They’re nearly past the exit with the sign for diner food when Dean’s head whips around so hard Sam hears his neck crack. “POUTINE!” Dean cries and slaps Sam excitedly on the elbow. “Sam! Sam! They got poutine!”
Whatever Sam might have wanted to say in response is cut off by the scree of tires and the Impala’s hard fishtail into the exit lane. Sam’s life flashes before his eyes – which, wow, rude – and he squeezes them shut, certain that death is about to come crashing down on them and the last words he hears will be “They got poutine.” But the only consequence is a short honk from the other lane. Sam squints his eyes open one at a time.
They’re not dead. They’re at a stop light, turning left. Toward the diner. Dean is grinning and sitting up straight on the bench, for once.
Slowly, hesitantly, Sam relaxes. “Was poutine really that important?”
“Hell yeah, it was!” Dean answers immediately, like he’d been waiting for the question.
Sam turns to the back seat to share a raised eyebrow with Cas, only to find a look of surprised befuddlement writ large over the angel’s face. He hears the question loud and clear before Cas even opens his mouth. “What exactly is poutine?” Cas asks.
Dean’s head whips around again. “Thousands of years old and you’re telling me you’ve never had poutine?”
Cas shrugs. “There are many things I haven’t experienced,” he says.
Dean, for some reason, does a double-take and sends him a small glare before grinning again. “Just wait, Cas. This’ll blow yer socks off.”
The look of confusion on Cas’s face only deepens, and Sam has to bite down on a giggle when Cas looks down at his own feet.
“What do you mean, gross?”
Dean pouts in upset indignation as he watches Sam poke at his soggy, grease-gravy-soaked french fries. Sam shrugs. “You can have mine if you want,” Sam says, shoving the basket in his general direction. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls the grease bomb closer, stabbing a fry with a fork and taking a vindictive bite. His eyes flutter closed and he sighs in apparent bliss.
“Heavenly,” he says, without a trace of irony. Sam snorts. “What about you, Cas? What’d’you think?”
Castiel is still chewing his first fry, slow and contemplative. “Salty,” he says.
“Salty? Really? That’s all you got?”
Cas finally swallows. “The American palate is very salt-heavy, generally speaking.” He takes another fry and puts it in his mouth.
Dean seems to take this as a victory and points, grinning wide at Sam. “See?” he says. “Cas likes it!”
“I’m reserving judgement,” Cas corrects.
“You like it and you know it,” Dean insists, pointing at Cas with his fork before digging into Sam’s fries. “Because it’s delicious.”
The ghost of a smile curves up Cas’s cheek and he eats another fry.
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