Dean Winchester was a man of small luxuries and he appreciated all the little things in life: long showers cleansing not only his body, but also his mind; the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the softness of his memory foam mattress, lazy Sundays spent with his brother on an old, threadbare couch with beers in their hands and nothing on their minds. But one thing he loved the most was the sound of his car's engine roaring in his ears as he drove her down an empty highway, speed limit long forgotten, along with every trivial worry clouding his mind. Even though such moments of perfection weren't rare, each of them was like a katharsis, nirvana, heavenly orgasm or any other cliché found in bad poetry and lazy writing, and they made him feel alive, they made him feel whole. So as he was speeding down the road with the lights of Chicago lost in the rear-view mirror, he couldn't help but grin. He's been driving for five hours straight, stopping just once to have coffee in a little wayside diner that looked like taken straight from a Tarantino movie, and even though his arms were getting stiff and he could really use a bathroom brake, he didn't care. He missed this. Missed the sound of his baby, not as much purring as fucking growling, like a lioness let out of her cage. Missed the steady rhythm of the wheels spinning on the ground and the rattling sound of a lego that got stuck in the vent system all those years ago. And now he was on the road again and his life just went from pretty okay to fucking awesome. Dean Winchester wasn't coming up with good ideas very often but when he did, they were bordering on genius. And this particular idea to hit the road and gather his thoughts on the open plains of Midwest was by far one of the best he's ever had, together with setting up the surround system in his apartment and joining that LARPing team Charlie had been bothering him about for ages. He left from Chicago in the dead of night like a fugitive, and he silently wished he really was one, but the sad, unexciting truth was that he just wanted to avoid the rush hours. What was the point of having a car like his baby, when you were stuck in traffic between a prius and an old ford? No, both he and his Impala belonged on the open road, just like the one they were currently roaming.
“Good morning, sunshine” Dean muttered when the sun poked over the horizon. After living alone for so long he developed a pathetic habit of talking to himself. It happened soon after he started working on his first book, when some of the lines he wanted to write sounded so clumsy and awkward that he had to hear himself say them out loud to find a way to smooth them. But it didn't just stop there and before he realized, he was talking to people on TV (“Oh come on, can't you see this bastard has been cheating on you for like three episodes now?”) and making comments about his mundane activities (“Fuck, gotta buy cereal again”). After all, it was only so long that he could fill the silence in his apartment with Led Zeppelin and street noise.
It wasn't that Dean was a sad lonely boy with no social life outside of the fiction of his stories. He had his bother, and the rest of the family, blood or not. He also had occasional hookups that never lasted more than a week but hey, it still counted. He just preferred to socialize once in blue moon and then come back to the safety of his home office, where he could sit in front of the laptop Sam bought for him and just write. Sometimes though his apartment felt both too small and too empty for him, and even re-enacting the dance scene from Risky Business wasn't fun anymore. On such days the best remedy for blues was talking with Sammy for hours, or playing online games with Charlie and getting his ass kicked big time. So yeah, Dean Winchester wasn't lonely. He wasn't a party animal either and maybe, just maybe, he could use some sweet company once in a while.
Like right in this moment, when the night was slowly fading away and the sky coating the plains changed its colours from deep blue relentlessly struggling out of the black, to a shy brush of pink and gold, and the world seemed almost bearable. Dean preferred sunrises to sunsets. They felt more private and slightly less cheesy. Any douchbag could watch the sun go to rest, but dawns were meant only for insomniacs and lunatics, and he happened to be both. He just wished he had someone to share them with, as lame as it sounds.
He rolled into a small town a few hours later, just around the time when cafés and diners were being open. Since so far his early breakfast consisted of granola bars and a pack of jelly beans, he decided to stop for something Sam would call “an actual breakfast, Dean. With vitamins and nutritions and a list of ingredients that doesn't begin and end with sugar”. So he found a nice looking diner and parked his baby on the curb just by the entrance. When he stepped inside, he was greeted by a quiet ding of a bell hanging above the door, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and
a sleepy smile of the woman behind the counter. She was in her forties and she looked like she has had a rough night. She wasn't wearing any make-up, not that Dean could tell, her thin blond hair was tied up in a pony tail, and she had dark circles under her eyes. “A mother” Dean thought automatically. It was his private hobby to observe strangers and come up with little stories about them, their habits and quirks, their dreams and fears. It was a childish play, but he liked to think it was good practice for his imagination, so crucial to his job. A small voice at the back of his head liked to point out that it was also a good way of fighting the loneliness, but Dean always did his best to ignore it. After all, Sam liked to call him Cleopatra, Queen of De Nile for a reason.
Walking towards the counter, Dean flashed an apologetic smile at the woman – Helen, according to the name tag attached to her uniform.
“Sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour” he said. “I've been driving for a few hours straight and I figured it was time for a break and well, you guys were open, so...” he trailed off, shrugging. Helen smiled at him and waved her hand dismissively.
“It's okay. That's what we're here for, right? So, what can I get you?”.
Dean studied the menu laid out on the counter, while Helen waited patiently for his order. When he heard her yawn, he looked up and smiled at her with empathy.
“Oh, you have no idea” she sighed. “My little boy is sick and I stayed up all night waiting by his bed. He was better this morning, thank God, but still I wish I could take a day off and be with him. But, money don't grow on trees, so here I am” she made a vague gesture with her hand and Dean thought she looked almost young. He gave her his order (a plate of pancakes with maple syrup and a pot of fresh coffee) and went to sit by the nearest table, promising himself to leave a big tip.
By the time his food arrived, more patrons entered the diner. Dean observed them with mild interest and they didn't spare him a moment of their attention in return. Some of them rushed in and out, probably just stopping by for coffee on their way to work, others sat listlessly in their booths and looked around sleepily, with one foot still in the dreamland. At this time of the day Chicago was
a giant beehive buzzing with life and traffic, but this small town seemed more like a pot of warm syrup luring bees in with its sweetness, only to have them drown in it, and Dean was immensely grateful when Helen brought him his coffee. A few moments more without caffeine in his system and he would surely fall asleep or die out of boredom.
The pancakes were surprisingly delicious and he all but vacuum-sucked them in. Sam and Jess would probably make comments about his eating habits and how much they resembled that of
a starved pig, but he couldn't care less. Food and sex were two of the few simple pleasures he enjoyed most in life, and Dean decided a long time ago that he wouldn't let anyone ruin them for him. If he wanted to eat three burgers in the row, he ate them with no regrets. If he wanted to sleep with someone, guy or woman, he did and that was it. It was his simple recipe for happiness and he was willing to flip off anyone who would dare to judge him.
He washed down the last bite of pancakes with coffee and went to bathroom, stopping on his way there to ask Helen for the bill. When he returned to his table, the dishes his food was served on were already gone and the bill was placed by the vase with yellow flowers. Dean fished out a pile of banknotes from the pocket of his jeans and picked out the right amount of money, adding in a large tip for Helen. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but she reminded him of his mom. He stopped by the door to wink at her, and she responded with a bright, beautiful smile. They nodded at each other in a silent goodbye, and then Dean was already outside, breathing in the warm, mellow air of an early summer morning. It was the last week of June and even though the day hasn't even fully blossomed yet, the sun was already petting the world with its golden embrace. Dean looked around, considering taking a stroll down the street, just to stretch his legs before the ride. He wasn't in
a hurry, hell, he didn't even know when his next stop would be or where he was going to spend the night. That was the charm of spontaneous roadtrips – driving wherever the road would take him, stopping in random places on a whim, facing the unknown. His ultimate destination was San Francisco, where his brother and Jess, his fiancé, were spending the summer holiday. Jess' parents owned a beautiful house on the beach, the kind they always show in all those movies about middle-aged women who go through a divorce and decide to change their lives by renting a small house by the ocean, where they inevitably fall in love with a gentle, but passionate men and the credits roll when they're standing on the beach, holding hands or some shit. Sam and Jess invited him over, saying that the house was a perfect place for him to start working on his new book, but he would've agreed on living in a simple shed as long as it meant spending time with them. And the invitation was a convenient excuse to hit the road and gather his thoughts.
After the success of his last novel, Tessa, his publisher, had been pressing him to write another one and do it soon, but the truth was he was out of ideas. Zero. Null. Nada. No inspiration whatsoever. He was stuck and it was almost painful, like an itch he couldn't scratch. And then Sam called, all cheerful and excited as always, and told him to move his fat ass and join them in San Francisco as soon as he could. Five minutes later and Dean was already half-way packed and running around his apartment to get all his stuff, while trying to explain to Tessa over the phone that a roadtrip is exactly what he needs to find an inspiration and start writing again.
And that's how he had found himself in that sleepy little town at 8 in the morning on a pleasant summer day. The sky was clear and unnervingly blue, but there was something in the air that smelled like a promise of a storm. Dean decided to give up on the walk, there wasn't anything worth seeing in this godforsaken place anyway, so he got back into his car and pulled out of the curb. The magic of the dawn was long gone and it no longer felt like a violation of a special moment, so he turned on the radio and turned up the volume. Tracy Chapman's song was on and Dean happened to know the words. His lips moved silently as he mouthed out the lyrics:
So remember we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone
Before the song even ended, he managed to leave the town behind and get on an open road again. He was heading North-West, planning on visiting his uncle in South Dakota. If Bobby ever found out that Dean was on the road and didn't even bother to stop by, he'd probably whoop his ass and then sulk for months. He was a grumpy old man, but he loved both Dean and Sam like his own, and Dean would rather crush his baby into a bridge than miss out on an opportunity of visiting him. Besides, Bobby owned a car shop and he always let Dean help him out with the cars, even when he was just a little boy. He loved working on the vehicles, fixing them up and putting them back together, and if writing hadn't been his biggest passion, he probably would've become a mechanic.
As he droved on, he paid little attention to the blurred world he was passing by, the heavy clouds gathering ahead of him being the only diversity from the monotonic scenery of the Interior Plains. The songs on the radio flew right over his head and he was so absorbed with his thoughts that he didn't even notice when it started raining. A few single drops silently fell on the roof of the car, before a heavy curtain of rain hit the windshield, followed by a distant growl of a thunder. While the wipers worked frantically, trying to keep up with the sudden flood, Dean slowed down and cursed under his breath. He hated driving in the rain, when his vision was limited, the road slippery as fuck, and the sky looked like Zeus and Thor were having a drunk duel. Worst still, the road he was on wasn't completely secluded. There were houses and public buildings on either side of it, as well as strings of cars and trucks going in both directions, which only increased his chances of having
a third degree contact with the Volvo ahead of him or even worse, some poor bastard standing too close to the highway.
Speaking of poor bastards, either the rain was really fucking with Dean's eye-sight, or there actually was someone walking dangerously close to the road. The man was a few car lengths ahead of the Impala, but his tall figure was a distinct presence against the grey canvas of the wayside and Dean thought the guy must have been either fearless or plain stupid to go out in a weather like that, let alone walk casually alongside a flooded highway. He was wearing a beige trenchcoat, now completely soaked, and had a duffle bag – also soaking wet – thrown carelessly over his shoulder. It was all Dean could tell from such distance, but it was enough to make him feel sorry for the guy. He wasn't exactly eager to pick up hitch-hikers or let any strangers inside his car, but something about the man walking alone in a heavy downpour made him slow down and drive closer to the edge of the road. When he got closer to the lonely figure, he turned off the radio and rolled down the window on the passenger's side.
“Hey, are you suicidal or something?” Dean shouted, trying to be louder than the rain. The man jumped in surprise at the sound of his voice and turned to face him.
“I'm- I'm sorry?” he said, confused. He didn't stop walking and Dean was forced to roll his car at an agonizingly slow tempo to stay on the same level with him.
“I said, are you suicidal? What the hell are you doing, walking so close to the road when it looks like we should be building another ark, huh? It's only a matter of time when some careless douchbag goes all hit and run on you. Get in the car”. He pushed on the brake and reached out to open the passenger's door. The stranger stopped too, looking at him with a unique mix of disbelief and scepticism.
“Do you really expect me do get in your in car just because you told me to?” he asked, and Dean huffed with irritation.
“No, I expect you to hop in my sweet ride because that's your best chance to avoid drowning or getting hit by a truck. Now, get your ass in here before I change my mind and drive off into the sunset all by myself”.
That seemed to work. The man looked around, but there were no other offers of a rescue, so he sighed heavily and finally got inside the car. Dean cringed at the sight of his wet trenchcoat touching the seat, but he didn't comment on it. Instead, he pulled back on the road and drove off, as careful and steady as he could.
After a moment of silence, when the only sounds reaching their ears were the haul of the storm and the muffled purring of the engine, the man spoke.
“Thank you” he said quietly, but without even a shadow of shyness in his voice. Dean waved his hand dismissively.
“Don't mention it. I just couldn't leave you there to an almost certain death. I may not be an altruist, but I'm not a selfish bastard even” he glanced at his companion just in time to see a small smile playing at his lips. Watch the road, Winchester. He looked away and cleared his throat.
“So, where are you going?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road. The man beside him sighed softly and ran a hand through his wet hair.
“I was heading for the nearest bus station” he explained. “Some people I met in the town told me that it was only a few miles down the road”.
Dean risked another glance, his brow furrowed. “So you just wanted to walk a few miles in this apocalyptic weather?”
The only answer he got was a small shrug.
“I don't mind the rain” the man said simply and Dean snorted.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Gene Kelly. Ah, that reminds me- “ he raised his right hand from the wheel and stuck it out at an awkward angle. “I'm Dean. Dean Winchester”.
The man stared at his out-stretched palm for a second before grabbing it.
“Castiel Milton” he said. His grip for surprisingly strong and firm, and Dean liked it. His father might not have been a kind of guy anyone should be looking up to, but he had taught him a few important life lessons, one of them being “don't trust a man who won't even shake your hand properly”. With a simple gesture the man – Castiel – made a good first impression. Well actually, if Dean was being honest with himself, Castiel made a good first impression the moment he opened his mouth to speak. He had a beautiful voice – deep and gravely and incredibly hot. As in, holy-fuck hot. Even with the heavy rain howling down every other sound around them, Castiel's voice managed to made its way under Dean's skin and settle there in a way he really didn't want to dwell on right now. It buzzed every now and then, like there was an animal living inside Castiel's body, wild and powerful, desperate to break free and roar into the night, and Dean thought that if his car was human, it would sound just like that.
When Castiel finally let go of his hand, Dean subconsciously flexed his fingers, as if to chase away the memory of the touch, or maybe to keep it safe, he wasn't sure. The silence fell again between them, as the rain kept falling down. Dean considered turning on the radio, but decided against it, and so the silence stretched. It wasn't exactly awkward or uncomfortable, but he still felt like he should break it, say something, say anything.
“So, uh...” he started, and Castiel jerked, pulled out of his thoughts. “You said you were headed to the bus station, but you never said where you wanted to go next”.
“Oh, I don't have any destination in mind” the guy replied, and Dean could almost hear the shrug in his voice.
“No destination at all? So what, you're just going to get on a random bus and go wherever it takes you?”
Castiel nodded. “Pretty much, yes”.
“And where are you going, if I may ask?” the man countered, his big baby blues fixated on Dean's face. As a writer, Dean tried his best to avoid clichés, overly sophisticated metaphors and all that jazz, but right now he couldn't help but think oh my God that dude's voice is like honey poured over sunflower seeds and I want to bath in it forever.
“San Francisco” he said instead. “My brother's there with his fiancé and they invited me over. But first I'm just gonna drive around the country for a while, taste the life on the road, wind in my hair, y'know?” he grinned at Castiel, who responded with an amused huff.
“That's basically what I'm up, too” he said, holding Dean's gaze. They stared at each other for
a moment, before Dean remembered himself and turned back towards the road.
The rain hasn't stopped at all, if anything it only intensified. It seemed like God decided to pour the fucking Atlantic Ocean through a giant sieve and throw in some thunders and apocalyptic wind just for shit and giggles. Thick, heavy raindrops were relentlessly attacking the world like it personally offended them, landing on the surface of the car with a loud thud and successfully preventing any other sound from reaching their ears. Dean figured that the bus station Castiel wanted to get to couldn't be that far away now, but just the thought of making him leave the safety of the car in weather like that made him cringe. The guy was still soaked, his wet hair sticking out in odd directions where he had run his hand through it, and the coat that normally was probably beige was now dark-brown. Even worse, Dean was pretty sure that he caught Castiel shiver at least once. So no, dropping him off at some filthy bus station in the middle of nowhere wasn't even an option. Fortunately for both of them, they have just passed a wooden sign with a name of an inn written in big, red letters, and an indication that it was only a mile away. Without thinking much about it, he turned towards Castiel.
“Hey Cas, there's a tavern not far from here. How about we stop there to dry up and maybe eat something warm, huh? It'd be better to wait out the storm anyway. Unless of course you're on tight schedule or something”.
Castiel seemed to consider it for a while, obviously taken aback by the offer. Dean caught himself holding his breath, even though he didn't know why. It wasn't like he desperately wanted to have lunch with the guy. Sure, he wasn't a fan of driving in the rain, let alone a near-biblical flood like the one currently waltzing through that part of Illinois, but if Cas preferred to get to the station as fast as possible, he could just drop him off and then hide somewhere safe and warm by himself. But when his companion finally muttered a “sure, why not”, Dean couldn't help but smile.
“Alright then, let's park my baby and grab a bite, how 'bout that?” he said, driving into the parking lot of the inn with a charming name Golden Apple.
