to build a home

time after time

Dean starts up the engine. Castiel is driven suddenly into a nervous rapture at the thought that, foolishly, he has said yes to being given a ride by someone he can hardly bear to have a conversation with—let alone think of what to say to.

One of the most clearly ingrained memories in Castiel's mind—which is odd, considering how drunk he was at the time—is the image of him smashed, hopeless, in the passenger seat of this car, having just made out with Samandriel at Charlie's party, and wishing it was Dean he had made out with, instead. Also desperately wishing that Dean was not straight, Castiel's thoughts seem to be continuing along a similar vein to that of the eighteen year old who fell out of Dean's car that night and hit his head on the curb.

"So," Dean grips at the steering wheel, apparently realising a moment after Castiel what driving him home actually means, and feeling just as awkward about it as Castiel is. The writer eyes him warily, acutely aware of the fact that Dean's mind must be working at a mile a minute, thinking up new ways of explaining to Castiel without insulting him that he knows what offering Cas a ride home in the pouring rain looks like, but it's just not like that, and Dean could never like him in that way.

Which Castiel already knows. So why is Dean bothering?

"Music?" Dean asks. Despite himself, and his depressive thoughts, and his sodden clothing, and the cold which gnaws at his bones, Castiel snorts.

"Sure," He shrugs.

"Why're you laughing?" Dean asks, but he grins. He finally begins to drive.

"I don't know."

And that's the truth, although Castiel laughs with it.

"Well," He amends. "Maybe I do know. It's just pretty familiar—sitting in a car with you, listening to your music."

Dean smiles.

"Maybe keep looking at the road?" Castiel suggests, raising his eyebrows at Dean, who stares at him.

"Right," Dean snorts, returning his gaze to the road. "Don't wanna nearly run over anyone else."

"My thoughts exactly."

Rain patters on the roof and windshield. Aside from that, the world seems almost completely silent.

"Well, I hope you like my music more than you did nine years ago," Dean states, and puts a mix tape into the player.

"Do people ever change that much?" Castiel asks. Dean grins, the expression loose and thoughtful, as though amused, but from a distance.

"Hm," He answers. "Maybe not. But maybe you'd be surprised."

The music begins to play.

"I just picked up a random tape, so I dunno what's gonna come on. I'm not sorry." Dean grins.

Castiel frowns at the car stereo.

"What's up?" Dean asks, registering his expression. "You don't like this song?"

" You do?" Castiel asks in return.

"What's so surprising about that?" Dean replies in indignation.

"Well—" Castiel struggles for words. "You're you."

"No shit."

"Shut up," Castiel rolls his eyes, "you know what I mean. You like mullet rock, and not much else."

"You always say that, Cas, but I like loads of stuff."

"Always say that?" Castiel repeats with a smile. Dean flushes and frowns briefly at Castiel, before returning his gaze to the road.