right.
That thought alone is enough to make him start kicking the dirt on the side of the highway—spitting and cussing while punching the air. It was all just so fucking typical! Just when he finally gets up the nerve to hit the road—just when he thinks he finally has a chance to get a handle on his life and feel like himself again, the one thing that has never failed him—fails him.
Well ...
No ... she didn’t fail him, that was wrong. His poor, poor baby.
He’s pissed, but not at her. He’s pissed at himself because it was his job to take care of her … he’s the one that failed. He knew she probably needed one more complete check-up before he left town; but he had made up his mind to go—and go he would. Nothing was going to stop him; apparently, not even necessary things.
Sam said he needed to slow down. He told him that there was no need to rush off so quickly. Just because Lisa left him and he went under on his house, and just because the shop was in the red far more often than it was ever in the black, didn’t mean that Dean needed to just throw it all to the wayside. He could stay and work on it. He could stay and try and bring himself above water. He could stay and accept the help that his family and friends were trying to give him.
Yes … he could have stayed, but that was never Dean’s style.
He knew Sam had a point, and the white curls of smoke billowing from his baby’s hood somehow made that point even clearer … but he made his choice. There is literally no going back now.
With a sigh and one final “fuck” hurtled towards the sky, Dean pops open the Impala’s top to see just what was going on. More smoke puffs out and it makes him cough and sputter.
“Damn ... I’m so sorry, girl.”
His baby’s engine hisses once more in response and Dean nods his head in shame. After the smoke has cleared some, he bends down further to take a look at everything. Thankfully—it appears all the heat is coming from the oil burning off and not any actual parts-damage. The battery still has some fluid in it and the dip stick shows him some char that is not pleasant, but nothing an oil change and a few more quarts couldn’t fix. So all that leaves is the coolant, which he did replenish before he left; although, one hip-bump to the edge of the grill shows the obvious lack of fluid in the reservoir.
“What the fuck?” he mumbles—ducking his head into the bay to try and figure out where the leak is—because there has to be one. He sticks his hand below the now-dry container, feeling each valve and tube thoroughly. He closes his eyes and begins counting each one. He’s taken this car apart so many times, he can quite literally put it back together without looking, and finds that it’s actually easier to piece it all by feeling out patterns and sequences, and not with any sort of visual. Soon, he gets to the main line that feeds the coolant into the engine—fingers sliding down the side of the rubber tube, knowing just how it should feel, letting out a groan when the obvious hole meets his touch instead.
It’s just a tube. A god damn $1.50 piece of rubber.
Something that he bought and sold by the dozen at his shop—something that if he just took two seconds to check it out, he would've known he needed. But no … he was in a rush to leave that town behind.
And now Baby is the one to suffer for it.
Fuck.
The loud honk of a horn makes him jump—bumping his head on the inside of the hood.
“Fuck!” he is now yelping aloud, rubbing the back of his head to feel if there’s a lump.
”Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you” a gruff voice calls out over the truck’s rumbling diesel. “I just saw that you were pulled off the highway with your hood up, and I was wondering if you needed assistance.”
Dean backs away a few steps and covers his eyes against the sun, trying to get a better look inside the cab of the tow-truck that is now rattling beside him. The man sitting behind the wheel is hard to make out, but his bright eyes are fairly clear through the waving Missouri heat and dust kicking up in the breeze. “Umm …” Dean mumbles, not really liking the idea of his baby getting dragged on the hook of this beat-looking thing, but he really has no idea where the next town is and he needs to get a coolant tube before sundown, and before he’s stuck out here all night. “Yeah … well, I might” he fumbles—pride getting in the way once again.
The truck’s engine quiets quickly and the driver’s side door pops open with a creak. Soon, the driver is striding up beside Dean—hands stiff at his sides as he leans over to look beneath Baby’s hood. Dean would protest but the guy seems so insistent, it stunts all his words.
“You have no coolant” the man says dryly.
Dean crumples his face—offended that this dude feels the need to state the obvious to him. “Yeah, I know. I got a hole in the line. I need a new one.”
“Well …” the man says a little softer now, straightening back out and turning to face Dean head on. “That should not be very difficult to find. Do you want me to take you into town to purchase a replacement?”
He does—but then again, who the hell is this guy? A tow truck driver, obviously—but he sure as hell doesn’t look like one. He’s wearing a white button down shirt for Christ’s sakes! And Dean has never in his life seen a man drive such a decrepit beast while wearing such shiny dress shoes. And the guy talks like he’s about to start a tour at a museum. Dean nearly laughs—wondering if he broke down somewhere just outside the Twilight Zone. “Uh … well …”
“Forgive me. Where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself. I'm Castiel.” The man holds out his hand for Dean to shake.
Dean looks down at it a moment, noticing the callouses and the rough scars—they’re similar to his own and he finally relaxes a little with the sight of something that proves this guy might be legit. You don’t get hands like that from sitting at a desk all day. Those are a mechanic’s hands. Dean finally reaches over and grasps the man’s palm with a firm grip—the side of the truck catching his eye after looking into the blue set just across from him. “Lew’s Towing … so I take it, you’re not Lew then?” he says playfully—letting the shake drop with the trill of his words.
The other man cocks his head to the side and squints his eyes—as if Dean had just spoken to him in tongues. “Obviously not—since I just told you my name is Castiel.”
“It was a joke—I, uh … okay. Never mind.” Dean waves off the thought, because this is all more than just a little strange. This guy—dressed for Wall Street; the elusive Lew … the fact that he could have avoided all this if he had just looked a little longer underneath his baby’s hood.
He kicks himself some more.
“You never answered my question” Castiel pitches, bringing Dean’s focus back to him.
“W-what?” Dean stutters, feeling almost breathless now. Damnit, why didn’t he just check under the hood before?
“Do you want me to take you into town for a replacement?”
Dean inhales one more collecting breath, knowing that there's no point to dwelling on what's done. “Uh—is there a town near here?”
“About twenty five minutes East. Twenty miles or so … it’s not very large, but the local auto shop should have the part you need.”
Dean nods and squints back at the curious man at his side. In spite of his dress and the odd way he talks—he’s not giving Dean that killer-vibe. Actually, his face seems really pleasant … a thought that makes him feel even more off kilter; it's just ... this man’s big, blue eyes and wrinkled brow make him seem almost familiar; like someone Dean could've known all his life in his old town of Lawrence. This guy makes him feel like he’s not really that far away anymore … and it’s strange how okay that is; especially since Lawrence is what he’s been trying to be far away from. “Uh … well, yeah. If you wouldn’t mind giving me a lift, I could really use that part.”
“If you don’t want all your cylinders to melt—I would say you need that part.”
Dean chuckles a little. “Yeah—guess you’re right. So, you really don’t mind?”
“I drive a tow truck, so it is my job to assist in these matters.”
Dean laughs again. “Sorry for saying so, but you don’t really look like you drive a tow truck.”
Castiel tilts his head once more, giving Dean that confused-puppy stare. “I drove here in a tow-truck; how does that not look like I drive one?”
“I mean, you just don’t dress like any tow truck driver I’ve ever seen. They’re usually in some sort of jump suit, covered in twenty layers of grime ... and they are usually fat and barely speak in anything but grunts … and—you just aren’t like that."
“Would you be more comfortable if I were like that?”
Dean gapes a little because he didn’t think he was coming off as uncomfortable. “No … I mean, well—you just took me by surprise, man. It’s all good though. I uh—I appreciate you offering to help.”
Blue eyes drop to the ground, bouncing in a semi-satisfied nod. “Alright then. Please accompany me to my vehicle so we can be on our way.” Castiel is no sooner turning on his heels and heading back to the driver’s side of his truck.
Dean almost snorts in disbelief. This guy is weird. This whole day is weird.
Once again, he kicks himself.
Sam was right.
He should've waited and thought this out a bit more.
***
The first five minutes of the drive into town were awkwardly silent. Once again, unlike any tow truck driver Dean has ever met—the guy drove sensibly. He didn’t speed—in fact, he was painstakingly loyal to the speed limit. Dean kept pressing down his phantom gas pedal, trying to move things along, but they never went any quicker. Castiel also held the wheel at exactly 10 and 2—as if he were taking his driving test for the first time; and he would check his mirrors every thirty seconds like clockwork. "Methodical" was too soft of a word to describe this guy. Dean was almost in awe.
“If you don’t mind my asking, where are you heading?” Castiel’s voice rumbles—louder than the rumbling engine and once again, it makes Dean jump.
“Oh – uh. Not sure, just heading.”
Castiel smiles crookedly and Dean feels himself chuckle with the sight. “That must be nice.”
“Really? Why?” Dean is thoroughly confused now. He’d think someone as put together as Castiel seems to be, wouldn’t like the idea of driving with no destination in mind.
The crooked smile grows bigger. “Because the road is freeing.”
Dean is grinning now too. “Finally, someone who gets it!”
“Who wasn’t getting it before?” Castiel asks, glancing over at Dean instead of his rearview, and Dean feels his cheeks heat up.
“Oh, um … my brother. He uh—he didn’t understand why I wanted to leave. I uh—let’s just say things haven’t been going well for me lately” Dean grumbles, blushing even more so he turns to look out the passenger window to try and hide his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I understand wanting to leave in order to clear your head. That's why I enjoy driving the truck. It gives me time to think.”
“How did you start driving this thing anyway? You still don’t strike me as the type.” Dean turns back to look at Castiel, happy to get the attention off of himself for a moment.
The guy is still smiling and something about it makes him seem warmer—more approachable. “I wasn’t the type, as you say. My original means for employment was in tax accounting. I was good at it, and numbers and order and filing has its own sort of calming-effect.”
Dean scoffs. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
Dean shakes his head. Weirdo.
“But I found that over time, I enjoyed working with my hands more. My brother’s friend, Lew runs the auto shop we’re going to and one day, he asked me to help him with a repair. I really didn’t know anything about cars—but the repair was minor and my brother was out of town, or else Lew would have requested his services instead. That was several years ago now, and I've learned a great deal about cars and how they work. It was a whole new order that seemed far more exciting than numbers on a page—so I quit my job and began working for Lew. I don’t know enough to be a repairman, per say. I'm not certified even if I did; I can drive this truck, however—and I can help people with some of the smaller things. I get to drive and I get to use my hands. It really is quite wonderful.”
“But … the get-up?” Dean says, understanding every word that this man has said—he has had similar epiphanies, but what he still doesn’t understand is why he dresses the way he does.
Castiel’s smile drops slightly trading places once again for his confused-look. “I enjoy being professional. That involves dressing a certain way.”
Dean throws up his hands in surrender. “Whatever floats your boat, man. And I gotta say—it’s pretty badass of you to just up and leave a cushy job like that; so I guess—dress however ya want. If it makes ya feel good, then why not? That’s what I always say anyway.”
“I have a similar saying … but mine is not as lengthy.”
Dean laughs out loud now—good and hearty in a way he wasn’t expecting, not after watching his baby disappear into the distance. “Well, I'm usually not so chatty, so … don’t get used to these lengthy words of wisdom.”
“I’m not usually very conversational either. That is one of the reasons why I chose accounting—numbers don’t need to know your life story.”
“Cars don’t either. That’s why I love ‘em.”
“Your vehicle is very lovely. I can tell you put a lot of work into it.”
“Her.”
“Her?”
“Yeah … Baby is a her. She's my baby.”
Castiel scrunches his brow again and gives Dean a curious glance from the corner of his eye. “You are a very strange man.”
“Wow, high praise coming from you” Dean pokes back with a laugh.
“I take it, that is another one of your jokes?” Castiel asks—straight faced, but something in his voice makes Dean think he’s being a smartass, and it warms him up to the guy even more.
“Ten points to Gryffindor.”
“And you read Harry Potter. A strange man, indeed.”
“You ain’t no bouquet of normal, yourself!”
“I at least introduced myself—like a normal person would do. I realize now, I am driving a complete stranger in my truck, and if you were to try anything, I wouldn’t even be able to tell the authorities your name.”
Dean is doubling over laughing once again, and—he really wasn’t expecting this drive to be so damn fun. “Well …” he wheezes, wiping a tear away from his eye. “Do you think if I were gonna try anything, I would want you to know my name?”
“Does that mean you are planning on trying something? Because I have to warn you—I am very handy with a crow bar.”
“I'm shaking in my boots!”
“You might be if I have to show you my skills.”
Dean is absolutely loving the way this dude can say the weirdest shit with such a straight face—and he finds himself suddenly wishing that Sam could meet Castiel. He has a feeling they’d get along great. After a few more laughs and a minute to settle down, Dean holds out his hand to the man again. “I’m Dean—Dean Winchester, and I herby promise not to try anything—although, I am curious to see your crow bar skills.”
Castiel glances down at Dean’s hand quickly, looking a little wary to remove one of his own from the steering wheel, but he finally does so, so they can share a quick shake.
“A pleasure” he says, showing Dean another soft smile.
“Pleasure's all mine. Really, man … I was kind of pissed off earlier, if you couldn’t tell. But uh—I feel better now. Thanks.”
“I understand. The majority of the people I assist are not in the best of moods. People are generally very attached to their vehicles.”
“That’s an understatement. That car back there … she’s my everything. No matter what happened, Baby was there for me. She’s home, so when she hurts—I hurt.”
Castiel is peeking at him again, but this time—Dean doesn’t mind it so much.
“I just hate that I let her get like that. I should’ve known better.”
“Car troubles aren’t always predictable” Castiel says softly, obviously trying to be of comfort.
But Dean can’t take it. “No—Baby’s troubles are always predictable. I rebuilt her a hundred times. I know exactly what’s going on with her with every sound she makes, and I knew before I left that she needed some attention, but I had my head too far up my ass to give it.”
“You rebuilt it—her?”
The correction makes Dean beam. “Yeah, I uh—I actually ran an auto parts place back in Lawrence— Kansas … that’s where I was coming from, and uh, well—the shop sorta went under but that's still no excuse. I had everything I needed to make sure she was in shape for a long trip. I should’ve made sure she was good to go.”
“The way you speak about your car is very … it’s very kind. I think I only have ever heard my father speak that way, but that was about his children.”
Dean smiles brighter. “Like I said—she’s my baby.”
“So it would seem.”
***
The town was very tiny— even tinier than Lawrence, and Dean was kind of surprised it even had an auto shop, especially one as well stocked as this. It was well organized too, and the aisles were long. It actually made him a little sad. Maybe if his place was this put together, he wouldn’t have lost it all.
“This is Lew, the friend I was telling you about. Lew, this is Dean Winchester. His car overheated twenty miles outside of town.”
Dean moved the replacement tube to his other hand in order to free his right to shake Lew’s. Now this guy, this guy was what Dean expected in a place like this. His mustache was raggedy and took up most of his face. He was graying and overweight, and looked like he could talk your ear off with stories from “the good ol’ days.” Dean liked him instantly—he kind of reminded him of his uncle Bobby.
“Lucky, Cas here found ya. You would’ve had a mighty long walk if he didn’t.”
Dean laughs and shakes the man’s hand harder. “Tell me about it. I was 'bout ready to lose it out there. This hasn’t been a great day for me.” The tiniest frown on Castiel’s face catches his eye and Dean falters a moment. “Um …” he continues, pulling back to look at Lew and finally retract his hand. “It’s a stupid little thing too—my coolant line sprung a leak. If I'd just looked under the hood before I left—”
“Happens to the best of us. Us car guys can be a little ignorant when it comes to our own … I once did a full overhaul on my T-Bird, detailing everythin’ just perfect. Went to start it after a year of slavin’ away … forgot to put a damn battery back in.”
Dean laughs and nods, handing over the packaged tube for Lew to ring up. “Man—that makes me feel better, thanks.”
“No problem, son. That’ll be two dollars.”
Dean hands over two bills and takes back the tube, along with a his receipt, smiling at Lew in thanks. “So, what year is your T-bird?”
“Fifty Seven.”
Dean whistles. “Damn—that was a beauty of year. You’re a lucky man.”
Lew almost seems to glow—his mustache twitching up with his hidden grin. “What are you drivin’, son?”
“Sixty Seven, Impala. She was my dad’s—now she’s my baby.”
“All original?”
“Kept everything I could, or found replacement parts that were from the same year.”
“Atta’boy! Too many young folks want to put TVs and computers into their cars these days. I never understood it, so it’s nice to see some of the younger generation still got some sense.”
“Yes, sir. The day you see a TV in my baby, is the day I'm dead … and even then, I may just come back and haunt someone if they even think of it.”
“Well if you got a kid, you need to raise ‘em to respect her just like your daddy did, you.”
Dean huffs a little and blushes. “No kids for me … not yet, anyway.”
“Little lady in the picture?”
Lew is just like Bobby, old—grumpy, and nosey as all hell. “Not anymore.”
Another strange face morphs at his right and Dean turns his head to look back at Castiel, directly now, but the man quickly turns away—obviously not wanting Dean to focus on him.
What a weird, little dude.
“Well, you’re a handsome fella. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a pretty little thing to settle down with one day. Don’t be like me and only find your cars pretty. Women tend to not like comin’ in second place to a muffler.”
Dean grins wide—remembering how much Lisa used to gripe at him for spending so much time in the garage. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Well, you best get back out there before someone decides that they want to add a classic car to their rap sheet. Not too many hooligans 'round here, but the few we got wouldn’t think twice.”
That wipes the grin off Dean’s face quick—and soon, he’s shaking Lew’s hand once more and speeding back to the tow truck, with Castiel trailing just behind him.
***
The drive back seems twice as long and Dean doesn’t like this panic he’s suddenly feeling—he also doesn’t like how quiet Castiel is now. He’s not sure what all the frowning and strange looks were about earlier, but he feels a little guilty, like it was somehow his fault.
“You okay?” he finally asks, wanting something to dull the worry playing through his head.
“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?” Castiel responds, still looking sternly at the road ahead of them.
“I dunno … you just uh—seem, ya seem off.”
“Off?”
“Yeah, you seem like something's bothering you.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Fine never means fine.”
“Why would I not say what I mean?”
Dean laughs dryly and shakes his head. “Man, I've heard fine too many times in the last eight months and it never meant fine. It always meant pissed off or upset or that I fucked up somehow. Then again, that was coming from the chick I was living with, so she had reason to not be fine. She did live with me, after all.”
“Why are you no longer living together?” Castiel asks, quickly closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head. “I apologize. That is none of my business and I shouldn’t be prying.”
Dean sighs, reaching out to nudge Castiel’s arm with his fist. “It’s cool, man. I guess … well, I'm not the easiest person to get along with. I’m pretty stubborn, and as you can see—I love my car a lot. I suppose she was just tired of always competing with something; whether it was Baby or my own pig-headedness; she was always having to fight. It wasn’t fair, and a girl as great as her deserved better. That’s why I didn’t stop her when she said she wanted to leave. It was the least-selfish I ever was with her. I just hope she doesn’t feel like she wasted too much time with me.”
“I highly doubt she felt that way.”
Dean smirks slightly and nudges Castiel again. “Thanks, man—but you don’t even know the half of it. I’m my father’s son, and if you knew him, you’d be questioning whether or not you should drive me the rest of the way back to my car.”
Castiel lets out a long, slow breath—shoulders slouching a little before he breathes in again. “I obviously didn’t know your father, and you’re right, I don’t even really know you. I do know however, that I haven’t spoken this much in a long time, not even to members of my own family. I suppose, if someone can make me feel this at ease, then that someone can’t be as awful as you say.”
Dean’s arm falls back to his side and he finds himself staring blankly at the lines in Castiel’s face. They’re soft and worried, and etching out a sort of honesty that Dean thinks has to be very rare for the man. That old guilt rushes over him once more—and he doesn’t even know why, but he wants to think better of himself just so this guy won’t have to try and reassure him of it. He doesn’t want to make him have to work like that. “Sorry …” he whispers, not sure what he’s even apologizing for, but feels like it’s very necessary right now.
“For?”
“I don’t know … but– uh, it seems like I made things weird somehow.”
Castiel turns up the corner of his mouth weakly. “Not at all, Dean. I suppose I am the one acting strangely. I am not accustomed to this.”
“Accustomed to what?” Dean inches a little closer, because Castiel’s voice has lowered, and he wants to be able to hear him over the roar of the engine.
“Getting along with someone so easily. It would seem that I have grown quite fond of your company in this short amount of time, and I– I know that this is all very childish of me, but I am disheartened that you'll be taking your leave so soon. I … I apologize. I am the one making things weird, as you say.”
Dean’s cheeks are as red as the lettering on the side of the truck; but he can’t bring himself to look away from the man behind the wheel— even though everything he just said sort of makes him want to jump out and run the rest of the way back to the Impala. It’s a familiar feeling—much like how he felt when his first girlfriend said that she loved him, or when his old teammate in his soccer league told him that all his hugging was “creepy”. It didn’t matter which way things fell. When someone wants to get close to him, or when he wants to get close to someone, his first instinct is to run.
That’s his first instinct now—but another, new instinct is close on its heels—and that is to stay.
“Um … no, you’re not … you’re not being weird, man. I – I get it. I—”
“We’re back” Castiel cuts him off, and Dean is not sure if it was merciful or rude, but he’s kind of thankful either way.
He turns his gaze to look at his baby as Castiel swings the truck around, coming to a stop just in front of her. Everything looks to be intact—no missing parts, no broken glass. The hooligans Lew was warning him against don’t seem to have made it this far out yet, and Dean is eternally grateful. However, he can’t shake the feeling that there should've been just a few more miles before he got back to her. Like he needed a few more miles to talk— to talk and sit with Castiel.
Why didn’t she break down sooner? It’s an awful thought and it makes him sag with even more guilt.
It's just a matter of minutes before the hood to his girl is popped open and the replacement tube is put in. Castiel is pulling a jug of coolant from the back of the truck just as Dean finishes, and Dean is quickly kicking himself yet again.
“Holy shit—I can’t believe I forgot to buy more coolant!” he yelps, smacking himself in the forehead and feeling like he should tear apart his car-guy card and take up gardening. Although, no doubt he’d fuck that up too.
“I knew I had some, that’s why I didn’t remind you of it at Lew’s” Castiel says shortly, making his way back over and scooting past Dean so he can fill up the reservoir.
And Dean steps aside to give the man some room—shocked nearly to death that he does so. He never lets anyone touch his car, not even to replace a wiper blade. But, without even a blink—he moved aside for Castiel. And not only that, something about the sight of this man underneath his baby’s hood makes him feel hotter than all the humid air in Missouri.
“That should be sufficient” Castiel huffs, finally pulling up from the car and twisting the cap back onto the coolant jug. “It would appear you’re ready to continue your journey.”
Dean nods and smiles pathetically—rubbing roughly at his neck and not feeling good enough to meet Castiel’s eyes. “Yeah … thanks. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“It has been my pleasure, Dean. Really—I have not enjoyed a job this much in a long time.”
Dean smiles a little more genuinely now, wider still when Castiel leans back against his baby’s grill—an emblem of sorts that Dean never knew existed. “You make the job look good” he says, barely thinking as his eyes trail down the length of Castiel’s body. The man is wiping his hand on the side of his pants, and his hair is slightly messy now, given the evening wind— all in all making the once so-stoic tax accountant, seem to finally fit into his current place in life. All the thoughts buzz loudly in his mind, but Dean’s own words finally ring back above the noise—and he almost wants to punch himself with the realization of what he'd just said. “I mean … uh—you, you do it good. The job. You’re good at your job. You are good at the driving and the towing … yeah, uh. You’re—you’re just good.”
Castiel is staring at him curiously, his head tilting once again and the blue of his eyes, thinning into slivers. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean drops his chin to his chest and stares at his feet. “Yeah … no problem. Anytime.”
Castiel nods and then rounds back to shut the Impala’s hood, doing so quickly and freeing himself to walk back to his truck to replace the bottle of coolant.
Dean can only stare stupidly, feeling far too awkward and unprepared to say goodbye to the quirky, tow truck driver just yet. Realization hitting him upside the head once again when he remembers—Castiel is a tow truck driver. This is his job, and with it being his job, he probably wants to get paid. “Oh, hey—Cas, hold up!” Dean fishes into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, jogging around to the driver’s side door– open and ready for Castiel to get inside. “Here ...” Dean says in a gasp, holding out a few twenties and clearing his throat. “For all your trouble.”
Castiel almost seems to grimace at the money. “I told you already, this was my pleasure, Dean.”
The bills flap helplessly between Dean’s fingers—dead faces beating against his nails. “I know but—”
“Please don’t worry about it. I was coming back from a pick up anyway. This was a favor.”
His arm drops down slightly and Dean is at a loss for words—looking away at the long stretch of flat land spanning out around them. He knows the last town he went through was a while back, at the interstate exchange. Cas must've been doing a job far out to be just getting off and back home now. He’s not sure why he’s even thinking about it so much, but just the fact that the guy would be heading home after such a long day and still stop to help his ass out, makes him feel even worse than he already does. And he’s not even sure why he feels like this to begin with. “So, you’re not gonna take the money?” he asks finally, giving one last meager shake to the green in his hands.
Castiel frowns and shakes his head.
Dean grumbles before shoving the bills back into his wallet. “Well, I—I have to repay you somehow. I’m gonna feel like an ass if I don’t.”
The other man shifts from one foot to the next and looks into the open cab of his truck, almost longingly. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Wish I wouldn’t repay you, or wish I wouldn’t feel like an ass?”
“Either.”
Dean is getting frustrated now. Castiel seems like he’s trying to make this difficult for him. He could have just taken the money and left—or he could have just left and left Dean feeling like a heel. But instead, this whole thing is getting painfully drawn out, and there just doesn’t seem to be a reason for it. “Okay—well, I don’t know what to do then.” Dean looks around hopelessly and then finally, at the ground—toeing a rock with the ridge of his boot.
“Get in your car—keep driving, and stop worrying about everything so much.”
Dean stops fiddling with the rock and drags his gaze back up to Castiel—the man still isn’t looking at him, but off to the right now—into the clouds pinking on the horizon. The words he spoke linger heavily in the air and Dean doesn’t understand why they aren’t a giant relief. After all, he practically begged to hear them before—begged Sam to say them. He wanted a blessing, anyone’s blessing—just to tell him it was okay to go and to clear his head of all the crap that’s been weighing him down. But, no one ever said anything other than the reasons why he should stay. Those reasons however, only ever made him run quicker to the door. Now—now that he’s finally heard what he’s wanted to hear, he can’t move an inch.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Dean Winchester.” Castiel says softly, finally laying his eyes back on him, but Dean hates how dull they seem now.
“Uh … yeah, same here, Cas. Th—thanks.” He reaches out his hand one last time and Castiel takes it quickly, although once their fingers touch, Dean doesn’t want to let go.
But the tow truck driver somehow manages to wriggle free, and with a small huff, he turns and climbs back inside his truck. Dean steps back a pace just as the engine roars over the wind once more, and he barely catches the hint of blue through the window before the rattled, old thing is pulling away. Dean squints against the dusty air whipping at his face—intent on watching the truck disappear down the road—unsure, like he has been damn near this entire day, as to why he wants more than anything for it to turn back around.