II.
“Is he ready?” Sam asks when they’re back at Bobby’s kitchen.
“Let’s just say that the training wheels are off, but I wouldn’t go as far as sign him up in Tour de France just yet.” Dean opens the fridge and peers in. “Any idea how far we’re driving?”
Sam shrugs. “No way to tell. I guess we just keep going, following this voice of his or whatever. Let’s just hope it doesn’t take us all the way to Alaska.”
“I’ll be surprised if Bobby’s ride will take him as far as the next junk yard. It would be easier for him to just carry the piece of crap there…”
“This coming from the idiot who’s drivin’ around in a huge freezer,” Bobby snarls in return, walking past the kitchen.
Dean flashes him his best smile and pops open a beer, sitting in a nearby chair. Death’s Caddie might be an iceberg on wheels, but the Hornet was a fucking death trap – and a health hazard, too. They had found a huge beehive inside of an empty take-away box that was lying on the backseat; Bobby had only huffed at it, but judging by the odor he had been reeking since, he was bathing in pure pesticide.
Meanwhile, Sam was staring at the insides of a kitchen cabin, clearly trying to decide whether to pack some canned goods. Or maybe he was also wondering if biscuits would make God more approachable, Dean wasn’t sure. When it came to food, Dean had made the same call as Bobby, stashing his duffel bag with only liquor. At least dehydration wasn’t going to be the end of him, and if God turned out to be a major jerk (which was likely), he could get totally hammered right there and then.
Dean is still congratulating himself on that particular plan of action, when Sam decides it’s time to burst his bubble. Clearly addressing a can of tuna on the shelf, he says, “Y’know, you really should talk to him.”
Dean decides not to disturb Sam’s heart to heart with the tin-can and remains silent, drinking his beer. Sam’s nose wrinkles in annoyance and he moves on to stare a bottle of something murky that once might have been olive oil. To it, he continues, “I know that we have a lot going on here, but it’s got to be hard for him, not being able to use his powers and all that. It’s the End of the World –“
“- and I promised Cas that before that, we would take a little time off to go on a family holiday and maybe pop in to say hi to his old man along the way.” Dean lets his beer hit the table with force, so much that it sloshes over a little. “You’re about to agree as Lucifer’s date, while Michael is waiting for me to waltz with him, and still, I’m riding on the Little Miss Sunshine wagon here. Tell me, Sammy, how could I make more of an effort?”
Sam turns around, surprised, and for a moment Dean’s afraid that he’s about to hug him; his ridiculous face is showing a look people usually only reserve for puppies and babies. Thankfully, that’s the exact moment Bobby decides to walk into the kitchen, muttering, “If you boys are done with the Oprah moment here, I suggest you go and get your stuff. We leave in five.” To Dean, he offhandedly adds, “I gave Giggles some other clothes: in case you didn’t notice, idjit, he was covered in my predecessor’s blood. He can’t exactly get rid of it without his mojo and the last thing we need right now is some copper getting suspicious...”
Dean rolls his eyes, annoyed, but okay; Bobby made a good call there. Maybe he was getting a bit too accustomed for Cas to be always covered in blood of some sort to take notice anymore. “And where’s he now?”
Bobby huffs. “How should I know? Do I look like some kind of angel watch to you, son?”
Sam’s gaze is speaking volumes, making Dean feel like he should be running towards the nearest flower shop and come back crawling. However, before he manages to go and give his little brother a good beating, Castiel appears in the doorway. “I’m here.”
Dean spits out a mouthful of beer.
Castiel is wearing a hippie-like, pale blue linen shirt and worn-out jean. He looks like a stoner straight from the fields of Woodstock, and if this was the first time Dean saw him dressed like that, he would actually laugh. But given the fact that it isn’t so, and the Cas standing in front of him now – in this ridiculous get-up and supporting heavier stubble on his jaw – is the one he hoped never to see again. Suddenly, it’s August 2014 in Camp Chitaqua again, and Dean feels sick.
Sam, who completely and horribly misinterprets the situation, hurries to assure Cas, “You look great, man, you do!” Then he gives Dean a murderous glare, like he just right out laughed at his date’s choice of evening wear. The nauseous feeling in his gut becomes stronger.
Luckily, unlike Sam, Castiel apparently didn’t grow up watching chick flicks. He cocks his head and holds Dean’s gaze, asking, “What’s wrong, Dean?”
“Nuthin’.” He swallows, hard. His little trip playing the time traveler’s wife was something he had only shared with Bobby – who is, at the moment, looking at him like he at least had some clue what is going on. That, or he’s thinking if it is too late to give Dean the speech about the birds and the bees.
When it comes to the decision between explaining the dressing choices of years to (presumably) come and the circumstances surrounding them, or lying and making him appear as the biggest whimp of all time, the choice is easy. “Didn’t think of you as an ex-flower child, Bobby, that’s all.”
“Don’t get cute,” Bobby sniggers. “They were your dad’s.”
And that, Dean thinks, about sums it. His life is officially the prime time show on the What The Actual Fuck, Didn’t Need That Mental Image As Well –channel. Even Sam seems to agree with that statement, while Castiel continues looking blissfully blank.
“I’m seriously having trouble to maintain the urge to drink myself to death,” Dean hisses. “Can we please get going?”
*
Because of the unexpected driving lesson, they’re able to hit the road at sunset. Then it’s only open road and their merry little caravan of doom. Dean drives first, then Castiel – always visible in his rear-view mirror, his red car hard to miss – and then Sam, while Bobby keeps the tail. Dean has no idea where they’re going, but it doesn’t matter: it feels like God is driving shotgun and calling the turns he makes.
While Dean is sure that he, Sam and Bobby could go on driving all night, he isn’t so sure about Cas. At this point, it would be pretty embarrassing to be killed by a pile-up, so when the darkness falls, he starts scanning for a motel.
When they reach the parking lot, there seems to be a silent agreement that Castiel should take the nearest free slot. He carefully inches the Mustang into it, no matter that there’s at least five feet of space left on both sides.
Sam proves that he’s the one and only for Lucifer by cramming his black monster of a car into the handicap parking space. When Dean meets his eyes through the windshield, Sam grins and holds out something. Dean curses; goddamn Famine with his goddamn wheelchair and his goddamn handicap parking permit.
It takes Dean ages to find a parking space for his jumbo jet. When he finally gets to the lobby, he finds only Castiel waiting for him. He’s reading one of the tourist pamphlets with great interest.
Looking up, he says, “Sam and Bobby already went to their room.”
Their room. Dean curses silently. He knew that inside, Sam was a fourteen-year-old girl, but Bobby? “Great. C’mon, then.”
Their room is… special. There is absolutely no other word for it. The pillows, bed covers, curtains – everything is covered in tiny flower print, except for the walls: they are crimson red. It looks like some sweet old lady had furnished the place and then went all Redrum when it was time to do the paint-job.
God’s siren call is like a song he can’t get out of his head and together with the room, it’s giving Dean the headache of a lifetime.
Castiel had sat down on his bed and looked around, clueless of what to do next. The over-all fluffiness of the room, the awkwardness of the situation and the ring in Cas’ finger suddenly screamed ‘wedding night’, so Dean did what any sensible human being in his position would: he full on panicked and fled the scene to go and find food.
One McDonald’s and one nervous breakdown later, he comes back and finds Castiel watching the third part of the Lord of the Rings with great interest.
Dean’s just about to sink his teeth in the cheeseburger, when Castiel says, “I find myself being a big supporter of this Frodo Baggins. For such a small and insignificant being, he has the courage of many men worth his size.”
“Dude,” Dean snorts with disgust, “Curly there wouldn’t even find his way to Mordor without Samwais. That guy does all the real work – I mean, he literally has to drag Frodo’s ass up that mountain in the end.”
Dean had seen the movie – movies, actually – a few years back, in a motel in Topeka; Sam had made him watch the marathon. Of course, he had made a huge number about how stupid and nerdy the films were, but okay, even he had to admit that Aragorn had a mean swing. And The Rohirrim were pretty cool too, like cowboys in helmets.
Castiel is eying him with a leveling look. Then he says slowly, “But Frodo manages to resist The Ring’s attempt to take control over him. He succeeds in something that kings before him have failed.”
“Yeah, until they’re standing on the edge of the pit and its Frodo’s time to show what he’s really made of. And then the little shit just puts on The Ring and tries to make a run for it.”
Long silence fills the room. If Dean’s appetite was flailing to begin with, now it’s completely gone. For once in his life, he has enough sense to realize that they weren’t actually talking about hobbits. Few days back, Dean said yes to Michael and then backpedalled just in time, and this is what he got for thanks – one praising phone-call from a hospital and now an awkward conversation about his good virtue over a nerd flick.
Castiel is now refusing to meet his eyes and stares at the remote control like it was the one who actually pushed Frodo off the cliff. Watching him, Dean comes to the painful realization that Cas’ attempts of praise – however crappy they may be – are still better than what he has ever given him. Good times.
He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Look, Cas.” And wow, wasn’t that just a creative start. For a moment, Dean doesn’t have any idea how to go on from there. Then, given the fact that it really couldn’t get any sappier than this and hey, it truly is the end of the world, he says, “I’m not saying that Frodo doesn’t deserve any credit. Heavy cross to bear and all that jazz. But he had help – someone who truly believed in him. I mean, he says it himself, that he couldn’t have done it without Sam. You get what I’m saying here?”
Castiel slowly lifts his gaze to meet Dean’s. On the screen, Gandalf is riding his kick-ass horse to war and the light from his staff reflects in Cas’ eyes. “You mean to say that I’m your S –“
“Okay, yes! Yes! Just – fuck. Don’t say stuff like that out loud, okay? Jeez…” Dean reaches for the remote control and changes the channel: Master Chef seems safe enough. “If someone comes knocking on the door and wants to donate us his Dungeons and Dragons card collection or his Elton John cds, I’m blaming you.”
They watch how some guy almost chops his thump off while cutting tomatoes. Dean manages to pretend they never had the previous conversation, until Castiel makes a humming noise.
“What?” Dean keeps his eyes on the screen. One of the contestants is crying now because his onions were ‘ugly’.
“I was just wondering: does that make Zachariah Gollum?”
When Dean turns to look at Castiel, he sees that he’s actually smiling.
*
Things start to go wrong the next day.
They’re having pie for breakfast at the local diner. Sam – being the poster boy of health food that he is – had tried to argue against the idea, but Dean had played the Apocalypse, now –card. He had finished with saying, “And besides, Cas has never tasted pie in his life. Are you gonna deny man’s – I mean, angel’s – right to his first and probably last piece of pie? Really, Sammy?”
For once, Castiel had been on board at the plan (or just hungry for some pie, Dean wasn’t sure) and had given Sam the mother of all puppy eyes. “I’ve heard that the one with lemon flavor is exquisite.” It was a miracle itself that his lower lip hadn’t been shaking; Dean thought that the look upon his face could have made Hitler himself cry. “I guess I will never know.”
Sam had thrown his hands in the air in frustration and voilà: pie all around.
Cas had been right – the lemon flavored was good.
Dean is making his way through the fourth plateful, when he starts noticing that someone else is enjoying their breakfast as well. The only other people in the diner are a young couple, sitting in the booth behind Sam and Bobby’s backs. Something is making them hungry and Dean guesses it ain’t love: the guy’s face is covered in grill sauce and mustard, pieces of an omelets dripping from his moustache; the girl, she’s chewing something that looks like her fifteenth chicken wing. Her mouth is seared with grease and it gleams like the black stone in Sam’s ring.
Dean ushers the others out and pays the check as quickly as he can.
When he goes out, Castiel is standing in the parking lot with two random guys, who apparently got into a fight over the parking space; when one of them shoves Cas aside to punch the other, Dean grabs him by the arm. The next second, the guy is lying on the ground, dead as a doornail.
Dean lets out a long line of curses. Death’s ring feels hot against his hand when he starts to walk Cas to his car, as quickly as possible. “Where’s Mount Doom when you need it...”
They make a quick exit and at the next rest stop, Dean pulls their caravan to a halt. After a corporate meeting of sort, it becomes clear that their new fashion items aren’t just that: both Sam and Castiel confess that they were indeed absentmindedly scratching their rings, while Dean thinks he must’ve rubbed his own when grapping the now-dead guy’s jacket.
“So we just what – stuck our hands into our pockets and hope that nothing goes wrong?” Sam asks. “I mean, it’s not like we can just take them off.”
Dean shrugs. “We’re still practicing this stuff, so I think until we get it right, playing ‘spin the ring’ is banned.”
Meanwhile, an older couple has wandered closer from their car and when Dean turns, he sees that they are talking to Castiel. Dean stalks closer, ready to slap Cas’ hand away from his ring, if Mr and Mrs Matching Tennis Socks start to get violent.
“Can I help you with something?” Dean asks the couple, still keeping his eyes on Cas.
Castiel is positively beaming. “These are Margaret and Peter. They asked if we were in need of assistance, but I assured them that everything was under control.”
“Right.” Dean says, starting to turn. “We better be going then.”
But then the little old lady opens her mouth. Almost squeaking with joy, she rambles, “Is it true what this nice young man said? That you are looking for The Lord?”
When Dean’s attention rabidly snaps back to her, Peter hums amusedly and puts his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Margaret, don’t pester the boys.” To Dean, he apologizes, his voice heavy with southern accent, “I’m sorry for my wife’s sake. It’s just that we don’t usually meet young people who are so open about their faith. I find your pilgrimage very inspiring.”
“That’s us,” Dean says between gritted teeth, “the Holy Riders.”
Margaret, on the other hand, is still looking at Castiel like he’s the Second Coming. Dean lets his eyes wander and suddenly they land on the couple’s bumper-sticker. To Dean’s opinion, ‘God hates fags’ is an interesting take on the whole ‘care about your fellow man’ –business. So much for the love and tolerance Jesus praised about.
“Is your wife traveling with you as well?” It takes Dean a moment to realize, that Margaret has spotted the golden ring in Castiel’s finger. In his left ring-finger. Great. He thinks he should have guessed that if anyone went with the whole promise ring thing, it would be Cas.
But now it’s clear that Margaret has already planned a steady flow of dinner parties and Bible reading sessions, the guest list consisting Castiel and his yet-faceless wife. Dean really can’t blame her: if he had to choose between watching Peter’s ugly, sunburned mug and Cas’ features, no matter that they were borrowed from Jimmy Novac, it wouldn’t be such a hard decision to make.
And okay, Dean thinks himself as an pretty open-minded person. There were few people he wouldn’t mind pushing under the bus given the chance, but when it came to saving folks from demos and possessed spirits, he didn’t care whether or not they choose to vote, or who they decided to shag. But Margaret is staring Cas with such false sincerity, her every skin pour oozing hypocriticism, that it makes Dean feel violently ill.
Castiel is clearly unsure about her meaning and staggers to answer. “I’m not –“
Dean then decides to let him out of his misery and steps forward, looping his hand around Castiel’s waist. Avoiding Cas’ gaze that snaps to him, he keeps his eyes on Margaret and Peter. Giving them his best shit-eating grin, he says, “Oh no, we’re traveling together. Figured we could have some fun while cruising the holy road, before be hit it off with the G-man, if you catch my drift.” He tops it all with a wink.
The smile on Margaret’s face disappears so fast that it’s a miracle of sort. While she chokes on her tongue, Peter looks like he’s about to sprinkle them with holy water and throw on some prayers as well. Doing his best not to crack up, Dean steers Castiel safely away. After that reaction, the urge to touch his or Cas’ ring and give the couple something else to chew on, is much smaller.
Sam and Bobby appear to have witnessed the whole show. When they walk back to them, Sam tilts his head and smiles. “What was that all about?”
“Just setting some records straight, doing social justice.” He lets his hand fall away from Castiel’s side. “Ready to roll?”
Sam, being the little sister he is, keeps looking him like he just saved a puppy from a burning building. Dean turns to Bobby for help, but even he has a soft expression behind his beard. If those two look like that, Dean doesn’t even begin to wonder what Cas might be thinking after his little stunt.
“If you’re done braiding each other’s hair, can we get back on the road?”
*
