spn gen fic

[fannishliss]

Scratch


Prompt from dreamsofspike:    “Set around early season 9 but AU so Sam is fine and there's no Gadreel but the angels still fell and Cas is still human and Dean is kinda pissed about it all. So he's being a bit of a dick to Cas, who's staying in the bunker with them.   And as a distraction, Sam decides to teach Cas to drive.   In the Impala.   Which ends up with a big SCRATCH down the side.   This does NOT help with the pissed-off-Dean situation. :P   I want furious Dean and anxious apologetic Cas and Sam kinda in the middle trying to mediate, and maybe through the course of it the three of them working out some of their issues.”

~o~

Dean has a certain sixth sense when it comes to Sam.  Especially when it involves his car, and Sam has been up to no good.  The Bunker goes kind of extra quiet.  Sam and Cas become extra scarce and everything seems to be holding its breath.

Dean just saunters casually in the direction of the garage.  And magically, lo and behold, Sam appears.

“Dean!” Sam says.  “Hey, I, uh, I was hoping you could help me find somethng — a cursed object!  A cursed object down in the,  the uh, lower storage room.  Where all the lock boxes are.”

“Not right now, Sam, okay?  I got an errand in town. We’re out of Chef Boy R Dee.”

“But Dean!  It’s about the Angels.  I mean, we gotta help em, right?”

Dean whirls around and fixes Sam with a baleful eye. “The only Angel I give a rat’s ass about is Cas.  So sure, we can help him get his grace straightened out, that’d be great.  But I’ve had it up to here with the rest of them.  Let them untangle their own messes for a change.”

Sam bodily interposes himself between Dean and the garage door.

“Dean, don’t go in there yet,” Sam says.

The puppy dog eyes are out in full force.

“What did you do to my car,” Dean says, dangerously.

“Nothing!  Nothing!  Nothing a little TLC…”

“Sammy, “ Dean warns, and Sam sheepishly slinks out of the way.

The Impala looks fine at first glance.  No body damage at least.

“Sam— I’ve almost got it I think —  if you can hold him off for a little longer — “  Castiel’s voice echoes from the far side of the car.

Dean rounds the Impala just as Castiel is finishing up with a retouching kit along the right front fender.

“Oh!  Dean.  I can explain,” Castiel says as he hoists himself to his feet.

Dean crosses his arms and peers at the paint job.  It's a regular auto store kit — nowhere near the quality of paint that Dean would use to repair a scratch on his beloved car.

“Dude, can’t you find a piece of shit car to wreck instead of gouging my Baby’s fine fender?” Dean demands.

Sam tries to intervene.  “Dean, it was my fault, we were doing a little parallel parking practice in town, and I told him to cut it too quick.”

“You reckon?” Dean says.

“I am sorry, Dean… I had hoped the repair job would meet your expectations.”

Dean shakes his head at the shoddy paint, and the hopeful, sad, expectant looks of his brother and his friend.

He can’t say a word.  He just turns and stalks out of the garage back to his room, locks the door, sinks down into the memory foam, puts in his ear phones, turns up the Metallica and lets the rest of the day slip by.

It's probably past midnight when he finally emerges.

Someone left a covered plate in the fridge with a huge helping of meatloaf, broccoli with cheese sauce, and mashed potatoes.  Dean nukes it in the microwave for a minute and half and the whole kitchen smells fantastic.  Dean remembers stirring meatloaf with his mom when he was just a little kid: groundbeef, oatmeal, egg, worcestershire sauce, ketchup, salt and pepper — easy, but so filling and delicious. He’d taught Sam and now Sammy is teaching Castiel.

It makes him sick sometimes, sick inside to think of the wrong ways the world has gone.  The Angels — fallen from Heaven like bits of broken up space junk, jettisoned to earth, forgotten and useless now.   Every couple of weeks more Angels find their way to the Bunker, looking for help.  Sam dutifully keeps their contact information —  Hannah, Hael, Gadreel — they're lost, wingless, graces cut loose from the Heavenly source, desperate for any kind of help.  But Dean and Sam aren’t running an Angel dormitory.  Castiel is their friend, so he can stay, but the rest will have to make their own way somehow.

He's almost finished with the plate of meatloaf when Castiel appears.  He's wearing one of Dean’s old Zeppelin tee shirts, and a flannel of Sam’s with the sleeves rolled up.

“I’m sorry about your car,” Castiel says.  “Sam believes that I will be of greater worth to Team Free Will if I can adequately pilot the Impala.”

“Yeah, he’s right,” Dean says.

An uncomfortable silence fills the room, as Dean spears a little bit of meat and drives it around his plate so as not to leave any cheese sauce to waste.

“I’m sorry we upset you,” Castiel says into the awkwardness, making everything even more awkward.

“Damn it, Cas!” Dean says.  “It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is your fault, or Sam’s, or even mine.  It’s the way this whole shitty world is put together.”

“I tried to fix it,” Castiel says, his chin up.  Dean has to admit, Castiel never backs down from a fight.  Dean figures that must be why the three of them get along so well.

“Well, you didn’t use the right paint.  I know it’s probably what Sam told you to get, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about that car, despite all the times I’ve tried to clue him in.”

“I’ll do whatever you say,” Castiel says with a frown.

Dean frowns back.  “That’s — that’s not my point, Cas.  Hell if I have a point.  I mean — I’m glad Sammy’s teaching you to drive.  That’s good.  And just a little scratch, it’s not a big deal.  We just need to sand it smooth and then go over it with the factory primer and paint — I already got it stocked here in the garage.  It won’t take long.”

“Why were you so upset then?” Castiel’s big blue eyes bore into Dean, like he's still that avenging Angel of the Lord that threatened so long ago to throw him back into the Pit.

“I just — I mean — we can’t fix everything, you know? Your grace — the fallen Angels — whatever big Bad is lurking around the corner — we do our best, patch things over — everything’s just a little worse but not quite as bad as it might have been….”

Castiel nods solemnly and lays his hand softly on Dean’s shoulder. “You want things to be good, and instead they’re just, not as bad as they might have been.”

“Got it in one,” Dean sighs.

“Sam says we need to take more time to stop and appreciate the moments as they pass us by,” Castiel says.  “I have seen an infinity of moments since I was sent out into Creation… some of those moment did indeed seem to me to approach the perfection of my Father’s original intention.  For your sake, I will attempt to point them out more often when they occur.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, giving a little smile. It feels better, airing it out with Cas instead of stewing in his room over a discontent he can’t quite name.

“Now,” Castiel says.  His head goes a little sideways like it used to when he was still new in his vessel.

“Huh?” Dean asks.

“Now — it’s a pretty good moment, don’t you think?” Castiel says.  His eyes twinkle slightly.

Dean stops to take note: the Bunker safe around him,  Sammy tucked away warm and safe nearby — belly full of meatloaf made by hand by someone who loved him  — and a basement full of excellent Scotch (not even cursed).

Not bad at all.

“Who made the meatloaf?”

“Sam instructed me.  Did it meet your approval?” Castiel asks.

“It sure did, pal.  Thanks.”

Castiel smiles and Dean smiles back.   “You’re welcome, Dean.  Tomorrow I will help you redo the paint job.”

“That’d be great,” Dean smiles.

“And another,” Castiel says, and this time Dean understands what he means: another perfect moment, stretching out shining into tomorrow.