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The Continental spends a long time in the lot before Castiel chooses her.
She supposes she was inclined to like him, just by virtue of that fact. She has been the subject of laughter and ridicule before, but Castiel doesn’t laugh. Instead, he smiles softly as he meets his own eyes in her rearview mirror, runs his hands reverently across her dash. He asks to take her for a test drive, and as soon as her engine turns over, he sits with a faraway look in his eyes, like he is remembering something. Something important. Something he misses.
Castiel takes one look at her and says, I’ll take this one.
She learns about him in bits and pieces, as he is learning her. He’s unsure at first, has to get used to how far to turn her wheel, how far to press in her gas, how hard to hit her brakes. He learns his favorite A/C setting and his favorite radio station. He learns how to take bumps slowly so her undercarriage doesn’t scrape across them. He cringes the first time, and after that it doesn’t happen again. He is a quick study.
He takes care of her. He travels a lot, and he gets her oil changed more frequently than even her manufacturer recommends. He gets her washed, not in the inadequate grocery store parking lot drive-thru automatic washers, but rather at the places where they wash and dry and polish her all by hand, where they vacuum her interior and scrub her wheels. He gets vanilla scent, the first time; he wrinkles his nose at the overpowering smell for days after, and then he never makes that mistake again. She is very, very grateful.
She does her best to take care of him, too. She has had many owners in her time, and none of them have tried as hard as Castiel.
She knows this is not the only thing about Castiel that is different. At first, he drives her at all hours of the day without issue, stopping only to get gas, never to do the things all the others had needed to do -- to sleep, to eat, to use the bathroom. It worries her, this thing that is so strange and unfamiliar. But that changes -- the circles under his eyes became darker, his movements slower. He begins stopping for all the things she had become accustomed to him not needing, and that worries her more.
She keeps waiting for him to take her back to wherever he lives, like everyone else had. Humans have these, she knows: places they return to almost every day, a familiar spot they park her every night. But Castiel, she is beginning to suspect, has no such place. She spends a lot of time in motel parking lots, in public parks, on the side of the road.
She can tell this bothers Castiel, being unmoored as he is. He confesses it to her on the nights when he sleeps or sort of sleeps, as he becomes more sick, more tired. He curls up in her back seat, his cheek pressed against her fabric, and he sighs against her. He mutters, “If Dean and Sam can do this, so can I.”
The Continental does not know Dean and Sam. She meets them only once, and even then only in passing -- Dean drives her for a time, his hands sure on her wheel, his feet steady on her pedals, his face grim in her mirrors. Sam, too, she has touched only briefly; she knows only the cadence of his voice, the weight of him in her front seat. But she doesn’t know them like she knows Castiel.
Still, she feels like she is learning them through him. He talks about them, and, less frequently, he talks to them. There is an unmistakable fondness in his voice in both instances, and she suspects that wherever they are, that is Castiel’s home.
She hopes fervently that one day, she’ll be able to take him there.
Until then, she will be the best home she can.
--
She sees more in two years with Castiel than she saw in the thirty years before him.
For decades she had gathered all her slow miles in the same familiar places, never venturing far from the points where her previous owners lived and worked and went to school, the places in town where they hung out on the weekends, the houses of their friends and family. With Castiel, though, she travels on so many different roads, sees so many different places. She gets to drive and drive and in her mirrors she sees mountains and forests, plains and deserts, lakes and oceans. Mile by mile, she’s seeing the rest of the country she previously only heard her passengers speaking about, that had only ever existed to her as a distant, abstract idea.
Mile by mile, she becomes more of a home to Castiel. She knows this because of the little pieces of himself Castiel starts leaving around -- at first, just the air freshener he picks out, and later, trinkets he finds at tourist stops, bits of nature he picks up in parks, bits and pieces of the world that Castiel stores in her glove compartment for safekeeping. She knows because he leaves a change of clothes in her trunk, a spare blanket, snapshots he takes with a polaroid camera he returns with one day after he stops at a busy flea market.
She sees other things, too, which aren’t always so good, and which she doesn’t always understand. There’s a time when Castiel crashes her, when he is sick enough and tired enough -- when, as she eventually learns, he is human enough -- that no amount of effort on her part to to keep him in the correct lane, to come to gentle stops, to ride smoothly, is enough to stop him from veering her off the road. There’s a time when she’s stolen, where she spends her time listing slightly to one side, burning through fuel too quickly, making her A/C sputter -- where she does everything she can until at last Metatron abandons her, leaving her to wait patiently for Castiel to find her.
There’s a time when the world is ending, where the sun is dying and the light is fading, where nothing she can do will change what’s coming.
So she does the only thing she can. She does the same thing she’s been doing for the past couple years: she continues doing her best to take care of Castiel. She knows he isn’t as powerful as he once was, is closer to human than angel, these days. But the distinction means little to her in the face of the fact that Castiel helps save the world.
She’s happy about the role she played in that, however small it may have been.
--
She has spent years getting to know Castiel by the first time he parks her in a garage instead of in a lot or on the side of the road.
It’s a place she’s been before, this secluded point in the middle of the country. She knows this road, these trees, the entrance that leads down into the ground. But this is the first time she is granted the same honor as Castiel is -- the first time she, too, gets to go inside.
Castiel pulls her into an empty spot between the other cars and puts her into park. He gets out and opens her trunk, and as he’s gathering his things, she feels rapid footsteps vibrating through the concrete, heavy-booted steps that slow and soften as they approach until someone is leaning irreverently against her side, blocking her side mirror with their body.
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says.
As Castiel shuts her trunk and stands up straight, she sees him in her rearview mirror; he’s smiling in a way she hasn’t seen him smile in a long time. He slings his bag over his shoulder and says, “Hello, Dean.”
Castiel walks around her side to stand facing Dean, invisible to her but for the feel of his arm where he, too, leans against her.
Dean raps his knuckles against her roof. He says, “Glad to see this junker got you here in one piece. Can’t believe she’s still running.”
She can’t see Castiel at the moment, but she knows him well enough now to hear the frown in his voice when he speaks. “Didn’t you say it’s in the eye of the beholder?” Castiel asks. “She’s been my home, Dean, just as much as the Impala has been yours.”
She can feel, in the way Dean shifts against her side, the way he stands a little straighter and moves a little closer to Castiel, the exact moment he gets it. “So the Continental’s a she, huh?” Dean says.
Cas hums his agreement, patting her gently.
“You have a name for her?” Dean asks.
“No,” Cas says, and she can hear the frown in his voice again, but it’s different now; contemplative rather than displeased. “I -- I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Hmm,” Dean says. “Well, she can’t be Baby, that’s my car.”
“Mmm,” Castiel agrees. “Perhaps a different term of endearment, then?”
“Maybe,” Dean says. “I dunno. Honey?” He pauses, as though giving the suggestion a second to settle in, see if it fits. “Sweetheart? Darling?”
“They don’t feel right,” Cas says.
“Hmm,” Dean says again, seeming to understand this without further explanation.
They stand in silence for a minute as they think, Dean slowly drumming his fingers against her roof until he comes to an abrupt stop, shifting to stand up straighter. “Well,” Dean says quietly, “you know, it’s like. It’s like when we first knew each other, you were Castiel, right?”
“I'm still Castiel,” Castiel says, confusion clear in his voice.
“I know, I know, but hear me out,” Dean says. “You were just...” He pauses as he searches for the right words. “You were untouchable. A stranger. But now you’re Cas. You’re our friend, you know? Our family. Don’t really know when one became the other, but the person who this car belongs to is definitely Cas. So maybe...we’ve been calling her the Continental, right? But that’s so formal. You know her now, so she needs a nickname. What if we called her Connie?”
“Connie,” Cas repeats, testing the feel of it. He hums to himself, sounding as pleased as she feels. He says, “I like it.”
“So it’s settled,” Dean says, and though she still can’t see his face, she’s willing to bet he’s smiling. “Thanks for getting him here in one piece, Connie.”
She’s always had a make and a model, but for the first time in all her long years, Connie has a name.
--
Connie spends the quiet hours after Dean and Castiel disappear down into the bunker sitting in the garage next to the Impala. She doesn’t get a sense of Baby with both of them sitting still and silent like that, though, so the next day, when the boys come stomping up the stairs and pile into the Impala, she’s nervous -- right up until Dean turns the key in the ignition and Baby rumbles to life, and in the low growl of her engine that vibrates down through the floor and up into Connie’s chassis, she feels something familiar, something fierce and proud and protective.
When they return a short time later, there’s the rustle of plastic as they unload their groceries and haul them inside, and then there’s the pleased ticking of the Impala as she cools.
It’s then that Connie knows they share an understanding. The bunker is their home in the ground, but they are these boys’ home on the road.
They will both do their best to be good homes.
--
After their first excursion in the Impala, the boys don’t come back out of the bunker for a few days. Connie, for her part, is content to sit and rest, waiting patiently until she’s needed.
It’s the middle of the night the next time she sees Castiel, all the world still and quiet, the air in the garage crisp and cool. He makes his way up the stairs slowly, and for a moment she wonders if this means they’re leaving. His footsteps sound different than usual, though, and it’s only as he finally reaches her, his feet making soft sounds against the concrete, that she realizes he must not be wearing his shoes. He’s in different clothing, now, too, she notices -- pajama pants that don’t quite fit based on the sound they make as the bottoms drag across the floor, a t-shirt with a print she can’t quite make out when she catches a glimpse of it in one of her mirrors.
Castiel doesn’t get inside right away, instead shuffling around to open her trunk. He grabs the blanket he’s kept there long enough now that it feels like it’s become part of her, and it’s only then that he moves to open her door and crawl inside, his skin still warm from his bed when he curls up on her back seat.
She wonders if maybe he couldn’t sleep, if maybe he thinks being here will help. She hopes it does.
Castiel lies awake for a long time, periodically shifting on her seat, sighing softly. He does eventually drift off to sleep, though, movements stilling, breathing evening out.
The hours pass in quiet contentment as the world wakes up outside the bunker walls, temperature shifting ever so slightly as the sun begins to warm the air.
The silence is interrupted by the sound of heavy, frantic footsteps pounding up the stairs, the sound of keys jangling as they’re taken from the hook on the wall -- and then, all at once, the movement stops.
There’s the sound of the keys being put back on the hook. There’s Dean’s profile in her side mirror. Dean looking in through her window at Cas still asleep in the back. Dean shifting so he’s leaning with his forehead pressed to her roof, his hands pressed against her windows.
“Jesus, Cas,” he breathes against the metal. He stands up straight, and as he does, she catches another glimpse of his face in her mirror. His expression has shifted -- his look of panic has given way to one of relief.
Dean gives Connie a pat against her roof as if in thanks, and then -- slowly, calmly -- his footsteps retreat back into the bunker.
--
For several blessedly long weeks, Connie’s life is quieter than it’s ever been.
The boys largely pass their days out of range of her perception. All she gets of them is the occasional excursion they make in the Impala, sometimes all three of them together and sometimes Dean alone, tossing her a smile that she just barely catches as he pulls out of the garage. They’re never gone long, always returning after a few hours, their idle chatter cheerful and companionable.
Part of her misses her life on the road with Castiel, of course -- the constant companionship, the joy that came with seeing him happy, the quiet pleasure she felt when he trusted her with his secrets, his fears, his desires. It’s worth it, though, this loss, to know that he’s with Dean and Sam. To know that he’s safe. To know that maybe, for once, he feels as though he’s home.
It doesn’t last as long as she hoped it might. One day they come up from the bunker and the conversation between them is different, not their usual easy banter but instead talk of travel times, of possible monsters, of their store of weapons. They pile their things into the Impala’s trunk and drag a cooler into her back seat.
When they’re finally packed up and ready to leave, doors already shut behind Dean and Sam, Castiel comes to place a hand on her roof. He says, low and serious, “We’ll be back soon.”
As she listens to Castiel walking away, to the Impala’s door slamming shut behind him, she can’t help but wonder if that’s true.
They’re gone for nearly a week. Connie sits in the garage with the vehicles that are strangers to her, that belong to people who are long dead, and waits, silent and alone and anxious, until they return.
When the vibrations in the concrete finally wake Connie from her slumber, she is instantly alert, waiting for the boys to appear in her mirrors, to step out onto the concrete so she can tell they’re here and whole.
There’s very little conversation as they get out of the Impala, moving slower than when they left, smelling of dirt and smoke and sweat, of blood that is not their own and, terrifyingly, some blood that is their own. She can hear Castiel sigh as he moves around the garage, hear Dean groan, hear Sam’s knees pop and crack as they get their things out of the trunk and drag themselves back inside.
They may have come back dirty and exhausted, but they did come back, and Connie lets herself be content with that.
--
The next morning, a single set of footsteps trails up the stairs. Connie hears a set of keys jingling as they’re taken off the hook, and a moment later Castiel is opening her front door, leaning in to set a small cooler on her passenger seat before getting in behind her wheel.
He greets her as he turns the key in her ignition, apologizes for leaving her by herself for so long as he pulls her out of the garage. He still looks tired, she thinks, when she catches glimpses of him in her rearview mirror; still smells a little of the road and the hunt. There’s something else, too; something a little tense in the way he holds himself, a little sad in the way he keeps glancing at the cooler he’s brought along.
She wonders what this means, for a moment. She doesn’t think Castiel would leave the bunker without the few belongings he’d taken inside, but still, she wonders.
Castiel rolls down her windows and turns up the radio, and for an hour or so, all she can hear is the sound of the music and the rushing wind. Eventually, though, he slows her to a stop, leaning with one arm halfway out her door as he exchanges a brief conversation with someone, a cursory interaction ending with the exchange of money for a piece of paper he places on her dash.
Castiel starts her up again, driving slowly through the forest Connie can now see in her mirrors and smell in the breeze. He parks her again after a few minutes, grabbing the cooler from the other seat when he gets out.
He doesn’t go far, his footsteps stopping before the vibrations become too faint for her to track. The smell of fresh water and the sound of leaves rustling and gentle birdsong come to her in bursts whenever the wind blows. It’s calm and still, the sky clear and blue between the gaps in the trees. She hopes he finds it as peaceful as she does, that it’s a comforting contrast to the chaos and violence of the hunt from which he so recently returned.
It’s only when the sun starts to set that Castiel returns. He slides back into Connie’s driver’s seat, looking much more calm and happy and relaxed, and drives back to the bunker.
--
They settle into what is almost a routine, a pattern that is comfortable if not always reassuring. Connie learns to tell the difference between the various kinds of trips they make -- learns the different ways they walk and talk and move around the garage when they’re leaving for errands or for hunts. She learns, too, how well the hunts have gone by how quickly they get out of the Impala when they return, learns of injuries in winces and shuffling footsteps and the smell of blood and booze and medical gauze.
She prefers the between time, where finally it is just Castiel and her and the open road, with nothing waiting for them on the other end but another place for Castiel to rest and relax. There’s a different destination each time, a different person with whom Castiel exchanges a brief conversation and some cash. There is always Castiel parking her in the shade before walking off to enjoy whatever new place he has decided to explore this time.
This is when she’s truly content -- when she can simply sit listening to various sounds, the rustling of the leaves, the creaking of the trees, other cars coming and going, voices raised in delight as people come and go, the soft sounds of water in the distance. When she knows that as long as they’re here, Cas is also content.
Cas always returns later, skin warm from the sun, smiling softly as they make their way back.
--
The next time the boys go on a hunt, they return in tense silence. It immediately sets Connie on edge, the complete lack of the tired but casual conversation she has grown used to while they unload the Impala.
The only words spoken come from Dean, who snaps, “I’ve got it, Cas, just leave it.”
Castiel doesn’t respond, other than to huff in annoyance before making his way down the stairs.
“Dean--” Sam starts.
“Don’t,” Dean says, and in the shudder in his voice as he chokes out that one word, Connie understands there is something more to this than simply his anger.
Sam sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. He and Dean follow Castiel into the bunker only after they finish gathering their things, someone -- Dean, she imagines -- slamming the Impala’s trunk closed more forcefully than necessary.
The next day, they argue. She doesn’t know what it’s about, can’t quite make out their words through the layers of metal and concrete and wood, but she knows it by the heavy footsteps that radiate through the floors, the slamming doors, the raised voices.
The first words she does catch are from Cas, the ones he shouts as he stomps up the stairs to the garage: “It isn’t your choice to make!”
There is the jingle of keys, and as Cas walks over to her, as he turns the key in her lock, all she can think of is the night Castiel spent in her backseat instead of his bed. She remembers the look Dean had on his face when he came looking for him. All of her trips with Castiel over the past few months, if they have taught her anything, have taught her that as much as Castiel loves their outings, the bunker is the place he is always excited to come home to. But Dean hasn’t been on those trips, hasn’t seen the way Castiel always drives a little bit quicker on the way back than on the way out.
She knows that if Cas drives off with her, Dean is going think he’s gone forever.
So when Castiel tries to pull open her door, she makes sure her handle sticks. He gives a frustrated exhale and then he’s walking away, hanging her keys back up and grabbing another set instead.
As soon as Impala’s engine starts up, she can feel Dean come running, feet beating frantically against the concrete. Cas is gone by the time Dean gets to the garage, but she can hear his sigh of relief. Dean comes over and leans over her hood, hands pressed against the metal, and breathes out long and slow. He must understand, as she hoped he would, that Cas wouldn’t disappear with the Impala. That he wouldn’t leave without Connie, either.
Dean takes a moment to steady himself, and he says, “It’s damn good to see you, Connie.”
He stays there for a moment, his breathing the only sound in the garage. When he finally pulls his hands away and stands up, he doesn’t walk away like she was expecting him to once he had gleaned what comfort he could from her presence. Instead, he climbs into her back seat and waits, tapping his feet impatiently on her floor.
Dean takes out his phone every now and then, glancing down at it instead of staring out her front window with a frown. Sometimes he idly fiddles with it, but more often than not he simply turns on the screen, the light briefly illuminating his face, before he immediately turns it off again.
When his phone rings, the sound startles them both, based on the way Dean jerks in her seat. Dean closes his eyes and inhales-exhales slowly before he opens his eyes and swipes his thumb across the screen. He holds the phone to his face and says, “Cas. Are you--”
Dean has the volume on his phone turned up high enough that she can just make out the sound of Cas’ voice through the receiver. When he speaks, he doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he simply sounds tired. The first thing out of his mouth is, “Dean. I’m sorry.”
Dean drags a hand over his face. “No, it’s...uh. Look, I’m the one who should be apologizing, okay? You gotta make your own choices, I know that. And I don’t want you to think you’re not welcome, whether here or--” he gestures toward the garage door, even though only Connie is here to see him-- “on the road.”
“I know,” Cas says. There’s a pause, and then he grumbles, “I kept getting turned around and headed back the way I came, anyway. I think your car is conspiring against me.”
Dean huffs a laugh at that. “Nah, she likes you. That’s why she kept trying to bring you--” he clears his throat-- “bring you back.”
“Well, I’m admitting defeat, then,” Cas says.
There are a few moments of silence as Dean sits with his eyes closed, his free hand gripping the back of her seat. “So…” he says.
“I’ll be back soon,” Cas says.
“Okay,” Dean says. “Later.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Dean adds, after the call has ended and he’s slipped his phone into his pocket.
--
Dean keeps sitting in Connie’s back seat waiting while Cas drives back to him in the Impala. He sits quietly, hands in his lap, head tilted back and eyes closed. The pace of his breathing tells her he’s not asleep, but he must be deep in thought; she feels and hears Sam coming towards her long before he enters the garage, but when he taps on her window, he startles Dean out of his reverie.
Dean immediately tenses in her seat, shifting to sit up straight, and she can see him clench his jaw as Sam opens the door and leans down to talk to him.
“Is he--” Sam starts.
“He’s on his way back,” Dean says tersely. His fingers twitch against the seat with the effort of keeping his expression carefully neutral.
“Okay,” Sam says. “Is everything--”
“Everything’s fine,” Dean says, a little too insistently. She knows this tone of voice, has heard it from Cas time and time again -- the one he uses when he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he’s trying to convince someone else.
“Great,” Sam says, clearly not buying it, but he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he says, “See you when he gets back.”
Sam closes her door and walks back into the bunker, leaving Dean to settle back into her seat and wait.
Dean tenses again when Cas pulls the Impala into the garage. He glances out of her window long enough to watch Cas park and step out onto the concrete, and in her rear view mirror, she finally sees his careful mask slip away. For just a moment, Dean loses control of his facial expressions enough to look worried, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned slightly down. As soon as Cas starts moving towards her, though, Dean looks down at his knees, and in one long inhale-exhale, he’s schooled his expression back into something more neutral.
He must not entirely succeed, though, or maybe Cas is just better at reading Dean than Connie is, because as soon as Cas opens her door, he’s apologizing again -- a quiet, “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Dean shrugs. He slides over to make room for Cas, patting her seat as he tries for a smile. “It’s cool,” he says. “Connie kept me company.”
Cas makes a quiet noise of acknowledgement as he slides in next to Dean. They sit in silence for a while, Cas leaning back against her seat with his eyes closed, Dean leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, absently picking at a loose thread on his shirtsleeve.
Eventually, Dean speaks first. “I’m not saying I don’t want you along on hunts,” he says, the steadiness of his voice belying the unease Connie can feel in the subtle shifting of Dean’s feet on her floor, “because I do. It’s just. You spent so long as an angel -- millions or billions of years or whatever -- and you’ve only been human for a little while and it’s just. It’s different. You gotta be careful, man, we’re breakable. You can’t just keep throwing yourself in harm’s way like it’s going outta style.”
Cas breathes in and holds it. His hand twitches against her seat. “I wasn’t hurt,” Cas says, and she can tell he’s just barely masking his annoyance.
“Yeah, not this time. But that doesn’t--” Dean sighs-- “that doesn’t make it better. It’s just not good in general, you know?”
Cas sighs. He says, bitterness laced through his voice, “I know.”
Dean looks at Cas then, stares at him with some complicated mix of emotions Connie can’t quite sort out -- sadness, maybe, and regret, and something like anger that’s not so much at Cas as it’s for him -- and then he looks away again, back down at his hands. He says, “Sorry, man.” She thinks he’s not exactly apologizing for the situation they’re in right now.
“It’s not your fault,” Cas says. “It isn’t anyone’s fault.”
“That doesn’t make it easier,” Dean says.
Cas opens his eyes, rolls his head to the side to look at Dean with one eyebrow raised. “Historically, has having someone to blame ever made it easier?”
Dean laughs without humor. “No, not really.”
Cas makes a noise of agreement and settles back against her seat. Once he has his eyes closed again, Dean says, “We’ve always figured it out, though.”
“We have,” Cas agrees. They lapse into silence again, Cas’ brow furrowed in thought. Finally he sits up, matching Dean’s posture. “Dean,” he says, and waits for Dean to glance up and meet his eyes. “I’ll try to be more careful.”
Dean nods. “Thanks,” he says, but it comes out sounding more like he’s tired than that he’s grateful.
Cas responds by touching Dean’s shoulder, a brief pass of his hand as moves to get up. Connie wonders if he notices the way Dean shifts minutely towards the touch before Cas is opening her door and getting out, Dean sliding after him and following him down into the bunker.
--
There’s a shift in their routine, after that, Connie notices. It’s nothing overt -- they still hunt, leaving her to rest comfortably in the garage while they’re gone and check in when they get back to make sure they’ve returned in one piece. They still leave on shorter trips to run errands. Cas still takes her out every couple of weeks, driving her to a different park each time they leave the bunker together. There’s a steady familiarity to all of it, and yet something has changed that she can’t quite place. Something in the way they move, maybe. Something in the subtle songs they create with the way their feet move on the concrete, the way they move around each other as they come and go. Something in the quality of both the sounds and the silence that float up to her from the bunker. She isn’t sure.
It takes something much more dramatic for Connie to figure out what’s been going on.
It starts with Dean storming up the stairs, pulling the keys off the wall before getting in the Impala and driving off. It feels different than usual -- urgent and angry in a way it isn’t when Dean is simply leaving for some mundane reason. She isn’t sure what it means.
Cas comes up the stairs to the garage a few long minutes later. He stops in the entryway and sighs. He walks over to Connie without taking her keys from the hook. He doesn’t open her door; instead, he stands next to her, leaning with his forearms resting on her hood, drumming his fingers and shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.
He must be waiting for Dean to return, she thinks, but before long, Cas sighs again before standing up and heading back into the bunker.
She sits in the silence, wondering what’s happening, and is still waiting for answers when Dean finally returns. He parks the Impala but doesn’t move from his seat.
It’s only when Cas comes back up the stairs and stands at the top that Dean gets out, slamming the door harder than he needs to, and heads toward the entrance to the bunker.
“Dean--” Cas starts.
“Don’t,” Dean snaps. He keeps walking.
Cas waits for Dean to disappear down the stairs before he follows.
--
The next morning finds Sam making his way up from the bunker, feet falling more heavily than usual. He stops next to one of the other cars in the garage, one that has never been driven in Connie’s time here, and there’s a soft sound of impact as he sets down whatever he must have been carrying. He leaves it there and heads back down into the bunker, only to reappear a few minutes later and repeat the process.
Sam makes trip after trip before Dean and Cas join him on the trek up the stairs. They, too, set down what they were carrying, and then Sam moves over to the wall, a set of keys jingling as he takes them off the rack. He starts moving back towards the other car, but he only makes it a few steps before Dean says, “Sam, wait.”
Sam sighs. “Dean, we talked about this. I--”
“No,” Dean says. “That’s not what I--” Dean sighs as he moves towards the rack of keys. There’s a familiar jingle as he lifts another set off its hook. “Here,” he says. “You should take her.”
Connie can hear the distress in Sam’s voice as he says, “Dean, I can’t--”
“Please,” Dean says, voice quiet and desperate. “Just -- please.”
There’s a long pause before Sam says, “All right.” He moves back towards Dean, and then there’s the sound of them exchanging the keys, of one set being put on the rack.
It’s only then that all three of them move, speaking to each other in low voices as they pick and choose what to leave in the Impala’s trunk and what to shift over to Connie’s trunk. Stakes and holy water and guns are placed next to Cas’ blanket and spare clothes and miscellaneous other belongings, his things being shifted to the side to make room for this other part of their life, these things that she is starting to realize Sam is leaving behind.
They work without speaking after that, silent except for the shuffling of their feet and the occasional sound of effort as they pack Sam’s things into the Impala.
Connie can tell when they’ve finished. They shut the Impala’s trunk and back doors and then simply stand there breathing, Dean scuffing one boot against the floor as they try to figure out how to say goodbye.
Sam clears his throat, breaking the spell. There’s the sound of movement, Cas and Sam’s footsteps converging on one another, and then the sound of someone patting someone else on the back.
“Take care, Sam,” Cas says. She can hear the frown in his voice.
“You too, Cas,” Sam says. He sounds warm and sincere. Connie wishes she knew what he was thinking.
There’s shifting movement again, Sam’s footsteps moving towards Dean while Dean remains standing still, and then there’s Sam’s slightly muffled voice saying, “Dean, this isn’t goodbye.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “I know.” Even without being able to see him, even from across the room, Connie knows exactly what he’s feeling. She can hear the doubt in his voice, even in those three simple words.
There’s some shuffling around as Dean and Cas move to stand off to the side and Sam gets into the Impala and starts the engine. Connie hears the change in the rumble that has become so familiar, the slight shift that tells her the Impala must be sharing in the same unease she’s feeling.
Connie catches only a momentary glimpse as Sam drives away, pulling out of the garage and onto the road.
Even after he’s gone, Dean and Cas don’t move. They stand in silence until Cas says, “Dean. Are you all right?”
Dean doesn’t respond. He silently disappears back down into the bunker with Cas trailing after him.
--
The night is unusually silent, only the faintest sounds making their way up to Connie through the concrete. When it’s finally broken by the sound of Cas making his way up the stairs alone, it makes her anxious rather than excited.
Cas looks tired and worried as he slides into her driver’s seat, circles under his eyes darker than she’s seen them in a long time. They don’t go on one of their usual trips, this time. There’s no long drive to a park, no calm day spent sitting in the open air, no easing of whatever burdens Cas is carrying.
Instead, they drive into town. They pull into a parking lot bustling with people pushing carts, Cas frowning as he waits for them to move so he can turn into an open space. He sighs heavily before cutting her engine and getting out.
It’s only after Cas has returned with his own cart and started hastily loading his bags into Connie’s back seat that she realizes that she’s taken over the responsibility that used to belong to the Impala.
Cas hesitates on the way back to the bunker, pulling to the side near the edge of town like an afterthought and sitting in a slow-moving lane. Money changes hands at the end of that line, but instead of gaining them admission to a park, Cas winds up with several warm bags that he places carefully in Connie’s passenger seat. The greasy, salty smell of the food spreads through her interior as Cas drives the rest of the way back.
When he pulls back into the garage, Cas sits for a few long minutes with the engine still running, his eyes closed, his hands still gripping the wheel. He eventually takes one last deep breath before he pulls the key from her ignition and starts unloading his groceries, making several trips before one last round to gather the drive-thru food.
The next day involves a simpler process -- a drive into town involving only a trip through a different drive-thru. The same thing happens the day after that, Cas looking just as tired as unhappy as before. Connie finds herself longing for a trip somewhere else -- anywhere else -- or, at the very least, for the reappearance of Sam or Dean.
Instead, they leave the bunker only for pre-prepared food for another day, and another, and another. Connie starts to realize that they’re forming a new routine. They’re building habits around all the empty spaces Sam’s absence has created.
She drives Cas into town and worries about all of them.
--
Over a week passes in slow silence before Connie sees Dean again. Both he and Cas make their way into the garage one morning, carrying duffel bags that they toss in her trunk before Cas gets in behind her wheel and Dean slides into her passenger seat. They’re both quiet as Cas starts Connie up and pulls out of the garage.
Connie thinks, at first, that this is nice. It feels like the first step back towards some sort of normal. She’s happy to see Dean out and about -- happy to have him along for the drive, to be given this opportunity get to know this person who is clearly so important to Cas.
As they make their way east on this quiet drive, nothing world-ending going on, Connie has time to simply observe Dean. She takes in the feel of his calloused hands on her door handle, the solid weight of him on her seat, the soft slide of his well-loved clothes against her fabric, his bowed legs stretching into her footwell, his heavy boots resting against her floor. She takes in the gunpowder motor oil cheap soap smell of him, and she’s so caught up in it that it takes her a while to realize that she hasn’t heard either of them speak.
At first she thinks they’re both quiet because it’s early, the sun just starting to rise and lighten the roads. As the hours drag on, though, Dean continues to sit staring listlessly out the window rather than taking in the scenery rolling by. Cas starts glancing over at Dean every now and then, brow furrowed in concern.
It’s Cas who breaks the silence, quietly asking Dean if he minds if he turns on the radio.
Dean shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, without looking over.
Cas keeps the volume low as he switches through the stations, skipping over the ones he usually listens to until he settles on one playing classic rock.
Over the next hour, Cas makes a few more attempts to engage Dean in conversation. He comments on the sunrise, on how he’s looking forward to driving through the mountains, on how nice it is to be driving like this when so few other cars are on the road. Dean responds only with monosyllabic words or noncommittal noises as he continues to stare out the window.
Eventually, Cas gives up. After that, there’s just Dean and Cas, sitting silently as they head farther and farther east.
--
Several hours into their drive, Dean’s gaze finally seems to catch on something, eyes narrowing as he reads some sign on the side of the road. As it fades into the distance in Connie’s rearview mirror, Dean closes his eyes, folding his arms as he sinks a little in her seat and rests his forehead against her door. “Wake me up when you wanna stop for food,” he says.
“All right,” Cas says. It’s the only scrap of conversation for hours.
Finally, when the low, dry hills and scraggly brush have started giving way to mountains and trees, they pull off the road and into a gas station. Cas gets out to fill her tank, and when he hops back in, he drives only a little further before pulling to a stop in a parking lot. He looks over at Dean and frowns for a second before deliberately shifting his expression into a poor approximation of optimism. He reaches over to shake Dean’s shoulder very gently and say, “Dean.”
Dean wakes with a start, groaning and rubbing at his eyes. He tilts his head from side to side, rubbing at his neck as he says, “Yeah, give me a second.” It’s the most expressive Connie has seen him all day.
It doesn’t last. As Dean shifts back into consciousness, she can see the same melancholy state settle back over him. By the time he says, “Okay,” the bleak, unfocused look is back on his face. It haunts her as they get out and walk away.
--
Cas and Dean return less than an hour later smelling of grease and coffee. They buckle up in silence and get back on the road.
As they continue their drive, Cas redoubles his efforts to engage Dean in conversation. It’s only then that she realizes where they’re going.
“I’ve been thinking about the hunt,” Cas says. “A haunting seems most likely, but I suppose we should explore other options as well.”
“Yeah, suppose so,” Dean says. He doesn’t seem to be settling in to sleep, now, but he’s back to staring out the window with his arms folded in tight against himself.
“I think we should start with the families of the victims,” Cas says. “I’m hoping that from there we can--”
Dean interrupts him with a heavy sigh. “C’mon, Cas,” he says. “This can wait until morning.”
Cas’s expression doesn’t change, but he tightens his hands on her steering wheel. “All right,” he says.
He tries again later that evening. “Did you want to stop for dinner,” he asks, “or have something delivered once we get a room, or--”
“I don’t care, Cas,” Dean says. “Just do whatever you want.”
She expects Cas to be angry, maybe, to snap back at Dean, but he doesn’t. His expression, as she catches sight of him in her mirror, looks more worried than annoyed. She wonders if Dean would notice, if he ever looked at Cas instead of out the window.
--
They wind up going through a drive-thru, eating burritos as they make the last leg of their journey. They pull into a parking lot after the sun has already set, Cas leaving Dean in the car only to return a few minutes later with a new set of keys jingling in his palm. It’s only then that Dean gets out to join him, helping grab their things from her trunk and haul them into the motel.
They return bright and early, grabbing a quick breakfast before heading into town. The entire day is spent making various stops -- a police station, Connie thinks, plus a place that reeks of chemicals, a few houses, a library. Their conversations are brief, all centered around the case -- discussions of where they’re going to go next, what they think they’re hunting, what their best plan of attack is. By the time the sun is setting, they seem to have figured it out, and their conversation shifts to talk of dinner, of killing time until night falls and they can dig up a grave under cover of darkness.
It’s late when they finally drive to the cemetery, Connie one of the only few cars on the road. She can feel Cas’ breathing pick up a little as he drives, can feel his palms getting clammier where they rest against her wheel. Dean still sits staring out the window, but now, he drums his fingers against her door, taps his feet in her footwell.
Cas parks her off the main drag, far from the closest street lights. As they get out and grab their things from the trunk -- guns, shovels, lighter fluid -- Dean mutters, “At least it’s just a simple salt and burn.” He sounds casual enough as he says it, but he shuts her trunk a little harder than he needs to.
As they walk away, leaving her to wait for their return, Connie is suddenly aware of how different this is from before, from all those times they had gone on hunts in the Impala. It had been nice, in a way, not knowing exactly what they were hunting. She had never heard them discussing the people that had died, never saw them trying to hide their worry. This time, though, she knows all of that, has experienced it first hand, and there’s nothing she can do about it, nothing she can do to help them. Connie hadn’t realized how lucky she had been to have that degree of separation. She doesn’t even have the comfort of the familiarity of the bunker’s garage. Instead, she’s sitting nestled amongst the trees at the edge of a strange town waiting for Cas and Dean to return. She waits, fearing, above all else, that they’ll never come back.
They do come back, though, in the middle of the night, smelling of dirt and smoke and lighter fluid, and under it all, something else, something thick and coppery. They toss their things back into her trunk unceremoniously and sit heavily in her seats.
“Let me take a look at your arm,” Cas says, shifting as he reaches for Dean.
“I’m fine,” Dean says.
Connie’s interior light clicks off before she can catch a glimpse of Cas’ facial expression, but she can hear the concern in his voice as he says, “Dean…”
“I said it’s fine, Cas,” Dean snaps.
Blood, Connie realizes. It’s the smell of Dean’s blood, masked by all of the other smells they accumulated on the hunt.
Cas huffs out a breath. “Are you sure you don’t need to go--”
“If you’re so worried, take me back to the motel so I can get this shit cleaned up,” Dean says.
There’s a long, tense pause. “Fine,” Cas says, entire body held taut as he pulls back out onto the road.
Dean sighs, but something in his posture seems to loosen, even if only minutely. “It’s fine, Cas, it’s just a scratch,” he says. “Anyway, you can patch me up good as new when we get back to the room.”
“Not good as new,” Cas murmurs.
Dean must not hear him. He says, “What?”
“Fine,” Cas says, hands still tightly gripping her wheel. “It’s up to you.”
Dean shrugs and settles back against her seat, eventually nodding off on the way back to the motel, body slumping against her door. When Cas wakes him with a touch to his shoulder, he mumbles something that sounds a lot like “Getting too old for this” before he heaves himself up and out and towards their room.
Cas sighs to himself before he cuts her engine and follows Dean into the motel.
--
The next day, Cas and Dean toss their stuff back into Connie’s trunk, stop at a diner for breakfast, and get back on the road. The smell of Dean’s blood has disappeared, replaced by the fake lilac scent of the motel shampoo and the antiseptic smell of fresh bandages. She lets herself be comforted by that, if only a little.
Connie has just resigned herself to another long stretch of silence when, to her surprise, Dean clears his throat. “It was nice,” he says. He’s still staring out the window as he talks, not looking at Cas, but at least this seems like an improvement.
Cas glances over at Dean, frowning as he’s been doing a lot these past few hours and days and weeks, before looking back at the road. “What was nice?”
Dean shifts minutely as he shrugs, a casual lift of his shoulder that she catches in her side mirror. “I dunno. This. Getting out of the bunker, I guess. So uh. Thanks for that.”
“Um,” Cas says. “You’re welcome.” It comes out sounding almost like a question, his voice raised at the end. Still, he seems at least marginally relieved, the lines in his forehead smoothing out, his grip on the wheel loosening.
At first, she thinks that’s the end of it. After a few minutes, though, Dean says, “Is that why you leave between hunts?”
Cas’ eyebrows draw together. He starts, “I--”
“Sorry,” Dean interrupts. “I just mean -- I’m just curious where you drive off to, I guess.”
“Oh,” Cas says. “I’m visiting the parks,” he explains, a faint smile tugging at his features, the one that forms more in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes than in the tilt of his mouth.
“What, like, state parks?”
Cas makes a sound of agreement, a quiet hum in the back of his throat. “There are twenty-six of them in Kansas. I’ve been to six so far.”
“Yeah?” Dean says. “They any good?”
Cas hesitates, squinting as he evaluates. “It varies,” he admits. “But I like it. There are lakes, sometimes. And trails that run through the forests. I like listening to the trees, the birds. I like watching the sunset.”
As Cas speaks, Dean sits up a little in his seat. He turns from staring out her window to watch Cas -- to watch his smile widen as he talks about his trips with Connie.
“Sounds nice,” Dean says, resting his head on his closed hand as he continues to watch Cas. “Y’know, driving somewhere without the promise of a hunt at the end. Driving somewhere just to drive. Been a while since I did that, I guess.”
Cas makes a noncommittal noise. He turns to meet Dean’s gaze, but it only lasts a moment before Dean is turning away, looking back out the window.
Dean taps his fingers on her armrest, watching the scenery go by -- his eyes tracking it this time, shifting back and forth as whatever he had been focusing on slips out of view. “You mind if I tag along sometime?” he asks eventually, voice so quiet that Connie is afraid maybe Cas wasn’t able to hear him.
Cas smiles softly again. He says, “I would like that very much.”
--
A few days after they return from their hunt, Cas and Dean head out for a drive. They don’t have anything but a small cooler with them, this time, so Connie knows this isn’t another hunt.
They take a route Connie recognizes as Cas explains that they’re headed to his favorite of the parks they’ve visited so far. He talks about his favorite spots -- this one particular place you can sit in the shade looking out over the lake with the breeze coming off the water, another at the end of a short hike that lets you look at the landscape for miles around. Dean sits loosely in her seat, less tense than he was the entire time they were on the hunt. He doesn’t stare out the window, this time, doesn’t zone out or fall asleep. He asks questions of Cas instead, asks him to talk about the other parks, the things he’s seen, the places he liked the most. At one point, after playing around on his phone for a few minutes, he says, “I didn’t even know Kansas had this many state parks.” Cas, for his part, spends the entire drive with a half-smile on his face, glancing back and forth between Dean and the road.
Once they arrive at the park, Cas and Dean grab the cooler and disappear for the rest of the day. Connie sits peacefully in the shade, enjoying the ambience and the certainty that however Cas and Dean are spending their day, they are safe.
They return in the evening, damp with sweat and smelling of dirt and pine. She can tell they’re tired by the way they yawn as they drive back to the bunker, the way Dean sits with his eyes half-lidded, the way they speak only in quiet murmurs. It’s a different kind of tired, though, than after their hunts. A good tired. It’s nice, Connie thinks, seeing them this way.
--
A new routine starts to take shape after that. The next time she’s driven, it’s by Dean. He comes up to the garage alone and takes her on a mundane trip to the grocery store. He’s not as relaxed as he had been after his trip with Cas, and he’s far from overtly cheerful, but he’s not as withdrawn as he had been on their last hunt, either. He’s out and about, looking more like himself, to the extent Connie knows him.
The trip is brief, but she enjoys the chance to learn more about him, nonetheless, to feel the expert way he drives her, the skill that comes only with years and years of experience. She likes listening to the music he puts on, that he blares at max volume, that he sings along to enthusiastically, if a little off-key. She likes the way he rolls her windows down and sits with one arm hanging out the side, moving his fingers as though he’s trying to grasp the air.
Dean seems progressively more animated with each successive trip. They go out for food, sometimes. They go on another hunt -- one only a few hours away that they manage to knock out in less than a day. They celebrate with what Dean says is called a “fist bump,” Dean rolling his eyes affectionately as he and Cas touch their knuckles together.
They visit another park, Cas quietly agreeing when Dean announces, “We earned this. Actually, you know what? We’ve earned a lifetime of vacations. We don’t need an excuse.” They come back arguing good-naturedly, Dean poking fun at Cas for being awful at fishing, Cas shooting back that at least he managed not to trip over himself and nearly fall in the lake.
On the drive back, Dean says, “Hey, so uh. When I was looking at stuff about the parks, I saw that some of these places have cabins and stuff.” He pauses, shifting in his seat. There’s a hesitance there that Connie doesn’t quite understand as Dean clears his throat. “Maybe sometime we could make a trip out of it, you know? Go to one of the farther ones and stay out there a couple days, that kinda thing.”
“I would love to,” Cas says immediately, glancing away from the road for a moment to shoot a pleased smile at Dean.
In the fading daylight, Connie can see Dean looking out the window. For the first time in a while, he’s smiling, even if only slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “Great. Okay.”
--
Their next hunt takes them south. Cas is back to driving this time, Dean pulling up directions as they pull out of the garage.
“Gonna be a long drive,” he says. “Guess we get to see a whole lot of I-35. But hey, there’s a ton of state parks in Texas. Up for a trip to one when we reach the end of the rainbow?”
“I would like that,” Cas says, smiling at Dean as he steps on the gas and sets them off toward their newest hunt.
They drive with her windows down, Dean idly tapping his fingers on Connie’s exterior. There’s a certain comfort to the silence, this time -- none of the tension that had been present on the hunt out east. Connie simply enjoys the ease of it, the sound of the wind and the feel of the asphalt beneath her tires.
After a while, Dean turns to face Cas, pulling his arm back inside. He asks, “You ever played road trip games?”
Cas glances over at him, frowning. “No.”
“Wow,” Dean says. “Can’t believe we never played any when we were on hunts when -- uh, when we were on hunts before. Suppose it’s never too late to learn, though, huh?”
“Okay,” Cas says, sounding a little bewildered.
Dean straightens up in her seat, shimmying a little as he says, “Okay, so. The first one I’m gonna teach you is called ‘I Spy.’ It’s real simple. You find something you can see from the car and give a hint about it, and then the other person tries to guess it. I’ll take it easy on you since you haven’t had years of practice like I have.”
Cas turns to look at Dean with his eyebrow raised. She can’t see what expression Dean makes in response, but whatever it is, it causes Cas to roll his eyes.
“Okay, so,” Dean says, turning to look out her front windshield, “I spy with my little eye...something green.”
“A tree?” Cas says.
“C’mon, I said I’d go easy, but not that easy,” Dean says. “Guess again.”
“A road sign,” Castiel says, more confidently.
“Bingo,” Dean says. “Your turn.”
“I spy with my little eye,” Cas says, “something...yellow.”
Dean guesses the lines on the road, a bird, and the sun before he correctly guesses the cab of the 18-wheeler they had passed several minutes before, its bright yellow paint job fading into the distance in Connie’s rearview mirror.
They go back and forth for a few rounds before Cas repeats Dean’s first clue. “I spy with my little eye,” he says, “something green.”
Dean guesses trees and road signs and cars. He guesses grass and shrubs and the stripes of his shirt. Eventually, he throws his hands up and says, “Fine, I give up, what is it.”
Cas keeps his eyes fixed on the road, but Connie can see the mischief dancing in them as he says, “The leaves of the sandbar willow. I also would have accepted the scientific name, salix exigua.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean says, but Cas only shrugs, clearly fighting off a smile. “That’s so unfair,” Dean complains. “How can you even tell what type of trees are flying by, okay, keep your eyes on the road, buddy.”
“We can play another game if you’d like,” Cas says mildly.
“Oh my God,” Dean says. “You’re even worse than S--”
He stops speaking abruptly, his mouth audibly clicking shut. He tenses in his seat a moment before Cas does. Connie can see him cast another glance at Dean -- worried, this time, instead of quietly affectionate.
“Dean…” Cas starts.
“How about, uh,” Dean starts, voice sounding slightly strained. He clears his throat. “Ever heard of ‘Cows on My Side’?” Cas shakes his head, so Dean says, “It’s real easy. You just gotta shout ‘Cows on my side!’ when you see cows on your side of the road, or ‘Cows on your side!’ if you see ‘em on the other. You get a point when you see them on your side or beat me to it on my side. And if there’s a cemetery, the first person to shout ‘Ghost cow!’ steals the other one’s points.”
“You can’t be serious,” Cas says, raising an eyebrow.
“I wouldn’t joke about something like this,” Dean says seriously. “Playing this game on road trips is a time-honored--”
“Cows on your side,” Cas interrupts.
“Oh, now it’s on,” Dean says, earning him a bemused look from Cas.
They spend the next hour playing, Cas constantly scanning the horizon, Dean shifting so he’s leaning forward to look out her front windshield. Dean keeps perfect track of the points, laughing when they both shout out as they notice cows at the same time and generously calling it a tie. He gradually pulls ahead of Cas in points until the score sits at 23 to 14.
“This game seems unreasonably biased,” Cas says.
From where Dean is sitting with his chin resting on his hand, Connie sees him look over at Cas skeptically. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes,” Cas says emphatically. “It’s skewed in favor of the passengers, who are free to look for cows at will. The driver, on the other hand, is forced to split their attention between the cows and the road or put everyone in the vehicle at greater risk of bodily harm. Your current lead is the result of nothing more than my unwillingness to compromise our safety for the sake of a silly game.”
“You make a compelling argument,” Dean says, “but you know what it sounds like to me? A bunch of excu--”
“Ghost cow,” Cas says, with a certain sense of finality.
Dean snaps his gaze back out the window, eyes tracking the cemetery until it’s blocked from view by the buildings of the small town they’re currently passing through. He groans dramatically. “Wow,” he says, “I can’t believe this. Ultimate betrayal.”
“The rules were silent regarding tactical distractions,” Cas says, trying and failing to hide his smile.
“Unbelievable,” Dean says.
“I’m enjoying this,” Cas says. “Would you like to try beating me at a different game?”
“Okay, fine,” Dean says. “But this time, no funny business.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cas says.
“So,” Dean says, “this one is called ‘20 Questions’...”
--
They continue to play road trip games for hours, only stopping once they need to pull over for dinner and gas.
“Almost to the Texas border,” Dean says as they get back on the road, Cas still in the driver’s seat. “Get ready to be incredibly discouraged at how huge this state is.” Cas makes a noncommittal noise, and Dean asks, “You sure you’re still good to drive?”
“I’m sure,” Cas says.
Dean settles into the seat. “All right,” he says, “I’m gonna catch a nap. Just wake me when you need to switch off.”
Cas continues further and further south as Dean sleeps, sun getting lower and lower in the sky. When it finally dips below the horizon, Connie can hear him start yawning -- only rarely, at first, but more and more frequently as the night drags on.
Before she has a chance to worry, Dean wakes up in the middle of one of Cas’ yawns. “I just need some coffee,” he says stubbornly before Dean even has a chance to comment.
“I just rested up,” Dean says. “Take a damn nap and let me drive.”
Cas sighs, but he takes his foot off the gas, pulling Connie over onto the shoulder before getting out and trading places with Dean.
Dean keeps the radio on low as he drives, drumming his fingers on the wheel in time to the music. He seems relaxed like this, calm and confident behind the wheel, even if it’s different from the one where he spent so much of his life.
Cas naps for a few hours before waking and pulling his phone from his pocket, the light from the screen briefly casting Connie’s interior in a pale blue light. “How are we not there yet?” he asks.
“Told you, man. Texas,” Dean says.
Cas grumbles something unintelligible and settles back into the seat to resume his nap. Dean lets him sleep the rest of the way, shaking him awake only once he’s parked Connie at a motel and gotten them a room.
Cas groans as he pulls himself up with a hand on Connie’s doorframe. “How is it so hot?” he asks. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Dean laughs as he opens the trunk to grab their bags. “Texas,” he says, and that seems to be the end of his explanation.
--
They don’t leave the motel until the sun is high in the sky, both of them moving more slowly than Connie is accustomed to. When they return from their first stop, she can feel them sweating through their clothes, what little of their skin is exposed sticking to her seats.
“I’m melting,” Cas groans as he fiddles with her air conditioning vents. She takes the liberty of cranking it up even higher than Dean had set it.
Dean laughs. “Sorry,” he says. “Should’ve warned you.”
“Why do federal agents have to wear full suits?” Cas asks petulantly. “Can’t federal agents have casual Friday?”
“First of all,” Dean says, “it’s Wednesday. And second, this heat is so oppressive that we’d be suffering even in shorts and t-shirts.”
Cas’ only response is one long dramatic groan.
“Hey,” Dean says, “it’s not all bad. At least Connie’s A/C is awesome.” She can see him look away from the road to toss Cas a grin. She’s happy Dean recognized her efforts, even if Cas doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm.
The rest of the day progresses in much the same way, trips around town interspersed with drives where they alternately complain about the weather and discuss the logistics of the hunt. By the time they’re making their way back to their motel, they’re sweaty and annoyed, and Dean is grumbling, “Should have known Texas was hiding more goddamn vamps.”
“They must be truly desperate to have resorted to living in the sun’s stronghold,” Cas deadpans.
Dean laughs tiredly. “C’mon,” he says as they pull into the motel, “let’s rest up. Gonna be a rough morning.”
They disappear into their room until just before sunrise, heading down a dusty road and parking Connie on the shoulder before trudging off, dry grass crunching beneath their boots. They wrap things up quickly, returning less than an hour later. The smell of blood clings to them, overpowering even the smell of their sweat, but none of it is their own this time.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Dean says as he gets behind the wheel. Cas nods his enthusiastic agreement, hair brushing against the seat.
They retreat to their motel to get cleaned up and check out, and as they get back on the road, Dean says, “So, still up for a state park?”
She can feel Cas turn his head towards Dean, and whatever look he gives makes Dean laugh, smile spreading across his face and crinkling around his eyes.
“In this heat?” he says, not sounding nearly as chipper as Dean seems. “I don’t have a death wish.”
Dean laughs again, pulling onto the ramp that will take them up onto I-35 and start them on the long drive back to the bunker.
--
They wander up to the garage mid-afternoon the day after they get back to the bunker. Connie can hear Dean’s joints popping as he stretches on his way over to her. “Pizza cool with you?” he asks as he gets into the passenger seat.
Cas hums thoughtfully. “If we get enough,” he says, “we won’t have to make anything for dinner.”
“I like the way you think,” Dean says as they pull out onto the road.
She can tell they’re both still recovering from the hunt -- from the travel, from the heat, from whatever exactly it takes to kill a vampire. Exhaustion creeps into their movements, their words, the way they sit on her seats. She’s glad they’re taking a break. Dean and Cas seem to share her sentiment, making plans as they drive into town -- for the movie they’re going to watch that night, the grocery run they’re going to make tomorrow, the park they’re going to visit later that week.
It puzzles her when they come up the stairs the next morning with heavy footsteps and pack their bags back into her trunk, even though they’re both still clearly tired from the last hunt.
“All right,” Dean says, hopping into the driver’s seat and starting Connie up, “navigate us.”
Cas is already sighing before they’ve even made it out onto the road. “It’s going to take us over eight hours to get there,” he says.
“Aw, c’mon,” Dean says, his voice slightly strained as he tries to sound chipper. “That’s not even that long. We’ll have plenty of time to stop for food and still make it there before dark, get a good night’s sleep and then get started in the morning.”
Cas sighs again, leaning to rest his head against the glass and stare out the window. “Forgive me if I’m not terribly excited about spending the whole day on the road when we could be sitting on the couch finishing Stranger Things instead.”
“It’ll still be there when we get back,” Dean says stubbornly. “Plus, don’t even pretend you’re not interested in checking out Yellowstone once we’re done.”
Cas grumbles something unintelligible, earning a laugh from Dean. “Hey, who knows,” Dean says, keeping his eyes on the road as he leans towards Cas to speak from the side of his mouth. “Town named Casper, maybe whatever’s been haunting it will turn out to be a friendly ghost.”
“Based on what we read in the paper and the police reports,” Cas says dryly, “it seems more likely we’ll be the first to witness the fabled jackalope.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Dean says, “I know you got that reference.”
“I did,” Cas says. “I’m just choosing to ignore it.”
“You’re no fun,” Dean says, but there’s no heat in it. Cas simply makes a noncommittal noise in response. After a moment, Dean says, “Actually, I mean, with your angel knowledge and all, do you know if jackalopes actually exist?”
Cas closes his eyes. He leans a little more heavily on the door, settling further into the seat. “Yes.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “So?”
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” Cas says.
“Zero fun,” Dean says.
Cas sighs, breath warm on the window, but in the minute twitching of his facial muscles, Connie can tell he’s fighting a smile. They may not be thrilled about being back on the road, but she’s pleased to see that at least they can still enjoy each other’s company, regardless of where they’re headed.
They sit in companionable silence until they get into town. Dean stops to fill her tank, and when they get back on the road, he turns on her radio. An upbeat, cheerful song blares from her speakers, demanding, Shut up and dance with me.
Dean immediately reaches out and changes the station. Cas shifts in his seat without sitting up, and there’s a soft smacking sound as, presumably, he swats Dean’s hand away from the controls. “C’mon, man,” Dean whines, “rule is driver picks the music, shotgun--”
“No,” Cas interrupts, changing the station back, “that’s the rule in your car. This is my car and I want to listen to this station.”
Dean lets out a long-suffering sigh. “But this top forty crap is awful,” he says.
“You just think that because you’re old and don’t understand what the kids are listening to these days,” Cas says matter-of-factly.
Dean scoffs. “Oh, you’ve lived for literally millions of years and I’m the one who’s old?”
That gives Cas a moment’s pause. “I’m young at heart,” he says.
Dean laughs, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine,” he says. “You’re the boss.”
--
They continue to head north, sporadically exchanging idle conversation.
Cas’ eyes fix on something up ahead of Connie as he says, “Since the drive is so short, maybe we should take a detour and visit the Hastings Museum of Natural and Cultural History. Apparently they have an entire floor devoted to Kool-Aid.”
Dean glances at the billboard as they pass. “Oh yeah,” he says, chuckling, “let’s go ‘discover the dream’.”
Cas shifts to pull his phone out of his pocket, fiddling with it as he leans against the window. “Did you know,” he says, after a few minutes, “that Kool-Aid’s inventor engaged in some rather dubious business practices?”
“Oh yeah?” Dean says, prompting Cas to continue.
“And,” Cas adds, swiping at his screen, “he apparently made some rather...ambitious attempts to branch out. He tried and failed to make Kool-Aid bubble gum, Kool-Aid soda, Kool-Aid pie…”
Dean scoffs at that last one as though personally offended. After a moment, though, he tilts his head towards Cas. He asks, “Have you even ever even tried Kool-Aid?”
“I haven’t,” Cas admits. “Though, after reading about it, I’m not sure I want to.”
“Fair enough,” Dean says. “Me and Sammy had it a bunch when we were kids because it was dirt cheap and I still can’t stomach the thought of drinking any more.”
Cas hmms thoughtfully. After a long pause in which he sits up slightly, turning to look at Dean, he says, carefully, “Speaking of Sam--”
Dean’s reaction is instantaneous. He clenches his jaw at the same time his hands tighten on the wheel. He says, “Can we not.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but--”
“Then don’t,” Dean says. He presses harder on the gas. Connie wonders if he notices. She decides to err on the side of caution, forcing herself to dial back her speed even as Dean tries to urge her forward.
Cas sighs. “I just think you should call him.”
“I’ll call him when I feel like it,” Dean says.
Cas sits in silence, staring at Dean, whose gaze is fixed resolutely on the road. His earlier mirth is gone, replaced by something softer, sadder. “Dean, I--”
“Leave it,” Dean says.
It all has the feel of a conversation they’ve had before, and this time, Cas doesn’t try again. He settles back against the window, staring at Connie’s side mirror, his eyes unfocused.
The silence isn’t quite as companionable as Connie has gradually gotten used to. It takes a long time before Dean’s grip on her wheel eases up and he stops tapping his left foot in her footwell in agitation.
It takes even longer for Dean to look anywhere other than at the horizon. Cas notices when it happens, shifting almost imperceptibly in his seat, his gaze flicking towards Dean.
Dean turns on the radio. He browses through the stations until he lands on something he likes, and as soon as the chorus starts up, he sings along, glancing over at Cas as he belts out, “If you liked it then you should have put a ring on it, if you--”
Cas sits up just enough that Connie can’t see what kind of face he makes at Dean, but whatever it is, it makes Dean stop singing long enough to say, “Don’t give me that look. Everyone loves Beyoncé.”
Connie is pleasantly surprised when Cas speaks; she can hear the good humor and the barely suppressed laughter in his voice as he says, “Of course, Dean.”
It’s not quite so tense, after that.
--
After a quick stop for lunch, Cas spends the afternoon gradually sinking lower in his seat and responding to Dean with less and less coherent answers until he eventually dozes off, breathing slow and even where his face is pressed against the window.
Dean must not have noticed. Just a few minutes after Cas has fallen asleep, Dean says, “Hey, only a thirty or so mile detour and we could see Carhenge. Think it’s as impressive as the real thing?”
When Cas doesn’t respond, Dean glances over, eyes leaving the road for a little longer than is strictly safe, forcing Connie to make a few minor corrections to keep them traveling within their lane. A smile tugs at the corner of Dean’s mouth as he finally shifts his attention back to the road, turning down the music as he does so.
He lets Cas sleep through a stop for gas and another for snacks. When he finally pulls to a stop in a motel parking lot, he leaves Connie running as he gets out, returning a few minutes later with their room key. He opens her driver’s side door, and in the warm light still filtering in through her windows, she can see him simply standing there, leaning to look into her interior at Cas, smiling at him fondly. After a few moments, he reaches across the seat to shake Cas gently. “Hey,” he says. “We’re here.”
Cas makes a noise of protest, but Dean just laughs. “C’mon,” he says, “I know motel beds are shitty, but they’re still better than sleeping in a car. We’ll order some dinner and then you can go right back to bed if you want.”
Cas winces, rubbing his neck and shoulder as he sits up. “What’re we having?” he asks blearily.
“Well, you chose the music,” Dean says as he walks around and pops Connie’s trunk, pulling out their bags, “but since I’m so nice, you can pick dinner, too.”
Cas gets out, taking the bag Dean passes to him as he shuts the trunk. “I want pizza again,” he says.
“Thank God your taste isn’t always horrible,” he says as they start walking towards their room.
“Does this mean we can get anchovies?”
“Dude,” Dean says, “we discussed this. We agreed--”
He’s cut off when the door to their room shuts behind them. Connie may not be able to hear them any more, but she doesn’t mind. For the time being, they’re safe and sound.
--
They get up early the next morning and spend the day driving from one parking lot to another, first for breakfast, then the police station and the morgue. They take a break for lunch before heading out of town, the woods and the mountains a welcome change of pace after spending hours and hours sitting around in the city.
Cas and Dean park Connie in a series of driveways, disappearing into whatever houses they’ve stopped at, and after the third, they get back in with a sigh. “It sounds like werewolves,” Cas says.
“Yep,” Dean says. “Would have preferred the jackalope.”
They drive her higher into the mountains, pulling off onto a dirt road, Dean looking out the window with narrowed eyes until he says, “Hey, pull over here.”
Cas parks on the side of the road. They get out, grabbing their weapons from the trunk before heading off into the woods, twigs snapping under their feet as they walk away.
It’s quiet for a long time, nothing but the sound of wildlife, of the wind, of the occasional distant car driving by back on the main road. As the hours drag on, Connie starts to worry; they’ve been gone so long, and she hates to think that something happened, that they might never return and she would be left not knowing--
She hears footsteps headed back her way, but she only gets a moment of relief before she realizes there’s just one set and they’re all wrong. The sound is different from the ones she knows, and the closer they get, the more nervous she becomes.
Her fears are well-founded. The footsteps circle around to her front, and then a stranger is pulling up Connie’s hood and tearing something inside her apart before slamming the hood shut again. They start back towards the woods, but before they get very far, she catches the sound of the footsteps she does know. Something is different, though, something a little off in the rhythm--
There’s a sudden burst of noise, a sound she usually only hears far off in the distance -- gunfire, she realizes. The sound is followed by a thump as whoever was messing with her falls to the ground. She gets another second of relief before Dean yanks open her passenger door and carefully lowers Cas to the seat. “Okay,” he says, nearly managing to keep his voice from wavering slightly. “It’s gonna be okay. Just hang tight.” There’s a pause and some slight movement before Dean says, “Where are the keys, which pocket--” He must find them, because he switches gears mid-sentence once she hears a familiar jingle. “Keep pressure on that, all right?” he says.
Cas manages a pained “Okay” as Dean closes the door to run around to the driver’s side.
Connie can tell Cas is hurt, blood seeping into her seat and his breathing ragged. She thinks, fearfully, of the stranger -- of whatever they were hunting -- digging around under her hood. As Dean slides into the driver’s seat, she hopes that they didn’t know what they were doing. She hopes that whatever they disconnected wasn’t something critical and she’ll still start.
Dean turns the key in her ignition and nothing happens. Her engine doesn’t even make an attempt to turn over.
“God dammit,” Dean says, slamming his hands against the wheel. He gets out still cursing, breathing out, low and dangerous, “What the fuck did he do, fucking Christ.”
Connie wants to tell him she’s so sorry, she’s so sorry, she wants to start, but she just can’t.
She can feel Dean’s hands shaking as he pulls open her hood and tries to figure out what’s wrong. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters under his breath as he works.
She can feel it when he figures it out, everything reconnected like it should be. Dean slams her hood hard in his haste, but she’s not mad. She’s ready to take them to get Cas fixed up, just like Dean fixed her up.
Dean climbs back in behind her wheel and turns the key. This time, she starts immediately, and Dean breathes a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he says, turning her around and heading back the way they came.
As they drive, Connie focuses on Cas, intimately aware that he’s getting worse. She can feel his breathing slowing and his skin cooling the longer they drive. There’s blood smearing her window where Cas’ forehead rests against the glass. There’s blood pooling on her seat and dripping down onto her floor. There’s so much blood, and all of it is Cas’.
Dean is gunning it down the mountain, continually glancing between the road and Cas. Every couple of minutes, he asks, “How you doing, Cas?”
Cas does his best to make some kind of noise of acknowledgement in response, but it comes a little slower every time.
She can see Cas’ face in the side mirror, and he blinks more and more slowly until finally he closes his eyes and doesn’t reopen them. Dean notices, too. Dean grabs Cas by the shoulder and shakes him. Dean says, panic straining his voice, “Cas, c’mon, wake up, you gotta stay with me.” When he doesn’t respond, Dean pulls his hand back, gripping the wheel harder than he ever has before. “Shit shit shit,” he says, stepping on the gas even harder as he tears back towards town.
It feels like an eternity before Dean finally rolls to a stop, jumping out and running around to yank open the passenger door. Connie feels the brush of Dean’s clothes against her fabric as he slides one arm behind Cas’ back and another under his legs. As Dean lifts Cas from her seat, Cas’ arm drags through the blood that had pooled next to his legs.
Dean carries Cas away in such haste that he leaves her engine on and her door hanging open. She’s distantly aware that she must look like one of the crime scenes their job has them investigating. She hopes very much not to end up as one.
--
When Dean returns a short time later, he’s alone. He closes the passenger door and gets back in the driver’s seat, and for a long moment, he does nothing but sit there. He doesn’t put his hands on the wheel. He doesn’t move to put her into drive. Connie can see Dean looking down at himself, at the blood on his skin and his clothes -- at Cas’ blood -- before he slams his hands on the steering wheel and swears loudly.
She hates it, that he’s hurting and there’s nothing she can do.
Dean finally pulls away from the hospital entrance, starts driving with his hands shaking on the wheel, but he only makes it a little ways before he turns off the road and pulls into a parking lot. He parks her crookedly and turns her off, and then just. Sits. He sits and grips her steering wheel white-knuckle tight, twisting his hands around the fabric, the only sound his ragged breathing.
Connie wants to tell him so badly to take as long as he needs. She wants him to be okay, wants Cas to be okay, but she also doesn’t want to be left by herself in some parking lot waiting for them to return.
It startles her when Dean starts talking. She isn’t sure he realizes he’s doing it. He sits there and he says, quiet and scared, “I never told him, he could die without me ever having told him, he might not come back from this and I don’t know--I wouldn’t even know if he felt--if he--” That’s as far as he gets before his words fail him.
Connie wants so badly to tell him, oh, honey, you should hear the warmth and fondness in his voice when he says your name, the reverent awe. You should see the way he smiles when he’s talking about you. Of course he loves you back.
But she can’t, so instead, she waits as Dean sits his with forehead pressed against the wheel, his breath hitching. It’s a long time before he gets his breathing a little more under control, but when he does, he sits up. She can hear his callouses catching on the denim as he wipes his hands on his jeans, and then he shifts to pull something from his pocket. A moment later, he presses his phone to the side of his face and closes his eyes. He sits with his free hand against his forehead, fingers pressing against his temples, and says quietly, “Please pick up. I’m sorry for giving you the silent treatment please pick up please pick up please--”
He stops abruptly as whoever is on the phone picks up. He’s holding his phone so tightly against his ear that she can’t quite make out what the other person is saying.
Dean lets out a short, humorless laugh just the wrong side of hysterical. “No, Sammy,” he responds. “Not even close.” There’s another pause as Sam speaks again. “It’s Cas. He’s. He’s hurt real bad. And they kicked me out at the hospital, told me to come back--” he takes a shuddering breath-- “come back when visiting hours start back up in the morning and. There was so much blood and they won’t even tell me, they won’t--” Another pause as Sam speaks. “It’s-- Wyoming something. Wyoming Medical Center? In Casper.” Pause. “Nine. Nine a.m.” Whatever Sam says in response to that has Dean swallowing hard. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before he says, “Yeah, okay.” Dean’s voice sounds flat and dead, now, and that scares Connie even more than his panic.
Before Sam has the chance to say anything else, Dean hangs up. He turns the key in the ignition and drives back to their motel. He gets up and goes inside without a word.
Connie knows this part, the waiting she had been dreading, but it doesn’t last as long as she had been expecting. Dean comes back out of the room less than an hour later. He’s changed into fresh clothes, the smell of blood on his skin replaced by motel soap and his usual deodorant. He taps at his phone and lets it give him directions to a place that is not their motel, a parking lot Connie hasn’t seen before.
Dean gets out and doesn’t come back for hours. Connie sits there as the sun drifts lower in the sky and night falls. The other cars rotate in and out, and by the time she’s one of the only remaining cars in the lot -- by the time enough people have passed by smelling of smoke and alcohol -- she’s figured out where she is.
Dean stumbles out of the bar only when they’re shutting down late into the night. The stench of booze clings to him as he takes multiple tries to get the key into the lock, scratching up her paint a bit in the process, before pulling her door open.
He takes a few more tries to get the key in her ignition, and Connie may not be able to do anything else for him, but she can refuse to start when he turns it.
Dean curses and tries again, and she puts everything she has into preventing her engine from turning over.
Dean is in the middle of another string of curses when he stops to open the door, heaving as he throws up on the pavement. He sits there with his head hanging out the side, propping himself up with one outstretched arm. He clenches his fingers on her handle and sits in that awkward position taking gulping breaths for a few long moments. When he manages to collect himself, he gets out and slams the door shut. She can hear his boots scuffing against the ground as he walks in circles on the pavement, can feel it as he kicks at one of her tires.
Eventually, to her relief, Dean climbs into her back seat and curls up on his side. He spends an agonizing amount of time lying there awake with his breath hitching until he finally, finally falls asleep, fitful though his rest may be.
--
Dean jerks awake when his phone rings the next morning, sun already risen and making its way across the sky. He fumbles getting it out of his pocket and misses the first call, but he answers right away when his ringtone starts up again.
Connie can just hear Sam’s voice filtering through the speaker this time. “I’m at the hospital,” he says. “Roof of the garage. Where are you?”
“Coming. Coming,” Dean says, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Give me ten minutes.”
Dean slides out of the back seat and gets in behind the wheel. It’s only once he’s buckled in that he seems to remember what happened the night before, how he had tried and failed to get Connie to start. He spends a moment staring at the dash in dismay and says, “Fuck.”
Dean looks skeptical as he turns the key, but this time, Connie doesn’t fight him on it. Her engine turns over right away.
Dean’s brow furrows as he sits staring at the key. His thoughts play out over his face, a complicated series of microexpressions passing over his features as he processes this turn of events. He swallows hard, and then he whispers, “Hey. Thanks.”
He takes a deep breath, and then he heads back to the hospital.
When they arrive at the parking garage and Dean pulls into a spot, Connie is pleased to see she’s sitting next to the Impala, her rear wheel and bumper just visible in Connie’s side mirror. Sam is there, too, leaning against the Impala’s side, his tall form visible only from the chest down.
As soon as Dean steps out and closes the door behind him, Sam takes one large step over to him and wraps him in a hug. Connie is immensely relieved to see him there, to know he’s providing Dean the kind of comfort she can’t.
“Cas is tough as hell, you know that,” Sam says, voice slightly muffled. “He’s gonna be all right.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, almost sounding like he believes it.
They step back from one another, moving to lean against her hood as they eat the breakfast and drink the coffee Sam brought. Connie can feel it, in the way Dean’s muscles shift as he sits, in the rhythm of his heartbeat that comes down to her through his palms, that some of the tension is draining out of him. That having Sam here is reassuring him. She may not be able to do much to show her gratitude, but at least she can do her best to keep propping them up.
Once they finish their food, though, Dean grows more restless with each passing minute. He starts tapping his feet on the concrete, drumming his fingers on her hood, shifting slightly over and over again as he takes his phone out of his pocket just to put it back a few seconds later. Eventually, he pushes himself up and off the hood with a terse, “Okay. Let’s go.”
Sam makes a noise of assent, and then they head off to the hospital together.
Dean is gone that whole day, and Sam only comes back to get in the Impala and return with food. Connie can hear it, both when he drives away and comes back -- the nervous hum to Baby’s engine. She knows the Impala must be just as worried as she is. She’s glad they can at least wait in the parking lot together for their boys to return, to come back all in one piece.
She finally sees Dean once it’s started getting dark again. He and Sam both come back, Sam immediately getting into the Impala. Dean doesn’t get in right away, though. He takes a moment to place a hand on her roof, and as he leans down to whisper to her, there’s relief bleeding through the exhaustion in his voice. “You did good,” Dean tells her. “He’s gonna be okay. You got us here in time.”
Dean pats his hand against her roof, and then he gets in and takes her back to their motel room with Sam following behind in the Impala. They are a constant presence, a wonderful reassurance that Dean isn’t going through this alone.
--
Dean gets up early the next morning and drives Connie to a self-serve car wash. He sprays down and scrubs her exterior, cleaning off the grime of the hunt and the road, before working on her interior. He vacuums her, of course, but he also gets a rag and wipes the blood off her window and door. Her seat and floor are more of a challenge, she knows -- the blood has seeped into the fabric and dried there, has become part of her in a way she doesn’t want -- but she feels Dean opening her trunk, and a moment later, he’s spreading a blanket over her seats to cover up the dark stains. It’s the same blanket Cas had so often curled up under in her back seat, and she’s glad that she will be able to protect him from this, too.
After Connie is cleaned up as good as Dean can get her, he goes to fill her tank and take her through a drive thru to grab breakfast sandwiches and coffee before heading back to the motel. He parks her next to the Impala and takes the food inside.
When he comes back out, he has Sam in tow. Dean pats Connie’s side and says, “We’ll be back.”
She catches sight of them as they leave the parking lot, Dean behind the Impala’s wheel and Sam in her passenger seat. As much as she doesn’t want to be left waiting alone, Connie doesn’t begrudge Dean this, the comfort of driving the car that for so long was the only home he ever knew.
They fall into a routine after that. Dean and Sam return in the Impala that evening and retreat into their motel room, leaving for the hospital again in the morning. Connie waits for the break in the pattern that means something has changed, that means Cas is well enough that she and Dean can take him back to the bunker.
It takes over a week, but it finally happens. Dean and Sam leave one morning only to return just a few hours later, and when Dean gets out of the Impala, he’s lighter on his feet than he’s been in a long time.
They bring their stuff out from the motel room, Sam putting his things back in the Impala and Dean putting his and Cas’ stuff in Connie’s trunk. Before he closes it, Dean grabs the spare set of Cas’ clothes that he always keeps in her trunk and brings them with him, setting them carefully on her back seat. She’s spent so long simply waiting, and she’s so happy she can provide this small comfort to them both, that Cas will be have the familiarity of these clothes she’s kept clean and dry.
Sam hops into her passenger’s seat, taking care not to disturb the blanket covering the stains as Dean drives them to the hospital. They park near the front, this time, Dean grabbing Cas’ clothes before they head inside.
When they return, it’s not with the sound of three steps of footsteps like she was expecting. Instead, there’s the sound of two sets of footsteps nearly obscuring the softer sound of something rolling.
“I could have walked,” Cas complains as Dean pulls open the passenger door. Connie is thrilled to hear the sound of his voice, even exhausted as he sounds.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to have to fight off any doctors,” Dean says as he reclines the passenger seat. When he stands and steps back, moving just into range of her side mirror, Connie can see him hold out his hand to Cas. “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”
Cas sighs, but he takes the hand Dean offers. Dean helps Cas out of the wheelchair and into Connie’s passenger seat as Sam hovers nearby. She can see Cas grimacing a bit when she catches sight of his face, and he winces a little as they lower him to the seat. He smells like the hospital, the strange antiseptic tang of it not entirely masked by the more familiar smell of his clothing. She hates that he’s still hurting, but at least she knows, now, that he’s alive. He’s here. He’s going to be okay.
“I'm gonna take this back inside,” Sam says as Dean shuts the door behind Cas and goes to get in behind the wheel. While they wait for Sam to return, they sit in silence, Dean gripping her wheel, eyes closed.
“Dean?” Cas asks softly.
Dean chokes on something that’s half laugh and half sob. He says, “God, Cas, don’t ever do that again, I--”
Sam pulls open the door to her back seat and just like that, the moment is over. Dean clears his throat and turns the key and then they’re off.
“Anyway,” Dean says, abruptly changing the conversation, “sorry we didn’t get to go to Yellowstone. Maybe next time.”
Cas sighs softly. He says, “I just want to go home.”
“Deal,” Dean says. Sam is looking at Dean in Connie’s rearview mirror, trying to catch Dean’s eye, but Dean is staring resolutely ahead.
--
In the short time it takes them to drive back to the motel parking lot, pulling in next to the Impala, Cas has dozed off. Dean leaves her running as he and Sam get out and stand for a minute, Dean leaning against her side while Sam stands out of view.
“So,” Sam says, “is this the part where I tell you ‘I told you so’?” His voice is soft, gently teasing. Connie may not know him as well as she knows Cas and Dean, but she realizes he’s trying his best to ease whatever tension remains between himself and Dean.
Dean huffs a little laugh and clears his throat. He shifts against Connie’s side. There’s a pause before he says, “So, uh...thanks. For coming.”
“Yeah, of course,” Sam says earnestly. “I told you it wasn’t goodbye and I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. “Or I’m figuring it out, I guess.”
“This isn’t goodbye, either,” Sam says.
“I know,” Dean says, and this time, it actually sounds like he believes it.
Dean stands up properly, and then Connie can hear the sound of their clothing shifting as they hug, the slap of Dean’s hand as he pats Sam on the back. When they part, Dean says, “You better keep taking good care of my baby.”
“I will, Dean,” Sam says. “Take good care of Cas, all right?” He pauses before adding, more quietly, “And maybe think about letting him take care of you, too.”
Dean scoffs, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“I mean it, Dean,” Sam says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, without heat. “Get out of here already.”
Dean stands watching Sam get into the Impala and drive away, and it’s only after Connie can no longer hear the sound of the Impala’s engine or her tires on the asphalt that Dean gets back behind the wheel.
Dean starts the drive back to the bunker while Cas dozes in the passenger seat. He leaves the music off and the windows closed, keeping everything as quiet as possible so as not to disturb him. Dean does something else, too, as he drives. He glances away from the road periodically to look at Cas, and every now and then, he starts to shift. He starts reaching over to him, to where Cas’ hand is resting on the seat. Before he makes it all the way, though, his heart rate picks up and he pulls his hand back, puts it back on her steering wheel, and keeps driving.
--
They’re still on the road when Cas wakes a few hours later, groaning and wincing as he shifts back to consciousness. “Are we there yet?” he asks.
“Nah,” Dean says, glancing over at him, “got a ways to go yet. But we’ll stop at the next exit. Need gas, anyway.”
He’s lying, Connie knows -- she has more than half a tank left. Still, he pulls off the highway after a few more miles, getting out to fuel her up before disappearing into the gas station.
When he returns, he passes Cas a bottle of water. He pulls something from his pocket, unscrewing the cap before shaking a few pills into his hand and passing those to Cas, too.
“You need anything else?” Dean asks as Cas swallows the pills. “Food? Bathroom?”
Cas shakes his head and settles back into the seat, so Dean starts Connie up again, driving until the scenery slowly starts shifting back to what has become the familiar landscape of Kansas.
Cas is asleep again when they finally pull into the bunker’s garage. Dean moves around to open the passenger door, touching a hand to Cas’ shoulder so gently that she barely feels him shift. “Hey, Cas,” he says, “we’re back, uh-- back at the bunker.”
“Mmm,” Cas mumbles as he pushes himself up. When Dean doesn’t move away, he adds a terse, “I'm fine.”
Dean backs off, moving to get their stuff from the trunk as Cas very slowly makes his way up off the seat and closes the door. Cas walks toward the stairs with one hand pressed against Connie’s side for support as Dean closes the trunk. He makes his way just as slowly down into the bunker with Dean hovering around behind him.
--
Cas comes up alone from the bunker the next day. Still moving slowly, he comes over to Connie and opens her passenger door. He pulls the blanket off her seat and stands there for a few moments. She can’t see him with the way her mirrors are currently angled, but she can picture what he must look like, the way he must be frowning in displeasure as he stares at his own blood staining the fabric.
Cas sighs and moves away from her side. The soft sound of the blanket being tossed on the floor is followed by the sound of Cas shuffling around the garage, the sound of things clattering around, the sound of water flowing. When Cas returns, Connie catches a glimpse of him carrying a bucket with a pained expression before he moves out of her sight again.
He sets the bucket down next to her heavily, sending some of the water sloshing over the edge and onto the concrete. He kneels down slowly, bracing himself with hands that are unsteady against her side and her door, his breathing already rapid and shallow from exertion.
“I'm sorry,” Cas murmurs, and then he starts trying to clean off the blood stains, scrubbing furiously at her seats and her footwell.
She feels so bad -- she knows this about him, that he wants to fix things, that he has a hard time accepting that some things can’t be fixed, that he never wants to feel idle and useless. She gets it, and she knows that’s why he’s here right now, but she still wants to be able to tell him he has nothing to apologize for. She wants to tell him that he can stop and rest because these stains aren’t going to come out, anyway. She wants to tell him that she doesn’t mind them, really, because she’s just happy he’s still in one piece.
She can’t do any of that, so instead, she sits silently while Cas scrubs away. His breathing grows increasingly erratic until he winds up leaning in her open doorway, knees on the floor and forehead resting on her damp seat, breath hitching and hands shaking. He sits there for a long time until his breathing goes back to normal, and then he starts pushing himself up with one hand. He only gets a little way before he falls back to the floor, knees making a sharp, awful noise as they meet the concrete.
“Fuck,” he swears quietly. He keeps sitting there, forehead against the seat, fingers flexing against the door frame. He doesn’t try again.
Dean finds Cas like that. He comes up the stairs quickly, like Connie is learning he always does when he thinks Cas might have left without him, but he forces himself into a more leisurely pace as he approaches. He walks towards Cas slowly, carefully. She only catches a glimpse of him in her side mirror for a moment, looking concerned, before he goes around to sit near Cas on the concrete just as slowly and carefully, lowering himself with one hand steady on her side.
She can feel Cas tense up immediately, hand tightening on her frame. He’s holding his breath.
“Cas?” Dean says. There’s the smallest sound as Dean’s hand brushes against Cas’ shoulder, then the shift of Cas’ hand and head as he shrugs Dean off.
Dean doesn’t yell when Cas shrugs him off, though. He doesn’t get up and move away. He doesn’t do anything.
“Cas,” he says, quietly, carefully. Dean is always careful around Cas, like maybe he’s afraid of hurting him. Connie he thinks maybe he has, back sometime before she knew him. But he’s always gentle with Cas now, and that’s what matters to her.
Cas’ fingers flex as he pulls himself up into more of a sitting position, lifting his forehead from the seat. He says, “You don’t have to pretend you’re not angry.”
“What?” Dean says, sounding legitimately confused. “Why would I be angry? Christ, Cas, I’m just really fucking glad you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay,” Cas says, hand clenching on the doorframe. “I’m angry.”
“Sorry, man,” Dean says helplessly, “you’re gonna have to explain it to me, ‘cause I don’t follow.”
Cas is silent for a long moment. Finally, quietly, he says, “I didn’t mean to get hurt.”
“Didn’t figure you did,” Dean says.
“You were right,” Cas says bitterly. “I shouldn’t-- I shouldn’t have been there.” He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “There was a time I could have fixed everything just like--” he snaps his fingers-- “and now I can’t even-- I can’t even get the blood out of the seats and I--” He has to stop, then, and rest his head back against her seat. The hand he’s still gripping the doorframe with is shaking.
“No,” Dean says after a moment. “I was wrong. You don’t have to be able to fix everything, okay? It’s not about being perfect. It’s shitty, but getting hurt, it kind of comes with this job. You’re never gonna be able to avoid it entirely. But the idea is just to make sure you both make it out of there in one piece. And you did that, okay? You passed that test with flying colors. If you hadn’t been there, I would’ve died. Jesus, Cas, I don’t even know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
Cas scoffs. “That’s not true,” he says. “You would have found someone else to help with the hunt. You would have been fine.”
“I’m not just talking about the hunt,” Dean says softly.
Cas gets very still and quiet, then. They just sit for a little, Dean shifting so his head is resting against Connie’s side. She can feel his pulse through his temple, slow and steady.
Eventually, Dean clears his throat and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking Connie’s overdue for a reupholstering, anyway. I looked it up and there’s a place not far from here that has a ton of fabrics you could choose from. Maybe we could make a trip out there later this week. You could pick whichever one you wanted.”
For a moment, Cas doesn’t respond. He sits idly rubbing a finger against the fabric of Connie’s seat. “I don’t want her to look different,” he says petulantly.
Dean shifts where he’s leaning against her side as he shrugs. He says, “Then we can have them take a look at her and match the original fabric as close as possible. Keep the same look but help with some of the wear and tear.”
“I don’t know how to reupholster a car,” Cas says uncertainly.
“I do,” Dean says. “I could show you. You don’t have to fix her up all by yourself.”
There’s another pause, but then Cas says, “Okay.”
“Cool,” Dean says, moving his head from her side as he sits up. “It’s a date.”
“Okay,” Cas says again.
“You ready to go back inside for now?” Dean asks.
Cas’ head shifts against the seat as he nods. “I--” he starts. He stops; sighs. “I need help standing up.”
“All right,” Dean says, his hand warmer than Connie expected where it presses against her side as he pushes himself to his feet. “No problem.”
Dean removes his hand, and there’s the shuffle of movement, Cas’ head lifting from her seat, followed by his hand being moved from her frame. Dean’s hand returns to her side, Cas wincing as Dean braces against Connie to pull them both to standing. Dean shuts her door, and for a second, she can see them in her side mirror: one of Cas’ arms slung across Dean’s shoulders, his other held tight against his side. Dean has one hand on Cas’ hip, helping him stand. Cas is looking at the ground, so he can’t see it, but Connie can -- she can see the care and concern written all over Dean’s face as he looks at him.
Dean pauses for a second, shaking his free arm so his shirt partially covers his hand, and then he reaches up and gently wipes off Cas’ forehead where it’s damp from the water and soap he’d been using to scrub her seats. It’s Dean’s turn, then, to look away as Cas looks at him, a soft surprised look on his face. Dean doesn’t meet his eyes, just takes the hand Cas has slung over his shoulder in his own.
“All right, let’s go,” Dean says, and then they’re moving out of Connie’s range of vision, slowly, carefully making their way back into the bunker together.
--
It’s another week before Connie sees Cas again. The days pass without fanfare, Dean tossing the blanket back over the blood stains before he takes her on periodic trips into town.
When Cas and Dean finally make their way up to the garage together, Cas is still moving more slowly and gingerly than usual, but Connie is pleased to note that he’s standing on his own and moving around without wincing.
Dean moves around her, opening her doors, as he starts explaining to Cas what they’re going to do. “Okay, so,” he says, “first thing is to unbolt the seats. We want them to match, so we gotta take all of them out so we can make sure we get enough fabric.”
They each take a side, kneeling down out of her sight so that all she knows is the feel of their hands as they lean into her footwells and unbolt her seats. Dean’s hands are confident from the beginning, Cas’ growing more so as they go along, as he follows Dean’s instructions.
After they get everything unbolted, Dean insists on being the one to pull her seats out and take them off to the side, and Cas doesn’t argue. She can hear them pulling off the old covers -- not just the fabric covered in dried, set-in blood, but the other ones, too, the ones that are showing wear and tear from all the use over the years. She can tell when they uncover her front passenger seat because Cas says in dismay, “It’s gotten into the cushion.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean says. “We’ll find a place with an extractor, all right? Might not get it all out, but we’ll get her looking and smelling good as new. And the new fabric will cover it right up.”
“All right,” Cas says. He sounds skeptical, but they keep working.
Connie’s a little sad she still can’t see them as they work, but she’s happy to listen as they continue pulling off the old fabric, Dean continuing to explain the process as they work. “So,” Dean says, “now we gotta lay out the old covers on these sheets to create a pattern for the new ones. That’ll help us know how much fabric to get.” As they continue to work, he adds, “You still wanna try and match this as close as possible? You know you’re free to change it if you want.”
Cas is silent for a second, considering, before he says, “I know. But I still want to match it. I’m...familiar with how the seats look and feel. It wouldn’t feel right to change that.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Dean says, and Connie can hear the truth of it in his voice, knows he’s rebuilt the Impala more than once, matching her paint, her detailing, the fabric of her seats over and over again. There’s the soft snicking sound of scissors, and then Dean says, “Here. We can take this along as a sample so we can use it to match the fabric.”
They work mostly in silence for a while, leaving Connie to listen to the sounds they make as they move around the garage -- the scuffing of their shoes against the concrete, the rustle of the sheets as they lay them out across the floor. She can tell when they finish making the pattern because she can hear them gathering up the old covers into a trash bag to be thrown away. Some of the smell of her disappears a little when they tie the bag off, but so does the smell of blood, so she’s calling it a net positive.
“Okay,” Dean says, wiping his hands off on his jeans, “I figure that’s enough for today. Tomorrow we can hit up the store, then get the new covers put on and get her put back together by the end of the week. Maybe give her a good, thorough cleaning while we’re at it. What do you think?”
“All right,” Cas says, sounding just a little winded.
They come back out into the garage the next day just like they promised. There’s a bit of negotiation as they decide which car to take, then some shuffling around as they load up the bloodstained seat into the trunk. The sound of the other car they’ve never driven before is strange and unfamiliar and impersonal as it takes them out of the bunker, away to the store so Cas and Dean can get what they need to get Connie fixed up.
Hours pass before they get back. They park the other car back in its space, and she catches glimpses of them as they pull everything out of the trunk and set it in a pile nearby so they can continue their project the next day. They set her seat out to finish air drying, too, and she notes that Dean was right. It doesn’t smell like blood at all, now.
The next day finds them back in the garage laying out the fabric for the new covers, Dean insisting, “Here, you trace them, your hands are steadier.”
She can hear them carefully cutting out the new seat covers, slow and steady, before they start stapling the fabric onto the seats. Dean gives directions as they work, telling Cas how to hold everything so the fabric will lay right, and then there’s the hiss of the staple gun as they secure everything in place.
That’s all they get done that day, leaving the reupholstered seats sitting next to her, talking about deep cleaning her as they disappear back into the bunker.
They start on the promised cleaning the next morning, Dean insisting Cas let him scrub the rest of the blood from her interior. She doesn’t know what magic it is that allows him to get it out of the carpet when it wouldn’t come out of the seats, but she’s not complaining. They go through and vacuum her interior, wipe down her dash, clean her vents and every nook and cranny they can find until she’s smells more clean and fresh than she has since she first rolled out onto the lot.
They work on her exterior next. She spent so many years being driven through car washes at grocery stores and gas stations, those awful mechanical things buffeting her sides, or simply growing dirtier and dirtier until obnoxious strangers would write “wash me” and draw sad faces in the grime coating her windows, that she had thought the hand washes Cas paid for before were nice. She thought the hand wash Dean gave her at the self-serve place in Wyoming was nice, too. This is something else, though -- this is two people who care about her taking their time. They wash her with soap and water, but they also clean her wheels and tires. They hand dry her with soft towels instead of blasting her with air. They apply wax afterwards to make her shine and give her a protective coating. There’s intermittent conversation as they work, talk of what else needs doing, of how well everything is going. There’s Dean teasing Cas about how maybe now people will actually be jealous of his car for once, Cas rolling his eyes in response. She keeps catching glimpses of them in her mirrors, and every time, they always look so pleased, smiling privately to themselves or laughing at something the other has said.
When the cleaning is finally done, they put her seats back on her frames and screw them back into place. They make sure her bolts are firmly attached so nothing wobbles.
After the last piece of her is back in place, Dean says, “All right, let’s give her a test.”
They sit with Cas in the driver’s seat and Dean in the passenger seat, laughing as they wiggle around in place to make sure nothing moves, before moving to repeat the process in the back.
After several long days of work, neither of them seems too eager to get back up. They continue sitting in the back seat together, just a few inches between them. Connie can see their faces framed in her rearview mirror as they relax against her seat, closing their eyes.
“That was a lot of work,” Cas says.
Dean makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat, a soft Mmm she feels more than hears. There’s a small smile playing at his lips.
“You could have warned me,” Cas grumbles. It’s good-natured, though; she can tell there’s no tension behind it. She can see a small smile tugging at the corner of Cas’ mouth, too.
Dean’s laughter vibrates against her newly-upholstered seats. “Yeah, sorry. We did a kickass job, though.”
Cas loses his battle against his smile. “We did,” he agrees, grinning. He pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is deeper, rougher, more sincere. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean shifts in his seat. “It’s no trouble,” he says.
Cas raises one eyebrow without opening his eyes. “I was there for the whole process, you know,” he says. “It was a lot of trouble.”
Dean gives a lazy shrug, a small slide of one shoulder against her fabric. “Well, still. She’s important to you, so. Happy to help.”
As they lapse into silence, Cas opens his eyes, tilting his head slightly. He’s watching Dean, considering the side of his face. He glances down towards where she can feel Dean’s hand resting on her seat, still warmer than usual from the exertion. At the point where Cas’ back meets the fabric, she feels his heart rate pick up.
Cas closes his eyes and moves his head back. She feels the shift in his posture, and then she feels his hand drop from his leg to her seat, followed by the brush of his knuckles as he takes Dean’s hand in his own, twining their fingers together.
Dean breathes in long and slow. It’s only a matter of seconds before his heart rate increases, too.
Cas must be able to sense the shift, too, she thinks. He asks, “Is this all right?”
“Yeah,” Dean tries, but his voice comes out a little choked. He flattens his other hand against her seat. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, Cas, it’s. Uh.”
“No trouble?” Cas suggests.
Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “No trouble.”
They sit for a while, hands linked. Dean’s heart rate begins to return to normal. Cas’, she notes, does not. If anything, it speeds up even more.
Cas frowns. He bites the inside of his cheek. He opens his eyes again, shifting to sit up more fully, back to looking at the side of Dean’s face. Cas considers him for a few long moments, and then he leans the few inches into Dean’s space and presses a kiss to the side of Dean’s face, down along the line of his jaw. Just like that, Dean’s heart is back to keeping pace with Cas’.
“And this?” Cas asks, not pulling away, choosing instead to speak with his face held close enough to Dean’s that he must be able to feel Cas’ breath as he speaks. Cas’ voice is steady, but she can see the uncertainty written into the lines of his face, can feel it in the way his muscles tense ever so slightly.
Dean swallows hard enough that she can hear it. His fingernails scrape against her seat as he tightens his grip on Cas’ hand. He says, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s, uh. No trouble.”
Cas shifts again, moving slowly. He brings his free hand up and touches the side of Dean’s face, the barest brush of fingers against Dean’s skin. The result is immediate; Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but he turns easily, as though he’s been waiting for Cas to guide him this way for years.
Once they’re facing each other, Cas leans in and presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. He pauses after that, watching Dean as though waiting for any sign that he’s going to pull away. But Dean doesn’t move, and Cas’ next kiss is against Dean’s lips, soft and sweet. He pulls back only slightly, and this time, it’s Dean who closes the distance between them.
Connie is happy for them, of course, but she’s happy for herself, too. She’s quietly pleased that she could facilitate this -- that Cas could feel comfortable and safe enough here that it gave him the final push he needed, that last bit of courage required to make the first move.
She’s honored to bear witness to their first kiss. She knows it’s their first -- can feel it in the slow, tentative way they touch, shifting in her back seat to find how they fit together.
And they are figuring it out. The tentative press of Cas’ palm against Dean’s cheek shifts to become the press of his palm against Dean’s neck, his fingers in Dean’s hair, the slow stroke of his thumb against the skin beneath Dean’s ear. The tense press of Dean’s free hand against her seat shifts to become the tangle of his fingers in the back of Cas’ shirt. Through it all, there is the press of their other hands, still joined together; the press of their mouths as they learn the shape of one another.
It’s Cas who pulls back first. She knows he can feel it, too -- the minute trembling of Dean’s hands, Dean’s legs, Dean’s everything. “Dean,” Cas says, stroking his hand through Dean’s hair. “Are you all right?”
Dean breathes out a shaky laugh. He leans towards Cas, pulling him back with the hand still twisted in his shirt, and presses their foreheads together. “Yeah,” he breathes into the little remaining space between them. “I’m awesome.”
--
There’s another change in their routine, after that. There’s something slower and softer about it, just like the change in how they’re acting around one another.
They start taking more trips out together, not long drives to hunt or even to go to more state parks, but just simple, nearby things. They leave together to go to the store, to get food, to go on drives just for fun, windows rolled down and music blaring. They’re both lighter on their feet than they’ve been the entire time she’s known them.
There are subtle shifts in the way they interact, too. Now, Cas will look over at Dean while they’re driving and Dean will look back. Dean will reach over with his palm facing up and Cas will move to place his hand in Dean’s without either of them exchanging a word. They’ll pull into a parking lot and turn off the engine, and before they get out, Dean will lean toward the center of the car and Cas will place a quick kiss on his cheek. There are dozens of small, simple gestures they make that leave them both smiling, that seem to be getting easier and more natural the more time passes.
A few weeks pass without fanfare before they pick up another hunt. They pack their bags in Connie’s truck, put a cooler in her back seat, and drive farther than they have in a while, Cas behind the wheel.
“I was looking up some car games,” Cas says a few hours into their drive. “Have you played ‘I’m Going on a Picnic’?”
“Huh,” Dean says. “I don’t think so?”
“You start by saying, ‘I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing…’” Cas explains. “The first person picks something that begins with A. The next person repeats the A item, then adds something that starts with B. If you forget one, you lose, and the first person to recite everything on the list wins.”
“All right,” Dean says, “sounds simple enough. Can you pick anything that starts with the right letter or does it have to be food?”
“The website didn’t specify,” Cas says. “I suppose since it’s our picnic, we can bring whatever we want.”
“Fair enough,” Dean says, chuckling. “You start.”
“Hmm,” Cas says, brow furrowing. “How dangerous is this picnic we’re having?”
Dean shifts in his seat as he shrugs. “Significantly less dangerous than the rest of our lives, I would hope.”
“Likewise,” Cas says, “though I suppose you can never be too careful. I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing my angel blade.”
“Technically true,” Dean says, laughing. “Okay...I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing your angel blade and a banjo.”
Cas raises an eyebrow, glancing over at Dean skeptically. “I know how to use an angel blade,” he says. “Do you know how to use a banjo?”
Dean shrugs again. “As a weapon? Sure. As an instrument? Afraid you’re out of luck.”
“A shame,” Cas says. “All right, I’m going on a picnic and I’m bringing…”
--
Connie is pleased to learn that she was wrong -- this isn’t a hunt. It’s an extended trip to a park.
This time, when they get to the park, there’s the same exchange of money for the entrance fee, but then there’s an extra step, too. They disappear into a small building for a few minutes and return with a key and a map, the latter of which they appear to be fighting with as they try to figure out which cabin, exactly, is the one they rented. When they finally find it, they park her in the shade and get out, discussing their plans as they haul their things inside.
Cas and Dean spend the next few days ignoring Connie entirely as they explore the park. She gradually accumulates bits and pieces of nature, leaves and sap and dust settling on her hood, her windows, her roof. She doesn’t mind, though. She gets to sit in the fresh air and hear them in the distance every now and then, talking and laughing. She knows they’re relaxing, they’re hiking and swimming and enjoying their first legitimate vacation in the entire time she’s known either of them. The detritus gathering on her exterior is evidence of this trip, of the fact that they’re finally taking some well-deserved time off.
They finally return to her once their vacation is ending, packing their things back into her trunk as the sun is just starting to set.
“You think Sam would like it out here?” Dean asks as he sets down his duffel. He sounds like he’s trying not to sound nervous.
“I’m sure he would,” Cas says. “Perhaps you should give him a call and invite him next time.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah. I uh. I think I will.”
Dean shuts her trunk and starts to walk away. He doesn’t make it far before Cas says, “Dean,” reaching out to catch one of Dean’s hands in his own.
Dean stops and turns back. As they’re standing there together, framed in her rearview mirror, Connie watches as a slow, soft smile spread across Cas’ face. She watches as he reaches up and holds Dean’s face in his hands, leaning in and kissing him. She watches as Dean presses forward against him, wraps his arms around Cas’ back and fists his hands in the fabric of Cas’ shirt.
She watches as Cas turns Dean, guiding him gently with his hands on Dean’s shoulders. She feels it as Dean is pressed back against her, blocking Cas from her view. She feels it as they shift together, as they move in a way that has Dean inhaling sharply.
“So,” Dean says. “Uh--” he has to clear his throat-- “maybe we should. Back seat?”
She can hear the smile in Cas’ voice as he says, “All right.”
They separate, then, walking around to her sides and getting into her back seat. They sit next to each other for a few long moments, legs pressed together. There’s something in the air that Connie recognizes now, back from their first kiss -- that tentative hesitance that has slowly faded away with every subsequent kiss they’ve shared since.
Cas is the first to move, shifting so he’s straddling Dean, his knees digging into Connie’s seat on either side of Dean’s legs, pressing into the back cushion. She can see the back of his head, his shoulders, his body almost entirely blocking Dean from view. She catches glimpses of Dean sometimes, of one of his ears, of tufts of his hair, as Cas cradles Dean’s face in his own, as he presses kiss after kiss to Dean’s face and as Dean returns the favor.
She can see Dean’s hands snaking up under Cas’ shirt, sliding gently against his skin. But mostly she can feel him -- the solid weight of him in her seat, his boots pressed firmly against her floor, his familiar heartbeat filtering down to her through layers of skin and fabric. It’s beating in a rhythm she’s learned, hard and fast in that way she knows sometimes means that he’s excited and other times means that he’s terrified, and sometimes, like now, that he’s both.
Cas shifts against Dean, rolls his hips so his knees dig more deeply into her seat. He breathes, “Is this okay?”
Dean’s “Yes” is just as breathy. It’s accompanied by the shift of his hips up off the seat, by Dean rising to meet Cas’ body with his own.
They help each other undress slowly, carefully. Dean slides his hands further up Cas’ back, pulls his shirt up over his head and off. Cas winces slightly with the motion, with the way he has to stretch his arms over his head. As soon as Dean has tossed Cas’ shirt to the floor, he murmurs, “You okay?” He runs the fingers of one hand gently over where the scars from their last hunt stretch from Cas’ stomach around to his side.
“I’m all right,” Cas says. It’s the first time he’s said it that he sounds like he means it.
Cas helps Dean out of his shirt, too, and as soon as it’s off, they’re back together, running their hands over one another’s bare skin, breathing the same air as they kiss.
Cas pushes one arm between them. Connie watches the muscles in his back and arms shift as he moves, only to stop after a few seconds, entire body going still. He says, “Hmm.”
Dean laughs. “Yeah, you know,” he says. “Car sex. Not the most convenient thing ever.”
Cas sighs dramatically, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. “You could have warned me, you know,” he grumbles.
With Cas’ head out of the way, Connie can see Dean smiling wide as he speaks. “I wouldn’t dream of deterring you,” he says, running his fingers through Cas’ hair. “C’mon. You only gotta get off me long enough for us to get our pants off.”
Cas moves with a sigh that’s half amused and half exasperated. They toss glances and smiles at one another as they sit next to each other on her seat, untying their boots, pulling off their socks, wriggling their way out of their pants and tossing them to the floor. When they’re both down to only their boxers, they pause as they consider each other.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” Dean asks.
“We’ll make it work,” Cas says solemnly.
Dean smiles. He says, “We always do.”
They strip out of their boxers in the fading light, tossing them to the floor as Cas moves back to straddling Dean. Connie can hear the soft slide of their skin as they kiss, the hitches in their breath as they shift against each other just so.
Cas reaches between them again, shifting as though trying to find the perfect position. In the process, he winds up hitting his head on her ceiling, huffing in exasperation.
“Here,” Dean says. “Let me.”
Cas lets Dean take the lead, moves where Dean guides him, Dean’s hands on his arms and shoulders and chest, spreading him out on the seat on his back. Dean takes a moment to rummage around in their discarded clothing, coming back up with a small tube, flipping the cap and squeezing something into his hand. He props himself up over Cas, holding his weight on one arm and reaching between them. With the first slick slide of his hand, Cas lets out a stuttering exhale that vibrates down through the seat.
Connie can feel parts of them she’s never felt before -- Cas’ bare back and his perfect toes, Dean’s knees and the soles of his feet. She can see one of Cas’ knees, part of Cas’ leg, the freckled plane of Dean’s back. She watches the muscles shifting in Dean’s arm; she sees Cas running his fingers through Dean’s hair, settling them against the back of Dean’s neck.
As the light grows dimmer and dimmer, they become a tangle of limbs that she feels more than sees. She feels their skin start to prickle with sweat and Cas’ heart rate pick up and Dean’s arm start to shake. She feels condensation gathering as her windows fog up. She feels Cas accidentally kick her side, hears him reflexively mutter, “Sorry, Connie,” though he has nothing to apologize for. She hears their ragged breathing, louder than the sounds of nature humming outside her windows, and beneath that, the soft sound of their skin sliding together.
She feels Cas’ body tense as he comes, his back arching off her seat, his toes curling against her, his breath hitching. She feels Dean shift slightly, sees his arm keep moving as Cas’ breathing slowly returns to normal, even as she hears Dean’s breathing becoming more and more erratic
“Dean,” Cas says. “Let me.”
Dean nods as one of Cas’ hands disappears from stroking his hair. Dean shifts to brace himself with both arms, and then there’s the sound of the slow slide of Cas’ hand. There’s Dean making small, desperate noises. There’s Dean tensing as he comes. Dean, half collapsing onto Cas, after. Dean, resting his forehead on the seat next to Cas, breathing gradually slowing.
They’re letting her see all of them, trusting her to take care of them at their most vulnerable, to shield them from prying eyes, to keep their secrets. She couldn’t be more pleased.
“Dean,” Cas says, after Dean’s breathing has almost returned to its usual rhythm, “this is very uncomfortable.”
Dean laughs wetly and props himself up again, lifting one arm off her seat and wiping it across his face.
At that motion, Cas says, “Dean?”
Dean draws in a shaky breath. He says, “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Cas says, guiding Dean with steady hands until they’re sitting facing one another. Cas tenderly wipes the tears from Dean’s face. He kisses him so, so gently.
“Okay, I’m good,” Dean says, eventually.
“Okay,” Cas says.
They get themselves cleaned up with one of the discarded pairs of boxers before slowly getting dressed again.
“Guess I’m going commando for the ride back,” Dean says as he pulls on his pants.
Cas squints, glancing around the back seat, before he says, “At least it looks like we were careful enough that we won’t already need to reupholster the seats again.”
Dean laughs. “Can’t find one of my damn socks, either.” Connie knows it’s somehow gotten shoved way under her seat; she has no way to tell him, though, so she allows herself to feel pleased about it, like she’s secreting it away for safekeeping.
They finish getting dressed and shift to the front seat, finally starting the drive back. As they make their way towards the bunker, Dean dozes off in the passenger seat with his hand in Cas’. The drive is quiet after that, nothing but the soft sounds of their breathing and the slide of Cas’ skin against Dean’s as he runs his thumb back and forth across Dean’s knuckles.
Cas only lets go once they pull into the garage, waking Dean with a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “We can get our things in the morning.” He pulls Dean out by his hand and leads him down into the bunker.
The smell of them lingers after they’ve gone, as though in some small way, they’ve become a part of her.
--
They do get back to hunting, though, as Connie suspected they would. A few days later, they pack her up for a long haul, pulling up directions as they leave.
Dean grumbles indistinctly as they pull out onto the road; something about “going all that way for what sounds like some rookie witch who’s more interested in causing frustration than killing people.”
“Just because they’re not killing people doesn’t mean they’re not causing harm,” Cas says gravely. “The truth spells they’re casting are getting people fired from their jobs, causing people to break up with their significant others--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, “I know. Just let me complain about it a little during the drive, will you? I mean, there’s not even a good selection of state parks. Only twenty-two in the whole state when New York has, what, over a thousand? And of course we’re getting dragged to the one part of the state farthest from one, too. That hardly seems fair. And…”
--
It takes more time for them to make the drive than it does for them to find the witch.
“Though I suppose the fact that this town is so damn tiny helps a lot,” Dean comments as they roll into a small gravelly driveway.
They get out, footsteps crunching across the gravel, then stomping up some stairs before they knock on the front door.
Someone comes tip-toeing around the house as Cas and Dean knock again. They don’t notice, at first, but then something snaps beneath the stranger’s feet.
“Hey!” Dean shouts, and then Connie can hear three sets of rapid footsteps as all three of them take off running.
A voice she doesn’t recognize shouts words she doesn’t recognize, and Connie suddenly feels like she’s being jump started as some invisible force presses against her side.
“Shit,” Dean says. From somewhere off to his side, the stranger makes a pained exhalation. “You hit?” Dean asks.
“No,” Cas says. “You?”
“Nope.”
It’s then that the unfamiliar -- and very young-sounding -- voice says, angrily and a little fearfully, “Let me go.”
Dean sighs. “Look, kid,” he says. “We don’t want to hurt you, but you really gotta find another way to get your kicks.”
“Why should I listen to you?” the stranger demands.
“Because,” Cas says calmly, “Dean is going to let you go. As a show of faith.”
A moment later, there’s the sound of footsteps retreating a few paces; a soft sound as the kid rubs at her wrists.
They stand there for a long time, just talking. It ends as well as could be hoped -- with a promise from the young witch to find a different way to kill time, as hard as that may be in such a small town.
“Thank God,” Dean says, stretching until his joints pop before he gets back in the passenger seat, “because I really don’t wanna drive all this way again.”
“You don’t think she hit Connie with the spell, do you?” Cas asks, frowning down at her steering wheel.
Dean shrugs. “Don’t think it’d matter if she did. It’s meant to work on people. What would it even do to a car?”
“That’s the trouble with magic,” Cas mutters as they drive away. “It’s always so unpredictable.”
--
They’re both eager enough to get back to the bunker that they don’t even bother staying another night in their motel. They grab a quick meal, and then Cas starts them off on the long drive back.
He drives for a few hours, past the time the sun sets and night falls. Dean has nodded off, and Connie can tell Cas is getting tired, too. He keeps yawning more and more frequently and, worryingly, has started swerving a little every now and then, letting Connie’s tires drift onto the shoulder before jerking her back into the lane.
Thankfully, Cas pulls off on the next exit. “Dean,” he says, shaking his shoulder and waiting for him to respond with a groggy “Yeah?”
“I was starting to fall asleep,” Cas says. “I decided to get a motel for the night.”
“Nah, man,” Dean says, still sounding groggy. “I’m good. We can just switch off and keep going.”
“Are you sure?” Cas asks.
Connie knows them well enough now to know that’s a terrible idea, that both of them are exhausted and need to rest. She’s scared what might happen to them if they keep driving and even her best efforts can’t keep them safe on the road.
Cas tenses at the same time Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“Actually,” Dean says, “you know what? That’s not a bad idea. Not like we’re in a rush or anything.”
Connie is instantly relieved. Dean lets out a long exhale. After another beat, he asks, “Did you feel that?”
“Yes,” Cas says. “Are you sure we didn’t get hit with one of the spells?”
Dean huffs an annoyed sigh. “Man, we’re both exhausted,” he says. “Let’s get some sleep and figure it out in the morning.”
--
Dean and Cas come out of their room the next morning looking well rested and smelling nice, more like themselves, the motel soap and their deodorant and whatever makes them distinctly them.
“It’s the same crappy soap and deodorant as always,” Dean says as he settles into the seat.
“Hmm?” Cas says.
“Sorry, I…” Dean says. “I thought you said something?”
“No,” Cas says, brow creased in concern. “Are you sure--”
“That we didn’t get hit with a spell?” Dean says. “Yeah. But Connie did, right? And if it had any effect on her -- which I highly doubt, for the record -- no time like the present to test it.”
Test it they do. They slam her brakes, which she hates. They cruise with her windows down, which she enjoys. They talk about Hannah and Sam and Metatron, and she feels everything from familiar fondness to outright loathing.
“Jesus,” Dean says. “Did you feel that?”
“Yes,” Cas says. “Interesting.”
“Well,” Dean says, “that’s a new one. Doesn’t seem to be doing any of us any harm, though. We’ll figure it out when we get back.”
Cas makes a sound of agreement, and they stop testing her, after that. Before long, they wind up falling back into their usual routine -- idly chatting as they drive, talking about their plans for the future, the places they want to visit even if they don’t have hunts there, the things they want to drag Sam along to. They talk and laugh and smile at one another, and Connie thinks that now, more than ever, she feels so very fond of them. She loves them like she knows they love their family and friends and each other.
She’s so caught up in the simple pleasure of it that she doesn’t notice Dean tensing in her seat until he says, in a choked voice, “Cas, pull over, I gotta get out.”
She immediately shifts from calm enjoyment to pressing worry -- that something is wrong, that it’s something she did.
“Dean?” Cas asks, immediately glancing over. “What’s wrong?”
“C’mon, Cas, please,” Dean says, even more desperately.
Cas signals right and pulls over onto the shoulder. Before they’ve even come to a complete stop, Dean opens her door and steps out and away. She can hear him begin pacing back and forth, taking in great gulping breaths of air.
Cas kills the engine and gets out to go to him. He reaches out to touch Dean just as he comes into range of her mirror. From that vantage point, she’s able to see the way Dean clings to Cas like he’s an anchor, breathing shakily into the space between his neck and shoulder. Cas holds one arm around Dean’s waist and runs the other across his back in soothing circles until Dean’s breathing slows and his grip on Cas loosens.
“Sorry,” Dean says, still sounding a little shaky and uncertain. “I just. I haven’t felt anything like that since, uh. Since heaven, I guess. That memory where my mom had her hands on my face and. Sorry.”
Cas doesn’t let go. He says, softly and earnestly, “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
They stand there together for a few more minutes, simply taking time to breathe, before they part. When they do, Cas walks over and sets a hand on Connie’s roof. “Connie,” he says gravely, “we appreciate your love for us, but if you could please try to tone it down a little, I think Dean would appreciate that.”
They don’t get back in right away. Instead, Dean pulls out his phone and says, “One sec.” He taps at the screen before holding it to his ear. After a moment, a smile spreads across his face. “Hey, Sam,” he says. “You’ll never believe what happened to us. The car got hit with a truth spell.” He pauses, then laughs at whatever Sam said. “Yeah, I know. Got any ideas about how to get rid of it?” Another pause. “Awesome,” he says. “‘Cya soon.” He hangs up, then looks up at Cas, still grinning. “Up for a change of plans?” he asks.
She can tell Cas is smiling, too. “Of course,” he says.
--
Connie tries her best as they resume their drive -- tries to focus on the feel of the road beneath her tires, the lay of the land in her rearview mirror, the sound of the wind rushing past her windows. She tries to tone her feelings down to a quiet fondness -- not entirely gone, but not overwhelming, either. She understands they’ll have to undo the spell for practical reasons, but she’s planning on showering them with as much love as they can stand until then.
Midway through the day, Dean is clutching his hands against her seat, gearing up to say something. “Hey, Cas?” he finally says, hushed and tentative.
“Yes?”
“This...uh,” he starts. He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “How Connie feels about us. Is that how you feel about me?”
A smile spreads across Cas’ face, so wide and bright she can see his gums. “Actually,” he says, “I might have her beat.”
Dean laughs, tension draining out of him, and says, “Yeah, likewise. Uh. How I feel about you, I mean.”
Cas reaches over and laces his fingers with Dean’s, their joined hands resting between them like they never intend to let go.
--
Castiel is different from anyone Connie has ever known, and she thinks she gets it now. She thinks she understands that maybe what home is to him is different, too.
Cas has a home, now, she realizes, even if that home isn’t just one place -- even if it’s her, and it’s the bunker, and it’s Dean, and maybe it’s even the parks they’re visiting one by one. This time, on this drive, she’s taking them to Sam, and she thinks maybe that means she’s taking them home, too.
Wherever it is they want to go, wherever it is they feel at peace, she’s going to take them there.