Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The screaming won't stop, not as the water overcomes him, not as the acrid stench of death and gun smoke fill the air until he can't breathe he's choking on dirt and water and smoke, surrounded by suffocating darkness and he can't breathe he can't--

"Whoa, buddy, are you alright?"

A pressure on his shoulder--he jerked backward, stumbling over his own feet as he whipped around in a blind panic. There was a stranger right behind him with one of his hands on his shoulder.

"Dude, what the hell?"

He launched himself backward, the lack of gear on his back affecting his sense of balance. Sucking in shallow breaths, blinking hard, his back hit metal and glass. The jolt sent a shockwave of pain through his body. Forced to stop his retreat, he repeatedly blinked against fluorescent lights. He paused and took stock of several areas of pain: swollen lips, a bleeding laceration somewhere on his forehead or hairline; chest ached with every inhale, but not with the sharp pain of something broken.

Within that split second, he knew his ability to run to safety or find his gun and lay down a suppressing fire was not affected. He needed to find his-

The other man held up his hands and snapped his fingers. The slight, sharp sound broke the trance he'd been in. "Hey, buddy, I need you to try and focus on me, alright?"

He blinked and inhaled deeply--the scent of burnt lint, musty mold, and laundry detergent filled his lungs. Clearing his raw throat once caused the area around him and the stranger to come swimming into crystal clarity. As he came back to reality, he found he was standing in a 24-hour laundromat with ugly yellow walls, his back against a front-loading washer older than him. There was no need to grab his gun. He wasn’t back in that god-awful cave system, seconds from death, but he was injured.

The stranger's eyes, a brilliant golden-green, were darting all over his face and body, forehead scrunched in worry. The sleeves of his faded olive t-shirt clung to his biceps, bulging slightly as he kept his arms raised. He kept them up, hands open to show he meant no harm despite the strain. The stranger shot him a crooked smile; one meant to disarm--it had probably earned him plenty of free drinks in bars over the years cause he was clearly over twenty-one--yet all he could do was squint suspiciously in return.

"I shouldn't have touched you without asking," he said apologetically in a slight drawl. He chuckled darkly and licked his lips. "But, I mean, you came in here looking like a zombie who lost a fight to a honey badger--can't really blame me."

Moving slightly, he realized how numb his feet were and glanced down to find to his mounting horror he was missing his black, holy socks and his scuffed loafers. He stared for a long time at his naked feet, dirty and numb. The realization that the money he'd been setting aside was gone caused him to choke on a sob. His vision went blurry.

"Buddy?" Meeting the stranger's concerned gaze, he tried to summon the anger he knew should have been coursing through him like a righteous fury. Instead, he felt a tear slip down his cheek as the embers died out in his soul. The man's eyes tracked it before his eyes softened.

"I have nothing left to take," he said, unable to talk to the stranger directly. Terror and pain kept his stomach churning. "Not even my dignity at this point."

Unexpectedly, out of his peripheral vision, he saw the stranger jerk as if struck. "Take?" He licked his lips again. "Dude, no, no, no! I was just gonna ask if you need a ride home? Or to the hospital? You look like shit."

He knew that innately; he could feel the dirt and grime encrusted on his skin, the grease in his hair, the itch of his unkempt beard. He couldn’t help the sniffle that escaped, but he managed to hold back the tears that threatened to fall, blinking rapidly to do so.

“Look, I’m Dean,” the stranger said softly as if he was a wild animal he was trying not to spook. He glanced over the stranger without meaning to, noticing the ripped jeans hugging bowed legs and scuffed leather work boots. Something about the blue-collar nature of this man made him relax slightly. “What’s your name, handsome?”

For a second, he couldn’t remember. Ignoring the pain it caused, he scrunched up his eyebrows in thought. After a shuddering breath, he released a relieved exhale that he wasn’t an amnesiac as the fog around his memories cleared up. “Castiel. Castiel Novak.”

Dean’s eyes widened in horror. “I knew I recognized you! Gas station guy--Cas,” he said while snapping his fingers in recognition. “The coat threw me. And the blood. And the lack of shoes.” He winced. “Do you need an ambulance?” He motioned towards Castiel’s face.

Briefly, Castiel took a chance to turn away from Dean and inspect his reflection in the washing machine door's glass. Dean was right. He did look like shit with blood dripping from his eyebrow to stain the collar of his white work shirt. The rest of his clothes, oversized navy blazer, and matching slacks, plus his tan trenchcoat, were covered in dirt and mud. Nevermind the fact he was shoeless, his toes curling against the cold floor.

“No ambulance, no hospital,” Castiel muttered, voice gruffer than usual. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the door again and, surprising himself, closed his eyes. He rooted around in his pocket for the wallet that was no longer there, though he felt his plastic I.D. card. A small break and he took it thankfully. His numb feet reminded him he still had no money for anything, especially quarters for the machines.

Castiel honestly thought he couldn’t hit below rock bottom, yet here he was, clearly digging right through to the Earth’s molten core. The tears threatened once again, but this time blinking hard only made his face pulse with pain.

Dean exaggerated the clearing of his throat to get Castiel's attention.

“Hey, Cas?” He glanced sideways to see Dean approaching from the side so Castiel could see him rather than from behind. “Pretty sure that needs stitches, buddy,” Dean said quietly beside him. “I don’t want to watch you bleed out in this shitty laundromat. ”

Castiel huffed and watched his breath fog up the glass. “Not going to exsanguinate.” He coughed, and his ribs ached, and he couldn’t help the pained groan that escaped him. “More worried about my work clothes...dammit.”

“Look, I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I can’t sit here and not lend a hand,” Dean explained, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Let me get your work clothes cleaned up and stitch that cut for you. I’m surprisingly good with a needle and thread.”

Still, Cas hesitated, frozen in the same spot, his eyes barely moving from Dean’s face. He knew his staring bothered people--he was too intense, been told so all his life. Yet, Dean matched him stare for stare, and Castiel found himself backing down, almost gratefully. “How will you clean the blood out?” He asked quietly, voice cracking from a dry throat.

Without a word, Dean walked back to a folding table with a pile of laundry on one side and a few piles of folded items on the other. Digging through the unfolded clothes, he grabbed a mismatched pair of socks, one an ankle and another a crew. Dean glanced over to Castiel and looked him over. It took Castiel a moment to figure out Dean was literally sizing him up and pulled out an oversized, faded black t-shirt. Quickly returning, Dean handed him the socks and shirt: the shirt was soft and still warm from the dryer. Castiel almost wept with gratitude.

“Here, put these on, and I’ll start on your shirt.”

Castiel made sure no one else was in the laundromat. He shucked his trench coat and blazer and carefully laid them out over a nearby table. Then he slowly unbuttoned the buttons of his dress shirt, hands shaking slightly--he barely noticed how much Dean was staring when the shirt was completely undone.

“Jesus,” Dean gasped. Castiel glanced down, taking in the swollen, purplish-yellow mottling extending from his hip to shoulder. There was a twisted sense of relief when Castiel noticed how well the bruises hid his malnourished frame. “You’re sure you don’t need a doctor?”

Castiel snorted almost hysterically. “I’m sure it’s a rib contusion, which unfortunately means it will have to heal on its own—nothing some over-the-counter pain medications can’t handle.

He handed the shirt to Dean but had trouble letting his fingers go for a moment. He glanced up at those fields of green and said quietly. “Please.”

Please what? Please don’t steal the literal shirt from my back? Please don’t make me regret this?

They studied each other for a moment, and Castiel sighed. Please be someone I can trust.

When Castiel opened his fingers, Dean took the shirt with surprising gentleness. “I’ll return it right as rain,” he promised. Stiffly, Castiel slipped the old Tool shirt over his head. The soft, worn-in fabric was a balm to his sore ribs. He grabbed the edge of the table and bit his lip, so he didn't make a sound as he pulled the socks on. Being doubled over caused his ribs more pain, but he didn't have a choice. For once, luck was on his side: except for being dirty, his feet had no cuts or scrapes. It was a miracle considering he had no idea how long he'd been walking shoeless. That part was still fuzzy.

Next to Castiel, Dean took the bloody shirt and laid it out on another table, using a ratty towel to protect the tabletop. Under Castiel's wary, watchful eyes, Dean dug through the large duffle bag on the chair between them. He pulled out a plastic bag with various tools from an inner pocket and removed a pair of latex gloves, a chunk of kitchen sponge, and a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Castiel's nose twitched at the pungent scent as Dean pulled on the gloves and snapped them into place. He appreciated how carefully Dean used the soaked sponge to dab the blood carefully from Castiel’s shirt. Once the excess blood was absorbed, he patted on some peroxide and let it sit on the shirt. Castiel could already see the stain starting to fade. He felt the tiniest bit of relief at that; it must have shown on his face cause Dean winked at him as he pulled off the dirty gloves to throw in the nearby trash can. "I know, I'm a regular Martha Stewart," Dean quipped.

Dean shoved the duffel out of the seat and patted for Castiel to sit at his side. No matter how gingerly he moved, the bruised and beaten body complained loudly at him, but Castiel withheld his reaction. Dean replaced his bag of cleaning supplies and pulled out a small medical kit, white with a large red cross over the lid. After popping it open and checking his supplies, Dean walked over to the soda vending machine and purchased a bottle of Gatorade. He scowled when he picked up the bottle. "Stupid machine. Sorry, dude, it's room temp."

After he walked back, he handed the drink and an unopened bottle of pain medication from his bag to Castiel.

Castiel handed the bottle back to Dean without missing a beat, not meeting his gaze. "Can you please give me the recommended dosage?" He asked quietly.

"Uh, sure, big guy." Castiel could hear the question in Dean's tone but didn't respond. He swallowed the pills he was handed and ignored the odd look Dean gave him. He ruminated on the overly sweet drink, thankful for the sugar and electrolytes, though he wished it was colder to help soothe his throat.

"Can I touch you to sew this up?" Dean asked, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

Castiel nodded, greasy locks falling into his eyes. He hated how long everything had gotten on him. Castiel winced, both from Dean cleaning up his forehead and hairline with cotton balls soaked in more peroxide as well as with embarrassment because he knew he looked awful with his unkempt hair and beard. Dean didn't shy away from Castiel or act as though he was utterly disgusted. As he carefully cleaned up the blood that had dripped down the side of Castiel's face, Dean started humming. Castiel glanced at him.

"That sounds like…Metallica?" Castiel guessed.

“Yahtzee,” Dean said, pleasantly surprised.

Images of his garrison flashed across his mind: Benny and DJ bickering over cards while a stereo blasted out classic rock, the sand around his feet beige and hot, the air dry and gritty. "It's the angel," Benny would always greet him in his cajun accent. DJ would hug him like they hadn't seen each other in years, not since the last meal at the mess hall a few hours prior. And Castiel's heart pounded painfully when he heard his voice explain they had orders to get ready--

"Cas?"

Castiel cleared his throat, careful not to move. "Sorry. Just, knew some friends who enjoyed their music."

"Your buddies have good taste."

"Had," Castiel automatically corrected. He swallowed harshly. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Shit, I'm sorry," Dean said. "But, uh, yeah, you're gonna need stitches in a few places." He gently tapped the spots along his hairline and the sore spot above his left eyebrow. "But before I do that--"

He had a new clean cotton ball and had crouched in front of Castiel, so they were almost eye-level. "You've got one here," Dean pointed to the side of his own lips. "Can I--?"

"Yes." Castiel inhaled slowly--the sting of the peroxide was minuscule compared to his bruised ribs and broken spirit. Despite the almost foot of space between them, he was inhaling the minty smell of Dean's breath. After a moment of Dean gently cleaning the area, he realized Dean was staring at him rather intently. They both stared until Dean physically closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Don't worry, Cas, I'm not the kinda guy to put out on the first date."

Castiel startled backward. "Excuse me?"

"Just trying to lighten the mood," Dean said with a cheeky smile before he patted Castiel's shoulder. As he stood, his knees creaked and Castiel winced in sympathy. "Fucking hate being so crunchy," he muttered.

Humming again, Dean got out his supplies and perched his hip on the edge of the folding table, allowing him the perfect height over Castiel. Catching Castiel watching him, he said, "The humming keeps me calm. Don’t want your stitches to be crooked, do I?”

"I'm not sure I could suffer the indignity," Castiel said dryly.

Dean paused for a second, and Castiel's eyes flickered up to him. “What?”

“Just been a hell of a day, seeing you here covered in blood compared to earlier today. Wanna tell me what happened?”

For a moment, Castiel didn’t say anything, just stared stiffly ahead as Dean started to sew the gash shut. The painful tugging as the needle passed through his flesh was a jarring disconnect to Dean's nonchalance. Like he was just chatting with a coworker, not sewing up a stranger in the middle of the night. “You don’t have to--”

“I was mugged,” Castiel said simply as he parsed through the fuzzy memories. “About four blocks west from here.”

Dean pulled his stitch closed but not too tight, then stopped to peer down at Castiel. His face was dark and thunderous. "You're shitting me! Seriously?"

Castiel barely shrugged, not wanting to ruin Dran's concentration with unnecessary movement. "Corporate's coming to the store first thing in the morning--Nora sometimes lets me stay in the stockroom when I work late, but she couldn’t risk them finding me sleeping there. I had to leave.”

“Sounds like you’re going through it,” Dean said with sympathy. He tied off the stitch then started a new one.

Castiel bit his lip as he felt the edges of his skin pulled together. "Where did you learn to stitch a wound?" He was both curious and hoping for a distraction from the pain. Dean had a good technique and was confident.

"Trust me. You don't want to know," Dean warned. "You're lucky I just restocked." Castiel noticed out of the corner of his eye the tip of Dean's tongue sticking out between his teeth as he concentrated. "Would have hated to have done this with whiskey and dental floss."

Castiel coughed. "Please tell me the whiskey was just for drinking?"

When Dean didn't respond, Cas groaned. "Introducing fermented yeast and sugar into open wounds is a recipe for disaster."

Dean clicked his tongue. "One: stop moving before I screw these up. Two: what’s good enough for cowboys is good enough for me, and three: your kid brother gets hurt and you gotta make due, got it?"

Dean's tone had hardened, brokering no argument from Castiel. He was surprised at how quickly Dean's demeanor changed, and he trembled when he realized he was tethered with medical-grade thread to an irate man. He froze, unable to move. "I'm not gonna hurt you," Dean said, slightly exasperated once he noticed Castiel's shaking and downcast eyes.

"You're doing me a kindness, and I insulted you," Castiel whispered, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"I didn't mean to spook you," Dean apologized. "Course you're jumpy; if I got the crap kicked out of me, I'd be nervous as a Chihuahua, too."

Castiel had no idea how to respond to such an asinine observation. It seemed that Dean could only take a moment of the awkward silence before he blew out a breath. "If it makes you feel better, I made sure to get minty dental floss, so it was antimicrobial." He snorted at Castiel's poorly hidden grimace. "My brother and I were resourceful as kids. We had to be," Dean explained. "And we're as healthy as horses now."

Castiel accepted the olive branch with a huff. "I never understood that idiom--horses get sick, too."

There was a startled snort of laughter from Dean. "You're something else, man. You make a good point, though. Guess I'll google it later."

A moment later, Castiel felt the final tug and heard the snip of small scissors. He slumped with relief.

“Done,” Dean said, sterilizing his tools with an alcoholic wipe and tossing his gloves out once again. Once everything was packed away, he put his hands on his hips and smiled. “Think Project Runway will let me use your stitches as part of my portfolio?”

Castiel gazed at him, then cocked his head to the side in a questioning manner since he had no idea what Dean was referring to. Dean looked at the floor and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, cheeks, and ears, warming to a slight pink. The flush made the freckles on Dean's cheeks stand out, something Castiel instantly found endearing.

"So, I'm just gonna check your shirt!" Dean said and grabbed the shirt to show it to Castiel; the blood on the collar and shoulder was gone.

Castiel reached out and touched the shirt in disbelief. He'd gotten himself to a state of calm but seeing the cleaned shirt brought back wetness to his eyes. "Thank you, Dean."

He noticed how Dean fidgeted for a second and shrugged. Does praise make him uncomfortable? “Nothing to it!” Dean motioned towards Castiel’s coat and blazer. "Since those aren't stained, they'll be fine after a quick wash."

Shame curled in his stomach, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. Castiel stepped over to his coat and jacket without looking at Dean, eyes taking in their muddy appearance. "I'll have to wash them in the sink, maybe hang them up on a drying rack. Should be mostly dry before I gotta go back to the Gas-N-Sip at 5 AM…." He mumbled all this under his breath, grunting in frustration when the clock on the wall showed how late (or early) it was. He was exhausted and in pain and seriously wondering how he would go back to work in a few hours. He held his head for a moment, wondering what the point of anything was, of moving forward when life just kept knocking him down. Maybe he needed to learn the lesson and stay there.

"Dude, what's up?"

Castiel whipped his head up, hissing in pain when he jolted his stitches. Dean was watching him like a hawk, and the momentary urge to lie slipped away. What did it matter what this man thought of him? His opinion of Castiel couldn't be any lower than what Castiel already thought of himself.

“I don’t have any quarters,” Cas said haltingly. Surprising him, Dean clapped a hand over his face and groaned, face flushed.

"Right, sorry. I'm a dumbass." Standing up straight, Dean held out his hand. "Look, I just sent some footage off, so I'm solid. I'll wash your stuff."

Castiel's pride tried to rally some indignation, but he only managed to ask curiously, "Footage?"

"Give me the flasher coat, and I'll show you."

Usually, Castiel would put Dean in his place for calling his favorite coat something so crude, but his mind had gone in a completely different direction. “Um…” Castiel’s cheeks flushed, and he ran a hand through his greasy hair nervously. “It’s...not anything pornographic, is it?”

Dean threw back his head and laughed so boisterously it echoed around the laundromat. “Dude, I’m a Storm Chaser."

The way Dean's face lit up, how his eyes sparkled in amusement, caused Castiel's stomach to flutter. For once, he embraced his stoic nature and asked the other man, deadpan, "...is that a euphemism?"

Dean barked out another laugh, and Castiel tried not to beam with pride at making him laugh. "I'll take that a compliment, handsome." Dean winked, then clapped his hands. "Seriously, though, I literally sell tornado footage."

When Castiel only raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief (internally wincing in pain), Dean waved out through the chicken-wire embedded windows towards the parking lot. “Dude, look. You walked right past the T.I.I.!”

Castiel stood up stiffly with a hiss as his bruised ribs complained, and he slowly padded over close to the large bay window overlooking the empty parking lot. Even though it was night outside, he could barely make out the familiar silhouette of what looked to be a homemade tank parked outside.

"My coworker called you a Mad Max extra," Castiel felt compelled to say, remembering the events from earlier that day.

Dean was standing next to him, beaming like a proud parent. "You mean the one who was peeking around the corner of the candy aisle and watching you talk to me?"

She did do that on purpose, Castiel mentally groused. Aloud he said, "Yeah, that one."

"Well, she's got good taste in movies."

“What is it?” Castiel asked.

“She’s technically the Tornado Intercept Impala, but I just call her Imp for short,” Dean said with enthusiasm.

“Shea called it a Killdozer.”

Dean pouted slightly as he crossed his arms. “I changed my mind about your friend."

Castiel studied the tank. "Impala?"

"The cracked chassis of a 1967 Chevy Impala is the basis for the framework. It was at my Uncle's scrapyard." Castiel noticed how Dean's eyes dimmed when he mentioned that, but he breezed past it.

The vehicle was massive, with steel plates encasing the car and several steel panels on hydraulics surrounding the vehicle’s skirt. A cow-catcher on the front and a rack of steel on the top created a roll cage. Various little tools and instruments were bolted to different parts of the car.

“Cas,” he turned around to find Dean was holding out a clean pair of underwear and black jeans. The nickname was spoken gently, warmly, and it felt like another balm to his battered spirit, like Dean's shirt softly cradling his bruised ribs. “Give me the rest of your clothes. I’m not going to let you go to work smelling like a middle school boy’s locker room.”

Castiel puffed up indignantly at first, but he was so tired, and the clothes were still warm and softened with age. “Fine,” he growled, snatching the change of clothes. He held out his hand. “Give me your car keys.”

“Not like I couldn’t hotwire my car.”

“You wouldn’t do that. Not lightly anyway. After you put that much work into it, you probably take it out on weekly dates.”

Dean snorted and threw him the set of keys. “Just hurry up, smartass. I don’t know how long we’ll have this place to ourselves.”

Cas took the keys and went into the tiny public bathroom to change and splash water on his face, careful not to get Dean’s stitches wet. Dean's clothes didn't fit well, his pants hanging low on Castiel's hips, but the shirt was long enough to hide that. He had to roll up the pants cuffs a couple of times, and he was going to have to figure out the shoe situation before work. He gave the clothes to Dean. “I’ll return the keys when the clothes are done,” he said quietly.

Castiel braced himself and expected Dean to snap at him, but he just laughed. “Sure thing. A tiny load like this won’t need much time.” He gathered up Castiel’s clothes and threw them into a tiny machine, put in detergent, and threw in something that looked like a dryer sheet. “So your clothes don’t bleed into each other,” he explained.

Castiel felt better once he watched the drums turn in the washer. Repetitive motions helped him calm down.

“So, Cas, we’ve got some time to kill,” Dean said, finally getting around to folding the rest of his clothes. “Wanna tell me why a handsome guy like you is staying in his work’s stock room?”

He didn’t look away from the rotating clothes in the drum. “Don’t have a home to go home to,” he said simply. “And despite me telling Nora multiple times that staying out this late makes me unable to sleep at the shelter, it keeps happening. I had to pull a double because Ashley called out.” He closed his eyes and laid his forehead against the drum. “Know better than to take Baxter Alley this time of night,” he muttered.

“Hey,” Dean snapped, getting his attention. “This isn’t your fault, Cas. It’s those asshole punks’ faults, and if I see them, I might just run ‘em over with the Imp to make a point.”

For some reason, that made Castiel chuckle. “I appreciate it, Dean.”

His clothes perfectly folded and stacked back into his bag, Dean sat in one of the cracked plastic chairs and patted the seat of the one next to him. “Look, Sammy just uploaded my chase from Montana; we’ll watch it together.”

“Sammy?”

“My little brother. He’s normally my co-pilot during the summer chase season. But the dumbass went and busted his leg and is on bed rest. He’s been editing the footage and live streams, but it’s not the same.”

Castiel left the rotating clothes and sat next to Dean. The man had his phone pulled up and started a YouTube video from a channel called “Cowboy Chaser.”

The video was impressive. Dean was driving the Imp up a two-lane road towards what looked like a black storm cloud of death arching high above him. A perfect white funnel sprouted from the underside of the black clouds and crossed the road about a quarter-mile from Dean. There was no sound to the video, but it was still thrilling to watch.

“Wow, you’re weren’t kidding,” Castiel said in surprise.

Dean flushed again. “Yeah, but without my co-pilot, I can’t film and get too close. The Imp requires a lot of concentration to drive and not slide off a slippery road into the grass. She’s a bit of a boat on land.”

“So, how does this make you money?” Castiel asked curiously.

“Selling the footage to other channels, news channels, etc. There’s a whole network for it. I don’t make much, but it’s better than any desk job.”

Castiel nodded. “I understand. My last job was the very antithesis of a desk job--" Black cave, screaming, water--His memory was interrupted by his stomach growling so loudly Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Cas, are you--?”

“No,” he snapped so harshly Dean flinched. “You’ve already helped me enough tonight. I’m not some charity case.” Castiel’s hands were shaking, and he had to blink several times not to cry. He grabbed the fabric stretched tight over his thighs, fingernails digging into his flesh.“You’ve done enough.”

Dean ignored him, just went into his magical duffel bag and pulled out a retro-style metal lunch box. He pulled it open and handed it to Cas. “Look, you have my keys, so I can’t run and get you something. I overpacked because I'm used to packing for two. At least eat a PB&J with me?”

Nestled in with an apple, a bag of Doritos chips, a banana was two sandwiches. He blinked again, but a tear did escape him this time. Dean gently placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and this time he didn’t flinch. “Cas?”

“They're my favorite," Castiel admitted softly. "I haven’t had one in forever.” He rubbed his eyes angrily.

“Dude, calm down,” Dean grabbed his hand. “Don’t mess up my hard work.” He held the sandwich out to Castiel and smiled when Castiel wolfed the sandwich down in a few quick bites. The only sound in the laundromat was the sounds of the machines running and their eating.

When Dean unpeeled his banana and started to eat it, Castiel just glanced at him. Dean grinned cheekily at him. “See something you like?”

“Yes, actually,” Castiel answered, his unblinking stare making Dean swallow nervously. “The nicest person I’ve met in a long time.”

Now Dean flushed as he coughed ungracefully. “I just meant that in a sexy way, but now that feels a little childish.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “I get the feeling you act immature most of the time. But you’re smarter than you let on.” His head cocked to where the modified car sat parked outside. “You built that, I’m assuming?”

“Absolutely! The best way to get the best footage is to get as close as possible. The Imp can get right into the storm, up to the wind speeds of 160 miles per hour, so theoretically, she can handle an EF-4. She has hydraulics so she can be lifted and lowered.”

“That sounds expensive,” Castiel said.

“Not as, when you do the modifications yourself,” Dean said. “She’s a prototype, honestly, but she’s survived a few seasons already, and for the rest of the years, I make repairs and modifications until it’s April again.”

“April?”

“Most of Tornado Alley in the US is active in spring, though the season goes until June. Maybe later. There’s a second season in Dixie Alley in the fall and winter, but I won’t chase there. Too many trees--a tornado can be right on you, and you’d never know until you’re airborne.”

“That’s terrifying. Have you had any close calls like that?”

“That’s like asking a Daredevil if he’s laid his bike down on a ramp,” Dean dismissed. “Duh. So many times, I’ve miscalculated and taken the wrong turn, or the road got washed out. I’ve hidden in a ditch a few times. But never under an overpass!” He pointed to Castiel. “The winds are worse underneath the structure. It’s like hiding inside a straw--you’ll get sucked out because of the pressure. Always a ditch or a hill.”

Dean gathered up the trash from their shared meal, then held his phone out to Castiel. “Check out some of the other ones,” he said, chest puffed up. “I’m gonna swap over the clothes and take a piss.”

Castiel lost track of time after that--he watched a few different videos and was in the middle of watching Dean and a disembodied male voice (must be Sam) racing away from an EF3 storm, but his eyes kept staying closed longer and longer. Eventually, a snap of fingers startled him to full alertness. Dean gently rescued his phone from Castiel’s hand so it didn’t drop and break on the floor. He pointed towards the parking lot and the Imp. “You have the keys, so go take a nap, Cas.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but a yawn overtook him, and exhaustion settled into his bones. He nodded. “Fine. Need a few hours before work anyway.”

Castiel didn’t remember climbing into the back bench seat of the behemoth, but as he curled into the leather, he inhaled a scent of motor oil and leather. It relaxed him enough that Castiel didn’t remember falling asleep at all.

~*~

“Cas? Hey, Cas, buddy, time to wake up, man.”

Flashes of light--thunder--shaking of the ground--crashing, crashing waves--

Castiel blinked awake, taking in a deep breath as he looked around in confusion. He was sitting in the passenger seat of a car in a familiar parking lot, early morning light beaming down on him. He looked down and saw he was wearing a band shirt and black jeans. His cleaned trench coat was draped over him like a blanket, and he could smell the laundry detergent Dean had used.

The driver’s door opened, and Dean looked inside. “Morning, sunshine!” He leaned in and handed a giant cup of gas station coffee towards him.

Castiel groaned gratefully and ran a hand through his messy hair with one hand and grabbed the cup with the other. He appreciated Dean’s forethought to grab him the largest cup available. Once Dean’s hand was free, he clambered inside the car/tank. There was a dox of donuts in his hand, and he left it open on the seat between them. Typically the cloyingly sweet donuts were not something Castiel would choose to eat, but they smelled so good, and his stomach rumbled. Taking a napkin from Dean, Castiel chose a donut to chew on.

“The Gas-N-Sip?” Castiel asked, feeling a weird pit in his stomach as he ate his breakfast.

“Sorry, I had to sneak the keys back, but I didn’t know when your shift started, and I couldn’t remember where the stupid gas station was,” Dean admitted with an embarrassed chuckle.

Castiel took a sip of the coffee and wrinkled his nose slightly, realizing it was missing something.

Catching the slight grimace, Dean reached into his pocket and held out a handful of sugar packets and tiny creamer containers. “What’s your poison?”

Castiel looked at the offering. “Any honey? I like black coffee with honey.”

A soft smile flashed over Dean’s face, unbidden. “I could go get you some.”

“I need to clock in any way,” Castiel groaned. “Oh, God, I was supposed to open the store today. Of all days, when the bosses from corporate are here–Nora’s going to be pissed.” He looked down at his feet and groaned again. “Dammit, I didn’t even–”

“Cas,” Dean spoke gently and calmly. He reached over the backseat and, after a grunt of exertion, pulled with him a large canvas backpack. He shoved the bag into Castiel’s lap, and he let out an ‘oomph’ with how heavy it was.

“Dean, what’s this?”

“While trying to find your work, I passed a Walmart. I, uh, had to guess at some stuff,” Dean said, not looking at Castiel. He was fiddling with a wooden rig that Castiel hadn’t noticed in the dark, that was covered in electronics on a wooden table arm that could fold out of the way of the bench seat. He was opening an old, beat-up laptop bolted to the wooden table. Castiel noticed the familiar green, blue, and red blobs of radar images on the screen.

Castiel opened the bag and pulled a pack of clean boxers, a pack of socks, and a travel bag with travel-size shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, a shaving kit, toothbrush toothpaste, and a comb. There were a couple of t-shirts, a pair of jeans. Everything was nestled into the backpack, folded neatly, but at the very bottom was a pair of slip-on, waterproof boots, and a pair of back converse sneakers.

Castiel was overwhelmed with the treasures in his lap, and he had to take a few careful breaths. “Dean–”

“Don’t thank me,” Dean’s cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk’s, but he still managed to sound firm even with his mouth full. “It’s basic human decency, Cas. I know you probably haven’t experienced that a lot, but….” He seallowed and leaned over and said in a stage whisper. “You’re starting to look like a Sasquatch, and I know because my brother is one.”

Cas let out a little laugh, glad Dean was deflecting from his vulnerable self with humor. Taking a careful sip of black coffee, Castiel asked, “He is?”

“Oh yeah. What else would you call someone who’s six and a half feet tall and had long shaggy hair?”

“Cousin It?”

Dean threw his head back and laughed, and Castiel knew he was going to treasure his time with this strange man. “How did you figure out my shoe size?”

“Just guessed,” Dean said, typing something on his laptop. Castiel took a moment and ripped open the pack of socks and pulled on a pair. He carefully tucked everything back into the backpack and pulled the black boots on, finding them a perfect fit. Castiel grinned at Dean, and Dean sucked in a bit of breath.

Castiel looked at the gas station and felt something almost like disappointment as he zipped up the backpack. “Thank you, Dean. You have no idea what this means to me,” he said sincerely.

“I have one more thing for you,” Dean said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and handing Castiel a basic call phone. “Sorry for the burner phone, but it was the best I could do.” He handed the phone over, and their fingers touched as Castiel took it. There was something in that touch, and Castiel saw Dean chewing on his bottom lip.

“Thank you, Dean. I wish I could repay you.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, but he seemed contemplative. Castiel had the sense that Dean was mulling something over. A tiny part of Castiel wanted to run from the car though; he didn’t have any drugs, and he wasn’t one for repaying debts with sexual favors. He steeled himself; if that’s what Dean wanted, he would do it.

Finally, Dean opened his mouth, face grimly staring through the windshield towards the station, and whatever Castiel had been expecting, this wasn’t it.

“Hey, Cas,...got any family around here?”

Out of nowhere, the question stung more than Castiel wanted to let on. “If I did, would I be homeless?” Castiel asked with careful nonchalance as he slipped his new shoes on.

“Gotta check all the boxes. How much do you make at the Gas-N-Sip?”

“Not enough,” he said simply.

Dean rolled his eyes and huffed in annoyance. “Cas, listen. I can technically handle things on my own, but I’ve always had a co-pilot. Sam’s leg is broken, and though I’ve already done a few chases, I can’t get the footage I need to sell for the season to get back into the black.”

“Where are you going with this, Dean?”

“Look, I know this is going to sound,” Dean started. “I need a co-pilot, and you need cash. How about I hire you for the storm season?”

The silence in the car was thick enough to walk on, and Castiel blinked several times. He chuckled, unsure, and his ribs sent a painful reminder of what happened last night.

“You want me to help with your storm chasing job?” Castiel snorted into his coffee, not mincing his words. “That’s certifiable.”

“Storm chasing is not for the faint of heart. There’s a certain amount of crazy that goes with the job description,” Dean agreed. His eyes darted to the floorboards of the tank, and he rubbed the back of his head. “I know it’s not the typical 9-to-5, but I could really use the help.”

Castiel was stunned. “Dean, people don’t just do that. I have obligations here. It may not be much but this job is all I have.” He patted the backpack. “Well was. Still, I’m not a charity case.”

Dean sputtered indignantly. “A charity--Cas, man, did you actually listen last night? I literally need the extra hands! Storm chasing is dangerous." Dean rattled off while counting on his fingers, "There are traffic jams, other chasers, rain-wrapped tornadoes, asshole cows--”

Cas couldn't help himself. “Cows?”

Groaning, Dean slapped his hand over his eyes. “Last year, I hit a cow that got out of its paddock while I was chasing a twister in Oklahoma. The only decent road to the damn storm and ol-Betsy decided she wanted to go on an afternoon stroll. Couldn't have cared less about the whirling vortex of death a hundred yards behind her.”

It wasn't really funny but Castiel chuckled at the mental image. There was an uneasy silence as Dean pulled his hand down and they studied each other.

“So, this is a real offer,” Castiel said, clarifying. When Dean nodded, he cocked his head to the side and studied Dean thoughtfully. “But...why? You don’t know me.”

“True. You don’t know me, either,” Dean admitted, running his hand through his short hair and spiking it up. "Yet you still let me sew you up."

"I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice. Even doing nothing is a choice." Dean looked him over again. “Regardless, I get this weird feeling that I can trust you, Cas.”

Castiel didn’t respond–he couldn’t, because something in him did trust Dean, in a way he never expected to trust anyone again.

His contemplative silence was met with a swear from Dean as he started verbally back-pedaling. “Shit, I’m sorry, I got excited and overstepped your boundary, that probably came off creepy...”

“I never said that,” Castiel said. “You have some self-awareness, at least.”

“I’ve never worked with anyone other than my brother. So, it’ll be a learning curve for us both.”

“Like a trust fall?”

Dean beamed. “Yeah, exactly right, a trust fall! So, you gonna catch me, Cas?”

“Depends on how much you’re willing to pay me,” Castiel said drily.

Dean laughed loudly. “That’s the spirit! Always know who’s signing your checks.”

He named a figure, and Castiel almost dropped his coffee in shock. It was more than enough to make up for leaving the Gas-S-Sip. Even 60-hour workweeks at the Gas and Sip for the same time frame wouldn’t make him that much. It would be enough to maybe save up for a car or a deposit on an apartment. Maybe a one-bedroom studio.

Castiel thought of how he had carefully budgeted every cent from the past few months, cashing the checks from work and setting aside the least he could for the bare necessities. How he had taken every dollar and carefully tucked away the growing pile of cash into his sock, as a panhandler had advised him most muggers might take shoes but hardly ever socks.

Of course, it would be his luck that he'd be attacked by people who knew that trick.

Dean's offer would get him back to where he was and then some.

“Dean, that’s very generous--”

“You’re welcome,” Dean said, purposefully overtaking Castiel’s words. He held out his hand. “If you want to bail, you can bail at any time but the paycheck will be cut in half. So Cas, whatcha say?"

Castiel looked at his outstretched hands, studied the weathered beaded bracelet wrapped around his right wrist, and silver ring on his right hand. He looked up at Dean and noticed that, from where he sat, the glow from the slowing rising sun cast a glow behind Dean's head, like a halo.

Once upon a time, Castiel thought there was more to the world--that magic and miracles were a part of life as much as death and taxes. Circumstances had convinced him there was nothing left in this world to care about, himself included. Yet here was a stranger doing everything possible to help Castiel out of the goodness of his heart.

Castiel felt the hard stone shell around his heart crack when Dean grinned at him. Dean was right: he could feel there was something important here at the edge of the precipice.

Life isn’t a movie, Castiel, his mind said. You don’t get to ride off into the sunset with a guy who bought you some shoes. What weird Cinderella retelling is this? He’s a stranger; he’s an unknown. He can’t be trusted. Stick to what you know. Let’s just hope Nora can smooth things over, so you still have a job for not showing up on time.

Castiel pulled back and cleared his throat, so he didn’t see Dean’s grin falter as his hand dropped. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Dean, but I’m sure you can find someone better qualified to help you. I need to clock in.”

As he opened the door, Dean’s hand landed on his forearm. “There’s going to be a storm in Kansas tomorrow,” Dean said. “I’m staying in a hotel in town today, but I’ll be hitting the road by this evening. If you change your mind, let me know?”

Dean pulled his hand back, and Castiel couldn’t say no. “I’ll think about it,” he allowed, hating how Dean’s face lit up with excitement. “But Dean, if we don’t see each other again, be safe out there.”

“You too, Cas. Learn to dodge a punch yeah?”

Castiel huffed and nodded in agreement. He slid stiffly out of the Imp’s front seat, swinging the backpack onto his shoulder. As he walked away from the tank, ignoring the curious stares from onlookers, he was almost relieved the pain was enough to bury the rising worry he was making an irrevocable mistake.

Chapter Text

~Then~

It was unnatural, a perversion of the highest order. Only a few birds were singing in the spring morning; the sun hadn’t even risen. That was where Castiel drew a line in the sand. His exhausted, bleary eyes were blinded by a beam of sunlight masquerading as a human. Said beam–his coworker Shea–waved at him from the other side of the locked glass door before letting herself in with the key she had.

The Gas-N-Sip wouldn’t officially open until 5 am, and they were going to bask in those precious few moments. Once they unlocked those doors, customers would wash over them like a biblical flood until 11 pm. Despite bracing himself for her sunny disposition (who likes being awake that early?), Castiel was secretly grateful for it. Without her cheerful yet professional customer service demeanor keeping him afloat, he’d had sunk into the deep waters of chronic exhaustion long ago.

“Good morning, Castiel,” she said with genuine warmth as she relocked the door. “How in the world are you almost always here first?” She glanced over his shoulder towards the parking lot. “I never see a car?”

With a partial shrug, he mumbled, “I walk.” Castiel tried to remember if he’d shoved all his possessions from the men’s bathroom back into his bag stashed in the office. His fingers unconsciously touched the ragged beard. His hair and beard were both too long for his liking. Keeping it clean was enough of a current hurdle; a haircut was a hassle he couldn’t afford.

Shea stepped behind the registers, clocked in at the computer, shoved between the counter and the giant display of cigarettes, then went to grab herself a cup of coffee. She whistled. “Wow, Andrew cleaned last night,” she said, glancing over all the sparkling coffee machines, the stocked shelves, the spotless counters.

She didn’t need to know the shelves had been adequately stocked and the bathrooms cleaned after Andrew locked up for the night. Castiel insomnia-cleaned the store in the dark of the night after waking up from two night terrors. He’d worked by the bright bluish-white of an LED camping lantern because he couldn't turn on the store's lights and attract passersby.

“Maybe you should take a picture to commemorate the event,” Castiel muttered dryly as he poured himself a tall black coffee and squeezed a couple of honey packets into it. Leaning his hip against the counter helped keep him on his feet. Stirring his coffee methodically, he was hypnotizing himself right into a trance.

“Dude, you’re a riot.” Shea snorted into her sky blue, reusable to-go cup. It had a picture of a blue jay on it and said: Home is Where Your Heart is

Castiel shrugged again and hid a massive yawn in the crook of his elbow. “I’m blunt,” he corrected.

“Yep.” Castiel’s eyebrow quirked in surprise. Before he could try to reply, she smiled softly. “Which is why I like working with you. I don’t have to second guess what you’re trying to say. It’s refreshing.”

Refreshing? That was not a word people used to describe him. Socially awkward, rude, stubborn to a fault were more apt descriptors.

“Good job with the coffee,” Shea praised. It wasn’t much, but upholding Shea’s exacting standards was a nice challenge. An old hand, having been working at the gas station for years, Shea was known by the regulars and long-haul truckers for keeping the coffee strong, the food fresh, and the bathrooms spotless.

It spoke to how tired he was when it took him several seconds too long to notice Shea overtly studying his disheveled appearance. Her eyes flickered over his rumpled navy dress slacks, wrinkled white dress shirt, under his baby blue employee vest. His matching jacket blazer was in the office with his bag.

Castiel grit his teeth. "What, Shea?”

“I’m not trying to presume,” she started as she pursed her lips, and his heart jumped into his throat. “But, Andrew didn’t clean last night, did he?” Her question was soft, but that didn't lessen its impact.

Castiel stared at her for several seconds, internally scrambling to review the conversation and figure out where he'd misstepped. When she returned her gray-blue gaze with unwavering intensity, he mentally groaned. Right. Shea could read people like a book. So, Castiel didn't insult her intelligence by denying it. He resolutely stared into his coffee cup as he mixed it with a wooden stirrer, honey dissolved long ago.

“Look, I know it’s none of my business. I don’t know what you and Nora have worked out, but if you need a couch to crash on at some point, I can give you my number.”

His head shot up. “But you’re married,” he said hesitantly.

“Yeah…? Oh! No, I mean literally. I've couch-surfed enough times to recognize the look."

He winced, reaching down to smooth out some of the wrinkles with no luck. Am I that obvious?

"Besides," she continued. "Wifey won’t mind if I run it past her first. She gives off such serious Momma Bear vibes that the misfits come running. Have all her life. In fact,” Shea leaned in and stage-whispered, “She even kept one.”

Discontentment blossomed like a bitter flower in his soul.

Castiel desired someone like that in his life. Someone who made him light up from the inside, like a firecracker in a jack-o-lantern. It was difficult, being so wholly alone. Insomnia, the nightmares, and lack of a place to lay his head; all those things would be manageable if his heart didn’t ache so profoundly from his sheer loneliness. Working amongst a sea of people every day only seemed to exacerbate his feelings of isolation.

Intruding on Shea and her family felt worse, though. “That’s not necessary but thank you.”

She opened her mouth to counterargue, but there was a short series of knocks on the glass door. They turned in unison to see Earl, the retired police officer-turned-trucker who swung by at five on the nose for his coffee and steak-and-egg breakfast sandwich. He waved at them through the glass, then pointed to his watch with a scowl.

“Well, guess that’s that,” she concluded.

~Now~

BANG BANG!

Castiel blinked hard.

He’d zoned out while standing at the sink in the men’s room. “Occupied, one minute!” he called out, and the pounding on the door stopped. Castiel quickly washed his hands and double-checked that there was no blood or other grime on him that might catch any unwanted attention. Moving as fast as his bruised ribs would allow, he shed Dean’s clothes. Pulling on his ill-fitting suit, Castiel noticed his clothes were somehow softer after Dean had washed them. Dean never asked for his clothes back…

Debating for a second, Castiel folded the clothes before slipping them into his pack. He was determined to push Dean from his mind. Swinging the bag onto his shoulder, he left the bathroom and made a beeline for the small break room to stash his stuff. He needed to find Nora–

A strong hand grabbed his forearm and dragged him through the door marked Employees Only. There was no one in the back, but Shea pulled him into the large walk-in beer cooler and slammed the metal door behind her. The smell of stale beer never cleaned thoroughly, assaulted his nose. Her eyes darted all over Castiel, and her hand flew up to cover her mouth when she saw his stitches. “Castiel, what happened?”

Though the cooler was blowing air colder than fifty degrees over them, he found it felt good against his ribs and head. He tried to shrug but winced instead. “Baxter Alley after midnight happened,” he admitted gruffly to the floor.

Shea’s face morphed through several emotions–outrage, guilt, horror. “I’m gonna rip Nora a new one–”

“Nora just asked,” Castiel cut her off. “I accepted the shift. I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings.” Drill Sergeant Gordon would have had a field day with that lapse in judgment. His thighs twinged, remembering how the sarge would demand miles for mistakes.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Shea’s anger fizzled out. “I’m so sorry, Castiel.” She patted his forearm. Eyes to his hairline, she asked, “What hospital did you go to?”

“With what insurance?” Castiel hadn’t worked enough hours to meet the threshold for benefits with the company. “I ran into the man who drove the ‘Killdozer’ yesterday. He patched me up.”

“Whoa, seriously?” Shea huffed. “You’re lucky he wasn’t some crazy serial killer!”

“He’s a storm chaser.”

Her mouth fell open slightly. The door to the cooler opened, and another mid-shift associate, Mandy, poked her head inside. “Hey, Castiel. Shea, Zachariah is asking for you.”

“Coming!” Shea shouted back over the rattling freezer and pointed at Castiel. “We are opening that can of worms later. However, our regional manager is doing Corporate’s inspection today. Go clock in while I distract Zachariah." The way her face scrunched up just saying his name–Castiel’s stomach twisted.

This manager might be the Devil in disguise, but Castiel owed it to Nora to keep his head down, bite his tongue, and put one foot in front of the other. "Message received. Let me stow my pack, and I'll be there in a minute."

~Then~

It was about mid-day, and the place was busy. People came in waves, and you could almost set your watch by them. In between the waves of people between a late breakfast and the lunch hour, Shea let out a surprised whistle. “Holy smokes, what the hell?”

"Did someone drive away with the gas pump still in their gas tank again?" Castiel asked warily as he restocked the snack-sized bags of chips.

"No, look!" Glancing up, Shea was excitedly pointing outside the windows behind the registers towards the gas pumps. Curious, he headed up to the stand beside her, and his jaw dropped.

“Is that...legal?” was all Castiel could think to ask.

A giant armored something was parked at the furthest gas pumps, between 14 and 15. Castiel had never seen anything like it--it was some sort of vehicle, encased in steel plates, with a cowcatcher on the front like a train. There were hydraulic spikes along the sides of the vehicle, two per side. The steel was stained, mud-splattered, the welded joints rusting and discolored. People congregated around the thing curiously, and a few took pictures or videos. Just as many people steadfastly ignored it, their need for food and gas was more pressing than the odd homemade tank.

When the driver hopped down from the driver's side, Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t see much in detail because of the distance, but Castiel got the sense of a handsome face and a cavalier slouch of his shoulders.

There was an annoyed groan next to him. “Why couldn’t this Mad Max extra when we aren’t drowning in customers? I wanna know what’s the deal with the Killdozer!” When he didn’t respond, an elbow landed playfully in his ribs, and Castiel grunted. “Although I think it’s not the tank making you tongue-tied, is it?”

“Shea,” Castiel stepped away from her, rubbing his side and frowning. “That’s not nice.”

Her retort was a simple devilish smile; Castiel wondered if he was wrong about her being nothing but a sweetheart.

Stepping away, Shea held up her finger and stared over her shoulder for a moment. “Ah, coming!” She said to someone out of view. “Slushie machine’s acting up again. You can watch the front right?”

Castiel despised being on the register alone. He was awkward as hell when people tried to make small talk with him. “Are you sure I can’t--?”

“Nope, I got it!” She was gone around the corner in a flash--despite her short stature and overweight frame, Shea could move when she wanted to.

A man cleared his throat, and Castiel turned to see the handsome tank driver standing at the counter. Between a beautiful, symmetrical face and brilliant golden-green eyes, Castiel froze to the spot. He smiled at Castiel. “Hey, sunshine,” he said in a rough voice, not unlike his own raspy timbre.

Unsure what to say, Castiel decided that doing his job was a safe bet and rang up the man’s purchases (water bottles, a six-pack of beer, chips, some beef jerky). He took the card offered to him and asked, “Is that everything, Mr. Winchester?”

For a second, the playful mask slipped, and his shoulders slumped. “Actually,” Mr. Winchester said, “Can you point me in the direction of a decent bed?” His eyes grew wide as he verbally backpedaled. “Oh God, I didn’t mean for that to sound like a pick-up line. Not that I wouldn’t want to pick you up, I–” He fell silent, his entire face beet red, even to the tips of his ears. He clapped a palm over his eyes. “I meant that I’m exhausted from driving and am sick of fast food if you know a good diner.”

Unable to help himself, Castiel snorted hard at how quickly the man shoved his foot in his mouth. It was a routine straight out of a TV show; real people didn’t act like that. Well, I’m pretty sure he’s real, so I guess they do.

In a surprising turn of events, Castiel managed to rally the conversation. “I actually can help,” he said. Castiel forced the register to spit out a blank receipt by jamming a finger to the printer button. After he grabbed a pen, Castiel quickly drew a map of their side of town. He drew a few X's, made sure the name of the streets were legible and handed it to Mr. Winchester.

"There's the Big Boy Burger here, and there's the Dixie Line Diner here," he pointed to the marked spots on his map. "Both are good." He didn't mention that he knew this from scavenging through their respective trash receptacles a few times. Castiel glanced at the tank then tapped the map. "The Star Motel, here on the corner of Wythe and Washington, has decent beds and clean rooms. Plus a decently sized parking lot."

Gratefully, Mr. Winchester took the map and checked it over when a woman cleared her throat behind him.

"Thanks…" He trailed off, staring at Castiel's name tag and struggling.

"Castiel," he said. "Have a good day."

Mr. Winchester’s smile was tired but genuine. "See ya, Cas." He carefully folded the paper map before pocketing it. And with that, he was striding across the parking lot, stopped a few times by onlookers. By the time the woman walked away with her purchases, the tank was gone.

Castiel was exceptionally disappointed by that, he realized.

Shea managed to show back up about a minute after the vehicle was gone. “Got it,” she said with a thumbs up, settling behind her register. It took several minutes of constant customers before they had a break, and Castiel whirled on her.

“You did that on purpose,” he accused.

There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You can’t confirm that. That machine breaks all the time.”

Castiel squinted at her.

“Did you at least ask him what the tank was?”

He shook his head, completely forgotten.

“Castiel, you had one job!” she said, disappointed.

“I rang his items up and gave him his receipt. What else was I supposed to do?”

Forlornly, Shea sighed. “Guess he’ll just be an interesting story to add to the collection of tales from the gas station.”

~Now~

Over a shared lunch break, Shea watched a video of Dean’s on her smartphone, a spoon hanging forgotten from her mouth. Castiel was munching on a pilfered burrito, cataloging her microexpressions.

“This is what you said no to?” Shea asked. “Why in the world did you come back to the gas station? Storm chasing sounds way more fun than being here!”

Castiel didn’t want to admit that he missed the adrenaline from his old job. Sweeping the parking lot and upselling scratch tickets were easy tasks, but they were also dull. He missed the thrill of the drop, helping people out of dangerous, life-and-death situations. Despite everything that had happened, Castiel missed being an angel. Knowing he remembered things through rose-colored glasses didn’t dull that realization; he just desperately wanted to go back to when things were simpler.

You can’t go back. Boring it might be, but this job was his because Nora took a chance on him. He’d been able to keep ahold of it without any real issues except for last night. In life, slow and steady wins the race, no matter how much his heart wasn’t in it.

Dean’s offer was a strange moment, but that’s all it was. In the light of day, the night at the storm chaser’s side became hazier, dream-like in his mind as he contemplated everything. It was only when he looked down at the new shoes he was wearing, felt their new not-broken-in stiffness, that the spell broke. Dean had been real for a little while anyway. He showed Castiel kindness before he disappeared into the bright sunlight, burning up like morning fog on a pond.

“Life isn’t about adventure,” Castiel told her as he returned from restocking the restroom.

"Come on! Let me live vicariously through you!" Shea teased. “Besides, you strike me as someone who needs a reason to get up in the morning. What’s your purpose, Castiel?”

Castiel replaced the trash can liner, carefully avoiding her eyes. “A few years ago, I would have said it was to serve others.”

“Not anymore?” Shea asked, curious but not pushing.

His throat felt like it was closing up; his voice was thick. “Not anymore.”

Holding up her hands, Shea put her fists together. “You need a life that aligns with your purpose. Those two things disconnect," She jerked them apart. "You end up a shell of yourself.”

He scoffed. “When did you become my life coach?”

Shea’s eyes grew wide. “Ah, sorry, man. The wife’s a therapist–hard not to take some of those lessons to heart.” She got to her feet and threw away her lunch trash.

A woman in fatigues, brunette hair in a bun, grinned at him. “Remember Clarence,” she said with a low drawl, “You find a cause, and you serve it. Give yourself over, and it orders your life.”

A cause…what could a broken, homeless wreck like him have to offer the world?

He shook his head, shaking away the ghosts that still haunted him as he followed Shea from the office/break room back to the registers. On the way, he was stopped by a voice so greasy the words felt oil-slick. “Excuse me, associate.”

Snapped from his thoughts, Castiel turned to see an older, bald man with a weasely face staring at him. He stood at attention, innately recognizing the higher rank of the man. “Yes, sir?”

“That roller grill needs to be cleaned and refilled,” the man said, waving a vague hand towards the roller grill in question. Castiel glanced at it over, noted the number of products, and was glad to see it was almost full.

“I just filled that about an hour ago,” he confirmed. “It’s still fresh.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shea shaking her head ever so slightly. Uh oh.

“Son,” the man said, and Castiel swallowed hard at the condescension dripping from that voice. The effort to not use the name on his nametag struck him as manipulative, dehumanizing him, and reducing him to just a cog in the machine. Strange how disconcerting that realization was when thinking about his years serving in the Air Force.

“We don’t make money if there’s no product on that rack. In the time it took you to talk back to me, you could have finished up already.”

Castiel blinked, and Nora popped up next to him, wearing a fake smile. “Castiel, this is Zachariah, the area manager. Zachariah, this is our new hire, Castiel.” She said quickly. “He’s still learning.”

Still learning? Castiel worked the gas station for months and had the day-to-day operations down to an art. Even on negative sleep, he did his job well. His inclination to argue was cut short once he noticed the dozen antsy people in Shea’s line. “Let me help get the line down, and then I can–”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Zachariah cut him off, and Castiel bit his tongue, literally.

Nora glanced away, leaving Castiel to deal with the cranky area manager on his own. That stung --he'd done nothing but bend over backward for Nora, working doubles more often than not. He'd taken those shifts for the money, yes, but also because Nora had given him a chance with this job others wouldn't. And she had left him to the wolves once again. “Yes, sir.”

Shooting Shea an apologetic glance, Castiel hurried to the back of the store to the walk-in freezer for several boxes of product to fill the case back up. His stomach grumbled long and hard when he thought about the almost dozen hot dogs, bratwursts, and burritos, still perfectly fresh, about to go to waste.

Technically, he was supposed to throw the food away for safety reasons. Instead, he grabbed a cardboard take-out box to put the old food in. Quickly wiping the grill down, he threw on the new items, grimacing as he did so at the utter waste. He knew, based on the weird hours between late lunch and early dinner, that the food was going to be thrown away mostly untouched. By the time lunch came around, they’d be overcooked and subsequently tossed.

“Could you get somebody to help you!” Castiel grunted when he noticed that, despite Shea running two registers as fast as possible, the line was a dozen people strong. A young man was giving Shea a tough time, but she grinned with her practiced customer service face and smiled at him sweetly.

Moving automatically, Castiel darted up to the front and jumped on the second register. Though most of the people in the line grumbled at him for ‘taking his sweet time,’ they were able to get the line down within a few minutes. “Thanks, Castiel,” Shea said. “Now, get back to whatever Zachariah told you to do.”

Castiel nodded and headed back to the roller, only to stop in his tracks when he saw Zachariah inspect the grill, then open the lid to the box of leftovers. He shot Castiel a disgusted sneer. “Associates aren’t allowed to take anything home that is not purchased. Were you planning on paying for these? Or were you hoping to get yet another hand-out?”

Zachariah’s phrasing set off alarm bells in his head. He knew. Somehow he knew about Castiel being homeless, and he was rubbing it in his face. He thought Castiel would take the abuse since he has nowhere else to go. If he’d done this yesterday, he would have been right.

Castiel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “They were already getting thrown away,” he protested.

“Yes, they are,” Zachariah grinned smugly; he opened the box and let the contents fall into the trash can, and tossed the empty box on top. Castiel felt his stomach clench in hunger and resentment, and he almost socked the bastard right then and there. I can’t; I’ll lose this job. I can’t–

Dean’s smiling face flashed across his mind.

Dean, who ‘saw’ Castiel as a human being. Someone worth new shoes and a backpack of clothes, and splitting his rations with.

Dean saw Castiel as worthy of kindness and a second chance.

I don’t have to put up with this.

When Nora walked up, fear in her eyes, expecting some sort of altercation, Castiel cleared his throat. “I was going to tell you earlier, but I wasn’t able to.” He unzipped his vest and handed it to her. “Thank you, Nora, but I’ve been offered a job elsewhere, effective immediately.”

Both managers gaped at him. Nora recovered quicker. “Castiel, wait, we can’t afford to have you leave. Shea will be–”

“-Finally paid for some goddamn overtime! Amen and Hallelujah,” Shea said pointedly. Nora just looked between her and Castiel, speechless at the sudden mutiny.

Afraid of being kicked out without his belongings, Castiel darted away to the back office to grab his pack. Just as he put his hand on the handle of the back door, he was engulfed in a fierce hug. Turning, he found a misty-eyed Shea letting go, handing him a receipt paper with her phone number. "Please keep in touch," she asked. "I need to know you're not fertilizing the Navajo Desert somewhere, alright?"

Castiel returned her hug stiffly, out of practice. "I'll keep in touch," he promised as they parted.

“Maybe someday I'll leave this place behind," Shea said wistfully. "But til then, I'll have to live through you. So go out there and figure how to live." She made a shooing motion. “Good luck, Castiel!”

And just like that, Shea was gone. He tucked the paper into his slacks' pocket and stepped outside, staring up at the light blue sky. The warmth of the last few hours of sunlight brought a smile to his face. Imagining himself back in the Imp, with Dean behind the wheel, barreling down some rural backroad towards a dangerous twister, filled his heart with something close to peace. This is the right thing to do.

Castiel hiked the pack onto his back correctly and walked away from the gas station into the city of Pontiac proper. He mulled over his conversation with Dean the previous day, hoping Dean had followed his advice about a place to stay. At least the Imp would tell him if he was in the right place. As the afternoon rays washed over him, he made sure to keep an eye on his surroundings as much as possible while doing his musing. He didn’t need to show up on Dean’s doorstep bloodied again.

What if Dean wasn’t in town anymore? What if, after dropping Castiel off that morning, he had left instead of waiting? After all, Castiel has given no indication he would take Dean’s offer that morning. As he continued to walk, he decided to let his subconscious develop some contingency plans just in case Dean was gone.

Castiel avoided the rougher areas of the suburban sprawl, taking longer routes through overgrown parking lots and past abandoned strip malls. He was determined to get to Dean in one piece, though his head ached, and his ribs complained about every step. A few people were walking around, but they gave him a wide berth, his determined stride and scowl sweeping people out of his path like a giant broom.

He paused at a crosswalk with a few other guys, waiting impatiently for the light to turn. The others took their chances and ran across the road, and a loud horn went off as a red car slammed its brakes, screeching to a halt just shy of one of the jaywalkers. Castiel didn’t even realize he had frozen to the spot, watching the scene in horror, not breathing or moving. His heart pounded painfully as pedestrian and driver traded fiery insults. In the end, everyone left the scene shaken up but uninjured. Relief washed over because Castiel wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to leap into action if that jaywalker was struck.

Guilt and shame chased him across the road when the light changed. Instead, he focused on what he thought was the roof of a specific steel behemoth a block away. By that point, he was jogging, huffing through the pain, scared that the Imp was going to pull out any second, leaving him in a worse lurch than before. Luckily, there was no one in the parking lot, and the only movement was from a blonde woman. In ripped denim shorts and a tank top with a cigarette in her mouth, she casually against the motel wall. Knowing he couldn’t not say anything, he paused to wave awkwardly. “Hello, Cindy.”

Cindy’s bloodshot eyes flickered over him. “Looking for another good time?”

Hiking the pack up his shoulder, Castiel shook his head. “You know I’m not,” he admonished her gently.

“Yeah, you barely handled me last time. Second time might do you in.” She coughed hard, thick, and phlegmy; Castiel shuddered internally, regretting so many life decisions at that moment.

“So, why are you here, Casteel?”

He was barely able to stop correcting her. “Looking for the driver of that,” He pointed to the tank on the other side of the parking lot.

“What’s in it for me?”

That brought him up short. “I didn’t rat on you,” he said simply.

She rolled her eyes, cigarette dangling from her mouth. “That was common courtesy, seeing as I was the one who was making sure your ass survived,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and pouting.

“Please. It’s important.”

“Fine! Lucky number 13,” she blew a hazy smoke into his face. “Next time you’re paying me, one way or another,” she said before stomping away, leaving Castiel to navigate his way to the door on his own. He tried to see any hint that Dean was inside, but the curtains were drawn. Breathing to steady his shaking hand, he knocked several times on the door and waited.

He heard shuffling and something that could have been a curse. The door cracked open barely an inch–just enough that Castiel recognized Dean blinking suspiciously at him. “Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.” Steeling himself, he asked, “Is your offer was still available?”

Remembering himself, Dean stepped back and let Castiel inside without another word. Castiel noticed the two full beds as the door closed, one covered in luggage and the other in disarray. Dean closed and locked the door and moved around Cas, and Castiel noticed Dean had been sleeping in a green T-shirt and very revealing boxer briefs. However, the most curious thing was the pearl-handled Colt pistol Dean placed on his nightstand as he cleared off the second bed.

While Castiel sat down, Dean pulled on the jeans left on the floor. Not bothering with the button, the ripped jeans hung tenuously onto Dean’s surprisingly slim hips. Castiel had to work hard to keep his thoughts PG, so he let his gaze fall on the gun.

When Dean saw Castiel staring at the gun, he crossed his arms. “Self-defense,” he said a little stiffly. “Cross-country travel ain’t always a picnic.”

“It’s not the fact you have a firearm,” Castiel explained. “I’ve just never seen one decorated like yours.”

“Family heirloom,” Dean admitted, dropping his arms. His hair was a mess; there was a patch of drool on the pillow on the other bed. Sleep rumpled was a good look on Dean.

Dean grunted as he walked to the bathroom. Castiel sat, hands on his thighs, internally wrestling with himself. I cannot afford a crush. This is nothing but business.

Returning a moment later with his face washed and jeans done up correctly, Dean smiled. “Good to see you, Cas. I was thinking about you.”

“You were?”

"Oh, uh...I mean, I was worried about you messing up my hard work." Dean motioned for Castiel to turn slightly towards the dim light from the lamp on the side table. Crouching down in front of him, Dean gently moved Castiel's head so he could inspect the stitches.

"How're the ribs?"

Castiel coughed to force himself to stop staring at Dean. “Still feeling like a T. Rex used me for soccer practice,” he grunted. Dean stood and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and a bottle of water from a duffel bag on the floor. Without prompting, he gave the correct number of pills to Castiel, who swallowed them gratefully. Dean grabbed Castiel’s pack; the only reason he didn't tackle Dean was because he plopped it inside the bathroom seconds later. Dean put his hands on his hips.

"I'm gonna check the NAM and H Triple R weather models to see what this possible squall line could look like," he said, getting a beat-up laptop and perching on the edge of his bed. He pointed to the bathroom without meeting Castiel’s gaze. "The water pressure is pretty good. You should take a shower."

Swallowing his pride, reading between the lines, and knowing he was a mess, Castiel went to the bathroom with his head down. Everything took twice as long because he had to make sure the stitches stayed relatively dry, and his ribs made most movement stiff and awkward. He spent most of the time carefully cleaning his hair and beard. Wrapping himself in a threadbare towel, Castiel dug through the pack and found a shaving kit with an electric razor inside. He got lost in carefully trimming the hair and beard he was left with a full but neat beard and longish hair. He paused and studied his reflection, debating if he should keep going until he was back to his usual short hair and stubble. New leaf, New look? Glancing at the mess of hair on the sink and floor, he felt lighter.

As he looked at his reflection, it took him a long time to recognize the tiny glimmer of hope sparkling in his eyes. Pulling on clean underwear and socks, he dressed into his clothes. The navy with the matching tie made his blue eyes pop. His cheeks were still a little gaunt, but the stubble hid it, and he was more skin and bone than muscle. Noticing a little tub of hair gel, Castiel remembered how Dean had his hair spiked up. Feeling adventurous, Castiel tried to mimic the look. It was less a one-for-one recreation and more the aftermath of a satisfying night of sex. Still, he had to admit it was a good look on him.

Once he’d cleaned up the bathroom of all the hair and packed everything away, he heard voices from the room. Curious, he cracked open the door and heard Dean talking to someone.

"--a homeless guy to replace me? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Hey, you're the dumbass who had to bust his damn leg."

"Look, I know the T.I.I. can be a pain--"

"Imp, Sam. And yeah, she is, but she's my pain. Don't worry your pretty little head over it, Samantha. I'll get your data." There was a pause, then a cough. “Cas, you gonna come out and say hi or keep eavesdropping like a creeper?"

Cheeks flush, Castiel sighed and stepped out of the bathroom. "My apologies; I was trying not to be rude."

When there was no response but echoing silence, Castiel caught Dean staring at him. "What?" He asked self-consciously, running a hand through his shorter hair.

"I, uh, shit; you clean up really well," Dean said, blushing and turning away from him. Castiel arched an eyebrow becuase he'd barely done anything. Dean patted the side of the bed next to him as he turned back to his laptop. "Not a word," he threatened the digital face.

Castiel plopped down next to Dean, their thighs touching, as Castiel met a young man with long hair and hazel eyes. There was a determination in the man’s regard that Castiel recognized from Dean's the previous night while seeing his injuries. "Sam? Dean's brother?" Castiel guessed.

"Yahtzee," Sam and Dean said in tandem. Castiel's mouth twitched in amusement.

"I'm Castiel," he said, and Sam leaned back from the screen, clearly looking him over.

"Dean did tell you what the job was, yeah?"

"Yes. Recording storm footage to sell."

"And to get your data," Dean cut off Sam's response. "I'm not that dumb, Sam."

"I don't like this," Sam admitted, brushing his hair from his face. "Dean, can't we just--"

"If you even think about hotwiring a car and finding us, I will bury you in a shallow grave," Dean threatened. "You're a liability right now, so shut up and stay put."

Sam shot him such a look so sour it could have curdled milk.

Dean slung an arm over Castiel's shoulders. "Look, Cas is cool, Sammy. He's just down on his luck, right Cas?"

Castiel nodded. "I swear to both of you that I'll do everything in my power to make sure your brother survives the season," he intoned.

Sam snorted hard on the computer. "Wow, you're something else."

"Hey, I didn't call you to grill the new guy," Dean said. "I called you to get your take on the models."

The deflection worked; Castiel was no longer interrogated as Dean and Sam discussed the predicted weather outcomes, narrowing down an area for Dean to take the Imp. Some of the jargon was going over Castiel's head, but he truly wasn't paying much attention. The last 24 hours hit him like a runaway train. He was having a hard enough time keeping himself upright; trying to figure out the brother's back and forth was above his capability at the moment. Hiding a yawn behind his hand, Castiel looked at the radar projections, the splotches of reds, yellows, blues, and greens, swirling together. Once he'd gotten some sleep, his curiosity would be back with a vengeance.

Not wanting to pass out on Dean's bed, Castiel stood and retrieved his backpack. He settled it on the bed and crouched next to it, carefully taking things out and rearranging them into some semblance of order. The work was meditative, and Castiel quickly got absorbed into it, letting the brothers’ bickering wash over him, reminding him of his rambunctious squadmates.

"Alright, egghead, fine!" Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. "We’ll take I-72 southwest and set up shop outside of Kansas City, then. Calm your tits."

"Fuck off, Dean. Don't you want my opinion? Then why did you call me for it?"

"Cause everyone knows who the real brain behind this operation is," Dean said, not looking at Sam's face.

"Dean," Sam was exasperated but unable to say anything else because Dean babbled over him.

"Hey, shhh -am sorry--zzzzzzz-- going into a tunnel, I'm losing signal!" He said this while staring at his brother, who broke with a groan.

“You’re such a jerk, Dean!” Sam snapped.

“Bye, bitch!” Dean closed the laptop's lid, and silence fell over the room.

"God, that kid won't shut up sometimes," Dean said awkwardly, shrugging at Castiel.

Ducking his head, Castiel released a little half-huff/laugh. "I wonder where he got that from?" He teased, deadpan.

“Not another word, newbie,” Dean waved a finger at him. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Half an hour later, the Imp packed and ready Dean returned the key to the front office. He took in the sights and sounds of the city, wondering if he’d be back anytime soon. Would he want to return after the storm season?

Dean stepped up next to Castiel, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. “Last chance to bail, Cas. You sure?”

Castiel was nervous but ready to get out of this rut. If that meant getting sucked out of his stale routine by a tornado, so be it.

Castiel’s eyes roamed over the steel monstrosity, knowing this was going to be home for the next few months. The man next to him was a mystery, an unknown. However, he found that he wasn’t scared by that idea anymore. He wanted to know everything about Dean and prove to him that Castiel wasn’t a waste of space or broken beyond repair. “Yes, Dean. I’ll go with you.”

Triumphantly, Dean did a little fist pump. “Awesome!” Climbing into the driver’s side, he leaned over to open the door for Castiel, who slid into the passenger seat and tucked his pack between his feet. Castiel witnessed how Dean smiled at him as he buckled his seat belt.

Dean held out his hand, and this time, Castiel shook it properly. The firm grip and calloused fingers revealed a man who knew what he wanted and was willing to work hard for it.

Dean grinned as he pushed play on the tape deck, and Led Zeppelin echoed around the steel interior. The spartan, enclosed space, smelling faintly of sweat and leather, reminded him of a C-130 before a jump. It almost felt like a homecoming, being back in a tin can taking him right the death’s doorstep. That pre-mission zen washed over him as Dean guided the Imp onto the highway ramp and the interstate proper.

They rode towards Kansas and the brewing storms on the horizon.

Chapter Text

It was the quiet that woke him from a fitful sleep. Castiel jerked his head around, studying his surroundings to find he had fallen asleep in his seat. The air was stifling, and he struggled with the deadbolt holding the window in place. Dean had explained that the windows of the Imp couldn’t be opened normally since they were sheets of plexiglass welded into place–protection from flying debris. The windows swung open like little doors that locked into place. Frustrated and needing to breathe, he opened the door and stumbled out. He sucked in the cool, fresh air and blinked in the bright sunlight.

A jostling of tools revealed Dean rooting around in the heavily armored trunk. Dean grinned when he saw Castiel. “Glad you finally decided to join me, Princess Aurora.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Castiel said sheepishly. He ran his hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. “Where are we?”

“About 30 mins south of Kansas City.” They had parked in a quiet, suburban neighborhood alongside an empty playground. Closing the trunk, Dean tossed him a bottle of Gatorade and some beef jerky. Despite his malnutrition and exhaustion, Castiel managed to catch them without fumbling one or the other. “You’re gonna need your energy,” Dean said around a mouthful of his own jerky stick, his cheeks puffing out in a decent impression of a chipmunk. He swallowed and pointed at the sky over Castiel’s shoulder. “The show’s about to start.”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, where Dean was watching the sky intently, and cocked his head in confusion. There was nothing behind them but expensive cookie-cutter ranch houses overlooking a blue sky with a few fluffy white clouds. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and he could smell flowers and freshly cut grass. Was there a joke here he just wasn’t getting?

Dean waved for Castiel to follow him as he clambered onto the hood. The playground created a clearing for them to observe the sky. It took Castiel a moment of shameful panting to climb up (he would’ve been laughed out of the service, but it wasn't like he’d been eating well for a long time). His ribs and back twinged in pain, but he bit his lip and focused on not falling off the damn hood. Once settled next to Dean, cross-legged and snacking quietly, Dean launched into lecture mode.

“Those fluffy clouds are cumulonimbus and are one of the ingredients needed to make our twisters. Sam could give you all the scientific mumbo jumbo, but I’ll give you the bare bones of what’s happening. See, when moist air closer to the surface heats it, it rises and meets the colder air in the atmosphere, and we get instability. Tornado Alley is especially active in the spring because the warm air from the Gulf of Mexico smashes into cold air from Canada. Throw in higher wind shear, and the fact that the spring sun is warming everything up creates this atmospheric accident.” He mimed and made the sound effects of two vehicles getting into a crash. “That’s how we get our supercells, these uber-charged thunderstorms that are meaner and nastier than a normal rainmaker. If those cells start to rotate, it’s a mesocyclone, which creates the conditions needed for possible twisters.”

“Now, I’m making it sound easy to find, but it’s not. Our technology has come a long way to helping understand twisters, but we still don’t know everything. It’s all a roll of the dice. Sometimes the forecast is perfect, yet we only chase rambunctious tumbleweeds. Other times the forecast calls for less than nothing, only for us to run from baseball-sized hail while an EF-3 drops from the sky and takes out a town.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Dean finished his drink and scoffed. “Mother Nature has no problem throwing us a curveball to keep us on our toes.”

As Dean spoke, Castiel noticed the clouds getting thicker, expanding upwards toward space. A little tug of fear pulled on his insides. Visions from natural disaster movies he’d seen flashed in his mind’s eye. He gulped the last of his drink, then leaned towards Dean, voice low. “You believe a tornado will pass through here? Shouldn't we be warning these residents?”

Dean’s face scrunched up. “Dude, we’re not intercepting anything here. Chasing in Mrs. Cleaver’s backyard is only a step below chasing in a city when it comes to places that suck to chase in. This is just a staging area.”

Now Dean was speaking Castiel’s language. “We're here to do reconnaissance before committing to the best course of action,” he surmised.

“Exactly! The Imp has special conditions for a successful deployment, and this,” he waved his hands around, “Is no good. Despite what Sam thinks, she's a lady,” he patted the warm metal hood fondly. “She doesn't put out for just anyone.”

The neighborhood around them hummed with life--dogs barking, people talking, kids laughing and yelling back and forth. Some kids pointed excitedly in their direction, but their guardians rushed them along to their next scheduled events. Castiel remembered being one of those children growing up, their nanny picking him up to take him to private tutoring and violin lessons when all he'd wanted was to play with the other kids. A fat lot of good those lessons are now, he thought as he flexed his bruised and cut-up fingers. Wouldn’t his family be so proud of where he was now?

Dean leaned back on his hands, having noticed Castiel’s hanging head and trying to give him space to gather himself. “It’s not all Hollywood action scenes,” Dean said lightly. “There’s a lot of ‘hurrying up to wait,’ which sucks.” He fidgeted with the pendant on his necklace, a bronze head of some ancient deity. After a few moments of silence, Dean hopped back to the asphalt, pacing back and forth. He might be familiar with the concept of waiting, but he’s terrible at actually doing it.

Castiel sat stone still for a few moments, eyes scanning the clouds. Despite the commotion of people’s lives continuing around them, they felt like they were on their own plane of existence. He had a feeling he and Dean's appearance would soon be whispered among the neighbors at the next homeowner's association meeting, like the beginning of an urban legend: did you see the men in the tank? What were they up to?

“Why do you do this?”

Dean stopped his pacing. He turned his back on the sky to face Castiel and crossed his arms. “This?”

Castiel motioned around them. “Yeah. All of this. Why?”

“Sammy’s going to MIT for his graduate program,” Dean said, chest puffed out as he smiled proudly. “Despite our shitty circumstances growing up, Sam managed to get into a top school. He’s studying to be a research meteorologist, and that shit ain't cheap.” Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. “Safe twister footage is not terribly lucrative, but heart-stopping, crap-your-pants twister footage is. So, I built the Imp over several years for videos to sell and to collect data for Sam’s thesis.”

Castiel cocked his head in thought. “You only do this for Sam? I'm not sure how healthy that is.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “He’s my little brother, and I’ll do whatever it takes to watch out for him. If you had siblings, you’d get it.”

“I do have siblings. And not one of them would’ve bought me new shoes if I had shown up on their doorstep in the same condition I did on yours.” His whole chest ached, and only partly from his bruised ribs.

Dean balked, visibly flinching. “Shit, Cas.”

Castiel waved away his words, not wanting to get bogged into that Swamp of Sadness. “It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that a graduate thesis has an endpoint. I’m just curious what you’ll do afterward.”

“You and me both,” Dean muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “I’ll figure it out, just like I always have.”

Yes, Dean did seem like a remarkably clever man. Castiel didn’t know anyone else who had built a homemade tank before but imagined it was challenging.

“In the meantime, I need you to be less Dr. Phil and more Chewbacca.”

“I thought my nickname was ‘Cas.’ Should I be writing all these down?”

Dean’s face twisted, but he cracked, groaning and rubbing the back of his neck. “Fuck you, Cas.”

“I don’t fuck on the first date.” Seeing Dean turn beet red was beyond satisfying. Castiel had no idea what he was doing--he didn’t banter with people--but he found it easy with Dean.

Dean didn’t meet his eyes, and Castiel could see he was trying to hold back laughter. Good. “Right. Well then, I think it's time to show you the works!”

~*~

‘The works’ was everything. He followed Dean around the Imp, getting a tour of the jumble of equipment on the dash. There was the laptop with multiple radars and the video cameras mounted around and on top of the roof, each housed in a plexiglass casing. In the time it took for Dean to explain how the cameras worked, the various radars on the laptop, how they set up their live stream, to practice filming with their camera, the sky had grown noticeably darker overhead.

Dean grinned up at the sky when a distant rumble sounded far away. “Looks like we’ll be getting some action after all.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together, eyes shining.

When Castiel turned back, he gaped at the incomprehensible mass of roiling black clouds blotting out the sky. A warm breeze brushed his back as it blew towards the rising mountain of dark clouds spreading across the horizon.

A high-pitched alarm sounded inside the Imp, and Dean’s grin widened. Excitedly, he pumped his fist as Castiel recognized the shrill tone of the National Weather Service’s warning. Dean slid into the driver’s seat, and Castiel heard the robotic tone of the notification. He didn’t recognize any of the places named, but Dean whooped.

“Looks like Sam’s prediction was pretty close. We’ve got a few supercells with potential. Just gotta nail one done.”

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket, calling someone on speakerphone. His eyes didn’t leave the radar screen of his laptop. When the phone connected, Dean said, “Hey! Oracle! Gonna need your all-seeing eye.”

“Bite me, Dean.” Sam’s voice was small and hard to hear around the engine’s sound. Castiel strained forward so he could continue listening. “Do you want my forecast or not?”

Dean chomped theatrically. “Gimme something good this time! The storms haven’t been firing up this season as they should. The Meat-Man is hungry!”

Castiel snorted in surprise as Sam’s weary voice said, “For the last time, idiot, that’s not what that means!”

“Cas, first order of business.” Dean’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “What does Meat-Man mean to you?”

Castiel arched an eyebrow. “You’re making many assumptions about my character out of the gate like that.”

“Jesus, Dean, can’t you concentrate for two seconds?”

Dean ran his finger over the radar screen. “Okay, which cell do you think we should aim for?”

“I’d aim southwest,” Sam said. “Cell near Hagar will have pretty good CAPE values.”

“Cape?” Castiel asked.

“C.A.P.E. is Convective Available Potential Energy,” Sam explained.

“Tornado juice, in layman's terms,” Dean said. “The higher the value, the better the chance for possible twisters.”

Castiel studied the radar map, looking at the projected splotches of reds, yellows, and greens. He saw Dean point to Sam’s suggested town of Hager. A few other blobs of color off to the west caught his attention. “What about these storms here? Off of 1-72?”

Dean blinked and shrugged. “The CAPE doesn’t look high. Also, there’s more potential for a wizard-nado, and that’s not helpful to us.”

Castiel just blinked. “A wizard-nado?”

“Storms with more moisture are called high-precipitation storms, or HP for short,” Sam explained. “Higher moisture means any potential twister can hide in a wall of rain. Rain-wrapped are the most dangerous ones to chase: you literally can’t see them coming.”

Strangely, Castiel’s gut felt that the isolated little cell to the west was worth the risk, but he said nothing. “Right. If it can’t be filmed safely, it’s not worth the risk.”

Dean rolled his eyes but acquiesced. “Alright, Science Guy, wrap up the after-school special and give me something to work with.”

“So,” Sam continued, “I’m dropping a pin on the GPS where I think you should try to intercept.”

Dean looked at the pin on the map. “I’m glad this looks like it’ll be away from these populated areas.”

“Yeah, my thoughts too.” There was a pause, and Sam admitted, “This is weird.”

“Yeah. Won’t miss your luxurious locks blocking my shot, though.”

“Dean.” The eye roll was audible. “Seriously, though, you think that’ll work?”

“We don’t have a choice. Need cash to keep the beast fed, unless you wanna help me start enrolling in fake credit cards.”

“Castiel,” Sam called out, and Castiel squeezed in next to Dean. “The probabilities are fairly low; honestly, you might not see anything more than scud today. I mean, you should be prepared–”

“--Yes, our teeth and ambitions are bared! Be Prepared!!” Dean belted off-key, voice wavering when neither Castiel nor Sam joined in his impromptu karaoke. Dean’s blush of embarrassment was incredibly endearing, its warm pink color setting off the freckles along his cheekbones. Castiel wanted to memorize them.

“As I was saying,” Sam continued with a world-weary sigh. “You shouldn’t freak out. The Imp was built to sustain a direct impact. And I’ll be here too. You guys should be fine.”

The Gordian knot in his stomach eased. “That does soothe some concerns, Sam. Thank you.”

Dean waved to Castiel as he hung up the call and shoved their camera at him. Dean moved the table with the laptop so they could both see its screen. “You ready, newbie?” Dean asked, grinning like a madman as he buckled himself in.

“As I'll ever be,” Castiel said, mouth dry. He swallowed his fears and regrets. Once his seat belt was on, the Imp left the safety of the neighborhood cul-de-sac, and they were away.

“I might need help navigating, but mostly I just need you to film. Need the money shot to make money, capiche?”

“Understood.” While the situation was tense, having a clear directive helped steel his nerves. He ran his hand over the camera in his lap, remembering the steps Dean had drilled into his head for him to follow. He turned it on, made sure the settings were correct, and lifted the camera to scan the darkened inside of the Imp. He focused on Dean momentarily, the low lights making him nothing more than a black silhouette. He clicked on the overhead light. “Say hi, Dean.”

“We don’t need that much B-roll,” Dean said but shrugged and smiled at the camera. “Howdy, folks! Dean here, about 45 mins south of Kansas City, just outside Hager. If things look different, the jolly green giant isn’t here. He’s on bed rest, doctor’s orders. Those who caught our last upload probably saw him take that tumble in the cow pasture. He got his foot caught in a prairie dog burrow.” Dean snickered. “Idiot fucked his leg up. So, we have a new team member until Sam is back in fighting condition! Say hi, Cas!”

“Um…hello?” Castiel didn’t move or turn the camera to him. Instead, he sat there, feeling foolish about introducing himself to no one.

Dean chuckled. “Smooth, dude.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Shouldn’t you tell us the plan, Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s to film something more notable than a sagging nipple on the horizon.”

The mental image caught Castiel off guard, and he let the camera flop downwards as he laughed.

“Hey, hey, that’s precious cargo,” Dean complained, but he grinned nonethless.

Castiel pulled himself together. He had to actively ignore Dean’s unfair attractiveness as he got the camera back up and recorded again. The muscles in his arms started to shake from exertion. The camera wasn’t huge, but his poor diet was catching up to him quickly. As he put the camera down, he watched Dean effortlessly thread the Imp through the gathering traffic. It was close to rush hour. Despite them heading out of town towards the black clouds, other cars appeared to be tailing them. Castiel turned around and confirmed several vehicles were taking the same turns they did. “Dean, it seems we're being followed.”

Surprising Castiel, Dean simply rolled his eyes. “Happens in every town. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a smartphone suddenly become a storm chaser,” he groused. The GPS told them to turn again, and the Imp hit country backroads. Once hitting that two-lane highway without any buildings except for the random farmhouse for miles in any direction, all bets were off. Dean ignored the GPS, yelling instructions at him, and made an earlier turn. The cars following behind them shot past, and they flew about half a mile to the crest of a hill. Dean pulled onto the shoulder and motioned for Castiel to follow him. Confused, Castiel grabbed the video camera and climbed out of the vehicle to stand beside Dean.

“Are you rolling?” Dean asked. After checking and confirming it was recording, Dean turned to him, motioning at the clouds off in the distance. The wind whipped past them, ruffling the tops of the grasses surrounding them. He pointed at the clouds, eyes scanning them expertly. “We’re looking at the cell Sam put us on,” he said. Castiel watched the clouds, amazed he could see some rotation in the clouds. Though not a portion, it looked like the whole outer edge was slowing moving around.

“Dean, it’s spinning,” Castiel said, and Dean grinned.

“Looks like it’s a mesocyclone! We’re starting to get rotation within the wall cloud.” Dean pointed out the storm’s outer edge, easily visible in the setting sun. Dean sucked in air through his nose. Castiel mimicked him. Fresh-cut grass filled his nose, but he didn't smell the churned-up dirt he’d expected. “A spinning supercell is one of the last things we need to get a tornado going. Come on, baby!”

Castiel found he couldn’t look at Dean head-on. The man’s utter excitement was blinding; even watching through the viewfinder didn’t feel like enough of a barrier between them. As he focused on keeping Dean’s video camera as still as possible, some shaky cam was happening regardless. He belatedly realized that Dean was explaining something to him, or rather the camera’s future audience. He was thoroughly distracted by Dean’s enthusiasm. Like a Steve Irwin of stormy weather, he paced and waited for Mother Nature to show her hand.

To Castiel, the clouds–-interspersed with lightning bolts and thunder claps–-looked like a mess at first. While watching Dean scan the clouds with expert vision, he realized the storm wasn’t a mess; it was a foreign language, and Dean was his cipher.

Castiel blinked hard as a blast of warm air kicked up sand and dirt. He shuddered as the thunder and the gritty air–sandy air, hot and gritty, the cave–hit his face. Sucking in a deep breath, Castiel smacked his bruised ribs with his hand hard enough to make him grunt. “Cas, what the hell?”

Castiel shook his head. The pain had cleared the fog of war for now. He was on a mission and needed to keep his wits about him. Ignoring Dean’s concerned scowl, he pointed to a mass of shadowy tendrils that fanned out from the bottom of the clouds aiming right for the ground. “Dean! Is that one, at your 11’o clock?”

Dean whirled around, following where Castiel pointed. He watched it for several precious seconds. “Not sure,” he admitted. “Could be scud. We’ll have to wait and see if it makes contact.”

Dean pulled out his phone and tried to speed dial Sam but only swore. “No signal, shit. Keep filming!” He bounded back to the car and slid into the driver’s seat, scanning the newest radar sweeps for any indications of an actual twister. Castiel did as told, trying to keep the camera aimed at the storm barreling toward them. He steeled himself against the thunder and the sporadic lightning. He saw the cars that had been following them fan out and follow other road networks.

“Cas, let’s go! I think it’s gonna hit the ground, and we gotta get to Sam’s pin.”

Castiel jogged back to the Imp and slid back into his seat, fascinating his seat belt just as Dean hit the pedal to the metal. “Jesus, Dean, we must get there alive to film anything,” he complained. Swinging the window open, he continued to film the storm as they raced towards it.

Dean’s eyes flickered from the road to the sky and the GPS pin. “I think we might get this one!” He said excitedly.

Castiel watched off to their 1 o’clock, a dancing tendril meandering towards the ground. The camera wasn’t heavy anymore; the pain in his body was replaced by adrenaline, mouth open in awe. They were going to witness the birth of a mythical creature, a real-life monster, a Kraken of the skies.

“GPS signal lost,” the app announced.

“NO!” They both shouted, meeting each other’s gaze with horror.

“Shit, this is going at least fifty miles an hour,” Dean groaned. “If I pull over, we’ll lose it!” Dean grabbed the road atlas on the bench between them and threw it at Castiel. “I marked it earlier; get us to the blue dot!”

With a gulp of trepidation, Castiel reluctantly put down the camera and picked up the atlas. At the same time, a wall of rain dropped from the sky onto the Imp as they passed under the wall cloud. The sudden pounding of water and another blaring siren on the screen forced Castiel to close his eyes. He gripped the map tightly. “Do you see a road name anywhere?”

Dean slowed down as he approached a four-way but didn't stop. Instead, he looked both ways and gunned across. Luckily the treeless fields meant he could see the lack of oncoming traffic, even with the rain. “Exeter!”

Casriel ran his hand over the worn atlas, trying to find the road to reorient them. He glanced at the radar on the laptop in front of them, the angry red and green flashing with another warning. He tried to overlay them in his mind to determine where to go.

“Cas!” Dean called out, “Left or right?”

Castiel looked to see they were barreling not just toward the area of rotation but also a dead end. He stared at the map in his lap. The grid lines of county roads jumbled into an indecipherable mess on paper. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds, suddenly overwhelmed by everything happening. “Dean, I…I–”

All he could see were the fields ahead–muddy tracts of land and seedling crops whipping violently in the winds. His hands shook from gut-wrenching terror. He was going to get them killed, just like the others.

“WHICH WAY, CAS??”

“Left!” Somehow Castiel squeaked the word, but it was too late, and they both knew it.

The hill rose before them, and the only way they wouldn’t crash was to make their turn on time. In a vehicle, Dean himself had described as a boat on land. “Hold on, Cas!”

There was violent screeching as Dean drifted the Imp around the corner without stopping. The maneuver would've been successful if not for the heavier back-end fishtailing. There was a crunch of metal and a groaning as they jolted in their seats. The seatbelts held Dean and Castiel in place as the tank spun around 180 degrees and mired in the fresh mud churned up by the passing storm.

A hand reached over and grabbed Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, you alright?”

After blinking several times and unbuckling his seat belt, Castiel sucked in a pained groan. His ribs felt like they were on fire. “M’fine, Dean,” he confirmed through clenched teeth. “You?”

Dean grunted as he unbuckled. “Been through worse, but it's never fun.” Instead of crawling out immediately, he leaned over and grabbed Castiel’s head. “Stitches look OK. Come on.”

The winds were howling less, and the pouring rain had stopped. Dean hopped outside, standing in the fresh mud and watching the storm race away from them. Castiel’s heart plummeted to his shoes when he saw Dean kick a rock, face dark.

Dean turned to Castiel. “Thought you said you read a map?”

“I can read a map just fine–” A rumble of thunder cut off Castiel’s retort, and he instinctually ducked his head. “--You can't possibly expect me to know everything immediately!”

Dean’s shoulders dropped, and he spun away from Castiel. He pulled out his phone and checked it. “Still no cell signal. Shit.”

Castiel scanned the surrounding area until he found what he was looking for, a tiny red barn. “It appears there’s a farm about a quarter mile away,” Castiel said, pointing to the red in the seas of green and brown. “I’ll go for help.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue but then just nodded. They didn't have a choice. “Guess I’ll just wait here then,” he said instead.

~*~

“Wow, you really weren't kidding about the tank part, were you?”

“No, sir.”

“Told ya before, you don’t have to ‘sir,’ me. My name’s Garth.” The cheerful reprimand came from a lanky farmer Castiel had found at the little farmhouse he found next to the barn. His cowboy hat and clothes were too big for his thin frame, draping him like curtains from a broken rod. Still, he’d been kind so far.

He’d yelled for his wife Bess to fetch some towels for Castiel, who stood soaked on their wraparound porch. As he dried his hair and beard, mindful to keep the stitches on his forehead clean, he explained the situation as best he could. Castiel's breathing was labored, from the exertion of the hike (it was a quarter mile away, how pathetic) to his battered ribs protesting his entire existence. He could only speak in monosyllables, but the farmer caught on quickly to Castiel's meaning. The only part he questioned was, "What do you mean, a tank?" Castiel just shrugged. He’d see soon enough.

Garth motioned for Castiel to climb up into his large, green combine tractor, and they made a beeline for the intersection Castiel pointed out. As they headed down the long driveway and then the road toward Dean, Castiel swallowed hard. Dean’s going to fire me, and then where will I go? What will I do? He hugged his side and hunched over, waiting for Garth to park behind the stranded Imp. She sat at an awkward angle, partially protruding from the ditch she’d gone into. Castiel felt so guilty he couldn’t even look at her or meet Dean’s eyes when he waved them down.

The farmer leaped from his six-foot-high cab as agile as a cat. “You fellas need a hand?”

“That would be great, Sir,” Dean said, relieved.

Garth chuckled and held out his hand. “Not a sir. Just a Garth.” Once they shook hands, Castiel handed Dean a clean towel he'd requested. Dean nodded his thanks and vigorously dried his hair while Garth curiously circled the Imp. He whistled. “Well, ain’t this a beaut.”

“She's my pride and joy," Dean said pointedly. “We were chasing those storm cells and missed the turn.”

“Yeah, this corner is notorious for crashes,” Garth said, leaning back with his hands in his pockets. “You’re not the first I’ve had to fetch out of it.”

That would explain the farmer's nonchalance when Castiel went for help.

“We appreciate your assistance,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, what he said,” Dean said, eyeing the tractor. “So, do you have a hitch on there? I’ve got a winch we can use.”

After twenty minutes of slipping in the thick mud, the winch line from the front of the Imp was attached to the tractor. Castiel gave them the thumbs up when all appeared clear, as Dean steered the Imp and Garth pulled with his tractor. The vehicles fought each other and the mud valiantly, the Imp making all kinds of groans and howls as the tires tried to sink more. But Dean only swore, changed the gear, and tried again. He began rocking the Imp back and forth. With one final jerk of the chain from Garth, the Imp ripped free from the mud with a huge slurp.

Everyone cheered when the Imp rolled away from the ditch, living to tell the tale for another day. Dean whipped the mud from his face with the tail of his shirt, flashing Castiel with that softer stomach. Castiel realized that Dean was the kind of handsome that was paradoxical. How did he get more handsome, covered in mud and grease?

Garth climbed down, grinning widely. “Now that that’s taken care of, I insist y’all come to my place, get cleaned up, and eat dinner.”

“We don’t want to impose,” Castiel started but trailed off when Dean grimaced at the mud that coated them both. Despite the tank’s outer appearance, the interior of the Imp was tidy.

“It wouldn't be! Honestly, some company would be awesome.” Garth said. He turned his face towards the sky, now a mix of golds and pinks, as the last of the sun's rays faded. “Unless there’s other twisters you gotta go after?”

“Not anymore,” Dean said with false cheer. “You aren't gonna try and eat us, are you?”

“Dean!” Garth’s rich laughter cut off Castiel’s reprimand.

“No, no, you’re safe. It’s not a full moon.”

He said that last part so sincerely that Dean was momentarily taken aback. But then he chuckled. “Alright, Lon Chaney, lead the way.”

Garth's farmhouse was bigger than he'd expected for just him and his wife. He'd lectured Castiel about how the land and house were passed from his great-father to himself, lasting the entire trip back to the farmhouse. Castiel knew more about Garth's family than he did on his own.

Garth’s wife, Bess, was a kind, quiet lady. She fussed over them good-naturedly and pointed out the two bathrooms the guys could clean up in. A quick shower later, Castiel came out of the steaming bathroom feeling better, but the mottled bruising over his ribs had increased from the crash's impact. Castiel decided to ride out the pain as long as possible.

The smell of cooking meat filled the air. Bess appeared, handed him some fresh clothes, and stole his dirty laundry right out of his hands. She cheerfully demanded he sat down for dinner once he changed. Dean sat next to him, also scrubbed pink and in different clothes. Dean’s eyes traveled over him, pausing at the stitches. He reached out and gently prodded the edges.

“You did good work,” Castiel said quietly. He”d looked in the mirror and checked them himself, impressed at how they had held up.

Before Dean could say anything, a full plate of steak and potatoes appeared before them. Bess smiled widely as Dean’s jaw fell open. Even Castiel’s eyes grew wide at the sheer amount of food on the plate. “What the…this is like a 16-ounce steak!”

Bess paused, her eyes darting from her husband’s plate to theirs. “Oh! Is it too much? Sorry, I’m used to feeding Garth.”

Dean looked Garth up and down. “You look like a breeze could knock you over.”

“Looks can be deceiving!" Garth laughed. "I just got a good metabolism. Come on, dig in!”

“You don't have to tell us twice,” Dean said happily. “Ah, man, Cas, you've got to try this!” He moaned, and that caused Castiel’s brain to quit working for a few seconds.

Dean was right, though. The meat was tender and fell off the bone, the potatoes crispy and fluffy inside. Castiel forgot all pretense and gave in to his aching stomach. He paused and subtly wiped away a tear that had escaped him. Food had been scarce, and Castiel couldn't remember the last time he had a hot, home-cooked meal.

She smiled at him and patted his hand. “Eat as much as you want.”

Castiel didn’t trust himself to speak, but he nodded and tuned into Dean and Garth’s conversation. The farmer and his wife both sat on the edge of their seats as Dean detailed their harrowing chase gone awry. Dean's animated storytelling helped ease some of Castiel's guilt about the incident. The homebrewed beers that Bess kept supplying also helped, he decided.

After dinner wrapped up, Garth insisted they stay the night. The roads needed a chance to dry if they hoped to get the Imp back to civilization without a tractor escort the whole way. Castiel saw the way Dean’s shoulders dropped and his bleary eyes.

“You look like how I feel right now.”

Dean barely covered a surprised yawn with his hand. “Guess we’re crashing here for the night. I’m gonna grab our stuff and tuck in my baby.”

Castiel ducked his head and huffed a little chuckle as Dean headed out the door. He headed into the kitchen and helped Bess clean up dinner. She protested, but he out-stubborned her. He needed to do one thing without screwing up today and dishes he could handle.

Afterward, Garth showed them to their guest room with an apologetic little shrug of his bony shoulders. “It’s a bit of a tight fit, but I think you guys can manage.” He wandered back down the hallway, whistling merrily, leaving Dean and Castiel to end their first day of storm chasing, staring at a queen bed with a neon-colored antique afghan dropped over it.

“Oh no, that is not happening,” Dean snapped.

Beyond exhausted, his body warm from the shower and a stick-to-your-ribs home-cooked meal in his belly, Castiel was not inclined to argue. “Dean, there’s enough room for both of us.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Cas, what the hell?”

Castiel started for the bed, ready for sleep to take him under, until Dean grabbed his shoulder. “Wait, let’s flip for it.”

“Flip what? I don't have any money.”

Dean scrunched his nose but didn’t let go. “Fine. Rock Paper Scissors. Come on, best out of three.”

“And the loser sleeps where?”

“The Imp, her bench seats are fine.”

“Dean, you're being ridiculous.” Castiel shrugged Dean’s hand off him and walked over to the bed. “Look, there are enough pillows to make a wall between us if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not homophobic.”

“Glad to hear it,” Castiel said before he made his way around and rearranged the bedsheets. “Just get in the bed, Dean.” Castiel grabbed his toothbrush from his pack and headed for the bathroom.

Once taking care of everything, he headed back to the guest room only to hear Dean talking in a hushed tone. He paused at the open doorway and heard Sam’s voice, worried and tense. “Sounds like it was an unmitigated disaster.”

Dean paused his pacing. “Don’t say ‘I told you so.’”

“Dean, this is dangerous. You need me–”

“To stay home, Sammy.”

“Dean, he doesn't know anything!”

Castiel cleared his throat, and Dean’s eyes grew wide. He closed their door before snapping, “I’m not stupid; I’m ignorant. I can learn whatever you need me to learn.” His eyes softened as he stared at Dean for several long seconds. “I know I screwed up today. Please don’t fire me.”

“I’m not firing you!” Dean hissed. “We all make mistakes. It’s not the first time she’s ended up in a ditch, and it won’t be the last.”

“Guys, you need me,” Sam tried to interject. “You can’t just throw yourself into these situations!”

Dean tapped his foot on the wooden floor several times. “Sam, we’ll talk in the morning.” He clicked off without another word and tossed the phone onto the side table. Dean ran a hand through his mostly dry hair, leaving spikes of frustration behind. Castiel didn’t move, unsure what to do.

Dean pulled off his boots and socks without a word, determined to sleep fully dressed.

Castiel threw his hands up. “You can get down to boxers; I don’t care.” Okay, now that was a bald-faced lie. Maybe I wanted to know if he looks as good out of those pants as in them; sue me.

“It’s a force of habit,” Dean said stiffly as he stood there, arms crossed.

Castiel sat on his side of the bed. “I didn't sense any ill-intent from Mr. And Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

“Course you didn’t. They lure in victims by being nice!” Dean said. “If you see a cookbook called ‘How to Cook,’ it’s about long-pig.”

Castiel rolled his eyes but kept his jeans and t-shirt on as well. It was also a way to keep from showing off his bruises. He'd seen them in the bathroom, and they looked worse than they felt. He eased himself onto the itchy blanket, not meeting Dean's eyes. He was distracted by a water ring on the ceiling.

Dean crawled awkwardly into the bed and lay on his back with crossed arms stiffly. Even when he's looking like a mummy, he still looks like a Calvin Klein model. Meanwhile, a wall of ugly pillows with tassels was all that stood between them and their dignity. Dean fidgeted a few times before he let out a long sigh.

“Sorry for throwing you under the bus," Dean muttered. "It was dumb to think I could expect a civilian to react on a dime. This shit took us a long time to learn, too. Those videos on YouTube are proof.”

“Apology accepted, Dean,” Castiel said. “I’m sorry I’m not your brother.”

Dean huffed. “Don't apologize for that. I’m glad you aren’t.” He cleared his throat. "You’re a nice change of pace from the Toxic Avenger.”

Castiel smiled in the dark. That felt nice, not being a total burden. Even if he didn’t believe that for a moment, the lie was still comforting. “Toxic Avenger?”

“Yeah, give that kid a burrito, and you better be prepared for nuclear fallout.”

Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard. He had a feeling he and Dean were going to be ok.

Sitting up, Dean pulled off his t-shirt and jeans before he flopped onto his stomach on his side without looking in Castiel's direction. “Night, Cas.”

Castiel had to swallow at the smoothly muscled back pointed at him. It took his breath away. He itched to touch, running his hands over Dean’s warm skin. Instead, he clenched his hands and turned to face the opposite wall. “Good night, Dean.”

After a few minutes, Dean’s quiet easy breathing filled the air. Castiel lay there for another few moments, finding him with a second wind he didn’t want. He was safe and digesting the best meal he’d had in years. Why couldn’t his insomnia give him one night’s respite?

The longer he lay there, the better the chance his mind would wander to Dean. He needed a distraction. Pulling his phone quietly from the side table, he saw he’d regained cell signal. He typed a quick message to the second number in his contact list.

C: Hello, Shea. Today was our first chase, and I managed to survive.

S: OMG Castiel!! I'm so happy you texted I was trying not to worry 😅 How is everything? How's Dean?

Castiel looked over at Dean, sleeping peacefully next to him. A tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

C: He's fine. We're both fine, though it was a little concerning earlier. But we're good. Just wanted to let you know.

S: Thanks for keeping me up to date! I watched all of Dean's videos on YT. He's a daredevil! Seems nice, though. You need anything, just hit me up, ok?

C: Of course, thank you.

S: You're lucky you missed the meltdown Zach had yesterday. I hope the chasing works out cause you definitely burned that bridge. The fireworks were fun to watch, though. Stay safe! Dawn says hi.

C: Tell her I said hi back. I'll keep you up do date as much as I can. Goodnight.

He hadn't expected that reaction but Shea felt like an anchor for him to hold onto.

After staring at the water spot on the ceiling again for a while longer, Castiel decided to use his time wisely.

There's got to be articles I can read to get me up to speed.

His ignorance caught them off guard this time, but he wouldn’t let that happen again. He’d be ready to back Dean up in the Imp when the next series of storms were born.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s all-nighter ended when he heard quiet steps and whispering pass down the hallway. He squinted at the time on his phone and internally groaned. Just before 5 A.M., I thought I left the pre-dawn hours behind with Gas-N-Sip. At least Bess and Garth being up so early made sense. They were farmers, after all. Castiel laid his phone down and carefully rubbed his tired eyes, mindful of both Dean's stitches and Dean himself.

Yes, Dean, the tough-as-nails storm chaser, was currently snuggling him. Castiel bit his cheek when his ribs protested Dean's arms around him, unwilling to wake him even though it hurt.

It had happened by accident: Dean had rolled over and burrowed into his side while he worked through Candy Crush levels. He tried to slide away from Dean, but his adorable attacker continued unabated. Before Castiel could move, Dean wrapped around him like a cuddly cephalopod. Dean's a cuddlefish, confirmed.

Even his whispering to wake Dean fell on deaf ears. This man could sleep through a bombing. So, being the gentleman he was, Castiel let Dean sleep against him. If he was honest, the warmth and weight of Dean was a welcome reprieve. It had been so long since he'd let his guard down. People were only trustworthy once they proved it, and Dean had. For some reason, he kept giving Castiel chances that he didn't deserve but would greedily take.

Standing on that hill yesterday, watching the clouds boiling up and over, was awe-inspiring. Though the storm didn’t produce, he was confident they would find the correct cell at the right time for their work to continue. To film and gather the data sets Sam needed for school. Castiel didn't know why this felt like a given: from his reading, it became clear that tornadoes were rare—roughly 1200 tornadoes, on average per year, in an area half the size of the country. A needle in a haystack would be easier to find. The haystack doesn't erratically change direction or suddenly expand to the size of a barn.

During his preliminary reading, Castiel realized the extent of Dean’s desperation to ask a stranger to come on such a journey.

This wasn’t for the faint of heart.

He’d watched tornado videos, mouth agape in amazement and horror when he’d seen some of these massive storms throwing 18-wheelers like a toddler chucking a toy in a tantrum. He made the mistake of watching Dean’s previous uploads. His gut churned as he watched them barely escape an angry EF-3 tornado (winds of over 135-165 miles per hour). The twister seemed to chase them down a deserted highway, snapping power poles like toothpicks as it gained on them. There was the sound of breaking glass as a piece of rebar careened through the cab, narrowly missing them. Dean simply shouted, “I'm not dying by rebar today, bitch!” but under his bravado, Castiel heard his voice crack.

Castiel had seen shit while in the Air Force. And yes, an errant rebar missile wasn’t the same as being in an actual war zone, but the experience must have come with similar trauma. He paused the video and stared at Dean’s sleeping form. How young he seemed, with his face relaxed and peaceful. He needed to learn how Dean dealt with those close calls. Ways that didn’t include losing himself to pills or meaningless hookups. Though sex wasn’t the worst coping mechanism he’d had, images of Cindy and her phlegmy cough sent shivers of horror through him. He was staying away from strangers for now.

The smell of coffee brewing and the pressure from his bladder overpowered him eventually. After several minutes of slow movement to extract himself, Castiel got to his feet. He wrinkled his nose at the cold hardwood. Using the flashlight on his phone, he dug through the pack Dean had given him and pulled out fresh clothes: jeans, a blue ‘Namaste’ t-shirt, a blue plaid flannel, clean socks, and underwear. From the bottom of the pack, he pulled out the waterproof slip-on boots to swap with his black Converse. He didn’t pull on the shirt just yet, but he did pull on the flannel and leave it unbuttoned to get a better look at his mottled ribs.

Dean grunted and rolled over, clutching a pillow like he’d held on Castiel all night. He must be touch-starved, just as much as Castiel was. He almost reached out to pet through his fluffy hair; instead, Castiel tiptoed to the door, needing coffee and air from the suddenly stuffy room.

Castiel tiptoed to the door and cracked it open, only to discover Bess with a pile of laundry in her hands. She was startled by his appearance but then smiled. “Got ‘em all washed up for ya.”

Castiel whispered his thanks and took the clothes to the inside desk. When he returned, Bess’ eyes darted with concern from his face to his ribs. “You ok?”

Castiel waved away her concern. “Old injury. Looks worse than it is.” His ribs twinged painfully in protest, but he ignored it. He pulled the shirt closed and tried not to blush. “I smelled coffee. Do you have any honey?”

~*~

Castiel eased himself into the tiny wooden chair. It complained with a quiet groan. Sitting backward in the chair helped keep the stiff back from rubbing uncomfortably along his skin. He blew over the top of his coffee, housed in a haphazardly thrown ceramic mug. He had a second coffee ready for his sleeping companion but wasn’t sure how to proceed. Let Dean sleep in, or wake him now?

Glancing over him, Castiel decided to give Dean a little longer to enjoy unconsciousness. Instead, he watched the pink rays of sunrise grow brighter and brighter. A grunt grabbed his attention; turning around, Castiel watched Dean wake with a languid stretch like a cat waking after a long nap in the sun. Cracking open a bleary eye, he squinted at the face of his wristwatch and grunted at the early hour. His hand ran over his face and then through his hair in a poor attempt to lessen the mess.

Dean sat up slowly and froze, eyes growing wide when he met Castiel’s unblinking stare. Dean’s eyes darted from the empty side of the bed back to him. His confusion eased up after a moment, and he blinked first. “Cas?”

“Good morning, Dean.” He handed Dean a steaming cup of coffee. Their fingers brushed as the cup passed from one to the other. Dean's greasy nails stood out against the clean, creamy ceramic. Once he had his coffee, he sipped it greedily, smacking his lips with pleasure. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

“You’re up early,” Dean said. Castiel liked how deep and scratchy he sounded first thing in the morning. He let his eyes wander to Dean’s sleep-rumpled form while he was distracted by the joe.

“Didn’t sleep,” he admitted in a harsh whisper, not keen to break the morning spell yet. Castiel liked this quiet Dean as much as he was coming to enjoy the nonstop whirlwind he’d witnessed so far. The sunlight filtering in weakly through the gauzy curtains softened his features.

“That sucks.” Dean finished the last of his coffee and put it on the side table. He grunted as he got to his feet and stiffly grabbed his jeans from the pile of freshly laundered clothes. Dean paused before he pulled them on and sniffed them several times. “This smells amazing like I’m wearing a Hawaiian jungle! I gotta ask what detergent she uses.”

Castiel said nothing; he found artificial scents overwhelming. Dean found so much joy in such little things; it was a refreshing attitude. After Dean pulled on his cleaned clothes, he approached Castiel and gently grabbed his face. His eyes ran over the stitches, and he prodded them gently. “Everything seems in order,” Dean determined. “How’re the ribs?”

Castiel shrugged one shoulder, not meeting Dean’s gaze. “Better.” He hated how he’d gone into Dean’s back in the night for painkillers. He’d told himself that taking more than the recommended dosage was for Dean’s sake. I have to get back into fighting form as fast as possible. I can’t be the reason we miss another storm.

He was already handicapped by malnutrition; the mugging hadn’t helped him start this job on the right foot. Ignoring the pain and pushing through any injuries wasn’t medical advice he’d give to anyone, but he wasn’t just a patient. He was a co-pilot, and his employer needed him to be able to keep up.

“So, are we chasing today?” Castiel stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, antsy to get back on the horse.

“Yeah. Just gotta hit the head and then….” Dean’s nostrils flared as he scented the air like a bloodhound. “Is that bacon?” Dean clapped and rubbed his hands together, smiling wildly.

“I’ll grab the bags?” Castiel said. “Meet you in the kitchen.”

By the time he’d stowed the bags in the Imp, he had to pause and take a breather. Between deep inhales, he vowed to start training again. Bess’ cooking was a delicious step in the right direction. She cooked with more lean protein than butter and salt, a miracle for a farmer’s wife.

When Castiel entered the kitchen, Bess was starting a fresh pot of coffee. She waved at the stove with its pans of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and, yes, bacon. “Hope you have time to fill up before you leave?”

“For your cooking? Absolutely,” Dean shot her his easy-going, most charming smile, and she blushed.

As they got their breakfasts and sat at the kitchen table, Bess cleared her throat. “There’s not going to be another round of storms today, do you think?”

Dean shook his head. He leaned against her spotless counter, wolfing down eggs and bacon he'd folded into a pancake like a little breakfast taco. “Nah, not today. Though you know to watch out during the spring, regardless.”

“Yes. Living in tornado alley seems fairly boring until May and June come around,” she agreed. Bess sipped her coffee and asked innocently, “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. It was…cozy,” Castiel smirked. Dean coughed on the last bite of his food, waving away their concern as he gulped some orange juice.

“Are you planning to leave right this minute?” She asked once Dean had his airways sorted out. “It’s just that Garth enjoyed your company so much last night. I know he’d like to say goodbye before you go.”

“Where is he?” Castiel asked.

“He took off earlier to ensure none of the neighbors had any issues from last night's storm.”

“Your husband’s very kind.” Dean looked at his watch. “We can wait a little bit, Bess.” He smiled, charming her with his dimples. “I gotta give my baby a check-up anyway. Come on, Cas.”

Garth’s tractor was parked outside the detached car garage Castiel had found yesterday. The Imp sat hunkered inside. In the morning light, it was easy to see how much of the dried black mud splattered her undercarriage and wheels, even her windows.

Dean groaned. “I’m sorry, baby. You didn’t deserve to be ridden hard and put away wet like that. Cas, can you see a bucket or hose anywhere?”

Castiel squeezed past the Imp to check around the garage. Sharp farming instruments hung from the ceiling ominously. He ducked under them and found a five-gallon bucket that wasn't being used. “Found a bucket.”

“And I found Aqua Cola!” Dean said, holding up the end of a garden hose. “Do not become addicted to water, my friend.” Castiel recognized his delivery meant to be another reference.

“What's that from?”

“Newest Mad Max? Fury Road, man. Where have you been, under a rock?”

Thunder of rocks falling, suffocating darkness, pain, and heat from the explosion seared into his skin. Are they alive? Are they–

Castiel blinked hard and sucked in a deep breath. Seeing Dean was distracted searching for a hose, he smacked his ribs hard again. That time the flashback didn’t take him under–he managed to keep a foot in reality, which was an improvement. He knew fucking around with a wound was the best way to aggravate and worsen it, but he couldn’t think of another way to stay focused.

“Cas? Buddy?” He sucked in shallowly and clenched his jaw. Dean couldn't know what he did, what happened back then, what’s happening now. Despite how this arrangement started, Castiel was grateful for Dean’s presence. He’s the closest thing Castiel's had to a friend since he was in the service. I don’t want to make him worry. Or cause Dean to think he can’t handle the work.

Castiel waved away Dean’s concern. “Sorry, I had a muscle cramp.” Dean watched him with narrowed eyes but didn’t call his lie. “When it comes to movies, I prefer to read books.” And fanfiction of those books, but that was a secret he kept between himself and God.

Dean nodded knowingly. He filled the bucket with water and said, “Yeah, you and Sam will get along great then. He's a nerd too.” He walked to the trunk and pulled out a bottle of industrial car cleaner, and squirted a hearty amount into the swirling water. He tossed an oversized sponge to Castiel, who caught it easily. He cocked his head curiously.

“Dean?”

“I know we cleared the air yesterday, but you didn't apologize to her.” Dean patted the roof of the Imp.

A chance at penance gave him a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in a long time. Still, he felt momentarily silly stroking her hood like a horse. “My apologies, Imp. You deserved better. Forgive me; it’s been a steep learning curve.”

He buried his awkwardness under steely resolve. Even though it was early in the spring morning, the barn was already heating up. Dean threw open the doors to let in the fresh air. With methodical precision, Castiel worked to clear the steel plates of the thick Kansas mud.

In the meantime, Dean pulled the laptop from the console and propped it on the table. Nirvana played from its tiny speakers as Dean went under the hood. They worked in companionable silence, skirting each other when needed. Working in small sections meant he managed to keep most of his clothes dry. What he struggled with was keeping his thoughts appropriate whenever he saw Dean bent over under the hood. He’d removed his shirt, and the sweaty skin was not helping.

The music playing from Dean’s laptop paused as a video call came in. Sam was sitting at a desk, working on another computer. His hair was frizzy, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

“Hey, Sam!” Dean wiped his hands clean to take the call. Castiel washed away the last bit of soap on the wheel well, then waved to Sam, who waved back. “I sent that footage from yesterday. Did you get it?”

“Yes, dude, I’m working on it.”

“The footage from yesterday?” Castiel asked. He couldn’t even look at the brothers as his cheeks burned. Thinking about the accident and how Sam would have footage of his failure in 1080p. “Do you…have to watch the footage from yesterday?”

Both Sam and Dean raised an eyebrow in unison. “What?”

“It’s just….” Castiel crossed his arms and stared at the ground. “We didn’t film a tornado. So there’s nothing for you to review.” Sam hearing about the situation secondhand was embarrassing enough; he doesn’t need to see it, does he?

“True, but we do have a youtube channel, and a dramatic scene like yesterday is going to be eaten up by our viewers,” Sam said. Seeing Castiel’s downturned face, he pivoted. “Look, more views on the videos means more money in the bank. It’s just too good not to add.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel said through gritted teeth. At least he wasn’t on the video and could keep some of his dignity intact.

“Thanks,” Sam said. “I hope to get this out in the next few days.” He paused his typing and grimaced. “Oh yeah. Dude, you aren’t going to like what I heard happened yesterday.”

"What happened?" Dean asked warily.

“I had the right storm, but a different cell produced yesterday. The one-off 1-72 dropped a drillbit EF-1.”

Interesting. That was the one Castiel had felt his gut slightly pull towards—is there such a thing as beginner's luck in a field as volatile as storm chasing?

Dean kicked his foot. “Shit, really? Did anyone else get it?”

“Yep. You’re favorite.” Sam shared a link to another YouTube channel.

“Loki’s Tornado Tours?” Dean’s face soured, and he stomped away.

“How in the world does a tornado tour work?” Castiel asked while clicking on the newest video uploaded. The clip was less than thirty seconds: a shaky vertical video from someone’s phone, showing a slate-gray background and this wispy, white string whipping across it. There was excited screaming from people in the scene, and the clip ended.

“Same as a safari. Except the lions, tigers, and bears are damaging winds, hail, and lightning. People pay money, and Loki takes them to places in tornado alley.”

“Loki is a dick,” Dean spat.

Sam pushed his hair behind his ear and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He zip-tied a kazoo inside our exhaust pipe so it whistled whenever the engine was on. We lost an hour to Dean searching for the issue and completely missed out on the storm we were chasing.”

Castiel’s mouth fell open. “Why would he do that?”

“Who knows?” Sam’s eyes glittery mischievously. “Maybe Dean slept with him and sucked.”

The jab worked. Dean whirled around, pointing a finger at Sam. “I never slept with him!”

“Maybe that’s the issue. He flirts fairly hard with you.”

“He flirts with anything that moves,” Dean protested. “And don’t act so high and mighty; I’ve seen your reactions to some of his spicier comments.”

Sam steepled his hands. “Either way, the dude’s an enigma. We’re pretty sure he did it in the middle of the night as he passed through the town we were staying at to another location. At least, I think it was him.”

“Wait, you haven’t even met him?”

“Nope. He never shows his face. But he’s named after a Trickster God, so odds are it was him.”

Castiel felt he was missing something in this conversion. “So then, how does he flirt with you…?”

“In the comments section of our videos bc he’s classy like that,” Dean said.

“And Twitter. Again, ‘cause he’s a class act.”

Castiel shook his head. “I have an older brother who played tricks on our siblings. I was his favorite to mess with.” He wrinkled his nose as he thought about his bed being saran-wrapped or when he was given Oreos filled with shaving cream. “This Loki character sounds awful.”

Castiel’s anxiety was replaced with curiosity as something occurred to him. Sam’s ribbing about the flirting hadn’t earned any ire from Dean, so he must be out as gay or bi. He's slept with men and is open about it.

Castiel’s mind betrayed him with thoughts of Dean’s naked back under very different circumstances. His fingers twitched at the idea of running up and down his warm skin, holding him and–

He physically shook his head to derail that dangerous train of thought. I can’t afford a crush. I also can’t afford to sleep with my boss. Still, a smaller part of his mind wondered if he was even Dean’s type. Even at his peak physical condition, he wasn’t imposing like a bear and wasn’t a twink either. It doesn’t matter because you won’t find out, idiot!

He’d never been happier for Sam’s groan of sympathy. “Just got to the funnel footage. Yeah, that was a shitty little thing, huh? Couldn’t even be bothered to form into a proper gustnado.”

Dean clanked on something under the hood loudly. “Sam, how do you feel about the potential cells in western Kansas today?”

Castiel heard clicking and saw Sam leaning closer, squinting at his monitor. “Could be? Not sure you should be asking me since I sent you to the wrong one yesterday.”

Dean shrugged. “Shit happens. Besides, You know more about this than I do.”

“Dean, you're not just some grunt, and I wish you'd stop acting like one.”

Castiel could sense the tension of a previous argument about to be rehashed in 4k.

“It seems to me it was just bad luck, not necessarily a bad call,” Castiel said diplomatically. “From my understanding, luck plays the biggest role in this job. We just have to do our best every day. So, what's today's best course of action, Sam?”

After studying the map for a minute, Sam said, “Yeah, there's potential. Shane Springs is a tiny town about 6 hours west, down 1-40. A straight shot into open sky country. I’ll drop a pin.”

Dean opened a bottle of soda and raised it in a mock toast. “Here’s to hoping there's gold at the end of this 400-mile rainbow.”

~*~

After saying goodbye to Garth (both receiving backbreaking hugs from the man) and Bess, they hit the road. Castiel eased in his seat as the miles went by without incident, the Imp seemingly no worse from wear as they headed into the rural plains.

The Imp was designed to survive a close encounter with some of the strongest winds on the planet. What it was not intended for was economical diesel consumption. It could only go about 600 miles before they needed to refill the massive fuel tank. When they got to a Chevron about two hours into their trip, Dean gave Castiel five 20-dollar bills and a warning to ‘not spend it all in one place.’

Castiel held the bills limply, confused. “What?”

“You filmed yesterday. It wasn’t a total funnel, but we’ll get our money back. Besides, you’re a grown man, and I’m not holding your purse strings.”

Castiel wanted to argue at first. He felt he hadn’t earned money; it was more a handout than a paycheck. Still, logically he knew he had nothing to his name but the backpack from Dean and his ID. He wandered around the gas station, debating on what to do. The gas station suddenly became the Chocolate Factory, and Castiel held a golden ticket.

Deciding to be careful, he grabbed slightly healthier snacks, like water and edamame. He also picked up some books to read and a decent pair of noise-canceling headphones. Unable to help himself, Castiel picked up a bag of hamburger buns and a cheap jar each of peanut butter and grape jelly. He also grabbed a reusable utensil kit, paper plates, and napkins.

Dean hopped in line ahead of him, and Castiel noticed his basket had more jerky, a six-pack of beer, and a giant box of donuts. He was not looking forward to seeing Dean in the middle of a sugar rush.

They ate PB&Js Castiel made for them and hit the road soon after. Castiel’s eyes fluttered after a few miles, and he decided to rest them. His drifting was interrupted by Dean flipping through a dozen channels before he stopped on NPR. The droning of the anchor was broken by Dean stage-whispering, “Hey, Cas? You awake?”

Castiel exhaled deeply and cracked open one eye. “I am now.”

Dean must’ve missed his annoyance because he started slapping the steering wheel rhythmically. “Come on, talk to me before the highway hypnosis gets me.”

Kansas was nothing but pasturelands, occasionally cotton trees, and tiny towns that could fit on a postage stamp. It wasn’t the most exciting scenery so far.

Castiel stretched in his seat and rolled his shoulders. Considering his lack of sleep the previous night, it would make more sense for Dean to let him rest now. That way, he’d be ready when the storms fired off closer to sundown. Still, Dean asked, so Castiel would do so with minor grumbling. “What do you want to talk about?”

Now that the ball was in his court, Dean seemed unsure. His eyes met Castiel’s, and he licked his lips before he looked back at the road. “Um, I guess we can start small. Favorite music?”

“Beyonce, Lizzo,” Castiel said, yawning behind his hand. “Though classic rock is classic for a reason.”

Dean ran out of things to say. After a few awkward moments, Castiel rustled through his gas station purchases and plucked out a novel.

“What’s that?”

“It’s an invention called a book.”

“No shit, Sherlock. What kind of book?”

Castiel opened and closed his mouth, unsure if he should respond honestly or not. He could say something dismissive, but felt Dean wouldn’t be so easy to detour. So he stared right at Dean as he said, “It’s a gay erotica novel by an author I happen to enjoy.”

There was a few seconds of silence before Dean grinned cheekily. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh?”

Thinking the matter over, Castiel settled into his seat and opened the paperback, only for Dean to interrupt again with a simple “Read to me.”

Castiel had to have been hearing things. “Excuse me?”

Dean waved at the radio. “Anything is better than NPR.”

“What's wrong with NPR?” Dean stared at him as he admitted to being an alien.

“You would be one of those people.” Dean scoffed. “Everything! It’s boring, and I can’t find a good radio station, and there’s no cell signal for Spotify. Come on, read it to me!” He batted his eyelashes. “Please?”

“Dean,” Castiel warned. “I don’t want to be mocked for what I read by my current boss.”

“Ok, so I’m not your boss right now. I’m your bored friend. You want to read your book, and I wanna know what happens. Kill two birds with one stone. So come on, Reading Rainbow, humor me?”

This is a terrible idea. Especially if this newest book were as spicy as anything he’d read in the past. Still, Castiel couldn’t say no to that smile. “Fine. The book is about two actors meeting on the set of a TV show named Jensen and Misha–”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Misha?? What kind of name is that?” Seeing Castiel glare at him, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. A weird name and a weirder name meet on a tv show. That’s cute.”

If Jake Abel delivered as usual, ‘cute’ would be the last word Dean would say about the story. But that would be an issue for future Castiel and Dean.

~*~

The smooth sailing lasted precisely 352 miles. Less than fifty miles from their destination, the Imp released a mighty CLANK! As something important hit the highway.

Castiel grabbed the handle above the door as Dean white-knuckled the Imp onto the empty highway shoulder. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” Dean groaned.

Castiel turned on the seat, scanning the mirrors and out through the back window. “There’s no debris in the road.”

Dean turned off the Imp to save the diesel and hopped out, swearing colorfully. Castiel came around and stood next to him as Dean stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Dunno.” Dean got on his hands and knees, flinching as the rough gravel dug into his palms. Castiel allowed himself one second exactly to stare at Dean's pert, perfect ass before he tore his eyes away. He licked his lips.

“Cas! Grab the flashlight from the toolbox in the back seat. I can't see shit….”

Thankful for something to do, he found the light and handed it to Dean. The man glanced up and down the empty road before he lay on his back and scooted underneath. Castiel was impressed Dean was able to squeeze under there. The minutes ticked by, in tune with the clicking hazards and occasional car down the highway. There was no report from Dean, though he got up to switch to the other side. Dean didn't meet his eyes, and Castiel’s stomach sank to his toes. He thinks it's a consequence of the crash. I did something to her. Oh God, what'll we do if that’s the case?

Only Dean’s legs were visible under the car, and Castiel imagined the Wizard of Oz as the Witch’s legs under the crashed house curled up as she died. “Cas! Need a progress report: what do your elf eyes see?”

Castiel stood to his full height and watched the white clouds in the distance. What a perfect opportunity to show Dean what he'd been doing all night. He held his hand up to shield himself against the late afternoon sun. It was the golden hour for storm creation as the heat of the day and the cool night air converged.

“I see a cumulonimbus on the horizon with a massive anvil spreading across the sky.”

“...been studying, Cas?” Dean sounded impressed despite his huffing and puffing under the car.

“It's too risky for me to be out of the loop.” Still, he smirked, proud of his innate ability to be a quick study when needed.

“So, whatcha learn?”

“There’s an atmospheric dry line stretched from the Dakotas to Texas in the spring,” he started. He heard an affirmative grunt and kept going. “The dry western winds sat above the moist current from the Gulf, stifling it like a lid on a pot of boiling water. The water temperature rose due to the sun's rays over the course of the day. Eventually, the cap either smother’s the storm’s formation, or the pressure breaks through and explodes into the atmosphere at a hundred miles an hour, creating the supercell.”

“Shit, that fast? Wow.”

Castiel could now put the process he witnessed into words as the clouds mutated in the distance. Within moments, they towered over the plains, a mountain range that could be the Himalanyans to shame in terms of sheer size and scope. Despite being impressed with its shape, Castiel didn’t have that gut feeling that this held anything more than a dreary afternoon.

“Ah, fuck me sideways!” Came the frustrated snarl from under the beast.

The smile fell from Castiel’s face, and he crouched next to Dean. “What’s the issue?”

Dean slowly shimmied out from under the vehicle, red dust covering him. “There’s a crack in the frame.”

“That sounds bad.” Castiel stood up and held out his hand to Dean. Surprisingly, Dean took it and let Castiel haul him back up. He handed the flashlight to Castiel, face grim.

“In any other circumstance, the Imp’d be totaled. We’d be sitting here with our thumbs up our asses til Sam could scrounge a ride.” Surping Castiel, Dean chuckled. “Luckily for us, I built her from the ground up. A cracked frame isn’t the end of our journey.” Dean faltered as he watched the storm forming off on the horizon. White and purple flashes of heat lightning crackled in the distance, and Castiel heard the far-off thunderclaps. Despite the day's heat making them sweat, he felt a chill.

Next to him, Dean’s shoulders dropped. “We’re not going to be able to catch it.”

“Dean, I’m so–”

Dean held up a hand, silencing Castiel. “I know. This is why I don’t leave home without the ol’ 160-stick welder. Come on; you have to help me jack her up.”

Dean made it sound a thousand times easier than it truly was. The first trick was finding a spot to jack up the five-ton truck without warping the frame further as Dean set about repairing it. Castiel was impressed with the custom electrical system Dean had rigged for her so he could keep specific tools charged and ready, including a portable welder. With scrappy tenacity, Dean crawled under the Imp with barely a few inches of room to work, welder and mask in hand. Once Dean was set up underneath her, a shower of orange sparks hissed and cracked outwards. Castiel needed a distraction, so he wouldn’t be tempted to look underneath and injure his eyes.

He wandered away from the Imp, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he stood off the road. Yellow-green pastureland stretched as far as he could see. The winds shifted at that point, and he wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming stench of cattle manure carried along the dusk’s breeze. It was a long time since he’s smelled it, and it was a weird moment of nostalgia as he remembered growing up in Texas.

“Moooo!” Castiel snapped his head up, face splitting into a grin, when he noticed a half dozen cows on the other side of a wire fence. Big black and white dairy cows stared at him and the Imp curiously. He waved at them.

“We’re probably the most interesting thing you girls have seen in a minute, aren’t we?” The closest one continued to chew her cud and stare at him.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Castiel took a few pictures but then shot a quick video. It was a surreal sight between the cows milling, eating patches of alfalfa in the foreground and the flashes of purple heat lightning in the towering clouds in the background. He liked the tension between the ominous storm clouds and the mundane livestock. I’ll send that to Shea once we get back to civilization.

Dusk was passing into the night, and the hissing sound of the welding stopped. Castiel returned to the car, swatting away mosquitoes as he crouched beside Dean’s legs. “Is it fixed?”

Dean shimmied back out, face covered in sweat once he pulled back his welder’s mask. He grinned as he handed the welder to Castiel. “Yeah, we’re good!” He let out a little whoop in relief as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “As long as we don’t go off-roading, she should hold.”

Dean swatted a mosquito on his arm and grabbed his equipment so they could hide in the Imp. They sat in the front seat and blasted the air conditioner. “Cas, get me a beer from the cooler.”

Castiel shook his head and riffled through the old green cooler strapped into the back seat. “No. You need electrolytes first.” He handed Dean a SmartWater. Even when Dean bitched about it being water, of all things, Castiel held firm. He arched an eyebrow at Dean.

“Fine, Dombrowski. Lighten up, will you?”

Castiel only glared harder, which caused Dean to flip him the middle finger. Still, Dean sucked the bottle down in several gulps, and Castiel was the one who blinked stupidly at the show. Pink lips wrapped around the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing in quick succession…Dean’s nothing but a temptation.

Castiel distracted himself by drinking his own water and pulling out the camera to film the incoming storm as it slowly rolled across the landscape toward them. A warning rang out from the laptop of the severe thunderstorm, but Dean didn’t move. “There’s no rotation or anything. No point in burning up the fuel.”

“In that case,” Castiel reached behind them and pulled out two beers. “Our nightcaps.”

Dean popped the lids off with the edge of his ring and handed one to Castiel. They clinked their bottles together and watched each other take long drinks. Feeling tension in the air that he didn’t want to think about too much, Castiel put the beer on the dash and continued to film the lightning storm as it approached them.

After a few minutes, Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, what’s a cow with only its left legs called?”

Castiel blinked. “I’d call it an unfortunate abomination, but your phrasing makes me believe this is a joke. I don’t know.”

Dean snickered. “Lean beef.”

There was a few seconds of silence before Castiel ducked his head and huffed a little laugh. The camera shook gently. “That’s awful.”

“Not as awful as a cow with no legs.” Dean paused for dramatic effect before he said sagely, “That’s ground beef.”

Castiel rallied quickly. “What does a cow who surfs say?”

Dean leaned back against the door and grinned. “With your sense of humor? No idea.”

“Cowabunga.”

Dean snorted on his beer, and Castiel laughed.

There was a rumble of thunder from outside the car, and they watched the cows in the field lie down. The number of lightning strikes hitting the ground or reaching back up to the heavens was just as impressive as the bolts arcing across the sky. The white flashes revealed the storm clouds in multi-second-long intervals, making it seem day bright at night.

“Dean, are we going to get hit by lightning? Sitting in a metal tank seems ill-advised at this time.”

Dean shrugged. “There’s a lightning rod on the roof, but I’d just not touch anything metal until it passes.” He whistled as he leaned forward from the door, and suddenly the space between them was nonexistent. “Damn. That’s a lot of anvil crawlers,” he said, referring to the lightning spreading across the storm clouds like electric snakes.

“Haven’t seen a storm like this in a long time. Probably since I was a kid.”

“You know, I haven’t really seen this either,” Dean admitted. Another clap of thunder happened, but Castiel found that splitting his focus between filming and Dean helped him keep in the moment. “Lightning like this usually happens on the backside of a storm cell. When chasing, we’re always trying to get ahead of it. We’ll try to intercept repeatedly. Always looking for the next road or town or cell. ”

Dean smiled at Castiel. “I gotta admit, Cas. This is a nice-as-hell consolation prize.”

Chapter Text

After about an hour, the storms were gone, and there were only distant flashes of heat lightning on the horizon. Cas slumped against the back of the passenger seat, eyes closed, and snored softly. His shoulder-length dark hair and scruffy beard made him look like some sort of Flasher Jesus with the oversized trench coat.

Dean’s hand reached out towards Cas’ sleeping face, gently brushing away a few stray locks. The hair was softer than Dean expected for a homeless dude. He stealthily pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight feature to get a quick look at Cas’ stitches. They were still in one piece, and the edges were dry. There were no signs of infection, thank goodness.

Cas’ breath hitched briefly, and Dean froze, face turning guilty. After a few seconds, Cas grunted but didn’t wake. That was close. Dean pulled away from Cas’ sleeping form and settled quietly back into his seat against the door. He stared out the windows at the new rave outside. The fields along the side of the road strobed with dozens of fireflies. Dean found their blinking synced well with Rob Zombie's Dragula as it played from some forgotten tab in his brain.

With just a single, precious bar of signal, Dean used his hotspot long enough to run new models for the next day’s potential storms. The HRRR and NAM showed a chance of supercells firing off about two hours down the highway. In the morning, they could hit up the town they had been aiming for today, refuel/piss, and have time to get a good position.

As Dean chewed on his thumbnail, he contemplated their next move. He could read radar just as well as Sam, but it was Sam’s job to figure out their action plan, and Dean’s job was to get them there. With Cas being a total greenhorn, Dean needed to take the lead now. For them both to stay safe, it paid in spades to be flexible when storm chasing. Roads got washed out, GPS directions were wrong, or twisters pulled a 180-degree turn. Cas had never done anything like this.

Whenever Dean asked about his work before the gas station or his family, Cas clammed up faster than a virgin on prom night. The dude had baggage–Dean could relate. And whatever it was, it was bad enough to leave him homeless. Dean had taken a chance on Cas, one he’d never taken on anyone before. So, he’d watch over the other man and ensure they made it through the season in one piece.

Dean fiddled with the plastic armature that allowed the laptop to pivot between him and his passenger. He dug out a bottle of WD-40 and squirted some on the sticking screws. Once the arm moved without any hint of resistance, he tucked it away, satisfied.

His phone buzzed with a message from Sam.

S: Dude, why did you stop?

Dean ran a hand over his face and glanced at Cas. Part of him wanted to complain to Sam, but he didn’t really want to throw Cas under the bus. His brother had a hard enough time trusting the guy anyway—there was no need to make it worse.

D: Issue with the Imp. She's mobile now, but we missed the target. HRRR shows potential cells west of Shane Springs tomorrow.

S: Sounds good. Let me know when you’re in position.

D: Yes, Mom.

There was a moment of awkward silence as crickets started up outside the Imp, and Sam’s little typing icon appeared and disappeared multiple times. After a moment, he simply responded, Would she approve?

Dean bit his lip. Their mother died when Dean was four and Sam was barely six months old. It was a car crash, a hit-and-run with a trucker on a black country road only lit by moonlight. Their father, John, dragged Dean out of the mangled mess and handed little crying Sammy to him. John told him to watch over his baby brother; that was the most essential thing in his life.

He remembered crying for his mother, and John screaming at the truck cab lumbered off into the night, leaving them their fates. Dean barely remembered the firefighters and cops swarming the scene, the flashing red and blue lights.

He remembered those years dragged from motel to motel after their Dad became a bounty hunter, always chasing after the trucker who killed his wife and almost killed his kids. They moved enough that the CPS didn’t pick up Dean and Sam. The nightmare ended when John died of a heart attack at the age of thirty-one. It was the only time he appreciated the system since it got him and Sammy to the one person they knew. Uncle Bobby and Rufus, two cranky older men who accepted the feral kids, dropped on their doorstep with more grace than Dean had ever received.

Their lives became blessedly normal: baseball games on the weekends, attempts at Church on Sundays, bedtimes, and tooth-brushing routines. Normal.

Right, would Mom approve? Dean searched his mind for some memory of her that might answer Sam’s question. She died when he was so young he barely remembered Mary at all. He remembered some quiet afternoons when she made a sandwich, where she sang Hey Jude to Sam as a lullaby. He remembered a sweet woman. Sam doesn’t have anything of hers, not even the bad memories.

D: She’d probably hate it, but I think she’d understand you’re doing this for the greater good: better science, better warnings, and stuff like that. With great power comes great responsibility.

The bubbles appeared and disappeared again, but Sam didn’t send any follow-ups.

~*~

Dean huffed in aggravation when he failed to fall asleep in the Imp’s driver seat. The leather/metal monster creaked like an old ship at sea, and Dean couldn’t get comfortable. He opened his mouth, intent on waking Cas and asking him to continue reading the book he had started earlier in their trip. They were barely two chapters in, yet Jensen had already invited Misha to his trailers only two days into working together–how scandalous.

Dean knew what was coming and wanted to see what Cas would do. Would he read the scene? Would he wuss out? How would that gruff voice sound describing sex acts?

Dean fidgeted again, feeling like his jeans were two sizes too small. Just like the weather he’d been hunting, Dean was in the middle of his own dry spell. In the past, he’d been able to scratch the itch with other chasers or coeds in bars, but he wasn’t into that life as much anymore. And while other chasers understood the long, lonely hours in strange towns better than anyone else, most were in love with the weather. Or they had stable partners to hold down the fort a thousand miles away and were only after flirting.

His eyes roamed over his passenger again, taking in Cas’s thin body and fluffy hair. He’d just needed some fattening up and a spa day. Once he did that, Cas would have to beat the guys off him. Or ladies, whichever way Cas swung. Because Dean thought he knew Cas’ type. He was mugged in a cheap suit and seemed to be allergic to fun. There was this tight-laced energy to Cas that Dean couldn’t get the guy to lose. Seemed like the stick up his ass was a permanent fixture—real ‘Bible Salesman’ energy. So Dean put Cas in this ‘look, but don't touch’ category.

He’s handsome, but my chances are lower than the ninth circle of Hell.

Which was fine; he’d tease Cas instead. But then Cas threw a wrench in his whole plan when he picked up a gay shut book from the fucking gas station like it was a normal thing!

So now Dean is rightly confused about what exactly Cas is. Or what he wants. He couldn't tell if Cas was into the flirting, which was fine. Dean knew ace people existed, and maybe Cas preferred reading ‘banana-hammock rippers’ instead of doing the horizontal mambo no 5; he’s an adult and can make that call.

There’s also the awkward fact that Cas is my employee, and I’m pretty sure that’s a no-no.

Dean glanced around the Imp’s interior. It was a mismatch of vintage leather and hand-me-down laptops. It was a steel behemoth, and no matter how many air fresheners Dean hung around the inside, it always stank like gym socks. It had been home for three to four months of the year for the past ten years. He felt the world’s weight on his shoulders and knew suddenly, from the bottom of his heart, that he didn’t want to do this anymore.

The long days spent driving across the midwest, chasing ghosts that only occasionally appeared. He spent thousands of hours in the Imp, driving her, building her, keeping her up to snuff to keep them alive, spending all their money on shitty road food and roach-infested crack motels.

What the fuck is the point of this?

Dean drained the last of his beer and tucked the bottle back in the cooler before he fished out another one. It’s for Sam. It’s always been for Sam. Give him the last bite of your cereal, steal medicine for him when he has a fever, and almost get arrested doing it. Always for Sam, putting him first.

When was the last time I did something for me? His inner voice asked bitterly. Dean didn’t know.

Closing his eyes, Dean made himself a promise. Because now both Sam and Cas depended on him to hold on for one more season for their livelihoods. But after June, Dean was going to park the Imp for good. Sam was a grown man now; he could get his own data in the future. Cas could go back to whatever he was doing before becoming homeless. He’d have cash and a good reference from Dean. He was stubborn and resilient; he’d be okay.

And Dean would finally have a chance at a normal life. A normal 9-5, a chance at a normal home. Lisa, back in Sioux Falls, was bendy and friendly; he could settle down with her. Have 2.5 kids, have a house with the best storm shelter money could buy. No more chaser traffic, almost running over errant cows, or getting ticketed by petty cops. He wouldn’t have to deal with dangerous storms or asshole chasers. He wouldn’t have to see demolished towns or bloody people across the back of his eyelids anymore every time he closed his eyes.

Just gotta get through the next eight weeks. After that… I’m done for good.

~*~

Cas leaned against the cow-catcher grill, arms crossed and legs stretched out before him. “Dean, do you see anything?”

Dean stood beside him, barely two inches apart, with his hands stuffed in his jean pockets. They both studied the swirling clouds. Dean actively scanned certain parts while Cas’ simply took in the whole thing. “Nada.”

“Well, at least the view’s nice,” Cas said quietly, taking in the golden streaks of sunlight filtering from on high. The green grasses swayed constantly in the breeze. Cas glanced over at Dean, who wasn’t noticing the eruption of wildflowers around them nor the hognose snake slithering across the road behind them.

Instead, Dean licked a finger and held it above his head in the air. When the breeze blew past, he slumped. “Shit. The outflow’s cold.”

Cas looked at the clouds again. “But the wind is fairly strong; doesn’t that mean something will happen?”

“Power doesn’t matter. Storms need warm air to get kick-started. Cold air means the storm’s dying.” Dean ran a hand over his face. “Fuuuuuuuck!” He stepped away and kicked a rock across the road. “Man, this season has been total bupkis. How the hell am I going to pay the bills? The Imp drinks diesel like a frat boy on spring break. Plus, we gotta eat too. Promising you a better future only to starve you a thousand miles from where you got mugged is just too fucking cruel.”

“Dean.”

Dean was pacing now, entirely in his own world. “Guess I could do a sponsorship video, but I fucking hate them. Loki does that, and it irks me whenever I see him talking like a used car salesman about radar apps and fakorade.” Dean shuddered, imagining himself slinging electrolyte juice in a white polo shirt like Loki did.

“Dean.”

Dean turned around, startled to see Cas had moved from the front of the vehicle to the inside. He was pointing at the HRRR radar on the laptop. It was probably outdated, pulling data from his cell phone’s hotspot. He waved Dean over. “Are there any other targets we could look into?”

Dean threw his hands up. “No, we weren’t supposed to have any targets for a few days. Shit.”

“Dean, can you check the radar before you have a conniption?” When Dean didn’t move, Cas said, “Please.”

He slid into the driver’s seat, still scowling but feeling inclined to go along with him. Dean refreshed the radar, and they leaned closer to view the scan. The storms were ragged, and the chances of a supercell were going down the toilet. “See, nothing.”

“Well, what about that one?” Cas pointed to a predicted radar image of a thunderstorm that could form east of a small reservoir. It was about twenty miles away.

Dean glanced at it. “I’d say it’s even lower of a chance than this one was. This was Sam’s best guess for the day. Not that that means anything now.” The last few bits of scud clouds were racing away with the cold winds.

Still, Cas never looked away from it. “I think we should go there.”

Dean bit his thumbnail. “You want me to waste my fuel, huh?”

“You said yesterday you chase multiple storms.”

“Yeah, well, that was then. This is now. Things change.”

Cas scrunched up his face in confusion. “Would you give any credence to me if I said I just have a gut feeling about it?”

“Is that right, Rain Main?” Dean hadn’t meant to say that little thought out loud and cringed.

Cas arched an eyebrow at it. “It’s true, I am autistic. My brother took me to Las Vegas for a weekend, and we discovered I’m terrible at counting cards.”

The image of straight-laced Cas in fucking Vegas, of all places on Earth, made Dean burst out laughing.

“So, to answer your question, I don’t know. I just have a feeling about this area, and if we’ve already lost our chance to chase today, why not check out the new cell?”

“Fine, Cas,” Dean said, sobering up. “Like you said, what have we got to lose?”

~*~

Different verse, same as the first.

He watched the watcher through the dusty windshield as Cas squinted in the bright afternoon sun and raised a hand to shield his eyes. After glancing at the radar one more time, “Huh,” Dean muttered to himself. “Cas might have been onto something.” Because, holy shit, there was a thunderstorm on its way right to them, and its CAPE values were pretty high. There was nothing to write home about, but it was better than the previous storm.

Dean hopped out of Imp and stretched with a loud, animated groan. When Cas raised an eyebrow at him, he winked back and appreciated the pink tinge to Cas’ cheeks. Mission accomplished, he turned towards the sky, scanning it with a practiced eye. The clouds gathering there added a touch of violet to the golden sky, throwing shadows across the flat Kansas fields. To anyone else, they'd just look like a pretty summer afternoon winding down, a warm breeze brushing his cheek. Warm air was a good sign, as it signaled the storm was breathing, taking in the summer sunlight, giving itself a much-needed Vitamin D boost.

“Cas, are you a Sunny D or Tang kind of guy?” Dean asked. They could talk while they waited.

Cas’ nose wrinkled in disgust. “Fake drink powders are the bane of my existence. Real orange juice any day, please.”

Dean waved his hands. “Sounds like you grew up with money.”

Cas blinked at him, mouth open and closing a couple of times. “Yes, and we all see how that turned out,” he pulled his arms closer to himself despite the heat of the day.

A rumble of distant thunder cut through the sky. They both turned to see the storm across fields, a towering wall of slate gray. It took Dean about a full minute to detect the beginning stages of rotation in this meso.

“Come on! Spin us right round like a record, baby,” Despite everything that had happened over the last few days, it finally seemed like his luck was returning. “Cas, you got that camera?”

“Affirmative.” Cas had the camera sitting on the hood next to him. He picked it up and started filming long, sweeping shots across the darkening sky. Dean poked his head back into the cab to confirm that the storm was turning into a proper supercell, and the radar seemed to agree.

“How long do you think we have?” Cas asked as the thunder roared again. He shook his head at it and swallowed as if stealing himself.

“I have no idea,” Dean admitted. “This isn’t rocket surgery. If the storm shows us any skin, she will wait until she’s good and ready—a real lady.” Dean said, returning to stare at the slate-gray wall cloud bearing down on them.

“Nice,” Cas scoffed. It was such a canned Sam response that Dean glanced around for his brother. Not seeing him nearby with equipment or the camera in hand was weird. For a moment, Dean missed him. Which was strange since they’d only been repeated for about a month at this time, with Sam being on bed rest. But they had grown up like twins, forced to be on each other’s page and in each other’s pockets for their own sanity and safety. Sam understood him like no one else, and probably no one would get Sam as Dean did. It was simply how the Winchester Brothers were.

So, it was strange not seeing Sam there. But Dean wasn’t as anxious as he had been chasing alone. Cas’ presence helped and even offered some of that easy companionship that Dean only thought he’d get with Sam.

~*~

When Dean first heard the ominous droning tone of the National Weather Services storm warning, he’d been playing with Sam in Uncle Bobby’s junkyard. Earlier that same day, the sky had been blue, and the weather calm and sunny. School was out, and finding things to do every afternoon was half the fun.

In the living room, under a tiny TV screen, Dean had discovered an old videotape recorder and some blank VHSes. He gently blew off the dust from the old relics, mind spinning at the idea that he could channel his inner Kubrick and make a movie. He ran to Sam and showed him the old camera. Sam immediately held out his hands so Dean could give it to him. He shook his head and suggested they make a movie in the backyard. Sam’s face morphed from being on the edge of a scowl to a grin, and they ran off into the stacks of rusted metal they knew better than their old house.

As the afternoon went on, the wind began to pick up, and dark clouds gathered on the prairie’s horizon surrounding Sioux Falls. Uncle Bobby and his best buddy Rufus were taking turns drinking and arguing over the cause of the odd noise coming from Bobby’s old Chevy. Usually, Dean would be all over the car, asking a million questions and begging to help with tools or taking things apart. Instead, he tried to convince Sammy that the ketchup-smeared ripped bedsheets dropped over him did not look silly but very scary for a ghost.

Dean had a shot lined up: Sam would run around the corner of the cars, chasing Dean and making scary ghost sounds. Dean would trip dramatically, and Sam would “kill” him. It was a short movie, but Dean figured he could do his own stunts without issue.

The classic rock was interrupted by the jarring modem dial-up buzzing, and a robotic voice intoned a warning about a supercell headed their way.

“The National Weather Service has issued a severe Thunderstorm Warning for Sioux Falls, South Dakota. At 4:39 PM, Radar indicated a potential tornado, golf-sized hail, and 60 MPH winds. Please go to the innermost bathroom or basement to take shelter–”

“Boys, get back here!” Bobby waved his trucker’s cap back and forth like a tattered flag. “There’s a storm coming!”

The brother’s eyes met. With a final darting glance at the black sky, they ran for their uncle.

A hellish horn began blaring from Sioux Falls, piercing enough that Dean and Sam stopped dead in horror at the cacophony. Dean had never heard storm sirens before, and they both stopped running and looked around them for any signs.

To his horror, behind the fields of Bobby’s junkyard, a white funnel descended from the heavens like the Angel of Death itself.

He knew twisters from movies, but seeing one dancing beyond the junkyard’s chain-link fence was a surreal experience. Dean’s feet stayed planted on the spot, unable to run to safety. All he could do was stand, transfixed in place. His mouth dropped, and his whole body shook from the far-off roar of the monster. No idea what overcame him, but Dean lifted the still-rolling camera to his shoulder and followed the funnel in the viewfinder. Even though he heard Sam hiccuping in terror next to him, he still didn’t run.

He got 39 seconds of priceless, shaky-cam, potato-quality footage before Rufus tackled him to the ground. He ripped Dean a new one as he held him and the camera against his chest. “What the hell’s wrong with you, boy?! You got a death wish???” He asked while hauling ass to the basement bunker.

Only then did he hear Sammy, panicked and bawling, as Bobby carried him to the house’s safety. Dean didn’t move or speak for a long time after that, but Bobby and Rufus rightly gave him hell.

The tornado only just missed the creaking, rusty car stacks.

Dad had always told him watching out for Sam was his number one job in this life. And he’d forgotten about Sammy while watching the tornado approaching from the distance. He’d been so entranced by the monster he’d forgotten about his own life and his brother’s. Thank God Bobby had a good head on his shoulders in a crisis.

Still, Dean couldn’t help but feel excited. He repeatedly replayed the footage of their close call on the tiny camera screen. After seeing the clip, Sam started asking a thousand questions about tornadoes, and Dean had to pause his watch party to help Sam navigate the old computer in Bobby’s study. It was the slowest dial-up on the market, but they could still Ask Jeeves a question if they had the patience to let the page load.

The next day, Bobby asked why they were suddenly so weather-obsessed.

“I want to study them!” Sam stated with that precocious energy of any 6-year-old.

Bobby figured there was no point in stopping them from learning, so he allowed them to stay up late, watch other storm clips, and read weather articles. Those were dry as hell, but the videos? Those imprinted themselves onto Dean like fresh footprints in wet clay.

Dean spent the rest of the summer looking for dark clouds on the horizon, and this time, when he caught another ghost, Bobby was there to keep him steady. They chased in Bobby’s old rusted Chevy to the edge of town, Sam tucked between them in the backseat. Dean was prepared this time, and when he got his chance, he shot for over a minute while hanging out of the open window; Bobby and Sam were quiet and nervous.

This wasn’t the stovepipe wedge that still haunted Dean’s dreams; this was a white whip trashing across the fields many miles away. Dean could barely see it, but Bobby had positioned them so he could use the sun’s last rays as a backlight for the feral thing.

It was awesome.

After the twister lifted without damaging anything, a man pulled up beside their parked Chevy. Dean recognized him from the local news, and after he looked at Dean’s storm video, he offered to buy it.

“You filmed this? You got a good eye, kid. If you want, I'll give you fifty bucks for it.”

Bobby’s smile dropped, and his eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“To show it on the news, of course!” He leaned down towards Dean. “What’s the point in filing it if you aren't going to share it?”

Dean’s fingers tightened on the camera. He heard Bobby clear his throat. “Let the kid have his video,” he said quietly.

But Dean was already thinking of how Sammy could get new sneakers and watch a movie at the local mall. If Dean could film more tornadoes, he could make actual money, not just the allowance Bobby gave for chores.

He held out his hand to the newsman. “Deal!”

~*~

Dean scoffed under his breath. He regretted selling that video now; he'd never found it archived on the internet or YouTube. His first documented chase was on a VHS cassette in someone’s attic or had been tossed in the trash. That idea hurt, so he tried not to think about it.

Despite no more tornadoes in Sioux Falls for twenty years, the chasing bug had bitten him and Sam. And now look at him. He had a tank he’d spent years building in the dead of winter, freezing his balls off for what? To do his brother’s homework? Because that’s what chasing was now: it was a chore he nearly dreaded. Sam was chasing numbers for his spreadsheets, which wasn’t fun.

Dean cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. He watched Cas pan the camera across the horizon and fought the urge to grab it. A pan from left to right would be more dramatic–Nope, nope. Dean didn’t film anymore; he drove. That’s the breakdown they’d agreed to after one too many hot days in an un-air-conditioned behemoth. Otherwise, the brothers were going to kill each other.

Dean moved away from Cas to pace. A gust of wind whipped away his sigh.

“Remarkable,” Cas said in his odd, raspy voice. His eyes danced as he looked up at the sky, watching the storm five miles away move like a giant, heavenly carousel. Cas’ eyes were so intensely blue they felt unreal. Dean had been waiting to catch Cas removing his contact lenses, but nope, those were real. Sinatra, eat your heart out.

Cas pointed at the outer edge of the wall cloud. “Dean, is that a funnel cloud descending towards the ground?”

Dean stopped pacing and stepped up next to Cas. He snuck a peak at the image on the camera’s viewfinder. “Nah, looks like scud, honestly.” Dean looked straight up at the sky and closed his eyes. He tried to sense the pressure in the air, the temperature difference in the breeze, with his fingers. Compared to the last storm they’d been at, the air here was much warmer, almost humid.

Dean opened his eyes again. For the first time in years, he wished he was filming, so much so he reached up his hand to see if Cas would hand it to him without prompting. He tapped Cas on the shoulder.

Cas, the mysterious hobo with a penchant for gay romance novels and who thought Columbo was a fashion icon, raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, Dean?”

Damn– If I could hear that voice and that sentence in a completely different context…Dean shifted his hips slightly away from the other man and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Nothing, there was a mosquito.”

Cas simply hummed and kept his eyes on the sky. “I'd like to use your tripod and set up a time-lapse of one of these wall clouds,” he said. “I looked up some videos about it, and capturing the storm’s entire lifespan would be fascinating.”

Dean had never thought about trying to do a time-lapse before. They took a while to set up and required a lot of patience, often sitting in place for ten minutes or even an hour. The trick was to let Mother Nature do her thing while pictures were taken every few seconds. Cas seemed like the kind of guy who went on silent meditation retreats to Tibet for funsies. He’d be the right guy to give it a whirl. They had the equipment for it. He and Sam were always chasing to intercept; waiting and letting the storm pass without trying to get closer wasn’t their style.

He remembered some of their more harrowing adventures, like the flying rebar. Less exciting is good once in a while. Not every severe weather event produces a twister; it could be a good way to make money on storms that wouldn’t normally be productive.

Dean’s stomach soured. He hated how he could hear that sentiment in Sam’s nagging voice-over in his head.

“Dean?” He blinked and caught sight of Cas, who dropped his eyes to the ground. “If it was a stupid idea, my apologies.”

Dean mentally rewound their conversation. “Oh, no, that’s fine. Whatever floats your boat.”

“It’s your equipment.”

“It’s our equipment, comrade,” Dean said thickly. “As long as you aren’t launching my shit into space, do whatever little artsy thing you want.”

Cas grinned; it was such a small, quick thing that if Dean had blinked, he would’ve missed it. “Thank you.”

Dean felt his cheeks and ears warm. “Uh, you’re welcome?”

The weather radio blared another severe storm warning, and they both turned and gasped at the storm churning above them. The reservoir they sat above had white-capped waves as the winds above suddenly went from nothing to something wispy and white.

“Dean, that can’t be right,” Cas pointed to the tornado, a sneaky minx of something barely discernible across the artificial lake they’d found. “It’s over the water."

Dean clapped his hands, feeling overwhelmed, his dour mood earlier replaced with giddiness. “I’ve never seen a waterspout in person! Cas, are you filming this?”

Cas nodded, holding steady as the tornado delicately danced across the water’s surface.

Dean’s hands itched to hold the camera and follow the twister’s halting path. It careened around like a drunk ballerina over the water’s choppy surface. His familiar roar had an added slurping sound mixed into it. “Well, at least we don't have to worry about it becoming a Sharknado!” Dean joked.

“I refuse to believe that’s something that happens naturally.”

“It does! But it’s also a Syfy movie with five sequels. We should watch them sometime.” Why did that sound like a fun date idea?

“Dean, shouldn’t we get going?”

“There’s no point. It’s heading to a side of the lake we’ll never get to in time.” Dean watched the waterspout in awe. One hand shielded his eyes from the rain that was beginning to fall on them. Instead of grit and tiny rocks Dean was used to getting pelted with, the water spout made the air soupy with humidity. It was hard to see fully, as the more water it sucked up, the more it rained. The spout was becoming a similar color to the skies as everything became shrouded in heavy gray rain.

They stood next to each other for several minutes, watching and recording the spout as it headed farther away. Cas swapped the camera to his other hand and shook out his arm. Dean knew that muscle tension all too well.

“Let me take her,” Dean offered, and Cas did so without hesitation. He gently handed the still-rolling camera to Dean. Relief flashed across his face for a second before he schooled it again.

The funnel wasn’t wide, but it was moving at a very healthy fifty miles an hour. It skimmed over the reservoir, turning white from the water it was sucking up. Dean breamed wide as he followed the funnel in the viewfinder, overjoyed. He wouldn’t remember the last time he’d filmed a twister. Something in him unwound as he forgot himself and hopped in excitement. “Holy shit, I can’t believe it! A water spout –!”

“Dean,” Cas’ monotone cut through his jubilation, though not unkindly. “It’s made a U-turn.”

“What?” He pulled back from the camera to find the tornado had swung wide and was indeed heading in the opposite direction –

– Right toward them!

Dean handed the camera back to Cas, face turning serious. “We’ve gotta try to intercept! Get in, Cas!”

They ran towards the Imp and jumped inside. Cas barely buckled before Dean put the pedal to the metal. They tore off the dirt around the round the lake. Cas eyed the funnel warily through the windshield. Dean knew that while Cas had never chased storms, whatever job he didn’t like to talk about had hardened him not to be afraid in life-or-death situations. Dean appreciated the stoicism. “We’re heading for that bridge,” Dean pointed for Cas knew where he was driving.

“We’re going to intercept on that bridge?”

“Watch out for flying cows,” Dean joked. There was a moment of concerned silence. “Sam needs his data; it’s what the Imp is built for!” He waved at the side of the vehicle, where an anemometer (portable wind vane) was spinning wildly in the winds. It was connected to a black box that collected wind speeds, air pressure, and other stuff Sam needed.

Cas slipped out of his jacket and leaned over as far as the seatbelts would allow to film over Dean's shoulder. “That seems completely impractical,” Cas said. He was so close Dean could hear his breath and feel it washing over his shoulder and down his neck. A shiver ran down his back that had nothing to do with the funnel they were chasing.

Dean could tell Cas was winded, holding up the camera as they barreled down the lone dirt road that was hopefully not washed out further ahead by spring flash floods. The Imp skidded over the dirt and rocks, recklessly pushing forward. He dropped his arm several times but repositioned himself as best he could, pulling back from Dean. “Will we make it?” Cas called over the thunder roar of the twister less than a quarter mile away.

“Are you feeling lucky, punk?” Dean said. The rain came down in buckets, and the wipers weren’t keeping up with the deluge. “Shit, are you even getting anything?” It was a rhetorical question because all he could see was gray, and the frame of the Imp’s interior was blocking the best shots.

“The angle’s not good,” Cas called out. Dean heard the seat belt buckles released from his periphery.

“Cas, what the hell are you doing?”

“Getting a better shot.” Cas undid the deadbolt, and the window flopped open. He sat on the rim of the window, hanging out of the vehicle and shooting up into the approaching storm. He filmed over the roof of the Imp.

“Cas–! CAS–!! Get back inside, you crazy son of a bitch!” The tornado was getting closer, and Dean couldn’t get a good read into the windspeeds.

The radar was outdated by two minutes.

Cas was a sitting duck.

“No, Dean, I can do this–”

He’s lost his goddammed mind. “You can’t help me if you’re dead, asshole!”

Dean hit the brakes, not hard enough to jolt Cas from his perch. They’d lose another precious chance at Sam’s date collection if he stopped. And the way the season panned out, they might not have many chances left. Hell, this could be their only money shot.

Fuck, what do I do?

“Dean,” Cas’s voice managed to carry over the din of the noise. The thunderous slurping sound made Dean’s ears ache. “She’s beautiful.” It was full of awe. Dean reached over, grabbed Cas’s leg hard enough to bruise the skin, and slowed right down.

“Inside, now. Do you want to be brained with hail??”

Cas slid back into the cab and closed the window before the entire thing flooded with the rain. The camera was still intact, and Cas was not only soaked but smiling ear-to-ear. Dean didn't realize Cas could smile like that, bright like sunlight bouncing off the chrome bumper. “Dean! That was incredible.”

Dean blinked a few times. “Uh, yeah! She still is; she hasn’t roped out yet. Let’s go!” Cas nodded vigorously and buckled back in. Dean hit the gas, and the Imp lumbered towards the spout, which was almost to the bridge. They could get an intercept, they could get the data and–

“NO!” They watched as the water spout roped out above them. The twister was gone within ten seconds, its parent cell racing away, leaving nothing but puddles big enough to swim in.

“Spoke too soon,” Dean said sadly. The Imp stopped dead in the middle of the road, and they got out of the vehicle, stepping into black mud to watch the storm leave them behind. “We almost had it,” Dean said.

“Dean,” Cas’s eyes were bright and watery. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I understand why people call them the Fingers of God.” He turned his face to the last raindrops, already blue peaking between the clouds above them.

The adrenaline made him giddy, and he couldn't even be sad about not intercepting the storm. They were within its outer winds, so he knew they had some data sets. But more importantly, Dean couldn't be disappointed because Cas' face was lit up like the Fourth of July. His eyes were bright and filled with wonder. Even though it was a miss, Cas still got to experience something no one else did. No one was crazy enough to try and intercept twisters like Dean and the Imp could. No one had the technology for it. Or the sheer balls.

Their eyes met, and after a second, Dean laughed hysterically. He patted Cas’ back in celebration. “That was, hands-down, the best chase of the season. Sammy’s gonna be pissed he missed it!”

Cas looked away from him. “You’re welcome, Dean.”

“Oh yeah, and next time, before you try any of that stunt man shit, DON’T. Or you’re fired.”

Cas didn’t answer. He just smiled at the sky.

~*~

Chapter Text

The white funnel reached high into the stratosphere and disappeared into the dark gray wall cloud hanging over them. The cold rain that had pounded Castiel’s face and the camera lens was a heavenly benediction—an absolution he’d been chasing since that day in the caves. It was such a welcome sensation that he sat there unmoving until Dean dragged him bodily back into the cab.

Instead of strengthening, the waterspout shook apart as it passed by. It was barely here for two minutes, but Castiel knew it was a life-changing two minutes.

He stood on the bridge and stared at the baby blue sky that peeked through the thinning gray clouds. In his periphery, Dean called 911 to warn them of the supercell in case it created another twister, but the radar images showed a quickly diminishing storm. He also reported a quick clipped message to the NWS with his name, their location, and confirmation of his sighting. Finally, Dean saved the best call for last. Sam was ecstatic, demanding that he upload the footage as soon as possible so he could watch it, too. He sounded relieved, but also jealous. “A waterspout! I hate you so much right now,” he lamented.

It wasn’t a complete intercept (as most of Sam’s equipment got no readings), but it was perfect in Castiel’s eyes. No one got hurt, not even the Imp. His hands, however, shook hard enough that he had to set the camera down on the hood. He was seconds from collapsing into an exhausted, giddy heap.

After hanging up with Sam, Dean put his hands on his hips and then turned to Castiel. His brilliant smile never faltered. “I think this calls for a celebration, Cas! You got your first real twister; how’s it feel?”

“Incredible,” Castiel said reverently.

To be honest, there were no words in the English language that could portray the jumble of emotions in his head. He felt overwhelmed and numb at once (at least he knew that one was shock as the adrenaline left his system).

Dean helped him to his feet and pulled him into a one-armed hug. “You’re insane, but in a good way.”

Everything between then and now was hazy.

“Hey, Major Tom, you reading me?”

Castiel blinked a few times and realized Dean held his beer in the air. “Yes, sorry, Dean.” Right. They’d stopped at this bar to celebrate the season’s first real catch. With shaking fingers, Castiel clicked his beer against Dean’s.

“To catching one with all our fingers and toes.”

Castiel could agree with that. “How big was it, do you think?”

He watched Dean’s throat bob as he drank and sighed in satisfaction. “Hm. Probably an EF-1. Baby twister. Perfect for cutting your teeth on.” Dean huffed good-naturedly. “I can’t believe you called that.”

“Me neither.”

“Were you a weather nerd as a kid?” Dean probed.

“No. In fact, I didn’t like thunderstorms.”

Dean gawked at him. “But you agreed to come with me chasing tornadoes?”

“Life has a funny way of unfolding,” he agreed. Castiel moved to push his back against the wall so he could keep an eye on the entrance. The bar was packed and loud as people had sheltered from the storms. The cold beer in his hand helped to ground him in the moment. Dean scanned the plastic menu curiously.

“There’s something called a roadkill burger; what’s in it, do you think?” He asked conspiratorially.

“Cow? It is a burger.”

“Anything can be a burger if it’s ground-up meat. And don’t come at me with that lab-grown crap either.” Dean shuddered. “Sam tricked me into getting one of those fake burger things. Easily one of the top ten most traumatizing things I’ve gone through.”

Castiel thought of the harrowing videos he posted for a job. A complete exaggeration on Dean’s end, but he decided to play along. He tapped his chin. “Regarding your earlier question and where we are, I think it’s deer. Maybe an opossum.”

Dean screwed up his face. “Ah man, I like possums. Hope not.”

Castiel thought about the many gray-and-white possums he’d witnessed on hot, muggy summer nights as a kid. They liked eating old cat food from dishes he’d left under a tarp, away from his parents’ prying eyes. Usually, it was just one, but he remembered a road-weary mother with four identical babies clinging to her back once. “I like them too,” Castiel admitted.

Dean propped his head on his hand and stared at Castiel momentarily while waiting for their waitress to return. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the background sounds fell away, and it was just them. Dean’s eyes slide from him to someone past his shoulder. His eyes lit up, and he wildly waved his hand to get their attention. “Hey, Tim! Hey, over here!”

Curious about the outburst, Castiel saw an older man with graying hair and a hawkish Roman nose heading to their booth. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt, appearing like a high-school teacher with his glasses hanging around his neck. The man approached Dean, and they shared a firm handshake. “Dean! I had to come to check on you once I saw your tank in the parking lot. And Sam, I–”

The man held his hand out high, then dropped his face about a half foot lower to meet Castiel’s eye. His face scrunched up in confusion. “My apologies, you aren’t his brother.”

Castiel stood and introduced himself as he held out his hand. “Castiel Novak.”

“Tim Samaras.” They shook hands, and Tim glanced around the restaurant hopefully. “Will Sam be here? I wanted to ask how his graduate project is going.”

Dean waved Tim to sit beside Castiel in the booth, and shook his head. “Cas is my friend who is helping out for the chase season. Sam fell into a gopher hole and busted his leg. He’s benchwarming.”

Tim struggled not to laugh. “Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Dean sighed theatrically. “Anyways, Cas. Tim is one of the old-school chasers and one of the founding members of Twistex, a data-collecting team that uses probes. Tim’s built some of the first probes ever to be intercepted by twisters.”

“Wow, that’s impressive,” Castiel said.

“Thanks. This year, it sounds like we’re not the only ones. Word is the DOW team is also trying a probe prototype this year. They’ve been skunked on luck, though.”

Dean’s face clouded for a moment. “They got nothing on you guys,” he said. He drank from his beer and forced a smile. “Ah, man, I’m so glad you lived through El Reno. And doubly glad the retirement didn’t stick.”

Tim nodded in agreement, rolling his shoulder. “Retirement was not all that it’s cracked up to be.”

“Where’s your entourage?” Dean asked.

“Carl and Paul were getting gas and finding us a place to bed down. My friend and son, respectively.” He eyed Castiel. “So, what’s your story?”

Castiel fidgeted with a straw wrapper and debated how much to say. He decided to keep it as brief as possible. “I was working at a local gas station when Dean offered me a better opportunity.” Dean’s eyes darted to the stitches hidden in Castiel’s hairline, but he kept the mugging a secret.

“Chasing tornadoes?” Tim scoffed. “You’re lucky Dean can make a decent living from this. Most chasers live in the red all season and only go out for the hell of it.” He turned serious. “You need to keep your head on a swivel at all times. And always have an exit plan.”

Castiel nodded solemnly, even though he already does these things. Thanks to his years in the service, they were second nature.

“Hey, Dean!” Two more men appeared at their table. Carl and, yes, Castiel could see the similarities between Paul and Tim. They crowded into the booth on Dean’s side. Guessing from Dean’s awestruck expression as they shared a beer and some pizzas, these men were highly regarded. Carl had graying hair and a positive demeanor. He loved his work and was Tim’s right-hand man and driver for most chases.

Paul, Tim’s son, was a weather photographer, and the shots he showed Castiel on his high-end camera were mesmerizing. The light and dark contrast between the storm clouds and the windblown earth made them seem like storms on another planet altogether. He could clearly see the structures of the storm; these images showed him that there indeed was more to the storms than just loud chaos. “You should work for Nat Geo.”

Paul shrugged noncommittally. “And miss this? Not a chance.”

When Dean explained that they’d filmed a waterspout, all three men shared the same slightly jealous excitement Sam had earlier. “And you called it?” Carl asked as Castiel shrugged with one shoulder.

“Beginners’ luck,” he said dismissively, hoping they couldn’t see his blush through his beard.

“Maybe,” Paul said. “But my Dad thought something was up with that cell, too. Maybe you’re on the same wavelength as him.”

It was true. Only Dean and Team Twistex were here. Dean hadn’t mentioned anyone else around as other storm chasers. And even though Twistex was here, they hadn’t caught the waterspout. Only Castiel and Dean had. It was difficult not to feel proud of their accomplishment.

Dean gave him an appraising glance. “I’d love to have a tornado detector on payroll.” Everyone agreed to that.

The meal lasted hours, and the conversation moved from future weather predictions for the season to personal projects and life in general. Tim rubbed his hand on his deltoid repeatedly throughout the course, and Castiel recognized it as a chronic pain. He also noticed scarring faintly running up the side of his neck from under his shirt collar.

“How did you rupture your deltoid? That’s a rare and severe injury,” Castiel finally asked.

Tim’s face became stony as he glanced between Carl and Paul. Dean leaned forward, curious, but trying to play off his eagerness. Castiel could feel that Dean had been waiting all dinner for this to come up, but had been waiting. Now, that patience was paying off.

The background sounds of the other patrons became quiet as they focused wholly on Tim, who finished his beer and set it on the table with a definitive thud. “Two years ago, the widest tornado in recorded history rolled through El Reno, Oklahoma. We had been chasing the storms all day, and they were firing off left and right. But this one was different. We watched this small wedge tornado suddenly expand from a mile wide, to a two and a half wide vortex of death within thirty seconds. It was so dark and wide that it looked like a wall cloud had fallen out of the sky and begun churning across the earth. Between the sudden size increase and its odd, erratic zig-zagging path, we went from chasers to being chased. Even though we were northeast of this thing, we got caught in the rear flank downdraft and pulled into the bear’s cage.” Tim’s eyes were far away, and Castiel saw he was shaking. His voice wavered, and he fell silent.

Carl picked up. The cheerful man from earlier was now somber. “It was pure luck that the car was only sideswiped, instead of being crushed. We flipped multiple times, though, and landed in a field. S and R had to use the jaws of life to get us out. The destruction around us was incredible. Like a hundred bombs went off at once.”

Paul nodded quietly and drank his beer. Castiel noticed scars on his arms.

Tim slung an arm over his son’s shoulders. “I thank God that we all made it. And I know to the rest of the world and our families that getting back into storm chasing seems insane. But I feel like we were given a second chance that day. I can’t squander it.”

“Amen,” Dean said, raising his beer, to which they all clicked theirs together–still, this man’s dedication to returning to the front after almost losing his life. “Your determination is admirable,” Castiel said.

“It’s okay to say insane. My wife reminds me all the time.” Tim turned to Dean. “Now, you better keep your wits about you, both of you. The T.I.I–”

“The Imp,” Dean corrected gently.

“Fine. The Imp is the toughest thing against twisters, which means you’ll get reckless.” Tim met Castiel’s eyes. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but without his brother around to do it, you have to promise to keep Dean out of trouble.”

Castiel saluted a little too crisply. “Yes, Sir.”

Dean didn’t look pleased by this request; he puffed out his cheeks. “I’m not a kid.”

“Did I say you were? I said you can be reckless. You’re a storm chaser in a giant armored vehicle; don’t you think any of us would throw caution to the wind because of it? All I’m asking is to keep your nose clean. We haven’t had any storm chasers die in the line of fire.” He unconsciously moved his shoulder again. “It’s only a matter of time before the tables turn and the house wins the pot.”

~*~

The other storm chasers left too soon, with Dean lamenting repeatedly that he wished Sam were there to see them in person. Samaras was something of a celebrity in the field, though he didn’t like the fanboy attention Dean gave him. Anytime there was fawning, he just moved the conversation along.

Dean said the atmospheric activity would be low for the next few days, but not entirely out. Carl pointed out that the weather reports had changed slightly from a zero percent chance to a one percent chance near Omaha. That was apparently a good thing because Dean perked up immediately.

So, they would stay at least a night and try to get their bearings in the morning.

“Welp, might as well get comfy.” Dean studied the bar for a few seconds, taking in the pool table and a dartboard. “Can you play billiards?”

“Yes, I play,” Castiel said, eyes downcast.

“You don’t have to look so overjoyed about that fact,” Dean muttered.

“Sorry,” Castiel shook his head. “Um, stripes or solids?”

“Solids.” Then Castiel would be stripes. They grabbed their beers and headed to the pool table, empty between other rounds. The bar was typical, and the patrons were a mix of travelers and bar normals—many bikers in leather vests and guys in sports jerseys. A few women were sprinkled around, dressed in leather, or daisy dukes and crop tops. Dean gave a few women a playful wink or a bow of his head as they wove through the crowd, but didn’t say anything to them. Once at the table, Dean began setting up as if he’d already done this a hundred times.

Castiel remembered how Meg and Benny had taught him the game. It was the usual distraction between missions and the little downtime they had. Meg was always stripes, and Benny was solids. After they played each other, Castiel played the winner, since he had the best marksmanship of the trip, and trick shots came naturally to him. He never thought he’d miss Meg’s acidic quips or Benny’s accent and odd bayou sayings.

He wished there was a way to trade his Purple Heart so they could be here again.

Castiel was so distracted by the ghosts of his squadmates that he rammed right into Dean head-on. They bounced off of each other, swearing. “Cas, you okay?” Dean had his hand cupped over his nose, but he was fine once he pulled it away. Castiel nodded shakily, his ribs reminding him that he really wasn’t, with a lance of pain up his side that made him hiss. The stitches tugged painfully at his hairline. “Yeah,” he grunted, knowing he needed more pain meds soon. “Are you okay, Dean?”

“Yep, never better,” Dean brushed his concern away. Then, he leaned over right in front of Castiel to rack the balls. His ass filled out his worn jeans perfectly, and shit I can’t, I can’t

Castiel stumbled back half a step, to give his dick some breathing room, right into another bar patron. “Oh, sorry.”

“Dude, what the hell?” The guy in a baseball cap snarled at him. “You blind or something?”

Blinded by the classical beauty that is my boss, possibly, but Castiel knew better than to say that out loud, especially in a random bar in the Midwest.

“Hey, you good?” Dean was there with a friendly, easy-going smile. He gave the other man a once-over. “He didn’t mean it. Accidents happen accidentally.”

The guy stared at them intensely as if trying to figure them out. Eventually, his drunk brain didn’t make any significant connections, so he moved along with a grunt. Castiel found his whole body tense, ready to pounce if the man pressed his luck. He rolled his shoulders to ease it.

Dean grabbed his shoulder and guided him back to the pool table. “C’mon, Cas, time to play. It’s your turn.”

Castiel followed Dean and surveyed the break Dean had shot. He eyed the balls, their positions, and several options to victory appeared clear in his head. He had an objective and was locked and loaded. He tilted his head and gave Dean a predatory smirk, who shot him one right back.

He proceeded to whoop Dean’s ass handily. And Dean pouted adorably about it. “C’mon, Cas, I was going easy on ya! I thought you were a newb.”

“While it’s an understandable assumption, you still lost.”

“Come on, Cas! Best two out of three. You’ll see what I can really do with a stick and balls.” He winked, and Castiel coughed on his beer bottle. He could feel how warm his ears got, and the bubbly liquid almost shot through his nose.

There was a clearing of the throat as two strangers watched them with interest. One was wearing cargo shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt. The other was about Dean’s height, but he wore a band shirt and jeans. “Hey. Since there’s only one table, and we want to play. Wanna play versus?”

Dean immediately grinned and cocked his hip as he leaned against his pool cue. His eyes glittered in the low light, and his lips parted slightly as he licked them. “What’s the wager?”

“A good time?” Led Zepp shirt asked, running his eyes over Dean.

“My time’s not free,” Dean said.

“Fine. Forty bucks. Best two out of three.” Led Zepp said, and Dean shook his hand.

“Deal.” Dean pulled Castiel aside. “Come on. That’s a room for the night at the crack motel. I want a shower and bed tonight, so let’s kick their asses.”

Castiel studied their opposition. Hawaiian caught his gaze and made a cutting motion across his neck. “We’re going to destroy them summarily,” Castiel predicted.

Dean patted his shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Let’s go, team.”

“After you, Dean.” And Castiel did not look at Dean’s round, grabbable ass as he walked around the table to rack the balls once more.

The game was brutal. Everyone was on their A game, even Hawaiian and Led Zepp. Hawaiian used a trick shot Castiel had never seen before, essentially bouncing the cue ball over another like a game of checkers. Castiel was certain that move was illegal, but this wasn’t a tournament. No referees. Unfortunately for them, Meg tried shit like this all the time, so Castiel was prepared for it. Castiel and Dean had to come together to squeeze out a last-second victory. But, after a harrowing three rounds, they were victorious.

Dean pumped his fist like he’d scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl. Castiel found his energetic side a breath of fresh air.

Hawaiian glowered at them, but Led Zepp smiled this ‘aw shucks,’ grin instead. “Guess we lost fair and square. I’ll hit up the ATM.” He very barely inclined his head to Dean.

Dean’s eyes darted between Led Zepp, and Castiel, but then he licked his lips. “Yeah, I’ll hit the head,” he said. And they wove between the tables and customers towards the back of the building.

Castiel watched them walk away until the crowd swallowed them up. Then, ignoring Hawaiian staring daggers at him, he reset the balls and cues for the next players. After a few minutes, he finished the beer he’d been nursing throughout the game. Once he tossed the beer, he glanced outside through the windows but didn’t see Dean in the Imp. There’s a motel next door; maybe he’s getting us a room?

Barely buzzed, Casriel shrugged and headed towards the restroom, needing to take a leak himself. As he slipped silently inside, not wanting to disturb anyone in the stall, he froze mid-step. He cocked his head, confused, as he heard undeniable sex sounds coming from that stall. Tiny little huffs of breath, a slip of a groan, a small grunt. He knew those sounds all too well. And at first, he grinned, because a bathroom score was so damn cliche. He’s had a quickie in one before, but would never recommend them; the stalls are too small, and the sticky floor was such a turn-off. To him, at least.

But then Castiel’s smile fell right off his face, and shattered on that ubiquitous sticky floor, because of the two pairs of shoes in the stall, he recognized that pair of work boots.

Oh, my God. It’s Dean.

Completely unable to move, he could now recognize some of the sounds. Yes, those little huffs were Dean’s cadence. Holy fuck. He likes guys?

The flirty way he was acting back there wasn’t an act? Oh, fuck.

Castiel backed out of the bathroom silently and power-walked back to the Imp. He ripped open the passenger door, breathing hard like he just ran a marathon. He stood there for several seconds, trying to process what he heard and debating on how to move forward. Bury it under a mountain of shame? Bring it up later?

…Let it be staring material for his nightly showers?

The little sounds were playing on a loop in his head, and damn his dick for finding that hot. I can’t have a hard-on in fucking public!

He made the executive decision to grab a room at the motel next door, and take the coldest shower of his fucking life. Once he had the keys, he dropped his bag on the floor and quickly texted Dean: Grabbed a room. 213. No rush.

Because he needed time to work out how this would affect his growing crush on Dean, seeing him, er, hearing him with another man shouldn’t be so hot. It should bother the hell out of him. Instead, he wished he could see more. Wished that they hadn’t gotten into a stall. That they were so horny they had debased each other right in the middle of the bathroom for all to see.

And that made him a perv.

So Castiel ran out the cold water, trying and failing not to play this mental movie of what Dean might’ve been doing with Led Zepp. The position of his boots suggested a potential handjob. But Dean had such luscious lips, had it been a blow job?

Castiel hadn’t jerked off in so long, worried about survival and falling into old habits. Drugs weren’t the only things he had used to self-medicate once he left the hospital. Sex has just been another way to keep himself from feeling anything. He didn’t want just to use Dean, have him be another distraction. But even now, his cock is filling up under his hand despite the ice water cascading over him. It did nothing to diminish the heat flaring to life under his skin.

He lost it on the shower wall, finger jammed between his teeth, as he thought about his boss, on his knees, worshipping him instead. As he washed the evidence away, Castiel sighed in relief and regret. How am I supposed to face him after this?

The universe decided not to give a chance to prepare; Dean was already inside and kicking off his boots. “Hey. Tell me you left some hot water?”

“Yes,” Castiel couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m used to taking quick showers.”

Dean stretched towards the ceiling with a groan. His shirt rode up, showing the flash of skin underneath. “Nothing’s better than a nice, long, hot shower,” he hummed.

“I prefer cold ones.”

“Okay, freak,” Dean said, arching an eyebrow, but his words had no heat. “Least we’ll never fight over the hot water.” He hummed a little tune as he padded inside with a change of clothes. Once the shower started, Castiel plopped down on his bed and removed all the items from his back. Then, with utmost care, began repacking it. It was a calming activity, like watching the clothes tumble in a dryer.

He would not imagine Dean naked in the shower. He would not try to imagine what he might look like, cock hard, and begging for release.

Nope.

Dean was his boss.

He was not going there.

They were not going there.

………

Fuck. He was screwed. And not in a pleasurable way.

When Dean got out, he checked Castiel’s stitches and gave him his allowance for pain pills. They spent the night watching reruns of X-Files, Dean catching him up with the overarching plots and characters. Dean was very relaxed and happy to hang out quietly. He was definitely experiencing some sort of afterglow, which put to bed any suspicion that it was someone else in that bathroom with the same boots.

Castiel liked this less high-strung Dean. He wished they were sharing a bed, like they had at Garth’s place. Wished Dean’s lax body was just inches away. As he lay on his bed watching Dean instead of the small TV, he thought: maybe, next time, I’ll be the one to put that look on his face.

~*~

The next day was an unusual one. Dean and Castiel hung out in the Imp most of the day, waiting to see if any places were likely to fire off. The one percent Sam had mentioned fell off, but Dean was happy for the break, even if he grumbled about being stuck in B.F.E. The day was warm but breezy, so they sat with open windows. The smell of welded steel and body odor never entirely disappears, no matter how often Dean cleans the interior or changes the car tree air freshener. It’s oddly comforting how similar this is to his previous employment.

In the meantime, Dean spent hours posting to Twitter and replying to messages on social media that Sam didn’t catch. He showed Castiel these weather-related memes that made as much sense to him as Greek did. But Dean laughed so hard at them, and Castiel wished to understand what would make him do that. He asked a few times, but once Dean got snippy trying to explain three layers of internet meme culture, Castiel left him to his own devices. Still, he spent hours chatting online, teasing some people, and defending how he did things in the field. Apparently, there was always some type of drama in the weather community.

People kept coming up to them, asking about the Imp, and even storm chasing. Some were concerned normies. Most were other chasers, since it leaked over the radio where the Imp was parked. Some folks wanted pictures with Dean and the Imp, since he was something of a mini-celebrity online. Most of the people Dean spoke to blended together, but the stoner Andy was a standout.

He and Dean had a pretty interesting friendship, arriving with a big grin and a small canvas painting as a gift. “Sorry it took a while to catch you!” Andy said after the introductions. His face fell slightly when Castiel wasn’t Sam, but he was polite as he chatted to them. Instead of taking pictures of the storms he chased, Andy sketched and painted them.

Dean showed Castiel the piece. It was an oil painting, about the size of a piece of paper. On it was a cowboy, riding through a meadow as the sky above him darkened due to an incoming storm. The cowboy’s horse was black, and his face looked a little familiar. Castiel studied the painting for a long time, while Andy and Dean caught up. It was such a gorgeous still life shot, and the colors were beautiful, from the wildflowers to the clouds.

“Thanks, man, are you sure?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, man, totally. It’s thanks for saving my ass last year.”

“Dean, I think this is supposed to be you,” Castiel pointed to the face on the cowboy. Dean’s head whipped up.

“You painted me as a cowboy?”

“I know you liked those good ol’ boys. You probably were one in a past life,” Andy joked.

“What did he do?” Castiel asked, leaning closer to Dean to hear him as he stood outside.

“You’re making a bigger deal than it needs to be,” Dean protested, but Andy shook his head.

“Well, as an artist, sometimes you get stuck in the zone, hyperfocusing on the little details you forget the world around you? I got so caught up on mixing the right gray for the wall cloud, I totally missed the incoming hail core. Dean was nearby and hauled my ass inside,” Here he patted the Imp’s outer shell. “He got my easel too, just in time when those softballs started falling.”

“The hail was softball-sized?” Castiel gulped.

“Yeah. The longer the water’s up there, the bigger the hail gets when it comes back down.”

“It wouldn’t have killed you,” Dean said.

Castiel thought about multiple softballs of jagged ice falling at terminal velocity from the sky to an unaware person below. Maybe not an instant fatality, but it would be cause for concern. Concussions and fractures were the least of those worries.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He motioned the colorful hippie painted van pulled in front of them. “But it’s a lot cheaper to fix some dents in paneling than dents in my skull. So, I appreciate it, man. And tell Sam I said hi.” They shared a fond hug, and Andy wandered off, his fantasy-painted van disappearing down the road.

Castiel spent a lot of the day reading. He hadn’t moved forward with the book he was reading aloud to Dean. At the gas station, he’d grabbed a mystery thriller; this was what he was absorbed in when Dean’s hand descended on his shoulder. “Ready for dinner?” Castiel looked out the windshield to see that it was the golden hour of late afternoon melting into early evening. Castiel didn't notice how Dean watched him as he slid out of the Imp with quiet grace to follow him to the trunk.

“Sure, what’s our options?”

Dean held out two little single-serving bowls of cereal. “Cap’n Crunch or Froot Loops?”

Castiel took a second too long to decide, and things got awkward. Dean’s eyes darted away. “Probably wishing for one of Bess’ steaks, huh?”

“Dean, this is a net positive from the lack of food I was eating, remember?” Castiel took the Cap’n Crunch, and they added some milk from a tiny bottle in the vintage green cooler. “Cheers.” They touched the sides of their little plastic bowls and watched the sunset while sitting on the bumper.

“What will we do tomorrow, Dean?”

“The same thing we do every day, Cas! Try to record one of the rarest weather phenomena in the world!” Dean laughed. “It doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it?”

Castiel’s eyes went right to Dean’s lips, and he watched as he licked a stray droplet of white milk from them. Oh Lord, why are you tempting me like this?

Dean pulled back and wiped the last droplets with the back of his hand after he slurped up the dredges. “So, Cas, how do we feel about a little road trip tomorrow?”

Castiel’s heart stuttered at that little ‘we.’ “We’re already on one,” he pointed out, just to be pedantic.

“A detour, then.”

“Where to?” Castiel asked.

Dean clapped and rubbed his hands. “Since there’s no real chance of storms for a few days, I wanna hit up some places! Sam always bitched about sightseeing.”

Castiel worked on eating his cereal as he nodded. “Sure, Dean. Where do you want to go?”

Dean smiled at him, surprised to be given what he wanted without a fuss.“I wanna hit up Carhenge.”

Castiel thought he’d heard wrong. “Car…henge?” He asked around a mouthful of cereal.

“Yes. It’s exactly what it sounds like and I wanna go.” Dean held out his phone to Castiel, who glanced over the notes app list and the dozen or so places on it. He’d never heard of any of them. Dean’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he waited for Castiel’s input.

“Of course, Dean. I’ll follow your lead.”

“You’re gonna regret giving me carte blanche like that," Dean said, eyes shining mischievously. "I’ll make you go to Dodge City.”

Now, Castiel smirked. “You really do have a thing for cowboys. Is it the hats, or the boots?” Castiel stuttered slightly on that last word, but Dean didn’t notice.

“They were basically the samurai of the Old West! How can I not like them?”

Oh boy, he recognized the signs of an infodump a mile away. Castiel had already committed to the storm chasing. He had a feeling Dean could talk him into diving at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, and he'd do it. “I must admit, my cowboy knowledge is lacking. Do you want to fill me in on the way to Car-henge?”

Dean’s eyes grew wide. Geniune excitement filled them, as did appreciation. “Cas, will you marry me?”

One of the last kernels chose that moment to go down the wrong windpipe. He coughed and sputtered, “It’s a little early for a Vegas wedding.”

Dean held up his hands, cheeks turning pink. “Alright, raincheck then." His mouth opened a couple of times as he realized how that sounded, and he sputtered. "I mean, not a raincheck for the marriage, that would be cool, if it was a thing. I mean...Fuck," Dean muttered and slapped a palm to his forehead.

Castiel huffed a little laugh as he finished his cereal dinner. "We're going on a road trip," he said, to get Dean back on track. Watching him struggle was fun, though.

"Yep, let’s go plot a course to Carhenge!” He grabbed two water bottles and climbed back into the Imp. He patted the leather seat next to him. “Come on, Cas, no backing out now.” Dean’s face was bright and happy as he prepared for his lecture and their impromptu adventure.

“I don’t plan on it.” And Castiel found that he had no plans to leave Dean any time soon.

Chapter Text

Castiel traveled much of the world in his former career. As such, he always fell into the trap of the U.S. being boring. Nothing of interest was here, culturally or otherwise. But Castiel had to admit he was wrong. The old school tourist traps were one of a kind, a mix of nostalgia and impressive creativity that made him want to find more of these little places before they were lost to the sands of time.

Certainly not because Dean was adorable the entire damn time.

Carhenge in Alliance, Nebraska

Buffalo Bill’s Ranch in North Platte, Nebraska

Iowa’s Largest Frying Pan, Brandon, Iowa

Matchstick Marvels in Gladstone, Iowa

The City Museum in St. Louis, Missouri

Dean asked Sam for extra gas funds but refused to say what they were for. “If you wanted to tag along, you should’ve been more careful in prairie dog country!” He got the money and a middle finger emoji text for his trouble.

Castiel and Dean had spent a long time deciding (arguing) over which places to visit. Initially, Castiel was resigned to follow Dean’s lead. While storm chasing, he was the greenhorn and had no experience to pull upon for decision-making if something went awry. But this was downtime. And Dean made sure Castiel knew that he had a say here. Expected one. They got into a heated debate about it, because (for some weird reason) Dean insisted Castiel try to have fun on this detour, too. Eventually, they compromised on the Matchstick museum.

And now, Castiel begrudgingly knew the entire history of the Old West. Dean spoke a hundred miles an hour when excited, but his roundabout way of explaining things was endearing and exhausting. A couple of times, Castiel barely prevented his hands from reaching out and shaking him by the shoulders and yelling to get to the point! But he never did. Because he could tell Dean was putting down a lot of barriers between them on this trip. While the places were fascinating and nothing he would have thought to visit, Dean’s reaction to everything made the detour truly worth it.

They took the obligatory photos at Carhenge. Multiple car chassis were buried in the ground and stacked on top of each other to recreate the Stonehenge stone circle in England. It was an oddball concept. According to the plaque in front of it, it was a memorial to the artist’s father, who lived on that land. While its reason for being was less mysterious than its English counterpart, it was still an engineering feat. Dean wrangled Castiel in front of his camera for a few selfies. Castiel tried to wiggle out of them, but Dean had a heck of a strong arm when he wanted to. And Dean got a very soft look in his eyes when he studied their picture together. He tucked away his phone, and they were off on the next leg of their journey.

The Buffalo Bill Ranch was Dean’s bread and butter. Buffalo Bill was an essential figure in the Old West, and Dean was curious to see this place. He was an army scout, a rider in the Pony Express (the precursor to the Postal Service), and the leader of what was essentially a circus. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show included the famous sharpshooter Annie Oakley. Castiel knew this name from Meg, who had mentioned her as a personal hero. Dean was all over the memorabilia of the old show and the man’s house. After exploring the blue-and-white building, they took a break outside to enjoy the national park surrounding it. Walking around the trees and grass was so relaxing, away from the Imp and the tarmac jungle they’d been traveling for days. Even Dean, who enjoyed bitching about bugs, was quiet and thoughtful as they sat under an oak tree for a little while and just existed together.

Iowa’s largest frying pan was a typical tourist trap, but Dean swore he would drive back in September, when the town held its annual cowboy breakfast fundraiser. This man had such a food fixation, although Castiel agreed the so-called cowboy breakfast was excellent. Very filling, stick-to-your-ribs fare that he wanted more of. It reminded him of Bess’ way of cooking. It would undoubtedly help the ribs showing under his lightning bruises.

The Matchstick museum was Castiel’s favorite spot. The artist created massive works using only matchsticks, like mini versions of the U.S Capitol building, Notre Dame, and the International Space Station. Dean’s favorite exhibit was their newest one, a Dodge Charger from the Fast and Furious movies. It took over 720,000 matchsticks to create and had a mechanism to open the hood. Castiel loved the concepts but admitted putting the actual matchsticks together would drive him crazy sooner rather than later. On the other hand, Dean saw how relaxing something like this could be. That wasn’t a surprise, considering they rode here in a tank Dean created.

They slept in the Imp, had more cereal, and finally got to St. Louis. The City Museum was basically a large art installation/jungle gym, and Dean loved most of it. Castiel struggled to keep up with Dean, climbing through the giant slinky or getting to the top of the Praying Mantis statue. His ribs and general fatigue prevented him from tagging along. Instead, Castiel took many touristy pictures of Dean in various poses on the installations. Castiel used his strategic leanings to help complete the scavenger hunts and scored a big win for them by finding the big undies. After they hobbled back to the Imp, exhausted but content, Castiel got Dean an ice pack from the cooler to help with his crunchy knees. Again, Dean gave him a curious once-over but took the ice and hissed in relief as he laid it on his bad one.

Castiel wore a small, satisfied smile. This impromptu three-day road trip with his boss was the most fun he’d ever had. Sure, they only met over a week ago, but Castiel could not imagine his life without Dean. The trip didn’t help the crush, either. Getting to an unabashed look at Dean’s dorky side was a treat. The man oscillated between serious storm chaser and no-nonsense boss, to someone who cracked awful jokes and laughed at them himself. His moods kept Castiel on his toes.

While they sometimes debated what to do or where to go, it was all good fun. Bitching together about bad drivers or all the damn construction in Iowa was just part and parcel of long trips. They fought over the route on the map and even argued about the new air freshener Dean wanted to buy. Castiel found the floral scents too overwhelming but Dean liked them, dammit. And it was his baby. They compromised with classic Black Ice.

After a lunch of sandwiches and chips, they waited in St. Louis to determine their next stop. Dean was already online, seeing what else they could do, or a new tourist trap to visit. As he was scrolling, his phone emitted that now familiar rock tone. “Yo, thanks for calling the St.Louis Morgue. You bag ‘em, we tag ‘em. How can I help?”

“Very funny, Dean,” Sam mumbled on speaker phone; Castiel ducked his head and huffed a small laugh.

“Whacha need, little bro?”

“I have some insight on some storms.”

Castiel nodded, feeling an odd sense of relief. The feeling was mutual, as Dean did a little fist pump. “When and where?” Castiel asked the phone Dean held between them.

“According to the NWS, a dry line will set up shop right above Oklahoma, Missouri, and Arkansas tomorrow. But the real kicker is this dry line is gonna meet with a low-pressure system from the Gulf.”

“Storms for days?” Dean summed up.

“Yeah. Looks like every day for the next ten days has decent storm chances. Good tornado odds as well. The storms will probably bleed into Illinois and maybe Dixie Alley.” Sam cleared his throat. “Dean, are you sure you don’t need my help?”

“Sam, Cas, and I got this, alright. Even Twistex missed that waterspout.” He reached out and slung a friendly arm over Castiel’s shoulder. “I think Cas here will be our saving grace.”

“No pressure,” Castiel mumbled as Dean pulled away. He missed that closeness immediately, the smell of Dean’s deodorant filling his nose.

“It just…sucks,” Sam groaned. “I fucking hate this. Missing out on everything. I’m not an invalid, you know,” he spoke in a frustrated rush.

“Sam, if you had to run to cover in the field, could you?”

Sam hesitated. “Dean, I’ll be fine in the Imp. It’s what you built her for. To protect from a direct impact. What, are you saying you don’t trust her to protect me? That you don’t trust you to protect me?”

Oh, Castiel knows Sam hit a sensitive spot with that angle. Dean’s face goes from annoyed to indignant. He clicks his tongue. “Nice try, Freud, but you’re not using reverse psychology on me.” His words are cocky but he lost some of the edge of conviction in his face. Despite their issues, being separated is difficult for them both.

Sam sighed long and loud. “You’re a jerk.”

“And you’re a bitch.” After a tense moment, Dean said, “Was there anything else?”

“Yeah. Just posted a new video to the channel: Cas’ first capture.” Sam held back, trying to keep his voice carefully modulated. But Castiel caught that venom when Sam said his name.

Castiel put himself in Sam’s shoes. Dean had told him about their first tornado, outside the junkyard their uncle owned. The weather bug had bitten them as children, and they’ve been storm chasing for most of their lives. And this might be their last season to chase together, as Sam wants to migrate towards more internal research positions, and Dean is just chasing for Sam. While he understood their frustrations, he had nothing to offer in terms of practical application.

“Sam,” Castiel spoke calmly but firmly, “I get you’re upset, but remember, Dean hired me. This is nothing personal– it’s just business.”

Dean gave Castiel an inscrutable stare but nodded his agreement. “Look, Sammy, I know editing videos is boring as fuck, but you’re currently the one person making sure the money machine keeps rolling,” he explained, trying to smooth over Sam’s bruised ego.

“Whatever,” Sam mumbled, but the heat was gone from his words. “I sent some funds. The donations after this newest video have gone up.”

Dean arched an eyebrow, and Castiel asked curiously, “Why’s that?”

“You’ll see,” Sam said cheerily. Both Dean and Castiel narrowed their eyes suspiciously at his sudden about-face. “Anyways, I’ll send the coordinates for y’all to head back towards, once I get more concrete data. For now, just aim for Oklahoma City.”

Sam hung up, and the Imp was quiet for a few minutes as Dean pulled up his GPS to figure out the best way to escape St. Louis’ downtown traffic. “Shoot, I hoped to hit up the zoo before we left. They have all kinds of critters there, including the Zoboomafoo lemur, and it’s free,” Dean complained.

Castiel rubbed his beard in thought. “Since Sam mentioned Missouri, what if we waited here for the storms to come to us? We could go see your lemurs,” he offered.

Dean contemplated it for about twenty seconds but then sighed heavily. “Nah, we gotta jump on this thing to try and get as many intercepts as possible. So, back to the range we go.”

But they both were reluctant to return to the grind of endlessly chasing these prairie ghosts. Castiel felt worn down, adjusting to the stress of this new job. The endless searching and driving wouldn’t be as grating if he had been fit and healthy. But being in pain hindered him from enjoying the little things.

“Alright.” Castiel cracked his knuckles and opened the glove box. He pulled out the stack of paper maps and shuffled through them. When Dean made an inquisitive little noise, Castiel explained his thinking. “If we lose the GPS, I want alternate routes to be prepared.” The map for Oklahoma was easy to find since Dean had them in alphabetical order. Castiel also grabbed a composition notebook and a pen and returned the unnecessary maps to the glovebox.

As he closed it, Dean said, “Nice thinking.” There was a proud little smile on his face as Castiel became absorbed in his amateur cartography project. Using several pages of the notebook, he traced various routes outside Oklahoma City and the surrounding environs. He labeled them in the corners and now had at least four contingencies. But, of course, he couldn’t predict exactly where they would chase. So, he would alter his current maps once Sam and Dean confirmed locations. Still, it helped ease his anxiety about the upcoming chase.

When Castiel finally looked up, they were making good time on the highway. Dean was jamming out to Nirvana. Castiel tucked the maps back in the glovebox just in time for Dean to unlatch the window and flip it open. As the cool breeze hit his face, Castiel realized how stuffy it had gotten. While he appreciated it, the wind whipped Castiel’s hair violently. He unsuccessfully tried to hold his hair back from flying around his face.

Dean fiddled with the shifter and reached over to give him something. It was a simple black hair tie with an errant long, brown hair wrapped around it. “It’s Sam’s. There’s no cooties, though.”

“Thanks, Dean.” Their fingers brushed slightly as Castiel accepted it. Using it correctly took several tries, and he only half-managed a messy bun. Back in the service, and most of his life, Castiel’s hair was cropped short, like Dean’s. But, even with the hair-tie trouble, he liked how different he looked in the side-view mirror. It felt like a new page had been turned in the book of his life.

“No problem, buddy.” Dean fully leaned back against the leather seat and stretched his arm out over the top of the leather seat. He tapped his fingers on the seat and mouthed along the song quietly playing in the background. He made navigating the Imp along the highway look and feel easy. It was second nature to him, and that easy confidence made him even more painfully attractive.

Castiel stared at Dean for so unabashedly long he noticed and teased, “Take a picture–it’ll last longer.”

Feeling a bit daring, Castiel pulled out his phone to call his bluff. He managed two quick photos before his phone dinged with a new text message.

Shea: Castiel! Hey, I saw the new video on Dean’s channel. Was it as scary as it looked? Give me all the deets! Also, did you know some channel fans are shipping you two?

Castiel barked out a singular laugh. “Oh, come on,” he muttered in disbelief.

“What’s up?” Dean asked, and Castiel held up a finger as he typed his reply.

C: That’s ridiculous. They’re reading too much into things. We’re just coworkers.

S: The cow jokes and the snake wrangling are making people call you American Steve Irwin, BTW.

Castiel needed to watch this video. What the hell did Sam do?

Castiel brought up the latest video on Dean’s channel and watched it with the cheap earbuds he’d picked up. It included their first miss and some scenes of the Imp in the mud. The clip switched to the arcing anvil crawler lightning with the cows in the shot’s foreground. And finally, it showed the water funnel, tall and damn imposing, until he was dragged back inside and it broke apart. Usually, this is where Dean’s videos end. He only showed the actual “cool stuff,” with small bits of narration. But Sam had gotten back at Dean, leaving him out of the loop, by including a bunch of B-roll and behind-the-scenes things.

The cow jokes were there, like Shea mentioned. But so were other moments he’d forgotten about. The weird dragon-shaped bong Dean discovered at a gas station. And shot after shot of animal rescues. There was a caption about stopping seventeen times for turtles and snakes. He saw himself put the camera on the dashboard, and accidentally filmed himself running outside with his suit and trench coat, grabbing the reptiles and helping them across the road. Repeatedly. He was so embarrassed that his cheeks and ears were hot.

And he messed up by scrolling into the comments. And yes, mixed in around the storm content comments (people wondering if he could hack it, why he was there instead of Sam, and why he was so weirdly dressed), some people mentioned how cute and intense he and Dean were. It started as a joke post, but some people latched onto this concept. Don’t you see how Dean is always staring at him?

Yes, Dean states a lot, but it doesn’t have to mean anything. Castiel was always accused of having an intense stare. This is so fucking weird.

He saw a short video talking about them, calling them Destiel. And Castiel knew they were fucked. They have a couple name? Oh Jeez. Dean can never know about this. And he’s going to kill Sam.

He thought about the tourist trap pictures and knew the rumor mill would never die if those got out. Castiel chewed on his fingernail for a moment as he contemplated the best approach to this. “Dean, were you going to watch the new video?”

“Nah,” he said. “I never go back and watch the videos. I already lived it.” Castiel sighed in relief. Good, I’m the only one who needs to know about this. “Don’t worry, Cas, I’m sure the camera captured your killer profile.”

He ignored Dean’s flirtation and vowed not to bend to this temptation. Castiel would stand firm against this personification of the apple in the Garden of Eden. “I’m just nervous about the filming I did,” he lied. “But if Sam used it, it couldn’t be that bad, right?”

“Exactly. He’s picky.”

Oh, so Sam really did it to get back at us. What a petty asshole. “Good to hear it.”

They traveled for a while, and Castiel’s anxiety turned down to a low simmer. According to the GPS, the upcoming gas station was the last for at least fifty miles. Dean filled up the Imp (cheerfully waiving at the confused travelers at the other pumps per usual), and Castiel was responsible for snacks. He procured Dean’s favorite jerky, Gatorades, and massive water bottles with electrolytes. He also got healthier chips and protein bars for them both. Seeing a slice of cherry pie in a tiny plastic box, he balanced it atop his pile of supplies like the cherry on an ice cream sundae.

As he climbed inside, Dean was already back in the driver’s seat, skin shining with sweat. Castiel licked his lips at the sight as Dean lifted the bottom of his shirt and wiped around the sweat around his face, not giving a single thought to the show he’d just given his copilot. Get a grip already, Castiel told him. He pulled the passenger door shut with a creaking thud and realized Dean was watching his phone perched on the steering wheel. His heart jumped into his throat when he realized Dean was watching their new video.

“Dude, you really need to let Mother Nature take the course with the danger noodles,” Dean said.

“They’re important members of the ecosystem, Dean. It’s not their fault our roads are perfect for sunbathing.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m going to kill Sam,” he proclaimed.

“I figured.” Castiel reached into the bag. “I brought pie as a bribe. We still need him.”

Dean’s face changed from aggravated to something far sweeter as he held out his hands. “Gimme.”

Castiel held the pie high, just out of his arm’s reach. “Not until you promise not to off him the first chance you get.”

“Fine, Cas, whatever. Pie me.” Castiel held out the pie and a plastic fork, and Dean tore into it. He continued to complain around mouthfuls. “Sam did that on purpose, that dick! Those videos are our portfolio. That’s why I only let the good stuff get uploaded. This b-roll stuff ain’t necessary.”

“Well, it’s already gotten more views than the other videos you posted. Maybe people like the less serious bits?”

Dean still frowned as he finished the last bite. A small dab of bright red cherry was on the corner of his mouth. Castiel zeroed in on it and caught Dean’s pink tongue reaching out to lick it away.

Castiel turned to look out the windshield before he truly embarrassed himself. Dean was fucking pornographic just by existing and it wasn’t fair this was an additional burden he had to endure. A shot of desire went straight to his dick when he thought about Dean, and his tongue. The sounds he made in the bathroom came back to play in surround sound in his mind. He had to take deep breaths (but not too deep or he’d make the ribs sing in pain). “I wasn’t aware you were so masochistic,” Dean said.

“I save it for the third date,” Castiel shot back as he squirmed in the seat. He laid his bag of snacks on his lap in an attempt to keep a little dignity.

Dean snorted. “Alright, alright. Look. We both kick Sam’s ass after all this is said and done.”

“Works for me.” Dean picked up his phone and scrolled down, and Castiel realized he was reading the comments. He held out his hands. “Wait! Um, you don’t need to waste your time reading them–”

“What the fuck is a ‘Destiel?’” Dean said, zooming in on the screen and shaking his head like he had misread something.

Castiel clapped his hands over his face. His voice was muffled as he spoke around them. “People…seem to be shipping us.”

“To where?”

Castiel cleared his throat until Dean looked at him, brow wrinkled in confusion. “Dean, not to a place. Together.”

His eyes went wide, and his jaw hung open. “What? We crack a couple of fifth-grader puns, and suddenly everyone wants to see our nuptials?”

“You shouldn’t be so concerned,” Castiel said. “People with parasocial relationships with creators they like will make leaps in logic like this to have fun.”

“It’s not your reputation on the line,” Dean grumbled as he crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna be the Brangelina for all the weather community to make fun of us.”

“I’m sure it’ll blow over before anyone notices.” Dean cocked an eyebrow, but yes, Castiel was using puns to get through this ridiculous conversion. “Sam got his. And we’ll be careful about what we film. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, the less material, the better,” Dean agreed. He studied Castiel briefly as he ripped open a protein bar. “What about you?”

Of course, Dean asked while Castiel was choking down one of those dry, overly chalky protein bars. It was less a meal replacement and just a sensory nightmare. Castiel gulped down half a water bottle to keep it down. “Me?”

“Yeah. Bet this wasn’t what you were thinking would happen. Uh, working for me.”

Castiel chuckled dryly. “This is why I like this job. Every day is a little different. And the rumor mill doesn’t bother me. Well, there’s one thing about this that does.”

Dean’s face darkened. “And that is?” He asked coolly.

“Do they know they’re mispronouncing your name?” Dean blinked at him. “Your name is pronounced Deen. But everyone says it as Deh-stiel; it’s odd, right?”

“That’s the part you find weird about all this?”

“Yes.”

They got back onto the two-lane tarmac, onto a long stretch of deserted highway. Dean kept running his eyes up and down Castiel when he thought Castiel wasn’t paying attention. But Castiel was always keeping an eye out on his surroundings. Which meant he clocked Dean staring a long time ago. But he never spoke about it. Just let the tension in the Imp increase incrementally, and it had nothing to do with the summer heat outside.

Castiel knew Dean was mulling things over. He’s drumming his hands and fingers on the steering wheel–he’s humming to a song in his head because they are in the no-man’s land between radio stations, and cities. The few homes and occasional cottonwood trees are apartments. Otherwise, it’s just them and empty farmland and prairies. Castiel wondered how desolate driving through the desert would compare.

“Have you planned to drive Route 66?” Castiel asked.

The question completely threw Dean. He sat in his seat and shook his head, as if shrugging off a trance. “Route 66? Yeah. I’d like to check it out. Have you ever driven it?”

“No. But my folks weren’t about indulging in their love for Americana. They were about trips to Aruba during summer break. Route 66 would probably bore them.”

“A true tragedy,” Dean sniffed. “I’m glad you have some sense.” The praise caused a fluttering in Castiel’s chest. “They sound like Sam. He was fine with running around to see a band or a game sometimes, but long road trips made him antsy. At least with storm chasing, there’s a goal.”

“I’m sorry you’re being teased about my presence. I know you miss your brother. I’m sorry I’m not him.”

“Stop apologizing for not being Sam,” Dean snapped. “I’m happy you’re not, okay! Christ, you’re one of my first real friends.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Dumbass.”

“You’re one of mine as well. I’ve had acquaintances,”-images of his old team pass through his mind–“but not many real friends.” True, Shea was on that short list, but was still woefully lacking.

“We’re just a couple of losers, huh?”

“I guess so.” Castiel huffed. “I still can’t believe people think we’re in a secret workplace relationship.”

“It’s Misha and Jensen all over again,” Dean said with a mock shake of his head and ran a hand through his hair. Castiel watched his biceps straining at the sleeves of his t-shirt with the movement. “You know, you haven’t been reading it.”

Castiel’s mouth went bone dry. “I was reading my thriller. Got caught up in the suspense.”

“You’ve been stalling,” Dean accused him.

“Have I?” Castiel asked, raising an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“I can just tell. You’re too innocent to read it.”

Castiel threw back his head and laughed uproariously. It completely threw Dean for a loop, and he watched this display in stunned astonishment. Castiel felt the prickle at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard he was on the verge of tears.

“Was I that off the mark?” The leather seat creaked as Dean shifted, sitting up a little straighter. “OK, then. What’s your body count?”

Talk about emotional whiplash. The mirth Castiel was coming down from dropped into total despair, and left him in stunned silence. Unsure why the conversation had gone in this direction, of all things. Castiel shrank into his seat. He was not supposed to notice body count, but he tried to guestimate as closely as possible. “I don’t know. Low hundreds?”

Dean jerked the wheel of the Imp and drove into the oncoming lane for several seconds until he got it back under control. Luckily, there wasn’t a single car in sight. “Low hundreds?” He stared at Castiel in shock squeaked, “Jesus Christ, how in the hell did your dick not fall off?”

There was a record scratch across Castiel’s brain as Dean’s words sank in. “Oh. You meant sexual partners.”

Dean just gawked at him. “What the hell else do you think I meant??”

Castiel put up his hands because Dean looked two seconds from hyperventilating and probably wondering if he was the next victim of a serial killer. Castiel never intended to reveal his former job, but now he was forced to rip off that particular band-aid. “Dean, it wasn’t anything nefarious. I’m a veteran Airman from the Air Force.”

Dean nodded to himself as this new information slotted into his mind somewhere. “Okay. Is that why you’re so damn squirrely whenever I ask you personal shit?”

“Yes. It’s something I cannot talk to anyone about. So please, just leave it alone.” Castiel’s voice was low, and he began to tremble. He’s back in the cave, rising water, falling rocks, blood, there’s blood on his hands. It’ll never wash away.

“You saw some horrible shit, didn’t you?” Dean’s question pulled him back from the caves. From spiraling. Castiel made a fist and smacked his bruised ribs. The burst of pain reset his focus. Away from the caves, but the reminder sent him back to the alley. He didn’t remember much of what happened from his mugging, but he remembered boots. Fists. His body shook from remembered blows.

Shit, he’s not spiraled so fast after a reset.

Dean watched him from the corner of his eye, frowning and finally catching him red-handed.

“I…yes,” Castiel admitted quietly, remembering what Dean asked. “But I will not tell you anything else. Please don’t ask, Dean, I mean it.”

Dean’s battling with himself on what to say. Eventually, he settled on, “You shouldn’t hit yourself, dude. It’ll just make it worse.”

“Pain is a good grounding sensation,” Castiel told him through gritted teeth.

“Is there something else you can do instead? Like, chew a piece of gum?”

“It needs to be intense enough to be a distraction,” Castiel muttered as the pain radiating up his side and back finally began to subside. “It’ll pass momentarily, Dean. And I’ll be okay to film when you need me, too.”

Dean opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. They drove for another minute, but Castiel was struggling. He felt like he was under a cresting wave of emotions he couldn’t deal with. His breaths were quick and shallow. “Dean, you need to talk,” he ground out. “Give me something to focus on.”

Dean turned to him and shook his head. He glanced around all the mirrors before he pulled the Imp over onto the shoulder of the deserted highway. No cars drove by in either direction. “Cas, get out.”

“Dean, I’m sorry.” Castiel sat there, stunned that Dean was throwing him out in the middle of nowhere. Confusion quickly replaced panic when Dean climbed out and walked around to his side.

“C’mon, Cas!”

Heart in his throat, his stomach twisting into knots like a living eel, Castiel slid from the open door onto the ground. There was nothing, just miles of beige surroundings and occasionally shrubs or grasses. The sun beamed overhead, and the blue sky above them was serene. The unending road stretched forward and back.

Dean noticed Castiel winced as he straightened up. “You’re not in trouble,” Dean said, a little softer.

Castiel took a deep breath. The fresh air was nice, but he was still trembling. “Then why are we–”

A pair of pink, pouty lips cut off his question.

Dean had stepped into his space and crashed their lips together. Dean cupped his head with both hands and Castiel still, allowing their lips to press for several generous seconds. Castiel didn’t move or breathe, too shocked by what was happening.

Not feeling Castiel reacting, Dean pulled back, eyes darting all over his face, trying to read him.

Castiel’s mind was blank as his eyes stared into those wheatfield green eyes, and saw the splash of freckles across his nose, darker due to sun exposure. “Dean?”

“Are you sufficiently distracted?” Dean whispered in a tiny, breathy voice.

“Uh. Yeah, you have my full attention,” Castiel whispered. Dean was close enough that their breaths mingled. He could taste the artificial cherry flavor from the pie left on his lips by Dean. He wanted to lick the flavor right out of Dean’s mouth, to enjoy it. And Castiel didn’t even like cherry.

When Dean pressed closer, all bets were off. Castiel’s hips rolled unconsciously. “Fuck Dean, we’re in public,” he hissed.

“Does it count as public if no one is around?” Dean pulled back and gave him a once-over. “Cas, do you want this?”

He realized he hadn’t reacted positively to the kiss yet. He rectified that by harshly whispering, “More than anything.” Castiel stared at Dean, who was in his space, who had fucking kissed him on the side of the road. Like a prince hoping to cure his princess of her ills. Except this was the real world, and PTSD wasn’t cured like that. Still, it didn’t mean Castiel was not suddenly desperate for more of Dean.

“Guess we’ll have to be quick, then.”

"Quick, doing what?"

Dean answered by pressing Castiel against the hot metal of the Imp. He was literally trapped between welded steel and a hard place. His trench coat protected him from the heat radiating off it. He could feel Dean’s cock hardening in his jeans as he ducked back down for another kiss. Except this time, Castiel was ready. He ignored all his senses and reason, drowned out all the reasons why this was a king of bad ideas. Instead, Castiel enjoyed the sensation of those soft pink lips pressed against his own. He reached up and held Dean to him, fingers in his short-cropped hair, finding it smooth and silky. He wanted more and swiped with his tongue to get Dean to let him in. Dean groaned against him, the sound reverberating down his spine to his dick. They rocked back and forth, stiff bulges pressed against the seams of their pants. Castiel grunted as Dean’s tongue caressed his own. They were making out like teenagers on the side of the highway, and Castiel was desperate for more. He grabbed Dean’s shirt and pulled him close.

Castiel’s whole world just narrowed down to this one man. He completely forgot where they were, and even the pain that had led them here. The zings of pain from his ribs were nothing compared to the full of lightning strikes that happened every time their lips pressed together. Maybe Dean’s idea for a distraction was better thought out than he realized.

“Cas, you clean?” Dean breathed against his lips as he pulled back. A trail of saliva connected them as Castiel’s brain struggled with this sudden turn of events. Dean’s hand cradled his head gently, not letting him hit his head on the steel. It was a moment of clarity. And then the lust ratcheted up in Castiel’s body as he realized the implication of Dean’s question.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yeah. Good.” He shoved his hand towards Castiel’s pants.

“Jesus, Dean,” Castiel’s head whipped around. “You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” Dean assured him. “Fuck Cas, you’re so damn hot. It’s distracting as hell. I don’t know why, but the Jesus hair/beard combo really does it for me.” Dean’s hand carded through his hair and touched his beard as he spoke. Gently ran over the stitches in his hairline, which were almost healed. Castiel’s jeans were unbuttoned by Dean’s deft hand, and the zipper sound was loud in the open. Dean messaged his cock bulge through his underwear. Sparks of lust shot up his spine, painful and urgent. Castiel let his head fall back with a tiny, unguarded moan. “I have been imagining what you’ll taste like,” Dean breathed. His eyes were blown with lust and were now a dark forest green.

“I think this might be the end of our employer/employee relationship,” Castiel mumbled, in a daze, as he stared at the hand messaging his cock.

“Thank God,” Dean joked. Dean started to drop to his knees, lips open, eyes half-lidded. God, he was perfect. Ready to do anything Castiel wanted or needed him to do. But Dean was also being reckless, per usual. Castiel grabbed his shoulder and stopped him.

“Dean, your knee.” Well, public indecency too, but the hard, rocky ground was not conducive to an impromptu blowjob. Even with a man this gorgeous wanting to suck him down, Castiel needed to watch over him. It was what everyone kept drilling into him. Sam, Tim, everyone. Keep Dean safe.

Dean straightened up, and his face softened. Castiel’s concern had taken him aback. His lips curled into a small smile. It wasn’t sultry, but appreciative. “Cas, I’ll be fine,” he promised. “Right as rain, even,” and they both chuckled.

But then, Dean glanced down the highway, squinted his eyes against the bright light, and swore under his breath. He dropped the hands entangled in Castiel's and jumped back. “Dammit. Cock-blocked by the five-oh.”

Castiel looked over to see some sort of sheriff vehicle heading their way. They quickly went to the front of the truck. Dean popped open the hood and adjusted his pants. Castiel followed suit and found the nerves of the incoming officer were the perfect boner killer.

They heard the vehicle pull up behind the Imp, and after a moment, the car door opened and shut. Footsteps were approaching. “You fellas okay?” The police officer asked, eyeing them up and down as he approached from around the Imp.

“Howdy, Officer,” Dean chirped. He waved to the metal maze that made up the engine block and sighed theatrically. “We were having some mechanical issues, but we’re fine now.” That knowing tone made Castiel so happy his beard hid his blush.

“What is this?”

“A truck for storm chasing,” Dean started, and after a few moments of chatting, the officer told them to get going. They nodded and climbed into the Imp and watched him drive past on the desolate highway. There still hadn’t been any other cars. Dean stuck out his tongue as he went away.

They sat there for a moment, the energy in the Imp unsure. Ebbing and flowing like the tide. “So…that happened.”

“Almost happened,” Dean corrected as he started driving the Imp down the road. The frenetic energy from their earlier kissing session was doused. Castiel could feel some potential embers still alight, but he had other things on his mind, now that all the blood south had returned to his head.

“Dean, was this a one-time thing?”

Damn the man for being so hot that even the way he shrugged was sexy. His lips were still puffy, and his hair tousled from his hands running through it. “Cas, we don’t need to make this complicated. Storm chasing is lonely, alright? It can be just about blowing off some steam. These storms will be crazy–the next few weeks could make or break our season. I need you on your A game.”

Castiel, drinking some Gatorade, almost shot it through his nose. “You tried to suck my dick for moral support?” He sputtered.

Dean threw his head back and laughed loudly. “Not only, hot stuff,” he winked. “Cas, you’re such a damn dork. Never change.”

Castiel ran a hand over his face and swallowed harshly. “Christ, Dean. You’re something else. Were you just looking for an excuse to do it?”

“Maybe. Either way, the Lord provided,” he joked.

“And the Lord tooketh away,” Castiel muttered darkly.

“Haven’t you ever been edged before, Cas? The delay just makes the real thing that much more satisfying.” Dean said this with eyes alight with horny mischief. He palmed himself through his jeans to emphasize his point. And fuck, wasn’t that a mental image and a half?

Castiel swallowed hard and curled his hands into fists in his lap so as not to reach out and touch. Dean was trying to get a rise out of him. “Not exactly. I’m usually the one in charge of doling out the orgasms.”

Dean’s cheeks went pink, and he licked his lips with a slow, sensual stroke. “Alright, Dombrowski.”

They studied each other for a long moment. “Dean, is this a bad idea?”

“I’m not the person to ask,” Dean said simply. “I ride into twisters for a living.”

Castiel nodded and pulled out his phone. At least there was one person he could ask for a second opinion. Castiel didn’t want to just use Dean as a means to an end. He was over using people to escape his shit. He needed to know if this was him repeating previous behavior, in an attempt to deal with stress with sex. It was what he used to do once he sobered up.

If Shea thought this could be aboveboard, however? He was going to fuck Dean on the closest horizontal surface he could find.

Chapter Text

Castiel’s been contemplating how to have this particular conversation ever since yesterday. He still felt a little lightheaded from their kiss. What almost happened. The flirty conversation Dean kept pulling him into, but since pulled back.

Perhaps Dean realized they both needed some time to process.

Considering their current circumstances, he decided to bite the bullet.

C: Hey Shea, are you available to talk?

S: Anytime, my friend! 😊 I’m off today.

After he did the phone service signal dance in the middle of the field, he managed to find one bar of signal. Standing stone still, Castiel called her a moment later, chewing on a fingernail as he waited.

“Howdy, Castiel! It’s been a minute. How are you?”

“Hello, Shea. You sound good,” Castiel smiled slightly upon hearing her familiar and cheerful cadence.

“What’s up? Not that I don’t wanna chat, duh, but I figured you’d be too busy to call.” Her voice faltered as if she’d expected to be forgotten.

Castiel looked at the Imp parked on the shoulder and Dean’s body under the hood, angrily mumbling. “Apparently, we jinxed ourselves,” he said. When she made a curious sound, he expanded. “The Imp is having some sort of mechanical failure.” And we didn’t even drive into any ditches. “Dean is struggling to figure out the cause. It went right over my head when he tried talking it out with me.” Castiel tried not to let the rejection sting when Dean waved him off.

“Oh, that sucks,” Shea commiserated. “And it’s not like you can ask AAA to tow a tank to a garage, right?”

“I don’t know if they’d have the capability,” Castiel agreed. The Imp was made of solid steel plates welded to a car frame. He couldn’t imagine a standard tow truck being able to help them. He tapped his chin. Emergency vehicles for tractor-trailers must have the necessary hauling capacity, though.

However, they weren’t that bad off yet. Castiel had faith Dean could figure it out; he just needed space.

He waved his hand in front of his face, but there wasn’t a cool breeze to be found. And sitting in the Imp without running the AC could cause a heat stroke. So, standing in the field next to the road was better. He’s already shucked his trench coat and was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

“Sorry, man,” Shea said, a little distractedly. Castiel heard an odd beeping, as if she was texting someone on her phone. After a moment, she asked, “So, what’s going on in Castieland?”

Now or never. Castiel scratched his beard. “I have something I’d like your opinion on.”

“Really? Sure! Though it better not be mascara suggestions, cause I am quite colorblind.”

“No, no. It’s about Dean.”

There was a pause, and then Shea laughed maniacally; it was the same sound a cartoon villain made once the hero fell into their clutches. “I knew it! You like him, don’t you?” Oh, she sounded so smug.

Castiel made sure his words wouldn’t carry back to Dean. He whispered and put his hand over the lower half of the phone. “I…yes. I would’ve gotten to know him a little better on the side of the road if it wasn’t for a sheriff coming by.”

“Castiel, you dog!” She cackled. The sound made his ears grow warm. Which was such an odd concept considering he’s particupating in multiple orgies. Why the hell does Dean make him feel like a Victorian maiden? “Coptus Interruptus, huh? If that doesn’t prove ACAB, I don’t know what will. By the way, you should know I am a full Destiel shipper,” she warned him. “And I got first dibs on you two since I saw your meet-cute at the Gas-N-Sip.”

“You can never say anything, Shea. Especially not online. This is strictly confidential.”

Shea tsked at him in disappointment. “Dude. I won’t sell your guys’ relationship out for internet clout.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to kill you and bury you in Death Valley.”

There was a moment of silence, and Casriel wondered if his monotonous delivery had made his sarcastic teasing hit a little too realistically. It happened often. “I mean, you could try. My wife’s got connections.” Shea’s voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “Like, mob wives go to therapy, too, ya know?”

The image of one of those mob wives in the giant cheetah print fur coat lying on a therapy couch made him huff a little laugh. “Point to you, Shea. Now that we’ve figured out our NDAs, I have a concern about Dean.”

Shea’s voice softened. “Does he leave his dirty socks in the sink?”

Castiel’s face twisted up in horror at that mental image. “Dean’s too fastidious for that. But, I am unsure how to handle these…emotions…I’m experiencing.”

“Dude…is this your first crush?”

Castiel would have to admit to some details so Shea truly understood how far out of his depth he was. He hated how robotic he sounded. “I’ve had partners in the past, but all of them were once I returned from overseas. They were…a way to cope. With my baggage. Them, and other substances.” He was so happy that he couldn’t see her reaction to this confession.

Shea hummed in understanding. “Finding absolution in drugs and orgies like a rockstar, huh?”

“Less absolution, more dissociation. But in a sense, yes.” It was the most he’s ever admitted to anyone outside of the VA therapist when he was in the hospital. Or the second therapist at the hospital after waking up from overdosing. They were the only ones who knew the official story. Castiel was naturally self-sufficient. While his time in the Air Force taught him how to navigate teamwork, social situations, and relying on others, he kept the darkest parts to himself. His demons were his own to deal with.

“Castiel, we all deal with shit in our own ways. While I don’t necessarily get it–I’d rather drown my sorrows in really raunchy monster smut–more power to you.”

Castiel choked out a little huff of disbelief but decided to save the teasing for that tidbit later. His heart grew in his chest for his former coworker. Shea was such a non-judgmental sounding board, and he loved that about her. Even at the gas station, she called out his shit in a kind and caring manner. “I appreciate not being made to feel like a failure.”

“Everyone struggles, man. It’s part of the human condition. And look, between you and Dean. You’re consenting adults. Do whatever floats your boat. Of course, that’s only if Dean tells you he’s interested. Don’t make it awkward by forcing anything if he’s not.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Yes, Shea, I know how consent works.”

“Hey, it’s just to cover our asses. So, let me take a gander here: you like Dean. And you don’t want to take advantage of his kindness by accepting this job and then pursuing a relationship. Worried about the power dynamic he might have over you?”

“Actually, it would be my power over him.”

There was a startled little choke. “And I now know more about your personal life than I wanted to! But the big bad storm chaser being a sub is kinda funny.”

Castiel watched Dean angrily staring at the engine. “Yes, well, it’s a front. Most people with a persona as part of their career don’t show their true selves through it.”

Shea hummed as she thought. “Look. You’re quite aware of your pitfalls and issues. What’s the worst that can happen? Dean says no, and you move on?”

“What if I use him and break his heart? Or what if I break my own?” He was thinking far beyond a quick roll in the hay. He wouldn't be worried about heartbreak if this were about getting off with a handsome man. This was about something more profound than that, and it scared the hell out of him.

“That’s true. It could happen. Or, maybe, you and Dean can figure out a way to make things work after the storm season ends. Or you go your separate ways and stay friends. Or you separate and never see each other again. That’s pretty much everything that could happen, right?”

There were too many possibilities for failure. His heart ached at the idea of never seeing Dean again after the summer season wrapped up. “I’m afraid of letting him down, Shea. Not being good enough.”

“Castiel,” Her voice carried through the phone, as if holding his hand as she spoke. “You can be as good as you want to be. Sure, you’ll fuck it up sometimes, but nobody is perfect. Hell, even Jesus had a temper.” She sighed. “Just remember, you are chasing violent storms. People get hurt and die in them every day. Maybe no storm chasers have died yet, but it will happen eventually. So, I say live your life. You know, carpe diem. YOLO.”

“Seize the day? How hedonistic of you.”

“Hedonism is a spectrum, thank you very much. I’m not saying you need to go back to your days of drugs and mindless sex. I’m saying you can experience similar highs without killing your liver. You should take the chances life gives you. She doesn’t give out too many.”

Castiel studied Dean for a moment. “Any luck?” He called out. Dean threw his hands up, threw the shop towel at the engine, and strode away. Take that as a no.

“Thank you, Shea. You’re a breath of fresh air.”

“I try, man. Any luck with the Killdozer?”

“No. And it’s only getting hotter. We’re supposed to be positioned for these storms today outside of Oklahoma City, but we’re already far behind.”

There was a commotion in the background of Shea’s call as if someone had walked into a house with a loud greeting. “There’s the man of the hour!” Shea chirped.

“Oh. I didn’t realize you were expecting company. I’ll let you go–”

“-Don’t you dare! I asked my Dad to come over to speak to you.”

Castiel blinked. “To me? Why?”

“Well, not you, but Dean. Dad used to race dragsters,” she announced proudly. “He’s familiar with custom engines that most mechanics aren’t. Please get Dean on the line so they can chat. I gotta help Dawn cook dinner. Say hi to my Dad, Wilson.”

Castiel walked over to where Dean was fuming about ten feet away from his baby. He reached out and gently touched Dean’s shoulder. He kept his phone pressed to his shoulder. “Dean, do you remember my coworker from the gas station? Shea?”

His brow furrowed as he remembered. “Short chick about yay high, left you to talk to me, and stared at us from the slushie machine while we did?”

Castiel nodded sheepishly. Man, that felt like a lifetime ago.“Yes, that’s her.”

“What about her?”

“Her father is on the phone and wants to talk to you about the Imp’s issue.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. His shoulders slumped, and he looked so worn out. “Cas, that’s kind of you, but this is one of a kind engine I built myself. No one else can help me.”

Castiel tilted his head towards the phone. “He’s a former race car driver. He knows modified engines and can be a sounding board for you.”

Dean reluctantly turned around, with something akin to interest and guarded hope in his eyes. “Fine, you don’t have to twist my arm. Gimme the phone.”

Dean and Wilson spoke about the Imp for a long time. At first, he tried to listen in, but it was like listening to a foreign language. They’re like two peas in a pod. The same thing had happened on base several times when Benny tried explaining how the Humvees worked. Nothing from those lectures ever sank in.

Castiel contented himself by exploring the nearby grassy field. Under a large flat rock, he found a dusty brown baby hognose snake, hoping to escape the heat.. It made an excellent impression of a rattlesnake, hissing and carrying on. “You aren’t a rattlesnake,” Castiel said quietly as he crouched down. “You’re missing the rattle.” Then, as if knowing the jig was up, the little snake did the species’ signature death flop. Hognose snakes were harmless and only good at burrowing and playing dead. They flipped onto their backs and stuck out their tongues to complete the look. And even if you flipped them over, they would flop back to continue playing dead. The little brown snake was very dedicated to playing his role. “Alright, I’ll not stress you out more. Good luck, little guy.” Castiel carefully replaced the rock and stood up, his back cracking. He needed to start doing yoga again.

“Cas!” When he turned, Castiel spotted Dean crawling out from under her with the phone in his hand. “Gonna try her now!” He called out tentatively. Castiel hustled back through the grassy area and was breathing hard when he finally got back. Dean turned the key, and she fired up immediately. Castiel and Dean shared an enthusiastic fist pump as he checked under the hood and closed it with a relieved, lop-sided grin. Castiel cranked the AC, relieved when the icy winds whipped over him again. “We had to jerry-rig a solution, but she’s working and that’s all that matters,” Dean explained.

Castiel took back the phone to find Shea had taken it back from her father. “All good?”

“Yes. You and your father have saved the day,” Castiel reported as Dean eased them back onto the highway once a cluster of cars drove past.

“Happy to hear it! Dad is a big weather nerd, so I’ve made him watch Dean’s YouTube videos. He was so excited to help. Also, Dean can call anytime. That’s not even a privilege I have and I’m his damn kid,” she said jokingly. “We gotta go eat dinner, but keep me updated on everything, okay? Castiel, you got this.”

“I will,” Castiel promised as the Imp approached their destination. “Bye, Shea.”

The sun beaming down on them was the fuel needed to kick off the storms later. Despite knowing this, he languished in the AC for their entire drive. Dean was sweaty and had grease marks on his clothes and hands. While Castiel didn’t understand mechanics, he drank in the cool of a messy, sweaty Dean. The bulging forearm muscles, the tactile hands covered in grime, and the overwhelming stench of sweat were hot. That sweaty scent in the behemoth reminded him of Humvee rides on missions.

Castiel slipped the phone into his pocket and tried to think positively. He would channel his inner Shea. The rest of the afternoon would get better. Dean was here, and they were off on another adventure.

Life was good.

As it turned out, this would be the highlight of their day.

~*~

“Oh my Goooooooooooood,” Dean growled low in his throat. “Where the hell did people learn to drive in this town, the Helen Keller School for Gifted Youngsters?”

Castiel bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh. But, dammit, when Dean was fired up, the raw commentary was incredible. There was no point in chiding him; he’d done that two times already, and neither scolding held any water.

The problem was that whatever caused the issue with the Imp made them miss the best setup spots outside the city. The battered laptop strapped to the wooden armature between them showed several multicolored blobs trying to get their shit together. The heat from the day was turning the atmosphere into a boiling pot of potential.

But now, they are stuck in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic. Castiel calculated the Imp had probably moved six inches in the last half an hour.

Dean possessed many virtues, including compassion, kindness, grit, creativity, and determination. Alas, patience wasn’t one. Especially when their target was on the other side of the metropolitan area, with no other direct roads leading to it, the radar indicated some rotation in a supercell about eight miles away.

And there was not a damn thing they could do to get there.

Well, not in Dean’s mind. “Cas, you better grab onto something– we’re taking a detour.”

Castiel reached up and firmly grasped the oh shit handle above his door, even as he rasped, “Dean, don’t be stupid.”

Dean ignored his condemning tone and eased them onto the emergency shoulder instead. He crawled up the highway, past the backed-up vehicles. He checked the mirror a dozen times, buzzing with bated breath as they waited for a cop or someone to pull him over. Luckily, he pulled off the exit without issue. He drove around the crowd waiting at the exit and cut off a little Prius to get back in line. “If they didn’t want me to cut them off, they should drive an actual car, not a matchbox toy.”

There were beeps as he cut through, but no one was willing to antagonize the literal tank passing by, for which Castiel did not blame them. There were lots of middle fingers, though. They began to make better time once Dean returned to the road proper.

The GPS routed them to Sam’s outbreak of storm cells, but none had gone severe. Castiel studied the darkening skies overhead, but even he couldn’t pin down a cell.

“Fuck!” Dean snapped. Castiel finally noticed the orange construction cones they’d been dodging had led to a road closed sign that blocked the one they needed. “God frigging damnit,” he snarled. He whipped around to him, eyes wild. “Cas, any of those routes you mapped out work here?”

Castiel pulled out his maps and the road atlas. He triangulated their new route against the GPS. “Yes, actually.” A bit of good luck today, it seemed. “We can take a back way.”

“Good,” Dean said as the piercing NWS storm alert filled the cab. The storms on the other side of the suburbs were getting severe. Still no rotation yet, but according to Dean, the numbers were promising.

“Jesus Cas, we really are going around our elbow to get to our ass, here,” Dean complained as they made their seventh left turn and fifth right turn from leaving the main road. They drove through tiny neighborhoods and passed people staring at the sky or walking their dogs, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Many people stared at them, but Castiel was used to that.

“We’re still getting there,” Castiel shot back. Their location on the GPS indicated that they were approaching the storms, which were marching steadily east. Castiel and Dean leaned forward in sync to watch through the mass of black clouds overhead. The sky certainly looked angry enough to rain down Armageddon, but something wasn’t sitting right with him: all bluster, no muster.

Dean turned down another left, then right, then left, weaving through small trees around some houses as they proceeded. The Imp was close to catching its radio antenna on overhanging tree limbs. But Dean persisted, and they found the road through the suburbs and back onto the main thoroughfare.

And just when they escaped the suburbs and were back into the farmland, it happened.

A conga line of vehicles at least fifty long: some were pulled over, and others crawled slowly up the road. People were watching and filming the storm while standing in the field.

“Chaser traffic?” Castiel guessed.

“The fucking worst kind,” Dean muttered. “And there’s potential rotation,” Dean said as he glanced at the radar. He groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck this.”

“Dean, wait–” Dean ripped around the conga line on the road and hauled ass past them on the wrong side of the road. The CB radio crackled to life as the other folks called him to complain about his recklessness. Another car attempted to pull a U-turn, and they barely avoided a collision. Castiel’s heart raced a mile a minute when Dean jerked the wheel and the Imp managed to miss the car.

And now Castiel was concerned for everyone else on the road. And himself. The lack of catches this season must be a factor in these antics, but Castiel couldn’t not say anything.

As they got to the front of the crowd, Castiel touched his arm. “Dean. This isn’t worth an accident. We might be fine if we hit someone, but will they be okay?”

Dean opened and shut his mouth several times. “We just need to get there,” he said.

Castiel understood tunnel vision. Being focused on achieving the mission, everything else fell to the wayside. But he has the gift of distance and hindsight. “It’s not worth a life,” he reiterated sternly.

Dean didn’t argue, but the driving became less reckless as the evening continued. Castiel took the win.

While the radar’s numbers looked promising, the storm cell only produced a few wispy gustnados (flimsy, dust devil-looking things), which proved the storm had potential. Still, God, it wasn’t committed to delivering a long-term funnel on the ground.

It happened several times. They got into position (ahead of the cells), chasing the storm as it tore across the countryside at fifty miles an hour. Castiel kept filming, hoping to see a funnel cloud underneath the meso, but there was nothing more than sagging cloud nipples and dashed dreams.

The only excitement came from when they used a farmhouse driveway to turn around and try for another cell since this one wasn’t producing. A risky venture, since the CAPE was worse than the promising one, they were desperate. They climbed out momentarily and breathed in the scent of grass and fields. Dean studied the sky for hints, and Castiel filmed him and the heavens equally.

From behind them came the unmistakable sound of a shotgun cocking.

Dean and Cas whipped around, hands raised, though Castiel had to set the camera on the ground before slowly standing up. The man with the gun was an old farmer in overalls, wearing a baseball cap, with beady eyes and yellow teeth. He aimed right at Dean. “Whoever you fuckers are, you better get off my property.”

Castiel wished Dean’s pearl-handled pistol wasn’t in the glovebox. He had to suck in a deep breath to not panic at the gun sight aimed at Dean. His training kicked in, which kept him calm in the face of the threat. He could disarm the man in five different ways if Dean couldn’t talk their way out.

“We’re just storm chasers–” Dean started, but a violent wind from the thundering storm in the distance stole them. Leaves and grasses shot between the standoff, lofted by the straight-line winds, as Dean would call them.

The farmer let go of his gun to hold onto his hat with one hand. “You’re filming my property without my permission,” he snapped. “You need to get the hell out of here–”

A metal trash can lid suddenly flew towards them like a metal Frisbee. Castiel shoved Dean out of the way, but the farmer wasn't quick enough. It bounced off his forehead before the strong winds lifted it out of sight.

Before Castiel could do anything, Deam jumped up and ran to the farmer, who’d collapsed on the ground, eyes wide and dazed. He checked the man’s pulse. “Shit, easy sir.” He waved for Castiel to help him. “Cas, come here! We gotta determine if he needs to go to an ER.”

The only reason Castiel walked forward was through Dean’s summoning. Left to his own devices, he wouldn’t have moved a muscle. His feet were full of lead, and his heart wanted to make a sudden and violent exit from his chest, but he moved forward and crouched at the man’s side. Castiel studied the man’s eyes—no damage or change in his pupillary action. “You’ll be fine, but you need ice on that knot. The hat saved you from needing stitches.”

Another blast of straight-line winds blew the hat away in question, and Castiel could smell the rain overhead. “Come on.” They helped the man to his feet. “Get inside and be prepared to go to your storm shelter!” Dean warned him.

“Leave me alone,” the old man yelled at them. “You don’ jammed up my gun.” Like he hadn’t dropped it on the ground, himself.

Castiel was torn about leaving, but Dean wasn’t keen to get bullets in his back. They did their due diligence, and the new cell was racing away from them, back towards the crowded city limits. “Fuck me,” Dean swore as he drove the Imp over the gravel roads.

Dean decided to take a chance and headed back towards town. Along the way, they encountered a small sedan stuck in the mud due to a passing wind and rain. Dean and Cas helped pull the person out of the ditch. The person left without a thank you. They just bitched about the muddy handprints all over his bumper. The car splashed water on them as he drove away. Cas was content to just flip him off. But Dean went nuclear.

“That’s fucking it! I’ve had it, Cas, right up to here!” Dean looked at the swirling black clouds overhead. Even after several hours of chasing, nothing has touched down. Everything had been a tease. A show of ankle and nothing else. “Bohica! I’m calling it. Are you happy?!” He screamed at the sky.

Castiel tilted his head. Bohica. It always surprised him when a civilian used military slang.

That appeared to be the last straw, because the rain started pouring like cats and dogs. They ran to the Imp and got soaked in the seconds it took to climb inside. At least Cas ensured the camera was dry by hiding it under his coat. They huddled inside, and Dean ran his hands over his face, wiping away the wet hair. “Today has been an unmitigated disaster. I’m done. You got a problem with that?” Dean was looking to pick a fight, but Castiel just shook his head.

“Let’s find a hotel for the night and get some dry clothes. We can regroup for tomorrow.”

“Do you always have to be so damn sensible,” Dean complained as Castiel dried off his hands to search online for a cheap motel.

“One of us should be. I’ll be unreasonable tomorrow, if you prefer.” Castiel’s deadpan delivery made Dean’s frown lift a tiny smidge, despite himself. Castiel led them to the only cheap motel nearby and was amazed to see how many cars and trucks were already in the parking lot. Usually, these places were quite dead.

Dean stomped back from the front desk, soaked again from the rain, and he was so defeated. “Full. And I called a few other places and they are, too.”

Castiel didn’t want Dean to be so upset. His hands itched to do something, anything. But he couldn’t make the storms produce twisters or conjure hotel rooms out of the aether.

They were going to have to sleep in the Imp tonight. Fine, they've done it several times by now, but this was the first time they were caught off guard while trying to do it. Dean muttered about ruining the leather.

Additionally, I wanted a real bed to stretch out on. Is that too much to ask?

Dean maneuvered the Imp to the back side of the hotel building, finding a spot that was big enough to slide into. They had a routine for sleeping at night in the tank, but this was the first time they were wet.

They would have to sleep in the Imp… mostly naked.

And they stared at each other when that thought occurred to them.

Once Dean put up the blackout panels on all the windows, they were safe from prying eyes, except for each other’s.

“Let’s get this over with. I’m cold.” Dean stripped off his shirt, boots, jeans, and socks. The only thing he kept on was a pair of black briefs. “Sorry, baby,” He patted the dashboard as Castiel shucked his slacks, blazer, and socks. They kicked everything into the floorboards. “We'll hit up the laundromat tomorrow.”

Their eyes caught at that, both thinking, Back where we started.

Except Castiel won’t be shoeless and bleeding. He’s already much more confident, food is already building back his muscles, and his bruises are starting to fade. And he had Dean to thank for everything.

Now, Dean was down to his underwear, but Castiel kept on his button-down shirt and his blue boxers. Dean reached out, maybe to push off the shirt from Castiel’s shoulders. “Can I…?”

It took everything, but Castiel pulled back and shook his head. “Sorry. Not this time.” Seeing as the white shirt was slightly damp, Dean probably saw the dark mottling on his skin, regardless. But he kept hold of this flimsy, cheap fabric that was his only protection. Plus, I can’t let Dean see my back.

Dean’s fingers curled in space, but he smiled playfully to lighten the mood as he pulled back. “Alright, then. Keep your secrets.” If Castiel’s ribs hadn’t twinged at that moment, he might have given in. But he inclined his head slightly.

“Thank you.” For not making a big deal.

Dean grabbed the lunchbox and tore through the sandwiches Castiel had made earlier. He stared at his usual PB&J in his hands, held in his lap, and wished for something more substantial. He studied Dean and vowed to take Dean to a nice dinner at the end of the season. Once he received his cash payout, he’d have more than enough.

Dean started flipping through radio channels to drown out the incessant rain pounding the steel around them. The storm outside growls, but it’s nothing more than a typical summer thunderstorm. He’s chewing on a bite of sandwich when a man comes through clearly on the AM frequency. Dean’s hand froze because the man suddenly said something so outlandish that they stared at the radio, and cocked their heads in unison.

It’s a man on the phone with a Midwest accent talking about how he’d never seen tornadoes until the traffic circles/roundabouts started getting put in everywhere. “The cars driving around and around are causing the disturbances that trigger the increase in tornadoes!” He reported passionately.

They paused and burst into peals of laughter. Which only doubled when the host explained that he was wrong; it was the radar stations and 5G towers that caused the storms to run people off their property for Eminent Domain. “Obviously, the towers are run by extraterrestrials.”

“Dean, what fever dream is this?”

“Oh my God, it’s Coast to Coast AM.” Dean clapped his hands excitedly. “We are so listening to this.”

Over the next hour, they heard callers discuss a dozen different topics, all as outlandish as the next. Both Dean and Castiel were in the non-believer camp. So, to make things interesting as they digest their dinner, they alternate playing devil’s advocate after every segment. Bigfoot are an escaped alien/human hybrids that want to take over the world? And the pyramids were nuclear fallout bunkers when interplanetary enemies came to Earth? Humans never went to the moon; it was all video effects. That one hurts Castiel’s heart the most. The rest of the stories are ridiculous, but this one hurts, just like the idea that aliens built the pyramids.

Castiel goes off script and properly takes umbrage with the whole show. “Do they really think so little of us as a species? We built cathedrals! We flew to the moon and out into space. We have a robot on Mars. We shouldn’t allow myths to steal our accomplishments.”

“Cas, you’re getting hung up on the wrong part,” Dean chided him with bemusement. “You’re supposed to be arguing against the existence of Bigfoot.”

“I can only take you so seriously when you’re arguing for the existence of Bigfoot in your underwear,” Castiel muttered and crossed his arms.

“Why? Am I distracting?” Dean said that some good humor returned after a bit of time to decompress. He shifted in his seat slightly, opening his legs a little, leaning back against the driver side door with a cocky attitude and half-lidded eyes.

“You’re always distracting,” Castiel admitted, trying and failing not to stare at the perfect man beside him.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” Dean’s tone was flirty and challenging.

The tension in the Imp became thick with want. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Castiel slid across the seat to get closer to Dean. He loved seeing the creeping flush expanding up Dean’s cheeks and down to his chest. Dean looked hungry in the low light of the laptop.

Castiel leaned in as close as he could, his hip touching Dean’s knee. He closed the gap until his lips just barely brushed Dean’s ear. “I know what Bohica means, Dean.” He felt Dean shudder at his breath and tone played over his neck. “But I don’t want you to feel fucked by the universe. While we’re together, I only want you to feel fucked by me.”

Dean’s breath was harsh and quiet. Castiel glanced down to see the bulge lengthening in his underwear. “Is that a yes, Dean?”

“Sorry, I thought I answered that out loud,” Dean said in a hysterical little laugh. “God, yeah. Do whatever you want, Cas.”

Castiel pulled back and glanced down at Dean’s lips. “I’ll make you see the stars despite the clouds.”

“Bossy and poetic,” Dean summed up with a salacious wiggle of his eyebrows. “Interesting combo.”

“It’s annoyed everyone else,” Castiel confessed.

“I mean, it’s a bit frilly, but it gets the job done,” Dean said.

Castiel arched an eyebrow at him. “That sounds like something you say about a pink mountain bike.”

Dean snorted. “Man, I said it did the job.” He pressed his hips up so Castiel could feel Dean’s enthusiasm as Dean pulled him on top for a deep kiss. They were plump, and Dean tasting like his favorite sandwich, his safe food, calmed some of the anxieties Castiel had about their relationship taking this turn. Dean was safe. Comfortable. They pulled apart when Dean needed air. He sucked in a shallow breath. “Honestly, I could come listening to you read the phone book.”

“A fun theory to test someday,” Castiel whispered, smiling. He hadn't meant that to sound like a long-term idea, but Dean didn’t dispute him. Instead, Castiel finally allowed himself to touch Dean properly.

Hands roamed over skin, leaving hot trails in their wake. Castiel pulled Dean into a kiss, just as hot and heavy as yesterday. Dean groaned into his mouth, and Castiel moved to prop his knee between Dean’s legs. To give him something to grind on, while the kiss turned sloppy. Castiel moved his lips down Dean’s neck, nibbling and sucking as he went. Dean grabbed him to hold on, pressed him close when Castiel sucked hard on his jugular. “Fuck, Cas, you’re so hot,” he whispered.

“As are you,” Castiel ran a hand down Dean’s chest. The slight tummy from his love of road snacks and dislike of actual exercise. Castiel kissed down the scar-marked skin with reverence, just the same. When he reached Dean’s underwear, he gently pulled it aside and released his cock. Cut, and perfect. Not a monster by any means, and Castiel liked that about him. He ran a fingernail up and down Dean’s length, watching it twitch. Dean’s head lolled back against the glass.

Castiel’s eyes landed on the darkening smudge gracing Dean’s neck. His mark. Mine, he thought possessively. Castiel licked his palm several times, keeping his eyes on Dean’s face. He held it to Dean. “Get it nice and wet for me, please.”

Dean licked his palm in long, slow swipes. Making sure the entire thing was coated. Then, Castiel kissed him the same time he wrapped his wet palm around Dean’s cock. Settled around it, and began to give him the best handjob he could muster. Castiel was tired and didn’t have the stamina for a long show, but he would make Dean come. He could work through stinging ribs and malnutrition to watch Dean fall apart under his ministrations. He leaned forward, cataloging every microexpression, whimper, and squirm. “I can’t wait to feel you lose it for me. Feel you spurt over my hand, feel every twitch as you do it. You’re doing so well, Dean. Being so good for me,” he praised.

“Fuck, Cas, you’re gonna get me off with just your hand and some dirty words in my ear.” Dean sounded amazed and impressed. “You’re making me crazy,” Dean hissed, and his hips ground up against him. Castiel changed his speed, long drags to quick pumps, bringing Dean right to the edge. They were both pent up, and just wanted some release from such a shit show of a day.

And when Dean came in his hand, hot and wet, whispering his name repeatedly, clinging to him as he rode through it, Castiel knew he’d never want anyone else. Dean was what he wanted out of life; he was wonderfully imperfect, which made him all the more real. Worthy of following off a cliff. He looked on in surprise as Castiel licked away Dean’s cum on his chest, and the mess on his hand.

Dean pulled him into a deep kiss and moaned at his taste. “You should know, I’m not a pillow princess.”

Castiel leaned their foreheads together, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. “You speak as if being worthy of worship is a bad thing.”

Dean rolled his eyes to protect his dignity. “Jesus, Cas, are you real?”

“Last I checked. However, I don’t want to engage in a philosophical debate with you right now. I’d rather get off,” Castiel said, shifting his hips so Dean could see precisely how pent up he was. How his boxers barely held back his aching dick.

Dean flipped them over, and Castiel got the blow job Dean promised the previous day, and yeah, with those perfect pink lips wrapped around his cock, it was better than anything he could have imagined. It was, well, mind-blowing. It would be seared into his memory banks for the rest of his life. Castiel didn’t last at all, but Dean’s proud preening soothed the sting of embarrassment.

Once they were both sated, Dean demanded a way to cuddle that wouldn’t hurt him. It took some finagling, but they curled up facing each other. Dean curled into Castiel's chest, his long fingers protectively playing over his ribs. He sighed. “You’re so hot it’s not fair. You’ll get even hotter once we get more home-cooked meals into you – some meat on those bones. Bobby’s pot roast is legendary. And his bison chili and jalapeño cornbread, which is Rufus’ favorite. It’s better than anything on the road. On Saturday mornings, Rufus makes a big batch of latkes. They’re great for growing boys, and when these boys have hangovers,” he smiled.

Castiel tried not to overanalyze anything Dean said in his post-orgasmic haze. But that wasn’t exactly something you say to just a fuck buddy, right? His crush on Dean certainly hoped not. “You want me to meet your uncles?”

Dean’s hand paused, as if he realized how he sounded. “I mean, we might end up swinging by their place,” he hedged. “In June, the storms move across the plains. Montana and the Dakotas are prone to tornadoes. And Sam’s there. I can give him the swirly he needs for being an uppity bitch.”

“It’s okay to be homesick, Dean,” Castiel said lightly, running his hand over Dean’s side and shoulder. “You try so hard to please everyone else, you forget about yourself. It’s okay to long for home and family. Especially when any day could potentially be your last.”

“I never said I was homesick,” Dean scoffed. “I know the score. I’ve been doing this for years.” His bravado slipped, and for a moment, Castiel felt the exhaustion emanating from this man. “Those South Dakota winters are brutal, man. I’m always dying for spring when I can leave. Therefore, I can’t be homesick.”

Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair and scratched his scalp, soothing his raised hackles. “We both know that’s not how it works. You don’t need to wear this macho mask for me.”

Dean snuggled a little closer, less tense. “I’m just saying I miss good food. I love a good burger like the next guy, but the cereal gets old. I want a real kitchen to cook in. Not a kitchenette with one working burner and suspicious burn marks around it. I’m tired of roach motels, man.”

Dean had mentioned cooking for Sam when they were growing up. But it’s the first time Dean mentioned it as a skill he wanted to expand upon as a hobby. “What would you make?” Castiel hoped it would be something he and his sensitive stomach could eat. Even if it were a cricket leg stew, Castiel would try it for Dean’s sake. Luckily, he kept the grimace of squeamishness internal.

Dean ducked his head and laughed. “...probably burgers.”

Castiel let out a little sigh of relief. Another safe food, good. “Well, baby steps. We’ll get you that kitchen, Dean.” He squeezed Dean slightly.

Castiel hadn’t meant for it to sound like a long-term promise. But he also found he didn’t mind those implications in the slightest. He hoped it didn’t come off as clingy, or he was inserting himself into plans that weren’t his to begin with. He had the ridiculous urge to climb into Dean’s chest and set up camp there.

Castiel was almost asleep when he thought he heard Dean whisper into his shirt, “Promise?” but he wouldn’t swear on a stack of Bibles about it. Probably just a half-dreamed-up delusion.

The rain was the perfect background noise to lull them into a fine, restful sleep.

They would need it; tomorrow would bring blood.

Chapter Text

Castiel sat still as marble as he gently snipped the stitch with practiced precision. He laid the tiny scissors down on his thigh and picked up the forceps. After adjusting to the mirror's reversed image, he now moved easily, quickly pulling the stitch free from his hairline with a little tug. He deposited his newest acquisition on its pile of brethren on the dashboard.

As he picked up the scissors to work on the last stitch, he heard a familiar groan. As Dean sat up, his back creaked like an old door hinge. His hair was a wild mess as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “’m too old for these sleepovers,” he mumbled. He finally noticed what Castiel was doing. Dean blinked a few times. “Hey…was gonna check those today.”

“No need,” Castiel said. He pulled out the last stitch from his scalp with a final, satisfied tug and dropped it on the pile. “Hairline stitches usually heal faster than other places on the body. I planned to take them out yesterday, but did not have the wherewithal.”

Dean only managed a skeptical, slight hum. He leaned over into Castiel’s space, tilted his head to check that the wound was sufficiently closed. Castiel rolled his eyes, not liking being second-guessed. But it’s not as if Dean knows his background. He pulled back and nodded to Castiel, satisfied. “Coffee, or laundromat first?” Dean’s voice was low and sleepy.

Castiel stared at him for a few extra seconds, ingraining sleepy Dean into his memory banks. “Coffee,” he finally said. “I saw a Flying Pilot on the map app.”

“Coffee and a shower,” Dean hummed dreamily. Dean had accounts with several truck stop companies, allowing him to use their parking lots and showers as needed. It was cheaper than renting an entire hotel room, but they didn’t visit too often. Those places could be a breeding ground for jock itch and trench foot. “You know how to show a guy a good time,” Dean winked at him.

“I do,” Castiel said simply as he pulled clean clothes from the pack on the backseat. Castiel motioned for Dean to turn around.

“I know the drill,” Dean said. He turned and studied his phone for a few minutes. When he turned back, Castiel was dressed in a black t-shirt, jeans, and boots. He felt Dean’s silent approval as he wore the clothing Dean had gifted him.

Their morning was quiet and contemplative as they took showers, grabbed coffee, and hit up a local laundromat. As Castiel watched the clothes tumble around in the dryer, he felt at peace for the first time in a long while. He watched Dean as he folded and treated his clothes, his head bobbing to the tune of his humming.

They’d traveled all over the country. Listening to albums and discussing them, visiting tourist attractions, and chasing storms. Trying weird things at gas stations and helping Dean when he caught the stomach bug from a bad taco. Dean stitched him up, gave him his backpack and clothes. They had become best friends in a remarkably short time—maybe more.

Castiel chewed his cheek – he knew he was falling for this man. And he didn’t know which one was worse, separating at the end of the season, or being KIA. If he were honest, he preferred the latter. In the former, a world without Dean’s fire, all he saw was a shapeless void.

He was always too intense. About his missions, his squad mates, his sex life. He was demanding, and, as Dean put it, flowery. But between missing unsaid social cues and struggling to maintain relationships, Castiel learned to be blunt with his words. So, he said what he meant, nothing more or less. Metaphors and similes helped bridge the gap between his mind and the minds of others.

Dean could match his intensity. The man was a storm chaser, after all. He was the most intense person outside the service that Castiel had met. But he was also kind, understanding, and forgiving in a way that Castiel couldn’t be to himself.

Castiel swallowed the last dregs of his honey coffee and stood with a long stretch. After last night, were they lovers? He did not know how to approach Dean about this. What he did know was that he enjoyed waking up before Dean so that he could study him without concern about social etiquette. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. You’re gonna think I’m creepy. Even saying this mantra in his mind, he couldn’t stop staring. Dean peaceful and relaxed in sleep, was his favorite version of Dean so far.

“Have you talked to your brother about our point of interest for today?”

Dean finished folding his underwear and then packed his bag. “Not yet. I think today we’re gonna see some action.” He glanced up at the sky through the dirty windows and crossed his fingers.

Castiel nodded. There was a long, uncomfortable pause between them.

“Dean? What are we?”

Dean swore under his breath. He plopped down hard on a plastic seat and grabbed a magazine languishing on a tabletop. He began flipping through it nonchalantly. “Dude, do we have to be anything? Labels are so last decade, my BFF Jill.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Forgive me for wanting clarity. If it helps, I won’t post our relationship status on Facebook.”

“Dude. Look. We fucked. Why make it complicated?” His leg jiggled, making the coins in his pocket clink noisily.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Dean in daylight was a different beast than Dean at night, alone. Perhaps he felt the need for distance from other people? Castiel was a black-and-white thinker, struggling with the gray areas. It was part of the reason his life from military to civilian was so fucking rough. The military is nothing but black-and-white. Civilian life was nuanced in ways he still didn’t get.

'Why make it complicated?' Because it is. Because he wanted things to be complicated with Dean. He wanted them to be messy and snarky, and together.

It was the first time Castiel had sex with someone and wanted to stay. The first thought that came to mind was dating. Meet Dean’s uncles, meet Sam properly. Yes, he wanted to make plans with a man who was deflecting this conversation with a ripped-up home and garden magazine. He also understood this isn’t exactly what ‘fuck around and find out’ meant, but it felt apt. Except he learned the hard way that Dean was a jumbled mess of gray wires inside. He can’t figure out how to diffuse this bomb.

Dean sighed as the silence between them grew more and more awkward. “Look, Cas–”

“Dean–”

“-I don’t know what I’m doing.” They said in perfect tandem. They stared at each other.

Dean stood up and ran a hand through his hair. He crossed his arms. “I…don’t have this conversation. I don’t have morning afters.”

“Me neither,” Castiel confirmed. “Although I feel like more people realize I’m too much and run away.”

“My last relationships have crashed and burned. So I stay in my lane and just sleep around when I get the itch. Since I’m always on the move, I can’t stay anywhere.”

“And I have never had a long-term relationship. I would fail before I even got started.”

“So, we’re a couple of losers,” Dean reiterated, but it didn’t feel like a barb, more like an in-joke.

“Yes, I guess we are.” There’s another awkward moment. All he’d done was show his hand and not gotten anywhere with it. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Cas, don’t be sorry. I just…” Dean leaned against the edge of a folding table. He looked in any direction other than at Castiel. “I’ve let everyone else down. I don’t want to let you down, too.”

“Dean…” Their conversation was cut short by an older lady and her two kids, who came in to use the machines. Dean straightened up with a relieved sigh and offered to help her get a machine up and running. Castiel focused on his clothes, folding them once they cooled and repacking his pack. I’m not worried about you letting me down. I want you to let me in. And I know that’s ridiculous to want when there’s an end date to this. But…I want you, anyway.

As he watched Dean wrangle her kids with a smile on his face, Castiel made a decision. Dean was a man of action. Instead of tripping over declarations, he could show Dean his appreciation and interest in his own way.

~*~

They decided to eat breakfast at a local Denny’s. In the little foyer between the outermost doors and innermost ones, there was a slew of claw machines. Most had outdated technology, but one had some stuffed animals. Dean walked past it, but then froze and whipped around. He pointed at the little black dragon nestled atop the pile. “Toothless! Oh, what are you doing there, buddy?” He pressed his face to the glass and then crouched down to study what currency the machine took. “Shit, I don’t have any dollars,” he said dejectedly. Castiel helped him back to his feet, as Dean led the way inside with one final glance at the dragon. Castiel had to work not to smirk.

He had three singles in his wallet. And it appeared the universe had provided the opportunity he’d needed. I’ll not squander it.

It took three tries, and Castiel had to keep excusing himself to use the bathroom to the point Dean oscillated between looking hurt and concerned. “Dude, are you ok?” He asked around a mouthful of eggs.

Castiel panicked slightly and blurted out, “I’m experiencing a painful, burning sensation.”

To which Dean swallowed, horrified, realizing what he had said. “But not like that.”

“You know what? I don’t wanna know,” Dean said. “You better not put me off my food.”

“No, I’ll be OK. Just need to hydrate,” Castiel lied. “Sorry. I think this will be the last time.”

Dean waved him off, staring at his coffee cup in quiet agitation. This was not going as planned. But he was committed, so he was going to see this through to the end. Castiel power walked back to the claw machine. He’d played it a couple of times by now, and he was down to his last dollar. He had a strategy to win. And hopefully, Dean will forgive this little white lie, he hoped.

Castiel stepped outside and panicked as another family was playing the game and also trying to get the little dragon. His heart pounded in his chest, but they soon lost interest. Castiel still had a chance.

It took everything he had, but in the end, Castiel walked back to the diner table with a triumphant grin, and he presented Dean with the little black dragon with a theatrical little bow. Tried to add a flourish, like he knew his brother would do when trying to get in someone’s good graces. “I lied earlier,” Castiel explained. “For you,” he said.

“Wait, that’s what you were doing?” Dean’s face softened. “Dude…that’s …he’s awesome.” He patted the little dragon’s head a couple of times. Dean smiled, a genuine one that made the crows’ feet deepen on the sides of his eyes. Despite playing off the whole thing, Castiel could see Dean watching him differently. Over breakfast, Dean explained the entire plot of the movie that the little dragon came from. And Castiel saw why Dean liked it so much. The hero saves his village through the power of mechanical engineering and compassion, just like Dean does.

As they headed out towards the afternoon target area, Toothless got pride of place on the dashboard of the Imp. Ready to take on new dangers as their unofficial mascot.

Dean gave Castiel a shy little smile. “Thanks, Cas.” After he turned on the AC/DC, they were on their way.

“My pleasure, Dean.” Mission Accomplished.

~*~

“CAS! IT’S ON THE GROUND! Holy shit, are you filming this!”

“Yes!” All the hours, all the close calls, it’s all led to this.

In the rural fields of Arkansas stood a giant. A brown stovepipe, at least a quarter mile wide. Its dusty coloration is due to the amount of topsoil it’s pulling up with its suction vortices. They’re filming the birth of a giant. There are others on the side of the gravel road as well. Castiel can hear muted yelling as the other storm chasers around them film and watch in rapturous awe.

They’re a half mile from it, close enough for Dean to explain what they are seeing excitedly. Castiel is standing on the hood of the Imp, and Dean is on the roof, both staring at this Finger of God. Castiel’s worried about how good the footage will be; he’s trembling from the sheer power of this thing.It truly is a testament to humanity’s hubris to think we can hunt these storms, as if we will ever have dominion over them.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean asked, hand patting his shoulder.

“Yes, sir!” It was an automatic reaction, but Dean just grinned.

“Come on, we gotta get closer.”

Right as they climbed down and hopped back inside, ready to go toe to toe with it, the twister fizzled out. Castiel bit his lip hard and not scream about it. They were so close!

But Dean just patted him reassuringly. “She’s not done. This cell is going to drop multiples today. I can feel it. Let’s get a better angle for the next one.”

And damn, if he doesn’t call it. Less than three minutes later, another twister made contact with the ground. This time, it’s a different ball game. The funnel was larger, with a violent debris cloud growing around the base as it churned its way across the countryside. Unlike its subdued, photogenic sibling, this one flung itself around like a angry drunk.

“Shit,” Dean said as he studied the radar. “There’s a town a few miles from here, right in the path. Langton.”

Castiel’s awe soured in his stomach. “Will it hit?”

“I don’t know. I hope they’re prepared to batten down the hatches. This thing looks gnarly.” Dean proceeded to report the tornado to the local authorities, warning them of its direction and confirming its presence on the ground. His face was grim as they drove after it. Castiel continued filming, but the energy in the Imp had changed from excitement to apprehension. Please don’t let it kill anyone.

They drove down the country back roads, thankfully empty as they had the jump on this new rotation. And while some storm chasers had similar equipment (cow bars or roll cages/hail sheets), no one had the Imp. A lot of chasers gave them a wide berth and trailed behind them at a safe distance. But today Dean hauled ass for a different reason. “There’s no warning for Langton yet.” The robotic voice issuing the storm alerts hadn’t mentioned the town at all. “We gotta warn them.”

Castiel’s stomach rolled, but he gritted his teeth and swallowed down the nerves. “Will we get there in time?”

Dean drove so fast that they went slightly airborne as they crested over a hill and slammed down. Sparks danced in their tracks, and Castiel wondered if the jerry-rigged frame could handle more of this. Alongside them, about a few miles away, the twister kept pace. “Gotta try,” was all he could say.

They changed from dirt track to asphalt as Dean found a highway. In the distance, the angle shifted, and the tornado banked hard, getting obscured by some trees they passed. Castiel lowered the camera. He tried to breathe deeply, to calm himself, but the tremors wouldn’t stop. He balled up his fists in his lap, but held back from smacking his ribs. Dean was watching him from the corner of his eye as he pulled off the interstate onto a side road to get into town.

The sky was roiling black, bringing night several hours early. People were walking their dogs and not paying any attention to the sky. They had no idea what was coming.

There was still no tornado siren.

Dean pulled down his CB radio and flipped a switch. From a speaker on the outside of the Imp came the sound of a loud, whooping alert, and Sam’s recorded voice calmly but firmly yelling: “Tornado Incoming! If you hear this alert, get into your emergency shelter immediately and tune into your local weather station! This is not a drill! Tornado incoming!”

The chaos was immediate: people watched for them for a few moments but then started running. Cars whipped around in the streets and zoomed down neighborhood roads. At the other end of town, Castiel saw light sparks flickering. Power flashes. This meant the tornado was entering town and cutting off the electricity. “Dean, we gotta be faster.”

“I know.” Dean drove through the main thoroughfare, and the twister was out in the open once more. They moved into the direct path. Their recording kept blasting, and Castiel could barely hear himself think. Still no sirens from the town proper. They needed to get the word out as much as possible.

Dean drove towards the twister as it crossed over Main Street. The debris cloud was getting darker, and Castiel could barely see black, shadowy items getting flung around. “What are those?”

“Cars, two by fours, I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “Dammit, there’s still no warning.”

“Are we going to deploy?”

“No, she can’t deploy on asphalt.”

“We gotta chase as long as possible,” Dean explained. “But if we come across damage, we’ll have to offer search and rescue.”

Castiel understood. Even as the bottom dropped out from under him, he understood. This was the part of the job he’d been dreading. The wind picked up, and trash cans and other small items were thrown around as they crept closer. Power lines snapped, trees fell with a crash. The thunderous roar of the twister filled the cab and drowned out Sam.

They swung down a side road, Dean wanting to get a better angle to turn around and intercept outside the city. As they doubled back, they came across the twister’s damage path. The Imp came to a screeching halt on the waterlogged asphalt, bare inches from metal sheeting that used to belong on a house.

“Dear God,” Dean said, jaw open.

Castiel’s eyes went wide as he stared at the destruction before them. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Trees snapped like pencils, cars pushed atop each other, and power lines crossed so low they couldn’t drive further. Next to the road, a mobile park had every trailer knocked over. It looked like the trailers had vomited out their insides as they were flipped and shoved around the lot. “Shit! Cas, grab the med kit, and let’s go.”

They climbed out, and the air stank of broken gas lines, dirt, and smoke. The ground and road were littered with broken glass and splintered wood. He was horrified that this had just happened. In war, there was a reason for a bomb to fall. But this? There was no reason for this.

“Cas! I need you to keep it together!” Dean grabbed him by the trenchcoat lapels and shook him slightly. “I know it’s awful, but we got a job to do! Offer medical help and search for survivors, got it?”

“Sir, understand, Sir.” Castiel slipped back into his old military mindset as easily as slipping into a second skin. He grabbed the med kit and they ran towards the mobile homes. They skidded on wet grass and crawled over obstacles as they went. Castiel heard voices, panicked cries, and screaming. Babies wailing and folks calling out names as they too searched. His ribs ached with the sudden exertion, but he ignored it. His nose and lungs burned from the overwhelming, rotten-egg stench of natural gas.

Dean gave him a flashlight. “You search that side, I’ll search here, ok? I can handle any basic injuries.”

Castiel stood tall. “I can do this. Go.”

Dean nodded and took off towards the other row of trailers. Castiel heard his voice calling out in the darkness. It was so utterly dark all of a sudden, except for their flashlights, people’s cellphone lights. Distantly, Castiel heard chainsaws.

He came to the first trailer, but no one answered. Since he heard no movement, he moved on. In the second trailer, he heard a man’s voice faintly calling for help. “Sir! I’m going to break down the front door. Are you hurt?”

“Yes. Help me!” He heard muffled sounds from inside. Castiel swallowed hard. He set down the bag and kicked the door in with practiced ease. The plywood used to make the trailer was flimsy, and the hinges cracked easily. Castiel got the bag and flashlight to crawl inside. It was topsy-turvy chaos, but Castiel found an old man huddled in the living room. He hadn’t made it to the bathroom before the twister hit. He was behind an overturned couch. “My leg,” he whimpered. Castiel saw several pieces of glass and metal debris shoved through it. His leg was a bloody mess.

“...Jesus? You come to take me home?”

Castiel huffed a little laugh. “I appreciate the compliment. I’m Castiel. What’s your name?”

“Jerry. Uh, Filmore.”

“Mr. Filmore, I’m sorry this happened. Do you have any other injuries?”

“Head hurts?” Castiel flashed his light over Mr. Filmore’s face and saw the shock he was suffering. His eyes were blown, and his heart pounded under the papery skin at his wrist.

“Yes, looks like you got a concussion as well.” Casriel used the scissors in the pack to cut away his pants leg, and saw several open punctures leaking blood. Shit. He reached into the kit and grabbed several wrapped items. He pulled out several tampons and quickly inserted them into the wounds.

“Sir, why are you uh…using feminine products for this?”

“Because they’re made to soak up large quantities of blood and are perfectly shaped. Don’t worry. I learned this trick from the Air Force.” Meg’s face filled his mind as she told him her idea as she made sure to include a box of tampons and pads for quick blood clotting devices. “No one is going to care about them.” His bleeding had stopped, but his face was white as a sheet. Castiel studied the man as he stood up. “Normally, I would never do this, but I have to get you outside. Can you walk?”

“I can try.” Mr. Fillmore tried and got to his feet with Castiel’s arm around him.

Together, Castiel helped Mr. Fillmore crawl out of a window, which was now on the ground level. “Hey, I need emergency assistance!” He called out as he led Mr. Fillmore away from his home. A pair of EMTs approached with a stretcher. Castiel explained Mr. Fillmore’s condition and his treatment, and the EMT grinned at the tampon strings hanging out of his leg wounds.

“Clever thinking, man. Totally stealing it.”

“Feel free,” Castiel told him. “Good luck, Mr. Fillmore. Do you know if any of your other neighbors got out or are trapped?”

Mr. Filmore blinked. “I think the Valdez kids were home. Didn’t see their mother at home before…” His voice wavered, the adrenaline finally fizzling out.

“Where?” Castiel asked.

“Behind me. Number four.” He began coughing and was rushed away.

Kids. Castiel had to find them. He grabbed the med kit and ran back to the trailers. Unfortunately, they'd been tossed like toys. There were only piles of rubble where they once stood. “Please be ok,” he whispered over and over as he began searching the scrap piles. “Valdez? Kids? Hey, can anyone hear me?” He paused, trying to tune out Dean’s voice in the distance, the sounds of people crying and screaming.

As he clambered through bricks, vinyl, and sheet metal, he heard a tear as his coat snagged on a tree branch. He pulled it free and tried to listen. Was that a child’s voice? Somewhere nearby? Castiel whirled around and froze in his tracks.

By a pile of rubble was a gray, hooded figure. Its head was bent, hands clasped in prayer, gray wings tucked behind it. It looked like a statue from a cemetery, but it stood tall among the debris here. Castiel didn’t know why he walked towards it. But as he did, he noticed the statue was holding up a wall. His heart pounded in his chest as he came closer. “Kids? Valdez? Are you there?”

There was movement under the statue’s legs, and a small child cried out suddenly. “Here, Señor! Help us!” “We want our Mommy.”

Castiel leapt forward and as he began digging through the pile, careful not to make it collapse in on the little shelter they had found themselves in. He felt the statue touch his shoulder. But when he turned, it was gone. His shoulder burned, though he ignored it.

The two kids had to be no older than six, with messy hair and dirty bodies. He pulled them out one by one, holding them in his arms as they cried into his jacket. “Are you hurt? Are you ok?” He asked in Spanish, and the kids sniffled that they were okay because of the gray angel. He tried to wrap his head around that but didn't have the time. A small, fierce woman launched herself at them, their mother. The trio was crying and clinging to each other so hard that even another twister wouldn’t tear them apart.

“Thank you for saving them,” she told Castiel.

“I’m happy they were okay.” He grabbed the med kit and clambered over to the other trailers, but other neighbors were also looking, as were search and rescue teams.

And that's how went. FInd someone, pull them out or stabilize them for the real emergency workers to get them out. Castiel must have helped over a dozen people, most with minor laertaions, when suddenly Dean's voice cut through the chaos. “Cas! We have to get the Imp; it’s starting to hail. Everyone gotta take cover, another cell is coming through!”

Castiel was going to shake him off when the fist hailstones hit like a bomb into a pile of metal siding. They're the size of baseballs. Everyone ran for any shelter they could find, even ducking back into places they had just been rescued from. Dean grabbed Castiel’s hands, and they ran to the Imp’s steel protection. They barely got inside in time for the first several to hit the steel and shake them. The windshield creaked in the onslaught, but it was the thunderous report all around that snapped the tiny bit of control Castiel held onto.

His heart raced painfully, and he couldn’t draw a breath at all. He slapped his hands over his ears to stop the sounds and threw himself into the front floorboards. He pretzeled himself into the floorboards, jerking hard with every crack of thunder overhead. The hail wasn’t ice; it was the cracking of rock and stone, it was the reverberations of a cave system all around him. It was the fire, it was the rain, that was the water that was leaving him gasping for breath. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Not even when Dean jumped into the seat and held his hands–

“Cas! Just hold on. The cell won’t be as bad, but I gotta go check the last trailer. I’ll be right back.”

Castiel tried to rally, but Dean shoved him into the seat. “Breathe in four counts, out four counts. I’ll be back!” and with that, Dean disappeared into the darkness, dodging hailstones as he went.

So, Castiel tried counting but kept losing track. He switched tactics and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He went to church enough growing up that while he lost his faith after their deaths, it still offered some comfort even now.

Eventually, the pounding let up, and Dean popped back into the Imp with a dented bicycle helmet on his head, bruised, busted knuckles, and torn flannel. “Dug out some more folks,” He hissed, voice low and rough from yelling. “I think we searched them all and found everyone.” Dean leaned his head against the steering wheel. “Fuuuuuuuck, I hate this,” he whispered. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Castiel said, running a soothing hand over Dean’s back. “As much as I can be.”

They’ve been doing search and rescue for hours. I’m gonna crash out,” Dean groaned. “We should let the professionals do their thing.”

“There’s a motel I remember down the highway,” Castiel said. Dean's exhausted, but he nods. They drive slowly, and Castiel gets the room because Dean was dead on his feet. They look like a pair of drowned dogs, but Castiel gets them and their gear inside. Seeing Dean’s injuries brought Castiel out of himself. HE can handle one more patient before he too collapses.

Dean sat on the bed, down to his underwear, because his clothes were a muddy mess and were now piled in the bathtub. Cas knew he was also a mess, but he only shed his coat.

He tilted Dean’s face up to assess the damage. Quick, sweeping strokes over his arms, but except for bruises, Dean was fine. The worst was the cut above his eyebrow, but that was shallow enough not to need stitches. “Clever, using the bike helmet for protection,” Castiel said.

“Sam had to collect hailstones for a study a few years ago. Learned from his mistakes,” Dean huffed, though the humor didn’t meet his eyes.

Dean took a long swig as Castiel grabbed the med kit and rifled through for a few items. “Cas…I know it ain’t my business, but what happened to you?”

As Castiel grabbed cleaning pads and bandages, he couldn’t lie anymore. For once, he didn’t want to. “I was an Airman,” Castiel admitted quietly. “Honorably discharged after 10 years of service as a Pararescueman Team Lead. Part of the 38th Rescue Squadron.”

Dean leaned back slightly and whistled, impressed. “You were one of those guys who jumped out of helicopters to save people?” His hand mimicked falling through air.

“Yes. ‘That others may live to…to return with honor,’” he intoned their motto. “Let’s just say, if I had the proper intel, I could have pulled a soul from the very bowels of perdition itself.”

Dean leaned forward. “I can see it in your eyes. Something went to hell, didn't it?”

“I ran a team of three other speical forces medics, know in the service as Gaudians Angels. The angels on the battlefield, whose sole job was to make sure the soldiers we saved made it to the next battlefield.”

Dean took a long swig of his beer. Castiel used a wet wipe to clean Dean’s face from blood and dirt methodically, then moved onto his hands. He put some peroxide of a cotton round--Dean hissed as the peroxide hit the scrapes on his knuckles. “Sorry.”

Dean said nothing, just let him speak at his own pace. He did offer the beer bottle, which Castiel took gratefully and drank deeply from. “On my last mission, something went wrong. I was leading the team, Benny, Meg, and DJ, into the bowls of this cave system, going in to save a team that had been caught in a cave-in. The Taliban strung a trap. The cave entrance was destroyed with missiles. We were trapped inside.”

Dean gasped, eyes widening.

Castiel pulled back and started pacing. “I tried to get them out, but in the cave system, the floor opened up to an underground pool of water. The water was rising, and my team was screaming in pain as they died, from smoke inhalation or drowning. I…I…” Castiel paused and chewed his fingernail, trying to calm down. His voice wavered. “It took hours, but I dug us out, hauled their bodies to the surface. I refused to let them stay trapped in that fucking cave.”

Castiel blinked. “I still see their blank, dead eyes. I hear the screams, I smell the sick stench of smoke and death. I can’t get rid of it.” He clapped his hands over his face as if to smack the images out, but it never worked before. Benny, Meg, and DJ stood there, sepia brown, around him. Judging him.

Dean’s face darkened as he rubbed at his neck. “That sucks, man.”

Castiel rubbed at his eyes, and only Dean was back in the room. “When I came back to the States, I had no home to return to, and eventually, I could only survive the day-to-day with copious amounts of drugs, alcohol, and mindless sex until I overdosed in a cheap motel room. The prostitute I was sleeping with called 911 before she high-tailed it. I woke up in the psych ward. Now I had a mountain of medical bills and no job I could keep. My VA funds weren’t enough. I ended up homeless, hapless, and hopeless until Nora caught me outside the Gas-N-Sip about six months ago, digging through the trash for food. She brought me a coffee and a leftover burrito. Somehow, after I told her my woes, she got an application through for me, and I started working there.” He scratched his neck, feeling so overwhelmed by everything, like he was back in that cave and the rocks were crushing him. “I still don’t sleep. I was starting to do better, but then the mugging, I guess, put me on the edge.” Cas sighed long and low. “Now you know how much of a fuck up I am.”

Surprising him, Dean jumped up and pulled Castiel into a tight hug. “Dude, you’ve been through it. But I’m here to tell you that you’re a hero, Cas. A fucking hero, and I’m sorry you never were told that. Never treated like one.” He hugged Castiel hard enough that he felt the tears he’d been holding back squeezed out of him.

Dean pulled back with shining eyes that he didn’t bother to dry. “Listen to me, Cas. You aren’t alone anymore, got it? My dad was a Marine – no one gets left behind. He made sure to drill that into my brain while we were growing up. I want you to understand that I have your back, Castiel. You gotta trust me, okay? I don’t promise shit lightly. You have me as a friend for as long as you want.”

Did Dean's voice trip over the word friend'? Did it matter? Castiel wiped the tears from his eyes because it’s not what he wants. He wants Dean as a partner in life, wants to go to Souix Falls and see what job he could maybe find outside of storm chasing season. But he’ll take friendship. Maybe it can be his penance, his dreams just out of reach, forever, like those of his dead squadmates.

“You saved lives tonight, Cas. You were awesome. I saw you in action, helping people or just keeping them calm if they needed more help.” He held up his hands. “When you don’t overthink it, you’re a damn good medic.”

Dean’s scrapes were cleaned and bandaged without hesitation on Castiel’s part. It was natural to move this way, and it was his second nature. To heal, to help.

Maybe not all hope is lost? It’s a tiny, desperate plea in a sea of loathing.

Castiel backed up and slowly began unbuttoning his shirt. “Cas, what are you doing?”

“Showing you I trust you?” he said quietly. He turned around, so Dean would only see his back and hopefully not pay attention to the bruises on his ribcage. Castiel gritted his teeth and let the shirt drop.

He heard Dean’s shocked gasp.

He could imagine how his back looked. He had gotten a large tattoo done while in the service of wings, black along his shoulder blades, flight feathers spread down his arms and biceps. He was an angel, and an angel needed wings.

After being caught in the burning debris from the missile attack, his back had been caught on fire, scarring his wings into a gnarly mess. The burns had been so bad he had gotten hooked on the morphine for the pain at the hospital overseas, then the OxyContin when he was released. The drugs were his gateway, and while his wings only twinged with pain sometimes, he regretted ever getting them. He didn’t deserve them, or he only deserved the wrecked mess.

It was another penance.

Dean stood up and came around Castiel’s front. He pulled the shirt back up gently. “Cas…shit, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Since when do we get what we deserve?” Castiel muttered bitterly.

Dean cupped his cheek, trying on a sweet smile. It was magnetic. “Have you ever been to the beach?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“No,” Dean admitted with a laugh. He patted Castiel’s cheek, then stepped away. “When this season is over, I think you, me, and Sam need to hit up the Outer Banks. Hawaiian shirts, drinks with little umbrellas, the whole nine yards.”

"Me?"

"Yeah, you're part of the team. We all work well together, even if Sam is a baby about it sometimes."

A fresh wave of tears fogged his eyes. Being part of another team...why did that sooth something in him? “Why the Outer Banks?” Castiel asked.

“Pirates! Rum distilleries and the lost colony of Roanoke. I always wondered what ‘Croatoan’ meant.”

Castiel swallowed hard as he put the medical items back in the kit. “Sure, Dean. I’d love that. It would be a nice cap off.”

Dean beamed. “Now, I’m exhausted. Let’s crash already, yeah?” It was a proper queen-sized bed, and Castiel groaned as he finally stretched out from being in the Imp for days. Dean made a little sad sound, and they cuddled together as if huddling for warmth. “Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.” His wings tingled on the scratchy sheet material, but he thought about the strange gray statue that helped him find those children, how it had touched his shoulder before disappearing, exactly where the burned wings were, as if a reminder that he, too, was still an angel.

Instead of dread, Castiel found himself feeling weightless for the first time in years.

~*~

Thunder woke him from a dead sleep. He startled, heart racing, but Dean's arm wrapped around him helped ease his heart. He listened to the patter of rain outside, the particular tinkling sound that rain upon the Imp’s steel makes. There were no sirens or weather alerts. Just regular rain. Castiel prayed that the people of Langton were resilient.

When it was clear Castiel wasn’t falling back asleep, he pulled himself begrudgingly from Dean’s side and swapped Toothless into Dean’s arms. He cuddled it with a little happy groan. Castiel snuck into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He tiptoed through the room and pulled out the sewing supplies to work on the large tear on his battered coat. Needing some air, Castiel propped open the front door with the kitchen chair, so we could work and watch the curtains of water. It made him feel less claustrophobic. The cool breeze was refreshing, and he quietly worked away.

He thought telling Dean his secrets would kill him. Instead, he felt like helium was in his chest, airy and ready for more. He was so in the zone that he didn’t even notice Dean standing behind him. “It’s, like, 3 am,” he mumbled, hair a mess. He motioned to the coat. “Couldn’t it wait?”

“The coat’s important to me,” Castiel admitted.

“Baby.”

Castiel put down his hands and gave Dean a hard scowl. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Dean blinked owlishly. “What? No! I meant, the coat’s your baby. Like the Imp is mine.” He smiled at Castiel and patted his shoulder. Castiel heard him pad away towards the tiny table with the mini coffee pot, and soon smelled the cheap brew filling the air.

Dean grabbed another chair and sat next to him, both listening to the rain, as Castiel finished his work right as the pot finished. They didn’t speak, but just existed with their thighs pressed together. “We’re gonna go back at daylight,” Dean told him. “I need some footage of the destruction.”

Castiel nodded. “I can manage that.”

“You sure?”

“Dean. I didn’t tell you everything last night, just for you to use kid gloves on me. Just treat me like you normally do.”

Dean opened his mouth but said nothing. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay.” He took a sip of his coffee. “You’ve been in war zones. You’ll know what that score is.”

“I have. Also, I had no idea you were the son of a Marine,” Castiel said. “I haven’t seen you eat a single crayon this whole time.”

Dean shoved him. “You’re a bag of dicks.”

~*~

The destruction was awful, and the fact that there was no warning except for them was the worst part. Luckily, only a small section of Langton was hit, a damage path of a mile long and a few blocks wide, but it was awful to witness in daylight. Back at the mobile home park, as Castiel filmed the rubble, a flash of purple caught his eye.

“Uh, Dean?”

Dean walked over and stared at the purple thing. He motioned helplessly in the air. “Uh…I mean, clearly, it's a…” He laughed awkwardly. “Damn, there’s not a scratch on it! Maybe homes should be made with Bad Dragons as the structural support.” Dean bent, as if to get a better look at the thing, but Castiel grabbed his arm.

“Dean, it’s going to be crawling with bacteria.” Castiel had learned that mentioning germs in any capacity was the quickest way to get Dean to back off from doing something impulsive.

Dean hopped back as if burned. He ran his hands over his jeans. “You’re right! So not worth the gangrene.”

Between shots of the wreckage, they interviewed a few folks. People were upset, but they tried to keep it together as they discussed how their entire lives had been upended and changed. So far, no deaths, though there was a lot of anger at the lack of sirens. Dean was an empathetic shoulder to cry on.

A man in a baseball cap stomped up. “Why are you vultures here? We’ve lost everything, you really gotta film it, too?”

Another man put a hand on baseball’s arm. “They were here last night. Got out survivors. They’re just trying to get the word out so we can get the help we need. Right, guys?”

Dean nodded. “Yes. More eyes means more donations we can send to y’all. I get the anger, man. It sucks having everything taken from you.”

Baseball broke away and stomped away. Castiel didn’t blame him for lashing out.

As they walked around the damage path, there was some hope. People managed to get little parts of their lives back. Finding pictures or other mementos helped many people cope with the damage.

As Dean was speaking to a lady, her large boyfriend hovering behind her, glanced down, froze, and let out an excited squeak. “Joanna!” He said that as he hit the ground, a little black box was found under a two-by-four board. Joanna’s hand flew to her mouth as Dean and Castiel filmed this man asking her to be his wife right then and there. It was heartwarming, and even though they were standing in the ruins of their lives, she happily said yes. The neighbors let out a whoop of celebration as they kissed, and he slid the undamaged ring on her finger.

Dean and Castiel meet each other’s eyes. His eyes glistened in the sunlight; he wiped them and inclined his head for Castiel to follow him. “Let’s get out of these folks’ hair and let them get to rebuilding.”

Dean and Castiel walked impossibly close as they headed back to the Imp. Now was the time for insurance calls and hospital visits, and trying to find a place to stay. Castiel didn’t believe in America as a country anymore, but Americans, like most humans, were creatively resilient. The townspeople would be okay. Never the same, but okay.

When Sam called, he listened solemnly about the destruction and their efforts. “That sucks, but I’m proud nobody was killed,” he said. “Good job, Cas. It’s tough to keep it together for anyone, but especially a greenhorn.” There was some begrudging respect.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Sammy, you have a bead on another one,” Dean said.

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “The predictions are going off the charts for Mississippi in a couple of days.”

“Dixie alley? Well, thanks but no thanks.”

“Dean, this looks like April 27th, 2011.”

Castiel had no idea what the date signified, as he was overseas. But the way that the blood drained from Dean’s face…something nefarious must have happened. He’s never reacted like this before.

Oddly, Sam doesn’t try to talk Dean into picking him up for this apparent outbreak. Instead, Sam said that he was working on a different target area for them and to keep an ear out. He mentioned a gullywasher in South Dakota but said he was fine.

Castiel chewed his cheek, eyes narrowed at Sam’s dismissive tone. I know Sam’s up to something, but I don’t know what it is.

Chapter Text

Sam slid into the back seat of the yellow taxi and waved awkwardly at Bobby and Rufus, who stood on the porch of the junkyard house. He swallowed hard and clutched his backpack strap like a lifetime, especially when his leg began to throb. He held his crutches across his legs. “Where are we going?” The driver asked.

Sam checked his phone and rattled off an address about an hour away. He just hoped he wouldn’t leave before Sam could arrive–otherwise, this whole endeavor was over before it began.

The taxi pulled away from the junkyard, and Sam tried to catch his breath. His chest was tight like ratchet straps were holding him down. He had waited until Rufus and Bobby were distracted. Rufus had the Remington pieces on the study table and worked by lamplight to clean the interior with a small wire brush. Bobby sat on the couch in the study, reading a book with a tumbler of rotgut shine in his free hand. They were bickering about going hunting in the fall.

Sam had tucked his pillows under his blanket to make it vaguely him-shaped and left a note explaining that he was heading out to meet up with his professor. He tried to be silent as he descended the creaky stairs, but the crutches caught on every step on the way down. He flinched and held his breath, but when he finally got downstairs, they stared at him. Rufus and Bobby, both wearing similar clothes, stood with crossed arms and unimpressed faces. They could have left him hogtied to the kitchen chair, but once he explained his plan, they stepped aside. Bobby knew the determined glint in Sam’s eyes. “If anything goes wrong, call us, idjit,” Bobby said. Rufus didn’t speak–he just patted Sam’s shoulder and gave him an extra latke wrapped in a paper towel for the road. The same one he wolfed down now to calm his roiling stomach. It tastes like potatoes, salt, oil, and home.

There was no turning back.

~*~

As Sam shuffled into the bar with his broken ankle and crutches, he bit his lip. Is this too far?

A younger guy around Sam’s age held open the door for him, and he nodded his appreciation. The double doors had been a bitch. He waded through the other patrons, got to the bar, and ordered a whiskey shot. The bartender looked over to see the cast and sighed. “That sucks,” he said as he handed it to him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sam said. He kept his head on a swivel as he looked around for his target. There were at least two dozen people squashed into the dive bar like anchovies in a can. One of these people was the one he’d been searching for. Finding him was going to be a pain.

As he tapped the glass on the bar top, he considered his options. Sam knew he was looking for a man, and he knew his target would be in this bar. But otherwise, he had no other data. It could be one of the college guys playing darts, or it could be the guy in his forties talking to the co-eds in the cringest manner possible. That sadly would be his M.O. Well, I know his voice, and I haven’t heard it yet.

Sam slammed back the shot, and a wave of pain shot through him. I need to sit. Just standing there, he felt winded. Dean was now the healthier of them? He winced at that, horrified. Scanning the bar, he saw to his relief an open spot by a man working on the world’s tallest stack of pancakes. There must have been an entire bottle of syrup dousing them to make such a sticky, glistening layer. Sam’s stomach turned–he felt his arteries hardening. His leg ached, and his armpits were sore from the crutches. I’ll sit and then figure out some process of elimination.

Sam hobbled over to the pancake guy. He flopped down gratefully, panting from the exertion. “Sorry, mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free country.” Next to him, the man’s fork full of pancake froze halfway to his mouth. It fell open as the man stared at him, his eyes trailing up and up until they landed on Sam’s face. “...Winchester?”

Sam blinked and stared down at Pancake Guy. He knew that voice all too well, from sarcastic voice-overs of tornado footage. He had been expecting someone…more imposing, he guessed. “Loki?” Sam asked, hiding his confusion behind a cocksure grin. He pushed his bangs behind his ear and shrugged off his flannel, settling in. “You’re not what I was expecting.”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” Loki carefully set down his fork and turned to stare at him. The light was very dim, but Sam got the sense that the man was handsome but in a slightly off-kilter way. Thin lips and angular features, but he was compact, a surprise considering his dinner of choice. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m staying nearby,” Sam lied.

“Uh-huh.” Loki studied him like a fox sizing up a coyote. He looked at the leg cast and crutches. “So, you really were benched.”

Sam swallowed, his throat dry. “Yeah. Broken ankle.” Falling into a prairie dog hole was too embarrassing to admit. “Dean’s got a new guy temporarily.” At the idea of Castiel, Sam’s eye twitched.

“Well, it seems like he’s managing just fine without you.”

“I’ve been giving him target areas,” Sam was quick to point out. Lest this man think he’s just been twiddling his thumbs for the past month. Not that it matters what Loki thinks.

“Look, I haven’t fucked with you at all. Why are you here hassling me?”

“Hasseling?” Sam scowled. “This isn’t personal. I have a business proposal.”

Loki scoffed and ate another bite. “Business proposal? Kiddo, I’ve already got a business, in case all those hailstones knocked your temporal lobe loose.”

“Man, that clip really got around,” Sam grumbled as he crossed his arms. When the bartender came over, he signaled for another whiskey. “Still, would you hear me out first?”

Loki turned and waved a hand at him. “You can do whatever your heart desires,” he said flippantly. “I’m eating my food regardless.”

The whiskey arrived in front of him. Perfect timing. He sighed and took a sip to calm his nerves. “I know you’re between tours,” he started. “The reason I’m here is because I need your help.”

Loki arched his eyebrow and sneered, “Doing what, pray tell?”

“Have you been following the projected models? The National Weather Service is talking about a super outbreak in Mississippi in a few days.”

“I’ve seen,” he spoke around a forkful. “Not that I’ll be anywhere near that mess. My patrons are looking for low-level threats, not that. That’s way too dangerous.”

“Well, I need to get to my DOW team, and my brother is keeping me on the bench,” Sam said.

“The DOW? You’re with them?”

“As a grad student. This is my last year in the program. The data from this season will make or break my thesis,” Sam explained. “As you know, the tornadoes have been less than forthcoming.”

“I thought climate change was supposed to make more intense storms,” Loki complained. “If it weren’t for that random twister last night, my tour would've ended dry.” Which was why, when Sam saw Loki randomly pinging in South Dakota, he devised this asinine plan.

Loki finished the last bite off his plate and sipped on his soda. Crush, if Sam guessed from the fluorescent orange color. God, he wanted a salad just to balance this man’s whole existence out.

Sam finished the whiskey. “Instead of getting another tour, I want to hire you to be my ride for the season.”

“I’m not a chauffeur.”

“Aren’t you? In the grand scheme of things? You drive rich people around the Midwest and let them play at storm chasing for a few weeks.”

Loki sat up, shoulders back, mouth drawn. “You need to work on your sales pitch, Winchester. You suck at it.”

Loki moved to stand up, but Sam put a hand on his forearm. They both stared at his hand. “I’m willing to pay for all the tour fees.”

Loki pulled free from Sam’s hand but settled back down. He pulled a toothpick from his pocket. “Really?”

Sam nodded. “You don’t understand how important these next few weeks are for me. I can’t stay home.” No matter what Dean thinks. Or Bobby and Rufus.

Loki finally turned to him, and Sam got a good first look at his face. He was oddly handsome, and Sam was thankful the lights were so dim. Especially with the soft, dark hair and scruff, thin lips, and off-center, pointed nose. The low lighting hid his blush. “Where’s the DOW team?”

“They’ll be in Kansas City tomorrow.”

“Hm. Six hours.” Loki put his hands in his pockets. His eyes gleamed. “How much are you willing to pay?”

Sam smiled, knowing he had Loki right where he wanted him. “Let’s discuss it.” He hoped this wasn’t a bad use of his grant money.

The number Loki shot him was at the top of his budget. But Sam needed this man’s help, so he agreed, and they shook on it. A sense of relief washed over him.

“So, when do we head out?” Sam asked.

“Tomorrow,” Loki covered a loud yawn with his hand. “I’m beat.”

“Uh.” Shit. Sam had assumed they’d be heading out tonight. He had his backpack, but hadn’t planned anywhere to stay.

For a moment, Loki seemed to wage an internal battle with himself. Something won out, and he grinned wickedly at Sam. “Come on. I think my room has a couch.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

Loki leered at him, a move he was used to from both men and women, but he winked to soften the staring. “Absolutely.” There was the horndog Sam knew from their internet conversations. Thankfully, he didn’t feel threatened by Loki’s interest. “Come on, Princess.”

“I’m not a princess.” Sam glowered as he paid his tab and followed Loki outside to his off-white passenger van, which had a hail guard that extended over the windshield. It bore his business logo prominently, an 8-legged horse getting sucked into a twister. Sam paused mid-step to appreciate the lengths Loki was willing to go for the bit.

“Aren’t you? Long-haired damsel in distress, coming to the handsome Prince Charming to save the day? It’s a tale as old as time.” Loki opened the passenger door for him with a sardonic bow.

Sam just scowled as he climbed into the cab. The crutches, backpack, and cast were a bitch to maneuver. The painful jolt from his leg was all too familiar. He gritted his teeth to ignore it. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” It was a rhetorical question–a migraine was starting between his eyes, an intense pressure building on one side. He took some Excedrin to keep it from getting worse.

“Can’t blame anyone but yourself,” Loki teased as he climbed inside the driver’s seat. Ten minutes later, they’re pulling into one of the nicest places Sam's ever seen. He and his brother stayed at the cheapest places possible since funds were always tight. Perhaps creating some sponsor videos wouldn’t be a bad idea. If I mention the whole complementary breakfast thing about the nicer hotels to Dean, he’ll go for it.

Loki grabbed a duffel tucked behind his seat, helped Sam out, and they were off to their shared quarters for the night. With every step, Sam battled pain and nerves. Loki wasn’t the kind of person he had been expecting, and it threw off his whole plan to be aloof and guarded.

The room was clean. It smelled like pine and bleach, not mold and cigarettes. Sam didn’t see any mysterious stains or watermarks on the ceiling. As Loki dropped his duffel on the clinically white bedspread, Sam laughed. “Dude, are those chocolates on your pillow?”

“Yep.” He picked one up and tossed it at Sam’s head. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.” Despite the crutches, Sam caught it easily and pocketed it for later.

Sam did a quick scan of the room, and his smile fell from his face. Oh. Oh no, that can’t be right.

“Loki. I thought you said there was a couch?”

Lokie glanced around. “Oh….huh. Guess not.”

They stared at the queen bed, then at each other. Loki was trying and failing not to laugh, biting the inside of his cheek. And Sam just shrugged, accepting the fucked up bed situation with as much grace as he could muster. “Well, that’s that, I guess.”

Sam’s leg trembled, and he needed to sit down immediately. He set his bag on the small writing desk and collapsed into the office chair. Across from them was a set of drawers and a TV perched on it, facing the bed. “I’m beat,” Sam mumbled.

There was an awkward silence as they tried to ignore each other, but couldn’t.

“So, kiddo,” Loki said as he pulled out clothes and his toiletry bag and tucked them away into the drawers. “What would you do if I were a serial killer?”

Sam looked at his cast and tilted his head from side to side as he considered his options. “Even with the bad leg, I still have half a foot on you. I’m not worried.”

Loki tsked as he turned away. “You’re lucky I’m decent.”

“I can’t believe this actually worked,” Sam admitted, and he tried to itch under the cast with his finger. “Usually my Hail Marys don’t hail.”

“I’m surprised you and your brother are two separate entities,” Loki laughed. “You don’t show up on camera too often. It’s nice to see you out and about, Taller Winchester.”

“It’s Sam. But, whatever,” Sam said, the whisky making him feel slower. “Look, this is just personal.”

Loki crossed his arms. “Don’t you mean business?”

Sam ran a hand over his face. “You know what I meant. Don’t make me regret this, Loki.”

Loki screwed up his face. “Gabriel.”

“Hm?”

“My name. It’s Gabriel. I have a sweet tooth and enjoy romantic candlelight dinners.” He motioned towards Sam. “You?”

“Uh…I’m Sam. I’m…” He tried to think of something personal that Lo–Gabriel–wouldn’t already know from their online talks. “I like healthy food, but gummy worms are a guilty pleasure. And I like to run, when I’m not rocking the cast.”

“Explains the ass,” Gabriel said, and Sam rolled his eyes, but was secretly pleased.

Sam settled into the chair and pulled out the laptop to connect it to his phone hotspot. He reviewed several different radar models, including the NAM, HRRR, and the European. They were all beginning to agree on this outbreak. Even the European (which was more conservative in its numbers) were showing increased chances. A shiver went down Sam’s spine at the idea of another bad outbreak. Being a storm chaser meant their livelihood depended on bad weather, but they hoped it wouldn’t happen simultaneously.

When Gabriel came back from the restroom in an oversized t-shirt and sweats, he plopped onto the opposite edge of the bed. His face was pensive. “So, how did you find me?”

“I was able to triangulate your position with cell towers and the videos from your last tour.” Gabriel just blinked at him. “Dean goes offroading so often, I’ve learned to track anyone with cell towers.”

“Creepy, Samster,” Gabriel said with a false cheeriness. “Welp, I’m watching something stupid and hitting the hay.”

“Sure,” Sam said. However, he found he didn’t want to look at radar scans. The whiskeys made Gabriel’s suggestion sound much more appealing. Even if they’d share the bed to do it, something he wasn’t opposed to. He peered over it to see Gabriel debating between Great British Bake Off reruns or a movie called ‘The Sand.’

“How do you feel about dumb coeds getting eaten in really dumb ways?” Gabriel asked.

“Um, I mean, can I make fun of the deaths?”

“Sam, is it a requirement to make fun of them. Do you not see this 3.8/10 IMDB rating?” he said.

“Sure. I don’t want to work anyway.”

“How rebellious of you.”

You have no idea.

Gabriel hopped up, riffled through his duffel, and emerged with a slightly squashed bag of sour gummy worms. He also grabbed Skittles, M&Ms, and two hard apple ciders and gave Sam the gummy worms and a cider.

Sam hobbled to the restroom to piss and wash up. He splashed some water on his face and tried to fix his hair. He hadn’t realized how oddly handsome Loki/Gabriel would be. He was charming, funny, all of Sam’s weaknesses. There was this magnetism that he could feel running just under the surface.

Sam returned to find Gabriel had made a little pile of cushions for his leg to prop up on. He looked like a kid on Christmas as he patted the bed next to him. “Let’s go, Winchester.”

Sam ignored the pain in his leg and got comfy on the bed. He sighed and ripped open a bottle of water, suddenly dying of thirst as Gabriel stared at his arms shamelessly.

The movie was even worse than Gabriel predicted. They spent the entire time chatting about the characters, booing the dumb ones (which were all of them), and laughing at how silly the story was and the terrible acting. Everyone either overacted or underacted, but never in sync. It was truly awful, and Sam only managed it because Gabriel was there cracking jokes alongside him.

True to his word, Gabriel lay on his side of the bed after the movie. They barely had an inch between them, and he oddly felt the urge to move closer. He had an interesting cologne on, and Sam just wanted to breathe it forever.

Sam kept to himself and wondered if this was a good idea for the hundredth time. He pulled the chocolate from earlier and popped it into his mouth. Immediately, he recognized the chocolate mint. It was the same kind they served at the end of the meal at Olive Garden, of which he’s eaten plenty over the years. It was a cheap place to fill the bellies of a couple of growing teenage boys. That house salad even fostered his love of salad to this day.

Bobby. Thinking about his uncle, he hoped he wasn’t too disappointed in this turn of events. But he was doing this for the sake of humanity; that was difficult to argue against.

~*~

Sam and Gabriel had become frenemies/rivals over years of social media interactions. Sam usually handled the Winchesters’ accounts since Dean normally forgot to answer questions or talk on his pages. Sam ended up doing most of the work in that department. And suddenly, out of the blue, a person named Loki started a feisty meme war, which turned into an actual prank war, involving a harmonica in the exhaust pipe. Sam and Dean retaliated by leaving the most ridiculous low-star ratings on his Google reviews page (“1 out of 5 stars. Instead of taking us to see a tornado, we traveled back in time, and my wife got eaten by a Utahraptor.” “Sadly, we paid to see a tornado, but Loki took us to the Swamp of Sadness to look for Artex. One out of five stars.” ). But Sam, Dean, and Loki never crossed paths IRL. And now Sam knew why. He specifically targeted low-level threats, while the brothers aimed for the highest ones.

Sam and Loki have been sharing heated barbs for years. And yes, flirting too. What could Sam say? He found wit attractive, which Loki had in spades. And he was not the usual type Sam liked to bed—athletic, lean types who could keep up with him. Loki was shorter, but solidly built. He had an angular face, thin lips, but his eyes and hair were a similar warm, honey-colored hue. A fact he didn't realize until they were in the brightly lit hotel room. The man had confidence and charisma. And damn, the online magnetism only increased tenfold in person.

Loki was now Gabriel, and Sam found he even liked his name.

And now, Sam’s mind began drifting down a dangerous path. Wondering what Gabriel looked like under the oversized clothes. What his skin felt like, warm and flushed, what his voice sounded like, saying his name in the heat of the moment.

He rubbed his eyes. No, no, no. Don’t go there. Keep this thing professional. Keep it in your pants, Sam!

He thought about Dean and Castiel, who worked as the perfect metaphorical bucket of ice water in his lap.

Not only was Sam sour about having to edit chase footage without him there, but Dean looked different in this footage he kept getting. Every time Dean uploaded their shots, it was different. He was different with Castiel every time. The clips Sam included in the YouTube video were only the tip of the iceberg for their weirdness.

Sam had seen Dean experience puppy love before, with Cassie, a long time ago. His first girlfriend and first real love. That was in high school, but he remembered how Dean acted around her—staring, tongue-tied, softer. And the same thing seemed to be happening with Castiel.

Castiel. Just some homeless guy his brother hired out of the goodness of his heart. But Sam can see how Dean softens up around him, talks about him, texts about the things Cas knows or doesn’t know since the dude grew up under a rock. Sam can see the crush growing every day. When the season ends, Cas is going to take a part of Dean with him when he leaves. Sam can’t stand the idea of Dean being upset or hurt. He was fiercely protective of Dean. Before they got fostered with Uncle Bobby, Dean was like Sam’s parent. He still thought of Dean like that. He always went to Dean first.

Sam tried not to be so protective, so jealous, but it’s tough. He had to edit their footage of them getting closer. Dean mentions Cas every time they talk or chat. And despite all the footage he’s watching, he can’t get a read on the man. Cas is stoic as hell, doesn’t say much, and is behind the scenes 99% of the time.

Being left out of the loop by his brother has frustrated him to the point of tears. Sam hated his stupid, broken ankle and his stupid, overly cautious family. So, to prove he’s not a dumb kid anymore, he tried sneaking out of the house like an adult. Only to get caught and seen off anyway. But don’t worry. He made up for that decision by Ubering to their rival’s last known location and using all his grant money to bribe him into giving him a lift. It’s the same stupid, narrow-sighted shit he’s always done. But Sam hardens himself to criticism.

This was his last season with his brother, and he had to deal with an interloper. Someone who made Dean laugh a little freer. Someone who managed to make Dean glow with a certain liveliness Sam hadn’t seen in years.

It’s you. You’re the problem child.

Sam wiped away the wetness and sighed. He was so exhausted.

Sam’s leg throbbed, a normal feeling. He shuffled around to take more pain meds and maybe try some melatonin. He stood up and grunted loudly in pain when his foot smacked into a table leg. His hips had permanent bruises from his knocking into things over the past month. He swallowed the medication and tried to settle down on the bed again.

There was a creak as Gabriel sat up in the bed with a sigh. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Why?”

“Happens. You see shit in this line of work that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.”

“Even you?” Sam asked.

Gabriel slipped from the bed to the small mini fridge and got a couple of hard ciders he had tucked in earlier. Sam took the one offered to him as Gabriel settled back beside him. “I’ve been first on scene a few times. It never gets easier.”

Sam knew those memories all too well. The worst was when tornadoes went through farms. Hearing the sounds of hurt animals and the echo of gunshots ending those sounds always broke something in Sam. “No. It never does.” He wondered how Dean and Cas were doing. He knew they helped with S&R and had safely bedded down for the night. From his reports, Langton got swiped pretty hard. Sam managed to keep from getting too bogged down in the horror of tornadoes and chasing. He kept things locked down. He knew Dean had his share of nightmares, too.

Gabriel grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. This time, he flipped immediately to the baking show from earlier. The low-key stress format is precisely what Sam needed as well. He propped up against the bedrest, leg propped on the pillow pile from earlier. Throughout their drinks, they kept shuffling closer. Closer. Until Gabriel fell asleep with his head propped up on Sam’s shoulder, snoring softly in the TV glow.

Sam watched the colors and shadows play across Gabriel’s face. Soon, he too fell into a dreamless sleep.

~*~

Waking up with someone’s face in your crotch could either be a good or bad thing. Considering the fact that Gabriel’s face was squished into his jeans, it was a nice thing to discover. But feeling the jean teeth making an impression on his dick from the weight of the other man made this a less-than-ideal situation.

He reached out and grabbed Gabriel by the shoulder. “Hey, Gabe, wake up.”

“Huh?” Gabriel startled awake and shot backwards when he realized where he was. “Oh, fuck, sorry, kiddo.” He pulled back, wiping his sleep from his eyes. There was a dark drool mark on Sam’s jeans now. Their eyes met, and Gabriel gave him a lopsided grin. “I mean, I’m not sorry where I ended up.”

Damn him for having a sexy voice. Low in the morning, too. Sam was already sporting a partial hard-on because it was morning. Finding a handsome man in his lap just made him throb. Made him remember he hadn’t had anyone in a long time. He very rarely slept with anyone on the road, preferring a connection to Dean’s more promiscuous behavior.

And now, he’s got one. Someone he’s known for a few years now. Someone he finally has a proper face and name too. Gabriel.

“Me neither,” Sam said quietly. “The only reason I woke you up was that the zipper teeth was leaving an impression on my dick.”

“No teeth of any kind should be on a dick,” Gabriel agreed. “Unless it’s negotiated beforehand.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, exactly.”

The tension in the room was thick as a fog bank. Gabriel leaned close, studying Sam. “Why is sex like a thunderstorm?”

Sam thinned his lips. “Why?”

“Because you never know how many inches you’ll get or how long it’ll last.”

Sam threw his head back and laughed out loud.

“Do you have any idea how hot you are, Sam? God, I thought I could manage things when there was a screen between us. But in person? You are better than I could’ve dreamed.”

That sobered Sam up. He rubbed his neck shyly. “Really?”

“You paid me already. I’m not telling you to get a tip. Not a cash one, anyway.” He winked salaciously, and even though he was being over the top, Sam found the compliment sweet in its own way.

But Sam needed to piss, and his stomach roared violently. “Dude, you’ve seen me on videos,” he deflected as he gently pushed Gabriel back and got to his feet. All his previous years doing yoga helped him move on one foot fairly easily over short distances.

Gabriel pouted as he hobbled away. “Dude, you’re a blurry blob most of the time! You’d give Bigfoot a run for his money when it comes to blurry sightings.”

He snorted at that but closed the bathroom door to piss and brush his teeth. And to talk his dick down. Damn, I need coffee first.

Once done, he hobbled out so Gabriel could grab a quick shower. He sang a very off-key acapella rendition of ‘Heat of the Moment,’ complete with pronoun changes. And Sam listened, unsure whether he was being serenaded. And if he even liked it. His cheeks were so warm he felt feverish.

Sam was used to normal flirtation, but this was anything but that. Gabriel had moves, in his own way, which Sam found oddly disarming.

Gabriel just gave him a wink as he strolled out with fresh clothes and slicked-back hair. Sam couldn’t shower, but he managed with a washcloth and soap to wash up. He dunked his head in the sink to scrub it clean. Man, I cannot wait til I can shower normally.

They packed up and headed to the complimentary breakfast bar, as Gabriel wanted to get to Kansas City as quickly as possible. Sam was amazed at the sheer variety of foods, and overfilled his plate with eggs, yogurt, and fruit. Gabriel got a waffle and some eggs as well. They drank their coffees in blessed silence and watched the other guests.

Eventually, it was time to hit the road. Gabriel put on an album with blasting trumpets and metal vocals. “What the hell is this?”

“Ska!” Gabriel said happily, tapping along. “This is Hans Gruber and the Die Hards.”

“Isn’t that a movie?”

“Yep. But also an excellent Ska band. Helps keep up the energy to drive long distances when caffeine isn’t an option.”

Sam listened to a few songs and wondered how rude it would be to pull out his headphones. He motioned for Gabriel to turn it down. Sam said, “I like the bit. Loki and Sleipnir in your logo.”

Gabriel beamed. “You’re the first person to put it together! Most people only know Loki from the MCU.”

“I like to read up on mythologies and histories. It passes the time on long drives.”

Gabriel pulled out a necklace from under his shirt, a metal Thor’s hammer pendant. “I have a little more skin in the game, but I am happy you liked it.”

“By the way, why did you become a tornado tour guide? That’s so much paperwork.”

“It just happened? I needed to do something as far from my family as possible. Most of them are tools, but I have a kid brother currently deployed overseas who isn’t too bad.”

“So, you thought a tornado safari was the right choice?”

“I may be a coward, but I enjoy twisters as much as the next storm chaser. There’s an itch, and I can scratch it this way with the cash needed to survive this capitalist hellscape. And don’t get too high and mighty on me. I’ve seen what you two chuckleheads do on a daily basis. You don’t need an armored tank. You Winchesters clearly have balls of adamantium.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all. Everyone thinks we’re nuts.”

“Is it more PC to say ‘mentally understaffed?’”

Sam’s eyes just went up at that. “That is not a phrase.”

“That’s the beauty of English, kiddo, it is now,” Gabriel said brightly. “So, why do you guys have a tank?”

“Partially to get the best intercept footage possible. Partially to get data for my thesis. Whenever we are hit by a twister while in the Imp, I can gather various data points on the wind speeds and their strengths. We need to crack the code on what causes those dangerous low-level rotations. When it comes to tornadogenesis, we only know the ingredients, but not the exact recipe. I have a proposal on how to use these raw calculations and data points to improve long-term forecasting and increase warning times.”

“Hm. Not fair, being blessed with both beauty and brains,” Gabriel playfully bemoaned. Sam ignored him, now on a bit of a roll.

“I technically have enough data to make my defense, but I was hoping for at least one more direct hit. The stronger the twister, the better. The data has better parameters that way.”

“How noble,” Gabriel said. “I pray that Thor is willing to help you get the data you need. Just remember, Sam,” he turned strangely serious. “Nature owes us nothing. Especially not her secrets.”

Sam shrugged. “Good thing I’m human. We’re good at figuring that stuff out, regardless.” He was a scientist. Solving mysteries by poking things with a stick and writing down the results was how they operated since time immemorial.

There was this odd tension in the cab, though Sam couldn’t discern what he had said wrong. When the silence became too much, Sam pulled out his cell phone, picking at his thumb as he did. “Hey, Sammy, what’s up?”

“Hey, Dean. I have a place I need you to head towards.”

“Okay, hit me with it.”

“Kansas City. I have an exact address.”

“Okay?”

“Just head there, alright?”

“Fine, you bossy bitch, but there better be gold at the end of this rainbow.”

“Cool. See you there.” And as Sam hung up, he realized what he’d said aloud. “Aw, shit.”

Dean called multiple times and texted WHAT DO YOU MEAL SAMUAL??

All caps. Well, I’m fucked.

Sam sighed. He’d been trying so hard to keep this under wraps until he got there. Oh well. He just kicked the hornet's nest by not answering, but he’d explain once they were in person.

Now, a call to the DOW team. It was time for a meeting of the minds. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get too overshadowed by Dean. Again.

Chapter Text

Despite Castiel’s best effort to distract Dean with funny tales of his time in the Air Force, Dean was fuming when they finally pulled into the Holiday Inn in Missouri. And Dean’s anger tripled when he saw what was also parked outside the stupid hotel.

“Dammit,” Dean groaned. Sam tricked them into meeting with the DOW team? Oh, he’s dead. And not even being injured will earn him any sort of handicap. “Sam, you fucking dunce,” Dean snapped.

“That’s not good, is it?” Castiel asked as they pulled up and parked far away from the other vehicle. It was a massive Doppler radar dish mounted on a customized flatbed truck for enhanced mobility.

“Nope,” Dean said, popping the p. “The Doppler on Wheels–the DOW– is fine. It helps find tornadoes when normal radar is outdated or there’s a radar gap in the network. It’s not the machine or even the team, I have an issue with. It’s the asshat who runs the operation I’m not fond of.”

“I see.”

Dean and Castiel climbed out of the Imp. From inside, Sam hobbled out to greet them. Probably so the entire hotel lobby didn’t watch the verbal ass whopping Dean was about to lay on him.

Dean’s fury subsided slightly when he saw how awful Sam looked: limp, stringy hair, circles around his eyes dark enough to make a raccoon jealous, fingernails chewed to the quick. Sam looked worse for staying home!

A short man in jeans and a t-shirt trailed behind Sam, but Dean didn’t pay the stranger any mind. “Samuel!” Sam flinched like he’d been shot in the stomach. “You are supposed to be on bed rest.” He poked his finger into Sam’s chest. “Why the cloak and dagger? You couldn’t tell me who you needed us to meet so badly?”

“You wouldn’t have come otherwise!” Sam hissed.

“Yeah, for good reason.” Before Dean could continue, there was a shocked gasp behind him. He looked over to see Castiel staring at the man by Sam’s shoulder, face white as a sheet.

“Cas?” Dean asked. Sam’s friend was staring at Cas with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

“Gabriel?” Cas asked in astonishment.

“Holy hell, is that you, Cassie?”

“You know each other?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, he’s my brother,” Gabriel and Cas said in shocked tandem.

Dean and Sam watched them as they slowly approached one another. Sam’s jaw was open. Gabriel reached up and touched Cas’ beard. “I didn’t recognize you. Nice peach fuzz.”

Cas stepped back and swatted him away. “What are you doing here?”

“Being Sam’s chauffeur,” Gabriel said wryly. He motioned for Castiel to follow him as he pulled a lollipop from his pocket, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth. “We have a lot to catch up on. Let’s give them some room.” Cas followed him to the hotel.

Dean watched them walk away. “Who’s that guy?”

“...Loki,” Sam said.

Dean clicked his teeth and threw his hands in the air. “Loki? You went and caught a ride with our arch nemesis?”

“Look, Dean, I’m sorry. But I needed you here. The only way we can make this plan happen is with your help. Could you please speak with the team? They’d like to see you.”

Dean swallowed hard, cheek burning. “I’m not an egghead, Sam. I get lost in those meetings. I’m just a grease monkey.”

“You’re the grease monkey we need,” Sam busted out the puppy eyes, and Dean knew his goose was cooked.

“Fine. This reaming is postponed, not cancelled,” Dean warned him.

Sam saluted because he was a little shit. Sam led them into the hotel, past the breakfast area, and towards the conference room. Dean could hear excited voices behind the closed doors. He sucked in a deep breath.

As he walked inside and held the door open for Sam, he scanned the almost dozen people inside. There was a whiteboard with multi-colored scribbles and diagrams, laptops, and cords strung haphazardly across the desk. Cas and Gabriel(Loki???) sat together in the back of the room, out of everyone’s way. And Dean partially wondered if they were mistaken because Gabriel and Cas looked nothing alike.

And there they were—Sam’s DOW Team. “Hey, guys,” Sam said. “Here’s my brother Dean, and our associate Castiel.”

“Hey! Good to see you, Dean,” the feisty redhead, Charlie, jumped up to offer a hug. She was the only familiar face; the rest were newcomers: students Kevin Tran, Mulletman Ash, and Ed, who wore glasses. Their drivers were the blonde Donna, pixie-cut Jody, band-tank bombshell Pamela, and Harry (not Styles). He and the nerd, Ed, looked oddly familiar to Dean, but he didn’t have time to ponder why. Everyone nodded to Castiel, but they mostly grinned hungrily at Dean. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

At the head of the table was the man of the hour himself. He stood up and strode forward to shake his hand. “Dean! Great to see you still alive and kicking.”

Dean forced a smile. “Dr. Shurley.”

“Oh, please, call me Chuck. Everyone does. Sam here says that you can help us.”

“Sam was a little light-handed on the details,” Dean said as he gave Sam a withering glare. “What’s this huddle about?”

“The PDS chances for the next few days,” Charlie said.

“It’s already been called this early?” Dean said.

“Yeah. The National Weather Service and the Storm Prediction Center in Norman are not taking this forecast lightly, which is exactly what we need. Long-range data indicates calm conditions on the western front following this event. This is our last chance to make scientific history,” Chuck said. Everyone nodded.

Dean’s stomach dropped to the floor. Things never went well when ego was involved.

Sam collapsed into a nearby chair with a pained groan. “Yes, we know. But that’s why I called the meeting. We have overlapping goals and should work together to make them happen.”

Sam did this? That little traitor. Dean couldn’t keep his stink eye to himself.

Gabriel/Lokie cleared his throat and hopped up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, making a T with his hands.“Winchester! You never said anything about a potential PDS?” His voice went up an octave.

“What is that?” Cas asked, annoyed to be out of the loop.

“A Particularly Dangerous Situation,” Dean explained. “It means nasty crap is about to go down. It’s worse than a tornado warning. It pretty much means be prepared for the worst and be ready for a level past that.”

Cas nodded stiffly at that. He rolled with the storm-chasing punches surprisingly well, but a PDS was something Dean had no interest in tangling with.

Dean didn’t sit at the table. He stood and crossed his arms, staying away from the others. “What goals?”

Chuck grinned and clasped his hands behind his back. “We have been attempting a tornado probe of our own,” he started. Dean remembered that Tim Samaras had mentioned this at the bar. “Using the DOW to find the storms, then we have our teams deploy the probes in the tornado path to be intercepted for data. But, no dice so far this year.”

Kevin started going off on a tangent about weight distribution, but Chuck cut him off. “Yes, thank you, Kevin. We are all aware of what a prototype is.”

Kevin rolled his eyes but didn’t speak again.

“With the chances of the super outbreak in Mississippi, we think it’ll be the last chance to get a prototype in a twister this year,” Sam said. “And complete my thesis.”

Dean thought of Langton. No warnings at all. Thank God only a few blocks had been hit. Sam’s thesis and his findings could help increase lead times. Dean and Cas just saw what happened when there was none. “Have the damage tests been done for Langton, yet?”

Charlie pulled her iPad and tapped on it. “They’re out in the field currently, but preliminary data is that it was an EF-3.”

Dean nodded. It matched previous EF-3 damage paths they’d run across.

“Dean, what’s the strongest twister you’ve been in? In your vehicle?” Ash asked.

“EF-4. About 180 with deployed spikes.”

Everyone nodded at that, impressed. Dean could tell everyone around the table was waiting for something to happen. They all turned to Charlie, who then turned to Sam and clapped her hands together in a pleading motion.

Sam scowled at her but turned to Dean. “They want you to carry some probes into Mississippi.”

I knew it! Dean ducked his head and shook it. “Guys, I’m flattered? But I’m not going anywhere near Dixie Alley. In a PDS? No, siree.”

“But it makes sense!” Charlie said excitedly. “Your vehicle has the protections needed for safe deployment, even in such dicey conditions.”

Dean put his hands on his hips. “It’s easy for you guys to sit around and ask this when your asses aren’t on the line. My answer is no. Sorry.”

He whirled around and stomped out of the conference room. He needed air. Fuck he wished he had a cigarette, but he quit long ago.

Dean stomped outside, back to the Imp, threw open the passenger door, and sat on the leather seat. He knew it. The eggheads didn’t want him; they wanted his baby. Sam twisted it up to make it sound like he was needed. But they needed her. Well, tough shit. He wasn’t doing it. They can build their own T.I.I. and leave him alone.

He just wanted to go home at that moment. Back to Sioux Falls and his uncle’s rundown home, junkyard, and his garage/lab. Screw the storms, screw Sam, screw the DOW team. The only person who hadn’t fucked him over was Cas. He wished Cas had followed him, all squinty-eyed and asking for clarification about the situation. Dean found that explaining things to Cas also helped him process his own thoughts on matters. But Cas wasn’t here.

Loki was his brother. Would Cas take off with him? Would Dean never see him again? He suddenly hated Loki with a ferocity his antics had never previously caused. Dean grabbed Toothless and stroked his soft back.

There was a knock on the side panel of the Imp, and Dean jolted. He hoped down, but his face fell when it wasn’t Cas, but Chuck staring at him over his glasses like he was a wayward kid. “Dean, I was hoping you’d be more open to the proposal.”

Dean tucked Toothless back on the dashboard, pointed away as if to prevent him from overhearing. “It’s not a proposal. It’s a suicide mission. I need to catch up on my Housewives of L.A., and I can’t do that six feet under.”

“Dean, you act like I don’t own this magnificent machine,” Chuck said, patting the Imp in a way that made him almost ill.

Dean scoffed. “You don’t.”

“You had to get building money from somewhere,” Chuck said airily.

“Sam gave me some of his grant money,” Dean said.

“And where did Sam get his from? I’ve been holding the purse strings for you two for years. And I’ve never asked for a thing until now.”

Fuck, Dean never realized that. He stood tall, ready to fight for his baby. “Or what?”

“I take it, and have someone on my team drive it for deployment.”

Dean’s heart seized at that idea. “You wouldn’t do that. Weather nerd gossip travels faster than lightning,” Dean said. “No one will work with you if you try it.”

“Then don’t make me,” Chuck said lightly. “This is all I ask. One successful deployment by an intercept, and we’re even.”

“Until next year,” Dean said. “Then you’ll threaten me again.”

“I’ll write a contract. Just this once, then you’re home free. Besides. You wouldn’t want to jeopardize Sam’s doctorate, would you? He has to defend it to me, after all.”

“You son of a bitch.” Dean deflated, shoulders slumped as he stared at the cracked parking lot underfoot. All the hours they had poured into Sam’s degree, gone like that? “One intercept/one deployment and the Imp is mine?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Dean stood tall, and even though he glowered the whole time, they shook on it. And Dean wondered if he had just sold his soul to the devil.

When they returned to the room, Chuck beamed at his team. “Dean’s changed his mind. Let’s go ahead and make a plan for deployment.”

The DOW team followed Dean outside, and they crawled all over the Imp like ants, measuring things, asking questions, the whole nine yards. Dean rarely allowed himself a moment just to accept a compliment, but the grad students were always incredibly impressed with the Imp. Dean knew she was a good machine and cared for her as best as possible. He answered every question about mileage, weight distribution, how he built her, and what materials he used. When he explained that he used a lot of scrap metal in her design and based it on an old Chevy Impala, Ed and Harry were almost condescending about this fact.

Dean moved about a dozen paces away to gather his composure, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Dean?” Cas asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, man,” Dean said, pulling himself back together. He put his hands in his jeans pockets. “Just, you know, a little nervous that the eggheads are gonna break something.”

Cas and Dean watched the team excitedly chatter as they worked, typing things on iPads and laptops. “They seem happy about your involvement.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Dean muttered.

“Why did you change your mind?” Cas asked in an all-too-knowing tone.

“Chuck reminded me that everything we’ve been working for has been for Sam. Don’t wanna fumble it on the three-yard line.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. He still felt awful telling it.

“Well, I’ll be there, no matter what.”

Dean forgot that his safety wasn’t the only one on the line. “Cas, if you’re not comfortable going, speak your peace now. I can ask one of the DOW to help with the deployment.”

Cas thought about it for a few seconds. “No. I want to go with you.”

“Me, too.” It was so selfish, but Dean wanted Cas there too. Needed his stoic capability to keep him grounded. “So, what’s the whole brother thing about?”

“Well, when a set of parents have multiple male children, they’re known as brothers,” Cas said tonelessly. And it took a few seconds for Dean to realize it was a terrible joke. He cracked up, threw his head back, and laughed loudly. Cas gave him a small smile, pleased with himself. It was gone in a flash. “Honestly, I don’t know. I almost had a heart attack seeing him again. God certainly has an odd sense of humor.”

Once Dean remembered Cas’s reaction to learning about Loki and his taste in pranks, complaining how he had a brother who acted exactly like him, it was easy to put two and two together.

“Yeah. Look, I’m sure you wanna go catch up with him. So, you go, and I’ll babysit the kids,” he thumbed at the group of adults around his age.

Cas tilted his head but headed back towards the hotel.

Dean would make sure the break was clean when it happened. He now had a brother to help him out. Of course, Cas wouldn’t stay.

Dean ignored the heartache and returned to the DOW team, ready to face the consequences.

~*~

“Jesus,” Dean huffed as he lifted the prototype currently in the back of Ash’s Toyota Tacoma. “What’s in this thing? Lead?”

Ash laughed. “Some uranium, and plutonium, too. We’ve told Dr. S to lighten this thing, but when he gets a thought in his head, he’s like a hound with a bone.”

Ash’s lingo made him miss Bobby’s weird sayings. “Some people,” he simply said.

“Yep.” Ash glanced around and leaned in close. “You guys think you’ll manage it?”

“We won’t have a choice,” Dean said. “What’s this thing weigh, anyway?”

“It’s about forty pounds. We figured we could make room for two of these for you to take.”

“Great.” Almost a hundred extra pounds of dead weight. It might help anchor them in a direct hit, or it might bog down their tires and leave them stranded if they head down a muddy back road. A flip of the coin. “Is there a camera?”

“Yep. Microphones, sensors, everything.”

Dean couldn’t help but compare its designs to the low, turtle shell profile of Samaras’ latest probes. The tornado winds slipped right over, like an airline's wing, so his probe wouldn’t get lofted. Chuck’s probe resembled a tower with sensors, including an anemometer for measuring wind, and it was at least two feet tall. Dean could tell immediately that this probe design was terrible. It was going to catch the wind like hell. Probably why it was so heavy, to keep it anchored. If Chuck had asked nicely for a probe design opinion, Dean would’ve happily offered them. After coming at him like a mob boss? Dean’s keeping his trap shut. Maybe he’ll pull Charlie aside later to warn her, though she wasn’t stupid; she probably also knew they were janky. Even Kevin attempted to bring up the weight issue in the meeting and was shot down.

“Alright, well, don’t break anything loading it. The Imp is a lady.”

“Roger,” Ash said as he and Kevin hoisted a probe into the Imp.

Dean grabbed the second one on his own. The Imp’s axle groaned slightly at the extra weight as he slid the second in place next to the first one. Next to him, Cas suddenly appeared like a ghost, and Dean almost jumped. “Perfect timing,” Dean said to him. He nodded to the students milling around them. “Ash? Care to give us the crash course, here? I wanna do a few practice runs before rack time.”

Dean and Cas had done a dozen practice rounds, and the closest they’d gotten was twenty-nine seconds to get it out of the Imp and arm the sensors. Cas was doubled over, heaving with exhaustion, and Dean was right behind him. “That’s the best we can do,” Dean huffed, doubled over with his hands on his knees. His shirt was sweat-stained.

Everyone glanced at each other. They all seemed to say: Hopefully it’s enough.

After he shut the Imp’s armored trunk, Charlie’s voice called over the CB radio. “Hey! Pizza in the conference room! Everyone’s welcome.”

Dean wouldn’t say no to free food, even if his stomach was curling around in knots like a nest of snakes. Best to eat now and mope later, he’s learned that enough times over the years.

Dean found himself sandwiched between a quiet Cas and a chatty Charlie. The air around the team was hopeful. To them, Dean and the Imp were a potential means to an end. He hated being outclassed. As usual, the shop talk went over his head as people discussed future projects and plans for the data they would gather the next day. And this was why Sam was in grad school and Dean was the friendly neighborhood high school dropout.

Chuck raised his plastic cup to Dean, and that was the final straw. Dean couldn’t breathe. “Need some air,” was all he said as he excused himself and left his pizza half-eaten. The plan was simple enough–he and Cas could manage it.

Dean wandered to the breakfast area and found a pile of cookies under a plastic lid, along with a pot of coffee. He grabbed a cup of black coffee, four cookies stacked together, and beelined for the outside. The wind was breezy enough to offer protection from bugs as he clambered on the Imp’s windshield and lay against it, the glass warmed from the sun. The sunset looked terrific, the golds and pinks splashing across the sky like the work of a real painter.

“Hey.” Dean turned to see Sam on his crutches at the front of the Imp’s hood. Dean gave him the finger and ignored him. He shoved a whole cookie in his mouth and chewed loudly.

“Dean, come on, these crutches suck.”

“Is that the voice of a traitor on the wind?” Dean said loudly to the sky.

“When did I betray you?” Sam asked. “I lied a little, but that’s a long way from being backstabbed.”

Dean was torn between arguing and making up. If tomorrow could get them injured…he should make his peace tonight.

Dean begrudgingly helped Sam onto the hood, leaving the crutches behind. They sat on the hood and watched the stars come out. Sam stole two cookies, but Dean let him.

“I hate being around them, Sam, I’ve told you that. They think they are so superior.”

“I mean, they’re scientists. But Dean, I hate bringing you into this because it’s you they like.”

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“I…they always ask you and the Imp. I feel like nothing I do is good enough when compared to you. They think you’re a genius.”

Dean laughed at his brother’s face. “Oh, come on. You’re jealous of me? They think I’m a genius?” Dean blew a raspberry. “Yeah, and I have a bridge to Russia if you’re looking to buy.”

Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Dean, you are brilliant. People in the program consider it a rite of passage to speak to you. Have for years. I can’t compete with that, I’m just another student.”

Dean looked away and rubbed his neck. There wasn’t a reason for Sam to tell such an intricate lie, right? “I mean, the Imp is great, but you’re pulling my leg. What do people get out of meeting me? Geez, it’s not like I’m Samaras, or anything.”

“To the DOW students, you are.” Dean stared at him. “Dude, you’re a renegade engineer, not owned by a corporate entity or beholden to a lab. You chase storms on your terms.” Sam patted the Imp’s hood affectionately. He might not be on Dean’s level, but he loved the vehicle in his own way. She was home three to four months of the year for over a decade. “Of course you’re cool.”

I used to be a free man. Or, at least, I thought I was. However, Sam’s phrasing here implies that he also doesn’t know his money came directly from Chuck. Dean’s mouth opened as he debated telling him about Chuck’s interference, but didn’t want to put any ideas in Sam’s head that could get him in trouble. Once Sam had your number in a bad way, it stayed like that. It was best to let Sam graduate first, then he would spill that particular tea. Besides, that would create extra tensions tomorrow, and everyone needed to be on their A-game. He swallowed down the guilt and pivoted.

“Hey, you think we’ll be okay tomorrow?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. But just keep on your toes. Make sure Cas is looking out for you.”

Dean sipped his coffee. “Oh, he does. Makes sure I cross my Ts and dot my Is, the whole nine yards.”

Sam frowned. “Is he okay? As a person?”

“Would an asshole stop seventeen times to help ratsnakes cross the road? Thanks for that, by the way. Bitch.”

“Jerk. It’s just…” Sam rubbed his neck. “He’s hard to read on camera.”

Dean thought about all the horrible shit Cas had been through in the Air Force, and he clenched his jaw. “Yeah, well, dude’s been through it. Cut him some slack on my behalf, alright?”

Sam narrowed his eyes and studied him. Something like resignation crossed his face. “You like him.”

Dean bolted up a little too quickly. “Really? You wanna turn this into a chick flick moment? Fuck off.” Dean mimed shoving Sam the five feet to the ground. When did Sam figure it out? Was it obvious that he was mooning over Cas? Shit, that’s not good. “What about Loki? Memo, Samual, don’t flirt on the joint accounts.”

Sam turned an interesting shade of heirloom tomato. “It’s not–”

“I was not born yesterday," Dean spoke over him in that annoyingly knowing way of older siblings. When Sam glared at him in reluctant truce, Dean said, “Good. We’ll call it even.”

“Dean, just be safe. Nothing is worth getting hurt.”

“You worry too much. Cas and I got this. Then you, me, and him are going to the beach.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but something in Dean’s face made him stop. Instead, he said, “With my leg in a cast?”

“We’ll shove an arm floatie on it.”

That mental image made Sam laugh, a sound which always made Dean feel better. They did a little fistbump, and Dean felt settled for the first time the season began. He hadn’t realized how much it always unsettled him, knowing Sam was out of sight and injured. Yeah, he was still a whiny bitch, but Dean’s system was less tense knowing Sam was there with him, again. The Winchester Brothers were back in action. The Sam girls online would love to hear that.

There was movement from the hotel lobby, and Dean and Sam watched as most of the DOW members walked across the parking lot towards them.

“Hey, boys! We’re gonna get drunk at the bar. Wanna come with?” Pamela, one of the drivers, was dressed in low-riding jeans and a band tank top that showed every curve God had blessed her with. She was a dark-haired beauty, and another day, Dean would be all over her. He still can’t help but flash his most charming smile.

“Is Chuck footing the bill?”

“Yeah,” Charlie added. “It’s being framed as a ‘team-building exercise,’” she said.

“Then absolutely I’m in. Cas?”

“Of course, Dean.”

Dean helped Sam off the Imp. Then, he followed the team to the local watering hole, a ten-minute walk from the hotel, that Dean appreciated. Finding parking at most places for the Imp was a pain in the ass. The dive bar was quiet until the group arrived, but they were able to squeeze some tables together to accommodate everyone. Without Chuck around, Dean lightened up. Gabriel had driven Sam and joined them shortly. They ordered beers, wings, various appetizers, and the conversation flowed easily.

“So, you don’t look like a grad student,” Dean said to the blonde, Donna.

“Ope, no, we aren’t! I’m Donna, and my wife is Jody. We, along with Pam over there, are just paid to ferry the students around during the storms for the season. This year’s batch of kids was too few, so Dr. Shirley put out the APB for drivers.”

“How do you like it?” Dean asked.

Donna tilted her head back and forth, considering. “It oscillates between being as boring as watching paint dry, and scary as heck pretty regularly.”

“It’s oddly interesting,” Jody said. “Though I had no idea what those team meetings were about. Ash, the gentleman with the mullet over there, has to translate into civilian constantly. He’s great at explaining things, though.”

Dean spoke with Donna and Jody for a while and found that he liked them. They both had a non-nonsense attitude that would be perfect for herding cats, a leftover habit from their time as police officers.

Charlie was talking to Kevin and Sam. Gabriel was having a conversation with Pamela about her day job; apparently, she worked as a psychic. But she was also here to make some quick cash.

Dean started on his second beer when the realization hit him like lightning. He whipped around and stared at the two other students, and now, he couldn’t unsee it. Dean stood up abruptly and wandered down to their side. Dean crouched between them. “Hey, guys, sorry, what were your names again?”

They both stared at him suspiciously.

“Ed.”

“Harry.”

Dean beamed at them. “Dude, I knew it! You’re the Ghostfacers!”

They looked at him in shock, and Ed dragged a finger over his throat. Real threatening, from a guy who weighed 120 soaking wet.

“Hey, ix nay on the facers gay!” Harry said and whipped his head around to see if anyone had overheard.

Dean pressed on, a little to get back for their attitude earlier. “Dudes, I watch your show on YouTube. It’s great. Is that what you do in your off time?”

They threw up their hands. “Yes, but keep it down. No one will take us seriously if they know!” Ed said.

“More like stormfacers, am I right?” Dean joked. He patted them on the shoulder. “Good for you guys, being gay for that poor, dead intern.”

Ed and Harry dramatically closed their eyes and raised their beers. “For Corbin,” they said.

Dean appreciated their commitment to the bit. The last episode had an entire storyline about being abducted by a ghost for its birthday party, the whole nine yards. Their intern, Corbin, had died with some impressive special effects. Ed had to be gay for him to cross over. It was so different from their usual bumbling around a haunted location shtick–Dean truly enjoyed it. “Well, catch you guys later.”

“Good luck tomorrow,” Ed said.

“Thanks.” Dean ordered a fresh beer and slid back into his original seat. As he ripped off the cap and enjoyed the cold, hoppy taste, he felt Cas stare at him. He winked at the other man, and Cas turned away.

Cas pointed at the Thor’s hammer necklace hanging from Gabriel’s neck. “So, you ran away from home and joined the pagans?”

“Pretty much,” Gabriel said. “But hey, I’m not the only runaway,” he said, and slung an arm over Sam’s shoulders.

“Hey, you don’t have to tell him that.” Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam. Did Sam run away from their uncle’s house? Oh, Rufus would have a hole ready in the backyard before Bobby even pulled the trigger. He’s so dead when we get back.

“So, what exactly does a pagan believe?” Cas asked, and Gabriel grinned. He took a long sip of his cocktail (a Sex on the Beach). Dean knew he was gearing up for a lame discussion, so he left the nerd squad to try his luck elsewhere. He squeezed into the seat next to Pamela.

“Hey, handsome,” she purred, and looked him up and down shamelessly. “Come here often?”

“With this group? As infrequently as possible.”

“They’re not so bad,” she said with a smile and sipped her martini. The way she sat forward in her chair revealed a sliver of skin on her back. Dean spotted some ink and had to read it. The light was dim in the bar, but he made out the words.

“Who was Jesse?” He asked.

She looked over her shoulder at him, eyes half-lidded. “Well, he wasn’t forever,” she laughed. She cocked her head at him. “You have any plans tonight, tiger?”

Dean choked on his beer and had to work not to spit it on her. He hadn’t expected such a brazen invitation. He hadn’t slept with a woman in forever, but God, Pam is his type. Led Zepp band shirt and all. “Wow…you are forward.” He said, hoping to stall for a moment to figure out what to do. The multiple beers gave him a nice baby buzz. He considered her for a moment, but felt eyes burning in the back of his head. He turned to see Cas watching them sourly. Is he jealous?

Dean turned back to her. Part of him wanted to say yes, just to see what Cas would do in response to such blatant insubordination. But Dean didn’t want to upset Cas, even if it led to awesome make-up sex later. “Sorry, Pam. Raincheck?”

“Ah, the good ones are always already taken,” she said knowingly. She winked at Dean and then turned to Charlie. “Hey, Red, are you up to anything tonight?”

“Reruns of Game of Thrones, why?” When Pamela lowered her eyes and batted her eyelashes, Charlie almost dropped her drink. “Oh! I mean, you’re always welcome to my room later.”

Dean felt like a sudden intruder, so he headed back to his chair. As he did, Gabriel pointed to his forearm, at the long, thin line. “What’s the scar from?”

“Flying ninja star,” he said, and moved his hands in a drunken Kung Fu move.

“He got it when we were playing in the junkyard behind the house. He fell out of a rusty sedan–had to get tetanus boosters in his ass and everything,” Sam said.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean flicked his straw paper at him.

Gabriel swung to Sam. “And you? Gnarliest scar?”

Sam held out his left palm, and there was a healed cut over it. “Broken glass in an old warehouse.”

“Back when my stitch game wasn’t up to snuff,” Dean admitted bitterly. He remembered trying to fix that when they were young. He must’ve been around twelve, and Sammy eight.

“You’ve improved greatly since then,” Cas said.

Sam asked him, “What about you? Got any scars?”

Cas froze, eyes shifting into that thousand-yard stare Dean recognized now. He nodded stiffly but pulled up the leg of his pants to show a long shiny patch on his leg. “I.E.D. shrapnel. But don’t worry, the other guy is quite dead.”

And so it went around the table. Charlie had a chicken pot scar in the shape of Oklahoma, and Kevin had a scar along his hairline from diving in a shallow pool. Jody had a bullet hole from her previous police work in her abdomen. Donna had a mark from a BBQ fork in her leg. Ed had a scar on his leg from tripping over barbed wire. Harry had a scar from falling on a bar table after getting a little too drunk at his first strip club. Pamela had an extended line on her side from a car accident. Ash had mangled fingertips from too much soldering. And finally, Gabriel pulled over his shirt collar to reveal a textbook example of a Lichtenberg figure, the crackly fern leaf shape spreading down his shoulder across his chest. Cas’s eyes went wide.

“You got struck by lightning?” Sam and Dean asked in amazement.

“Was this before or after paganism?” Cas asked.

“Before. I was being stupid, drinking outside in a thunderstorm when I got struck. I’m lucky I lived. But I also had the oddest moment of clarity from it. Like the universe was giving me a little love tap to get my shit together.” He kissed his hammer and tucked it away.

“So, you got hit by lightning and became a pagan?” Sam clarified.

“I mean, if I got smacked by a burning tree branch, I would’ve dived into the closest christening tub.”

“You’re an ass, but I’m glad you survived,” Cas said.

Gabriel raised his beer. “I’ll drink to that! Make sure to etch it on my headstone.”

Dean started humming as he finished his latest beer. Show me the way to go home…I'm tired and I wanna go to bed….I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it's gone straight to my head…Wherever I may roam. By land or sea or foam. You can always hear me singing this song…show me the way to go home…

His eyes met Cas’, and his hand grasped Cas’ thigh tightly under the table.

There was sudden clapping all around him, and Dean jerked as if awakened from a dream. Ash wolf whistled. “You have a wonderful voice, honeybun!” Donna said excitedly, and Dean’s face grew hot. Shit.He never sang in front of people–it was embarrassing.

He waved them off. “You’re too kind.” He stood up and faked a yawn. “I think we need to hit the hay. Big day tomorrow, right, Cas?”

“Yes.” As they stood up, the group booed, but Dean ignored them cajoling him for an encore.

“We’ll talk later, Gabriel. Sam.” They headed out, and Dean felt the exhaustion in his bones as they headed back to their hotel.

It was a quiet night, with few cars driving on the road to spoil the crickets’ symphony. They watched the stars as they walked, and Dean enjoyed the slight buzz he had going.

“Why didn’t you sleep with Pamela?” Cas asked.

“You looked like you were two seconds away from trapping her in a hole and sending her lotion via basket.” When Cas just stared at him like he’d spoken Klingon, Dean sighed. “I just didn’t want to. No big thing.”

Once they walked back to the hotel and passed the Doppler on Wheels, Dean huffed angrily. The only silver lining about this whole thing was that Chuck was footing the hotel bill for the night. I’m gonna drink everything in the minibar and order everything on the room service menu. Maybe buy a few porn movies just to piss him off.

There was that familiar huff that signaled Cas’s odd laughter. “What?”

“You said that aloud,” Cas said. He tucked his hands in his coat pockets. “It sounds like a fun plan. By the way, why so much tension with Chuck?”

“It’s a long story. The TL;DR is he is bossy and thinks everyone should kiss his feet for existing.”

“God complex,” Cas summed up.

“Yep.”

They got into the elevator and Dean pressed the button to close the door and head up. He kept trying to catch Cas’s eye. “Well, should I leave you to your night of drunken debauchery, then?” There was a slight inflection of humor in his usual monotone.

Dean shook his head. He leaned towards Cas and whispered in a sultry voice, “No. In fact, I think you should join me in them.” Dean stepped off the elevator and strode to their room, having dropped their bags earlier. Cas followed him, a hint of amusement on his face.

As Dean walked inside, Cas said. “Really?”

“I mean, it’s potentially our last night on earth.” Dean said lowly as he closed and locked the door. “What else were you going to do?”

“Sit quietly in the Imp? Or get another room? I didn’t want to impose. It’s the first real chance at privacy since we met.”

If it was anyone else, Cas would be correct in Dean needing some alone time to recharge. But strangely, Cas never made his social battery feel drained. Quite the opposite. Dean made the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong answer. I mean, I won’t stop you, if you want some time alone. But I can think of a dozen better ways to spend the time together.” He bit his lip, ran his hand slowly down his chest and stomach, and watched Cas’ resolve crumble in real-time.

Cas might be the toppy one, but Dean wasn’t about to lie there like a slug. He had his ideas on how to get what he wanted. And what he wanted was Cas.

He reached out and cupped Cas’ face. “Cas?”

“Yes. A thousand times, yes. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I want you for as long as I can have you.” The sliver of skin between his eyes and beard flushed red. God, those eyes were mesmerizing. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. If anyone had eyes that could look into a soul, it was Cas.

There he went again, spouting off at the mouth when a simple yes would suffice. But Dean liked that about Cas. “That’s what I like to hear.”

And boy, did Dean’s grand aspirations come tumbling down when Cas whirled around and pinned him to the back of the door eight seconds later. It must be a record, how fast Dean’s mouth was invaded by Cas’ tongue, and damn, that was a brain-melting kiss. Dean felt the pent-up frustration both in the hard dick pressing at his thigh, but also by how Cas grabbed him and held him, plundering his mouth like a pirate's treasure. He pushed a knee between Dean’s thighs to give him something to press against.

“Cas, fuck man, you drive me crazy,” Dean whispered harshly as he pulled away to breathe. He rolled his hips, so Cas knew precisely what he meant. His dick was hard enough to pound nails. He tried to push Cas back, to get him the five feet to the bed, but Cas just rubbed a thumb over his cheek.

“Patience,” Cas rumbled, that sexy low voice of his coming into play and sending a shiver down his spine. “Can you be good for me?”

“Fuck, I wanna be good, Cas,” Dean whined, for some reason, hearing Cas say that made him tingle. “But I also wanna be fucked into next week.”

Cas smirked. “If you play your cards right, I can’t see why you can’t achieve both.”

Cas was not a confident dude except in sex, which is such an odd dynamic for Dean to witness. It’s like watching Clark Kent take off the glasses and become Superman, except in this case, Superman has a kinky leather harness over the supersuit instead of underwear.

Cas came into his own in the Impala the other night, and Dean’s been chasing that high again. But damn, he’s also not trying to chase any feelings. He’s been good about keeping his heart turned off during sex in the past, but Cas makes that impossible. He’s so earnest, it’s endearing.

Dean bit his lip and decided to press a little. “Today would be nice.”

Cas arched an eyebrow. “I don’t want to punish you, Dean, but I will if need be.”

Dean was very curious to see what that would look like. He batted his eyelashes. “Oh yeah? What would you do? Spank me? Maybe a little breathplay?” Cas had massive hands; they could easily span his throat. Dean swallowed hard.

Cas shook his head. “No. I’d make you say positive self-care affirmations until you broke.”

Dean balked. “You monster.”

There was an amused huff. But then Cas grew serious. “Dean. Be good? For me? I want to treat you right.”

Maybe I want you to treat me wrong. But Dean couldn’t voice that because Cas’s hand suddenly went to his belt. He heard and felt the buckle being undone. Any remaining blood in his head rushed south as Dean’s cock thickened when Cas pulled the zipper down and gently touched him. His head hit the door with a thunk. Suddenly, he needed Cas. “I’ll be good, I promise,” Dean groaned. “Touch me, please?”

Cas kissed him slowly and sweetly. Sweet enough to make Dean’s teeth ache. And then he dropped to his knees. Dean’s breath hitched as Cas pulled him free of his jeans and boxers. He was leaking precome like a tap. Cas’ voice had a direct line to his dick, it seemed. He held Dean to the door with an arm across his hips and licked a stripe up him, and kissed the head. “Hold on,” he rasped. And then he swallowed Dean down without warning.

Dean bucked his hips at the sudden, wonderful heat and wetness. He swore and yanked Cas’s hands in Cas’s hair. It was the perfect length to hang onto. But when he tried to guide Cas’ head, he didn’t move. His blue eyes bored into his and seemed to say, I’m still in charge. So Dean held on and didn’t keep his breathy praises to himself. Shit, and he thought he had good head game. Even though Cas hadn’t warmed him up, his tongue was making up for that fact, doing things down right illegal. He swallowed around him a couple of times, and Dean was embarrassingly close.

Dean trembled against the door, moaning and gasping. “Cas, you keep that up…fuck…I’m gonna come before we get to the main event.”

Cas pulled off of him with a quick slurp, long tongue still rubbing the vein on the underside of his shaft. He squirmed, wanting so bad to come but wanting to be fucked more. “Thank you for telling me. Good boy, Dean.”

Dean pulled him up and pulled him into a needy kiss, moaning at his musky taste. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

“A magician doesn’t reveal his secrets,” Cas said with a quirky little smile. Dean’s heart was pounding, and it had nothing to do with the stymied orgasm.

Dean groaned. “Can we move this party to the bed?”

“Yes, my knees aren’t as young as they once were,” Cas agreed, and he led Dean to the bed by holding his hand and pulling him to it. Dean pulled off his shirt and shoes, impatient. But with Cas, he helped pull off his t-shirt, and stripped his jeans until they were both in boxers. Dean tried to ignore the purple bruises that ran up and down Cas’s side and the too-thin frame.

“You know you lied earlier,” Dean said.

“About what?”

“Your gnarliest scar.” Dean waved at Cas’ shoulders. The other man didn’t meet his eyes.

“Not everyone needs to see them.”

“You showed me, though?”

Cas’s eyes filled with this warmth and affection, which Dean found scarier than any PDS. He swallowed hard, the alcohol drying him out. “You’re different.”

Dean’s heart fluttered in his chest. “I bet you say that to every girl.”

“No. Just you.” And there he went, taking Dean’s flippancy and responding in turn with such conviction. But he found he liked how Cas handled his verbal volleys.

Dean needed to get some breathing room. He reached down and brushed across Cas’s impressively tented underwear. Dean’s cock twitched when he remembered how difficult it had been to swallow him down and make it look effortless. Cas was thicc.

He kissed Cas. “I have lube and condoms in my bag.” He broke apart to grab them, and Cas watched him shamelessly bend over to retrieve them and deposit them on the bedspread.

“What a good Boy Scout. I’ll make sure to reward such forward thinking,” Cas said. Unlike previous times where Dean was called that sarcastically, Cas meant it as a compliment. From one anxious mess to another.

They fell onto the white bedspread, and once Cas straddled Dean, he kept running his hands over his hot skin, leaving even hotter trails in his wake. He flicked Dean's nipples until they were pebble-hard, sending zings up his spine every time. “Are you still interested in anal?” Cas asked.

“Yeah. And not a lot of prep. I wanna feel you.” Says the man who hasn’t sat for an eleven-hour drive yet.

“I won’t hurt you, Dean. But I will get you ready. Turn over for me?” Cas kissed down Dean’s spine reverently and with the lube fingered him with easy, practiced movements. His fingers and hands were massive, so it was a quick job to make Dean squirming for his cock already. Even though Cas never touched his prostate, Dean still moaned into the blanket.

“Cas, I’m ready already,” he grunted.

“I know. Just a moment longer, Dean.” Cas leaned back and pulled on a condom, pinching the tip and drizzling a ton of lube. He jerked his cock a few times, long, languid strokes that barely belied the burning need in his eyes.

Dean wiggled his hips, which made his hard dick drag on the bed. “Come on, do I need to draw you a diagram?” He was almost cross-eyed with need.

“Brat,” Cas said affectionately. He pulled Dean’s hips back and slowly, so fucking slowly, sank into him, inch by inch, until Cas was snugly fit inside. “Is this what you needed, sweet Dean?”

“Yes, fuck, you’re so thick.” It was such corny porn dialogue, but holy shit, Cas was the biggest guy Dean had ever taken. He had to breathe for almost a minute to let himself adjust. He felt like Cas’s dick was hitting his brain stem. Meanwhile, Cas kissed his neck and stroked his ribs to soothe him. “M good.”

“Pamela was pretty, but she couldn’t give you this. What you need. I can give you that.”

Dean smirked over his shoulder. “Jealous, Cas?”

“Jealousy denotes a lack of something. I have you, Dean. Speared on my cock. So no, not jealous.” He rocked in and out of Dean, getting him used to the feel. He ran his hands over Dean’s back, hips, and ass. Big, sweeping trails that made Dean melt. “Perhaps a little righteous, though.”

“Fuck me, Cas,” Dean groaned. “Come on already.”

“As you wish.” Cas pulled out and slammed back in. After a moment, Cas wrapped his arms around Dean and hauled him onto his knees. Dean reached back and held onto Cas as he drove into him. Cas whispered sweet nothings in his ears, praising him for being so hot and wet and tight and perfect. Breathing on the shell of his ear, kissing, licking the sweat trickling down his neck. Biting and sucking a hickey on his shoulder. His arms held him so tight there was barely room to move. Everything Cas did screamed ‘mine!’

And Dean wanted more. Fuck, he wanted so much more. Yes, Cas was intense, but fuck anyone too stupid to realize how amazing this man was. This was the hottest shit Dean had ever seen. Been a part of. Holy fuck. He was barely holding on. A well-aimed thrust, and Dean jerked as pleasure washed over him as Cas nailed his prostate. “Fuck, right there. Again, Cas, please.”

With a target in mind, Cas never missed, and Dean’s brain was quickly shorting out. The pressure in his belly was increasing steadily. Dean never considered himself an inactive lover, but damn, Cas didn’t allow him much movement here. “Cas, are you close? ‘m close.”

Cas reached down, and Dean gasped as his hand enveloped him, stroking him in time to his hard thrusts. Fuck, he saw stars. “Yes, Dean, I’m right there with you.” He whispered in his ear. “How could I not be? With you so damn perfect. Be good, and come for me, Dean.”

And fuck if Dean didn’t shoot over his hand a moment later, wrung through the best orgasm of his life. And Cas drove into him a half dozen times before he yelled into Dean’s shoulder to muffle himself. They collapsed into a sweaty pile on the bed for a long moment. Cas tossed the condom before grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom and wiping them down. “Dean, is your knee okay?”

Dean smiled and nodded tiredly. It twinged, but he was still on cloud 9. “Fine, Cas. Better than fine.” He reached out, needing the other man to cuddle him immediately. Cas obliged Dean like he always did. Even though they were hot and sweaty, the skin-on-skin was soothing.

Dean knew they should shower, but he was exhausted. He curled up into Cas’ side and felt those arms wrap around him. They were quiet; the only sound was their slowing heartbeats and panting breaths. He would be sore for days after such a hard fuck, but it was worth it.

Dean looked up at Cas, who had closed his eyes, and his breaths were even and slow. Cas had passed right out, and Dean felt a little proud for that. And Dean knew Sam was right. He liked Cas. More than he should. More than a fling, or even a best friend. Dean bit his lip and breathed in Cas’ scent. Cas was a scarred war hero and medic who was trying to make the world a better place. He enjoyed cold showers, played stripes in pool, loved animals, always had honey coffee in the morning, and had a weird obsession about his trench coat, even wearing it at the height of summer.

Cas was completely broke, yet spent the last few bucks he had on Toothless. He remembered the sweet, gummy smile on Cas’s face when he handed it to him. It was overwhelming how Cas just liked Dean.

And Dean was falling for him, hard and fast like with Cassie. And yeah, Dean noticed that detail too. His stomach fluttered whenever Cas said something odd, and he smiled more than he had in years. Cas had a way of making him look at things differently. Like the ratsnakes. Or storm chasing. Cas’s awe and excitement had reignited those dull embers, and now Dean was both pensive and excited about tomorrow.

But Cas didn’t deserve Dean. He deserved someone who could make him laugh and remind him that life isn’t all bad. Dean had too many demons. Lives he couldn’t save. Mistakes in chasing that almost got people hurt. Dean didn’t have a stable job or a career. Cas was not just in the Air Force; he was in Special Forces. Because Dean looked it up, and Cas was even more awesome than he thought. To become a PJ (Pararescueman), you have to pass the hardest fitness tests in the military, never mind all the training: weapons, combat diving, search and rescue, wilderness survival, EMT, and skydiving. Cas, as a PJ, was on the same level as Navy Seals and Green Berets. But instead of killing people as his main job, he found and saved them —a much more challenging prospect.

They could airdrop Cas in the middle of the Russian Arctic, have him find a half-frozen soldier from a plane crash, stabilize him, fight off a polar bear trying to eat them, and haul his ass back to the chopper to go home. He was literally an action movie hero in the making!

In comparison, what did Dean have? A GED and a give ‘em hell attitude. And once Sam got his data and became a doctor, he and the Imp would be permanently benched. So no. He didn’t have a future worth entangling Cas into. So, he’ll keep him alive and send him on his way when the season is over. Back to normal life. Some stability was the least the man deserved.

It’s what you do when you love something, right? Let it go?

Dean was good at letting things go.

His parents.

Soon, his brother.

And all too soon, his new best friend.

Chapter Text

It was barely after dawn when Castiel woke up, silently got dressed, and snuck down to the breakfast area for coffee. If this had been a typical day, Castiel would have stayed in the cloud-like bed for as long as humanly possible, sleeping in Dean’s arms until the last moment. Maybe even walking him with a sleepy hand job, if they were just here between storms. But today is not a day for relaxation. So, he went down for coffee and some carby treats to make Dean’s pending wake-up call a little nicer. Castiel let him sleep, knowing they had a stressful day ahead, and that the luxury of a nice bed may be out of reach for a few days. None of the other DOW members were in the lobby.

Oh, he was wrong. Sam was here, tucked into a table as far from the entrance as he could get. He was scrolling through his laptop and sipping a small cup of coffee. His cast sat propped in the walkway. The laptop’s glow gave him an eerie bluish tint, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Since he hasn’t noticed me yet, I’ll just grab the coffees and leave.

Castiel looked around the coffee pots and realized there were no honey packets nearby. He took a quick walk around the breakfast buffet, ignoring the delicious smells of scrambled eggs and bacon for now, even though his stomach rioted at being ignored. Nothing. Damnit. Today, he needed his honey coffee. It was the touchstone morning ritual. While he couldn’t control anything else in his life, his coffee is the one thing he has some semblance of control over. And today of all days, he couldn’t have it?

He started tapping on his thigh in agitation. I’ll just make do. As he grabbed the cups to head upstairs, he glanced at Sam again and paused. On the table in front of Sam sat an empty oatmeal bowl and one unused honey packet. That packet was basically worth its weight in gold to Castiel at that moment. He grabbed the coffees and walked towards Sam, trepidation weighing down every step. “Good Morning, Sam.”

“Oh, hey,” Sam said, not looking up for several seconds. When Cas continued to stand there awkwardly holding the two cups, he finally said, “Can I help you?”

Cas nodded to the honey packet. “Are you going to use that?”

Sam looked at the packet, then at Castiel. He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and said nonchalantly. “I might.”

“Might?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ve already eaten.”

Sam took a long, slow sip. “Might get seconds.”

Castiel bit his lip. He could walk away. Stay out of Sam’s way as best he could. But he was not the kind of person to back down from a fight. Strategizing a way out of or around the confrontation was his best bet here, since he refused to walk around eggshells forever around Sam. He hoped to stay around Dean as long as possible, so he and Sam needed to be able to tolerate each other.

So, Castiel set the coffees down and slid into the booth across from him.

Sam’s eyes went wide, not expecting this but curious how it would play out.

“How about a trade?” Castiel said and motioned to the packet. He kept his face impassive, so Sam wouldn’t catch on to how desperate he was.

Sam scoffed. “You don’t have anything I want.” Ouch.

“Let me have the honey packet, and I’ll properly adjust your crutches.”

Sam furrowed his brow and lowered his cup. “Wait, what?”

“You didn’t adjust your crutches properly. Your armpits are sore, right? It’s hard to walk?”

“I manage,” Sam grumbled. “I'm 6'4, Cas, nothing fits me.”

“True, but I can still make some adjustments.”

Sam flexed his shoulders in a circle, probably to determine if the trade was worthwhile. When he grimaced in pain, he capitulated and slid the honey packet to him.

Castiel added it to his coffee while whispering a grateful, “Thank you.” Once he took a sip of his coffee, he hummed contentedly. He took the crutches and began fiddling with the screws, elongating them a few extra inches, along with a few other changes. “There. Should be easier.” He did the second crutch as Sam watched him work.

“Thanks,” Sam said with less acidity.

Castiel took another sip and enjoyed the bittersweet taste; it immediately soothed his nerves. “Will this help stop you from shooting daggers at me every five minutes?”

Sam’s face darkened as he hid behind his coffee cup and bangs. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Castiel leaned back and held his hands in his lap under the table. “Then, can you explain it?” He could tell Sam was jealous, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.

“I…he’s Dean. He’s my brother,” Sam said. “For a long time, we were each other’s only family before Bobby. And we’ve been each other’s partners in crime in everything since we were kids. We’ve been on the road for so long, just Dean and me.” Sam pushed his hair behind his ear. When he wasn’t being a dick, he was very handsome. I wonder if Gabriel’s taken a fancy to him. “Dean’s my family. I’m protective of my family. And Dean asked me to trust you, a guy he just met, for a hazardous job. Can you blame me for being a bit concerned by this situation?”

“Your concerns are valid, Sam. But we’re on the same team. We both care about Dean. Just in different ways.”

“Dean doesn’t get attached too easily. Our lifestyle doesn’t allow it. Not many partners are willing to let their spouse go off and storm chase for months on end. It can be dangerous, even for the cautious folks without the Imp. Getting hurt is part of the gig,” he said, and waved to his broken ankle, but Sam seemed to mean something else as well.

Castiel gave him a small smile. “Then maybe he needs someone willing to go with him. Make sure he doesn’t drive off a cliff by accident.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Are you volunteering?”

Castiel thought about all his previous skydives—the tug of the air currents against your body as you free-fell from thousands of feet in the air. He’s been on hundreds of dives and never had an issue. “I have experience in falling safely. Dean would be safe with me.” I must still be high on oxytocin to say something like that, to make a promise like that.

Sam set his cup down and steepled his fingers. He studied Castiel for a long moment. “Why?”

Castiel wondered if this was Sam trying to determine if Castiel was worthy of Dean. The joke was on him, as Castiel wasn’t worthy of anyone, but especially not Dean. “While it’s true I’m lacking in other prospects, Dean is my best friend. I’ve never had one of those before. I’m loath to give him up. He makes the days worth waking up for. He and this incredible job.”

Sam sighed. “I thought you might say that.” He still sounded put out, but not as badly. More resigned than anything.

“Sam, I’m not you. You are Dean’s brother. I’m not filling that space. I’m just being included. Which is a nice change of pace.”

Castiel stood and stretched until his back popped. “Now. Did you see any donuts or pastries in the breakfast area? What flavor would Dean like after a night of vigorous sex?”

Yes, he added that to make Sam sputter on his coffee. “Dick,” Sam said as he grabbed some napkins.

“I’m certain they don’t have that flavor.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “God, you truly are related to Gabriel like a line like that.” At the mention of his older brother, oddly, Sam softened. He waved Castiel back towards the buffet area. “There’s muffins. Dean'll like anything.”

He nodded his thanks, grabbed the coffees and several muffins, and went back upstairs to surprise Dean. And if Dean sleepily talked Castiel back into bed for another hour, it was no one’s business but their own.

~*~

Castiel never expected to be part of a convoy again when he returned to civilian life. Yet here he was at the end of the line, which included four passenger cars and Gabriel’s van, with the Doppler on Wheels leading the charge to Mississippi.

As he looked at Gabriel’s van driving down the highway, Castiel shook his head in disbelief. Had he truly run into his brother here, of all places? Running a tornado tour, no less? It was precisely the kind of thing their parents would never imagine. So, perhaps Gabriel was right in using his new career to hide in plain sight. And seeing how well Sam and Gabriel got along reminded him so much of how he and Dean joked and teased each other. If that was the case, perhaps Gabriel’s romantic inclinations could make Sam less angry at Castiel for intruding on Dean’s personal space. He wondered how long it would take to go from ‘interloper’ to ‘included.’

Castiel was nervous about this whole situation. There was something off about Dean’s acquiescence to Chuck’s plans that Castiel found unsettling. And yes, Dean offered him an out, but they both knew Castiel wouldn’t take it. He was in too deep. He needed to see this mission through to the end. Even if he could tell that the mission was fucked before they even left.

Still, everyone was in good spirits. Even Dean though that could be the two orgasms in twelve hours fueling him. Oh, I got what I wanted, Castiel realized as he saw Dean with that relaxed afterglow permeating his bones. He still squirmed in the leather seat because of his sore ass, but he wore a dopey little smile. I got Dean to look like that.

Castiel rode that high for several long miles.

Eventually, Dean glanced over at him. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Castiel considered teasing Dean about his squirming, but changed his mind. He waved towards the line of cars they followed. “It’s not quite as impressive as the musical convoy number from the film.”

“What film?”

“Twister. With Bill Paxton as the storm chaser, yes?”

Dean did a literal double-take. “You know that movie?”

“Oh yeah. Movie nights on base were common. People especially liked movies with that actor. Twister was a favorite.”

Dean just blinked at him. “You never thought to mention this?”

“Dean, whenever you meet civilians or other storm chasers, they always mention how the movie was a favorite or foundational. I didn’t bring it up because everyone else does, too.”

“Look, I don’t care about their thoughts. I care about your thoughts on it.”

“Why?”

Dean smiled. “Because you’re different.” Castiel’s heart swelled in his chest, hearing his own words echoed back to him.

“Thank you.” Castiel paused for a moment. “You know, I’ve been trying so hard to bury my past. But it wasn’t all bad. My squad were the closest people I had to friends in the Air Force. We had some good times, too.”

“Next time you get stuck in a downward spiral, remember those good times,” Dean suggested. It was such a simple idea, but Castiel thought it might have merit. He also liked how Dean didn’t say if, he said when. Because this wasn’t a problem to be fixed overnight. His panic attacks, insomnia, and paranoia were going to be a part of him for a long time. Maybe forever. But Dean was ready to face that head-on.

Hours later, the DOW pulled into a truck stop parking lot, where everyone could stretch their legs, use the restrooms, grab food, and meet Chuck for a mission briefing. They were still about a hundred miles from their respective locations, but already, Castiel could tell things felt different here. They were currently in Mississippi, and the air was already becoming humid due to the Gulf’s influence. The Midwest usually suffered from a dry heat, but southern humidity was a beast all its own. Castiel’s first base, where he was stationed, was in Georgia, at Moody. Muggy days and nights from May to October were the norm. And that humidity was the fuel for this outbreak.

As they drove, the wide-open prairies gave way to more trees and fields. Still rural, but the trees were taller than anything out in Kansas. They slid out of the vehicles, stretched, wandered, and complained about the road construction that never seemed to end in Missouri. They grabbed pizza from the little greasy pizza spot inside the gas station, and everyone took their plates outside to eat around the DOW. The side door to the truck’s interior was open as Chuck checked his radar readouts. When Castiel glanced past him, all he saw inside was screens, walls of buttons, and radar readouts. “Is the plan still on?” Jody asked.

Chuck stood in the open doorway, hands in his pockets, appearing for all intents and purposes a chill college professor. However, his tone was similar to that of a C.O. He expected his orders to be followed without hesitation. “Yes. By the time we reach our target area, the storms will be firing off. Remember, I’ll be looking for the rotations in the radar so you can confirm and intercept them. I will direct everyone to their target cells, and you will determine the best time for deployment with your drivers. Like we’ve been doing all season.” There were nods of agreement; this was their usual approach.

“What if there’s an EF-5?” Harry asked. The atmosphere shifted from optimistic to intense as everyone gave him a strained look. He rubbed his neck. “I mean, it’s ripe for them.”

“Then we drive like hell out of the way,” Kevin said. It was a stupid joke, but it broke some of the tension over the group enough that they could keep their minds on the task at hand.

“What about me?” Sam asked.

Chuck looked over his glasses at him and then at his brother. “I want you to follow Dean and make sure he sticks to the plan. You two will be on your own. I want you to try to intercept the strongest tornado you safely can. If it’s rated for your vehicle, go for it.”

Dean whirled on him. “Whoa, Sammy, no. You shouldn’t be anywhere near this mess.”

“Dean, I’m not a child. Let me do my job, like I’ve been doing all season. Gabriel will keep me out of harm’s way.”

Gabriel did a little theater bow. “Finally, my cowardice is a boon.”

“Look,” Chuck said. “We need to be on our A game. This is most likely our last chance for the season. So, let’s get this done!”

“Good luck, guys,” Sam said. When Charlie approached to give him a fist bump, he pulled her into a hug. “Keep them safe.”

“You, too. Dean and I have a LARP date, and you better not make him miss it,” she said and pointed a finger at him for emphasis.

Sam arched a judgmental eyebrow at his brother. “You agreed to LARP?”

“She said I could have a sword, Sammy.” Dean shrugged helplessly. “How could I say no?”

Castiel huffed a little laugh to himself. They walked back to the Imp, and Dean studied the far-off horizon. Sam and Gabriel also watched the sky with the easy confidence of people who chase the divine for a living. To Castiel, the sky was a deep blue, with wispy cirrus clouds and a gentle breeze, which helped alleviate the humidity. Everyone sweated like a stuck pig, and it would only get worse the further south they drove. Nothing seemed to scream ‘tornado outbreak’ less than a hundred miles from them.

“So, Sammy, where are we going?” Dean asked.

“Southwest. According to the latest data, the storms are kicking off in Mississippi about eighty miles that way.” He pointed off in the distance. “This is going to be a marathon. They are calling for the potential for twisters overnight as well.”

“Alright then. Cas, you ready for this?”

“Yes, Dean. Always.”

“That’s what we like to hear,” Dean said and pulled Sam in for a noogie before releasing him. “Keep us alive, bitch.”

Sam frowned and fixed his hair. “Don’t be a lemming, jerk.”

“Cassie, stay safe?” Gabriel said, trying to come off aloof, but Castiel could tell he was concerned about their chances.

"Feel free to send a prayer to whomever you wish for our success.”

And with that, they took off down the road to Mississippi, cut off from the potential protection of the DOW. The science team wouldn’t enter the most dangerous areas today. They would try their intercepts on the edge of the region.

Castiel and Dean, guided by Gabriel and Sam, headed straight for the center of the outbreak area. They were on their own.

~*~

Dean leaned forward, taking in the high treetops all around them, stretching out as far as the eye can see. He shook his head and clicked his teeth. “I’ve been all over the county, but this? I kinda hate this. Dammit, Sam, I said no Dixie Alley.” He complained. He waved around at the forest that encompassed them. “This is ridiculous! There could be a tornado on the other side of these trees, and we’d have no idea. We’re blind, and surrounded by hundreds of missiles that can be lobbed at us.” The steering wheel creaked in Dean’s hands, and his voice was high and fast. Any other time, driving was second nature to Dean. He usually sat back against the seat, steering with one hand, his other stretched out on the back of the seat. But here? He was hunched over the setting wheel, both hands clinging at 10 and 2.

Castiel reached out and gripped his forearm. “Dean, our brothers are watching over us. While I don’t trust Gabriel as far as I can throw him, Sam seems competent enough not to get us hurt.”

That made Dean smile a little. “Yeah, he is. Got a full ride and everything,” he said, chest puffed with parental pride. “You’re right. But I want you on your toes, too. You get any weird Spidey senses going, you better tell me.”

Casriel nodded. “Dean, I wouldn’t withhold information that could hurt anyone, least of all you.” Dean stared at him for so long that Castiel had to say something. “Eyes on the road.” Dean shook himself and went back to the road, twisting and curving like an asphalt snake through more forest. Something was on Dean’s mind, but he didn’t say anything.

The CB radio above their heads squawked to life. Castiel winced at the high-pitched sound. “Dean, it’s Sam. This is an equipment check. Can you read me? Over.”

“Yeah, I hear you, Sammy. What’s the plan? Over.”

“I’ve been reading the radar, and our storms have already fired up. Nothing too crazy yet, but we have reports of gorilla hail and intense wind damage. The supercell we’re aiming for is growing stronger and appears to be ripe for potential rotation. Are you ready with these probes? Over.”

“Yeah, we’re ready. Over.” He gave the CB radio to Castiel so he could coordinate Sam’s projected supercell into their GPS.

Castiel flipped through the folded maps in the glovebox. He did so three times to make sure he hadn’t missed it. “Dean, you don’t have a paper map of Mississippi?”

Dean chuckled darkly. “Never planned to be here, man.”

The supercell was ten miles away and marching due northwest. There was a cluster of other supercells around it, like little ducklings following their destructive mother. Dean turned on the laptop, and after it updated, they pulled in Sam’s location pin.

“I will be your Chuck, your eye in the sky. Close enough to keep you out of trouble.” Sam explained. Castiel saw Gabriel’s van about half a mile behind them. If anything happened, they were to drop back at least a mile out of the way.

“Have they made any intercepts yet?” Dean called out. “Over?”

Sam disappeared for a moment. “None, but they are working on a few supercells to surround and get into position, over. I’m going to get you close to intercepting. The probe needs to get hit directly with either the rear flank downdraft, outer winds, or inner circulation. You guys will make the call to deploy. I can only see so much. Over.”

“Stupid trees,” Dean muttered. “We’re gonna head to your pin and update you if anything changes. And if you see anything more promising, we’ll take it. Over.”

“Agreed. Over and out.”

“Just to clarify,” Castiel followed up. “We just need to drop it off close to an active tornado to get hit.”

“Us, too. There’s a black box Sam updated on the outer shell of the Imp. He wants us to try to get into the wind at some point as well. But yeah, it can be while we haul ass the opposite way.”

“Okay, Dean. What music would be appropriate for this?”

Dean grinned and pulled out his phone. The heavy guitars and synths filled the cab with a soul-pounding backdrop to drive to. “The soundtrack for Fury Road!”

“Knew you would pick that,” Castiel said fondly. Dean already had this album in rotation. While driving, he explained the plots of all the movies, and the newest one sounded the most intriguing. The last time they listened to it, Dean got too leadfooted, and they were subsequently pulled over. The cop only gave them a warning, but Castiel had banned Dean from listening to it for everyone’s safety.

Now, however, was the perfect time for it.

As the music blasted in the cab, the forest gave way to fields, and the blue sky from earlier was quickly turning slate gray. Lightning flashed in the distance as they headed towards their target. Castiel felt they were heading towards something big. The robotic voice of the storm alerts kicked in, telling them the storm was severe, and while there wasn’t a funnel on the ground yet, they both knew it was just a matter of time.

Castiel glanced into the trunk and could see the odd towering probes bolted down back there like little skyscrapers. They were very unwieldy, but he was confident he and Dean could deploy them. Now they just needed the storm to drop a funnel, the last ingredient.

The CB radio crackled as Dean turned it down. “Dean, I think I see a lowering at your 11 o’clock. Can you confirm? Over.”

Dean glanced away from the road to check and swore as more little trees filled his view. He waited until there was a break and pulled into a driveway with a cleared spot amongst some cotton fields. Right behind them, Gabriel’s van parked as well. Everyone got out, and Castiel felt this storm was growing stronger.

Gabriel whistled as Sam hobbled out. Dean and his brother stood in the middle of the road, Sam on one crutch. Castiel was pleased to see that his adjustments had enabled Sam to walk more easily. Being less hunched over would also prevent kinks in his shoulders. Sam and Dean had a hushed conversation as they pointed to the wall cloud spread out before them. The gray shelf looked like the end of the world.

“Scud?” Gabriel asked after a moment.

“Dunno,” Sam said.

Dean inhaled deeply. “It’s warm. She’s alive, just getting her act together.”

Gabriel leaned against the side of his van. “I remember what you said, about losing your faith in a higher power,” he said to Castiel. “But damn, doesn’t that view make you think maybe we don’t know a lot about this world? Maybe there’s more to it?”

Castiel thought about the gray angel. “Actually, I do think there’s more to it.”

“Good.” Gabriel nodded approvingly. “Gotta admit, though, I’m glad my fine ass isn’t on the firing line.”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s just another mission.” He turned to Gabriel and lowered his voice. “Why are you helping Sam?”

Gabriel looked at Castiel like he was obtuse on purpose. “Have you seen that ass? You can bounce a quarter off that thing.”

“I wasn’t looking, no.” Castiel’s eyes darted between Sam and Gabriel. “Did you two have sex?” He whispered. He hadn’t noticed any hickies or other marks on either Gabriel or Sam, but perhaps they were hidden. Like the dozen or so love bites Dean left on him from their morning tryst. Castiel loved the reminders, both wearing them and seeing them in the way Dean leaned to the side ever so slightly.

Gabriel snorted and wiggled his eyebrows. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell, little bro.”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware you were gender non-conforming. Congrats.”

“Maybe you should go back overseas. The military must be missing your class act by now.”

Castiel’s face fell, feeling shame for the reason he was back home early. Dean saved him from trying to figure out how to navigate the collateral of that statement. He waved Castiel and Gabriel forward to stand next to them. Castiel schooled his face so Dean wouldn’t notice his hurt. “What’s up, Dean?”

Dean pointed to their supercell churning away in the sky. “Come on, Rain Man. Whatcha think? Will it produce for us? Sam’s got a few other targets in mind, but what do you think of this one here?”

Sam narrowed his eyes while Gabriel came to watch him curiously. Castiel stepped next to Dean and studied the storm. He took in the slight rotation before them of the mesocyclone. He heard the whistling of the winds, the rustling of the grasses, and smelled the wet vegetation. In the distance, the rumbling of thunder boomed long and loud. Lightning flickered on the horizon like bursts of white light. He could feel the pressure change in the air. Something was happening. Castiel looked at the cloud lowering from the side, a whispery, gray little thing. He could barely see it, though.

“Cassie?”

Dean leaned down and whispered, “I can’t explain it, man, he’s like the cloud whisperer.”

Sam rolled his eyes in disbelief but said nothing. Gabriel pulled back and scoffed. “You can’t count cards, but you can count clouds? That is just cosmiscally ironic.”

“You’re still using that word incorrectly,” Castiel muttered. His gut hadn’t been wrong so far, but to hinge the entire scientific plan on him seemed unfair. Castiel inhaled deeply and cracked his neck. As he rolled his head, he said, “We should get into position.”

Dean fist-pumped right into the air. “Yes, Cas, let’s go! Sammy, Gabe, watch our six!” Dean jumped back into the Imp, and Castiel slid inside as the radar images refreshed, showing the familiar hook echo they were always on the hunt for. Dean beeped his horn and grabbed the radio. “We’ve got contact–this train is leaving the station!” They peeled out, leaving a trail of rubber behind, and the Imp took off down the road, spitting rocks as they went.

“Careful, Winchester, or you’ll owe me a new paint job!” Gabriel complained in the background of the CB.

“Hey, I actually know a guy,” Dean laughed.

“Yeah, if acid trip/stoner chic is your thing,” Sam shot back.

“The real question is, will I get mad bitches with it?” Gabriel asked, and Sam laughed so hard Dean had to hold the radio away from him.

Castiel really tried hard not to say anything, but he couldn’t help himself. “Over, Dean.”

“What’s over?”

Castiel pointed at the radio in exasperation.

“Right. Once we get around these trees, we’ll make a game plan. Over and out, before Cas has a coronary.” He released the radio, and it sprang back up to the ceiling.

As they followed the winding road, another field showed them what they were looking for. A funnel connected to the ground about two miles away. Castiel got the camera rolling, hoping to get some footage of their successful deployment. He wanted to come back and show both Sam and Gabriel he wasn’t a total screw up.

He needed to end their season with a win for Dean.

“You sure you don’t have any inkling for lottery numbers?” Dean joked as he gunned the Imp down the back road.

“Sorry,” he said, watching the funnel peaking out between trees in the distance. “I see why you were loath to chase here–you only get a good shot occasionally.”

“It’s a pain in the ass,” he agreed. “But we’re gonna catch this funnel and deploy Chuck’s stupid probe like the professionals we are.”

They came around the bend, and Dean flew down the road, trying to gain on their storm. But luck was not on their side. The road networks in Dixie Alley weren’t a grid, like most places in the Midwest. They were a tangled web of offshoots, and the supercell was traveling through an area with barely any roads at all.

They flew down the twisting roads for close to half an hour, trying to get ahead of it. Sam acted as their GPS, giving them turn-by-turn directions. Castiel had to admit, having him take over direction control was a weight off his shoulders. He’d gotten used to it, but Sam and Dean worked effortlessly together as they improvised a plan of attack. Dean was able to predict turns before Sam made them. Sometimes they bickered for several minutes about the best route to take. While Castiel rolled his eyes, it was evident that, as messy as this looked to an outsider, Dean and Sam worked well together, and they got where they needed to go with no casualties.

Sam got them out of the winding forest roads onto a four-lane highway. The storm cell was before them, massive black clouds extending far out and away around them. As they drove towards the storm, both Dean and Castiel noticed the gray, almost misty curtains of rain under it. The other cars on the highway around them were blissfully unaware of the danger they headed towards.

Dean groaned. “Fuck, it’s an HP.”

Castiel looked at the storm, with its curtains of gray rain underneath. High precipitation, he remembered from his late-night readings. “That means the tornado is rain-wrapped, correct?”

Despite the situation, Dean flashed that winning smile at him. “Yahtzee, Cas. To get around the storm and set up for deployment, we gotta go through the bear’s cage.”

Castiel studied the storm and shuddered. “Whatever you think is best, Dean–I suggest you do it fast.”

Dean grabbed the radio receiver. “Sammy! This thing is an HP. We’re gonna punch the core and set up for an intercept on the other side. Do you still see any radar indications that the twister is in there? Over.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen any changes to this radar reading–it’s still tornado warned. Good luck, Dean. We’ll hang back and let it pass you first. Over.”

Dean drove forward, gunning it a little bit. “Cas, are you ready? There’s probably gonna be hail again.”

Dean’s concern was sweet. “I’ll be okay.”

“If not, tell me,” Dean said, patting his shoulder supportively. “Don’t be a martyr.”

“The bear in the Bear’s Cage refers to our tornado, yes?” Castiel asked.

“Pretty much. Pay attention to the wind direction. If it suddenly changes, it might be our twister sneaking up on us.”

Castiel nodded once. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

As the rain curtain enveloped them, Castiel’s senses went into hyperdrive. A few cars on the highway around them slowed down when the torrential rain hit them all at once. The car headlights barely cut through the heavy rain. The windshield wipers, moving at full speed, barely cut through the water. The Imp rang like a steel gong. Castiel’s whole body, every hair standing at the sound, but he stayed calm. As Dean drove, the Imp slightly hydroplaned as they turned a sharp corner, but Dean kept them in the lane without smashing into anyone else. He recovered smoothly–truly a master at driving this vehicle.

Castiel saw nothing in the fields to indicate a hidden twister. His stomach churned as they drove in silence, the music turned off so Dean could pay attention to any changes. Suddenly, the winds that had been pushing from the left very slowly turned and began to blow from the right, the rain now coming from the opposite direction. “Dean, wind change, left to right!”

Dean leaned forward. “I think I see it. Cas, anything to my 9 o’clock?”

Castiel looked past Dean and thought he saw something ghostly move in the heavy rain. “Dean, floor it!”

The Imp shot past the other cars around them. All of a sudden, the rain lightened up and the skies were a light gray.

They had successfully punched the core and just managed to escape the bear. The other cars around them continued their journeys, utterly unaware of what they had barely dodged.

Dean didn’t pull over for at least a minute, until the storm was about half a mile behind them. Despite breathing hard and shaking, Castiel unbuckled his seat belt, crawled over the front seat into the back, and reached down to start turning on the sensors for PB 1. “Ready!” He called back, ignoring his aching ribs once he flipped on the last switch.

“Okay, perfect, Cas. Let’s go!”

Dean opened the back door for Castiel to climb out, and they opened the trunk. Castiel turned around to see the funnel coming straight for them, still wrapped in rain but just barely visible, one percent darker gray than the rain. He and Dean set the probe in the grass off the road. Dean turned and watched the storm tower over them, the loud rumbling of thunder, and the lightning flashes as they arched across the sky. “Move, Cas,” he called out, smacking the metal roof of the Imp twice to get his attention.

They took off another quarter mile down the highway. They got out and watched with bated breath. Dean pulled out a pair of binoculars to try to see what was happening. “Come on, come on, hit the stupid thing already,” he begged.

Dean watched, but all Castiel could see was a gray sheet that swallowed up the spot where they just were. Dean ran back to the Imp and pulled the CB out with him as he watched. “Sammy, the probe is deployed! It’s rain-wrapped to hell, though–was it hit? Over?”

The CB radio was quiet, and Dean and Cas stared at the storm for a long moment. Rain was starting to fall on them. “No! It was close. Missed by about a hundred feet.”

Dean swore. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Sorry, man. This storm should stay close to a road network; grab the probe, and we can try again. Over.”

Dean and Castiel climbed back inside, illegally reversed down the side of the highway until they reached the probe, and once there was a break in the rain bands, loaded it back into the Imp. They sat there, cold from the rain. “Sam, is there a tornado on the ground? Over?”

There was silence. “I think so. We’re going to try again, okay? Over?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Sammy. Hopefully. Over.”

For the next several hours, they hopped from supercell to supercell, chasing one tornado then jumping to the next when it disappeared. The road network deteriorated, and on a few occasions, the Imp almost got stuck in the mud. Sam tried to get them into position, but the storms never played ball.

During the third potential tornado, just after they had set out the probe again, a massive hailstone struck the probe with the force of a bomb detonation. It exploded into little bits of plastic and wiring. They barely had time to get inside before being pelted with softball hail once again.

Dean was strangely quiet. He didn’t make the call to Sam for a long time; he just stared outside as the night grew darker. Eventually, Castiel pulled the CB radio out of Dean’s hand. “Sam, the probe was destroyed by the hail. Over.”

“Fuck! Dr. Shurley’s gonna love that, over.”

“What do you suggest? Do you need the pieces? Over?” Castiel winced as he watched the hailstones reduce the little probe to smithereens.

“I mean, it’s not worth brained over. Let’s regroup and make a plan for tomorrow. I’ll send our coordinates. Over.”

Castiel took their pin and gently shook Dean’s shoulder. “Dean? Our brothers are about two miles away from us. We can meet up and make a plan.”

Dean just nodded glumly and swung around on the highway at the closest emergency lane, and they headed back. Castiel saw the small mound of wires they left behind. The hail had lightened up enough not to trigger his PTSD.

Gabriel sat parked on the side of the road, in a little pull-off area under a copse of oak trees. It allowed a quick exit and protection from the rain. Dean and Castiel hopped out of the Imp and climbed into the van. Gabriel had taken several passenger seats out to make room for them to sit on the floor inside. There were several little camping lights attached to the ceiling to provide illumination. Sam and Gabriel were inside with a cooler. Sam handed them some dry towels, and Gabriel gave them carte blanche to the sandwiches, chips, and drinks inside. He had been kind enough to stock up for them at the last gas station. Castiel was ravenous and ate through two BLTs. Dean barely ate any of his. Castiel and Sam shared a worried look.

Even Sam and Gabriel were tired, but Castiel and Dean were wiped, not just physically, but mentally. Chasing storms is tough in the best of times. But here, the trees and winding roads make even catching glimpses of their target hard to ascertain. Castiel barely recorded anything, too worried about Dean to actually film. That first miss had almost broken something in Dean’s. He hadn’t spoken much ever since–his enthusiasm now replaced with dread.

They stayed in Gabriel’s van for a few hours, but the storms never kicked back up. Considering all the concern by the team about this outbreak, Castiel wondered if this was it. A pidley tornado in a rain curtain? Some hail? The tornado had not hit any populated areas, thank God. Castiel still felt this whole thing was rather anticlimactic.

Gabriel yawned loudly. It was pretty early, barely past sunset, but everyone was exhausted. “Come on, Dean. We can sleep in the Imp and head to a new area tomorrow,” Castiel said. He waved goodbye to Sam and Gabriel, and they promptly fell asleep in the Imp, Dean in front, Castiel in the back.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

~*~

At 12:29 AM, Dean’s laptop blared an alert, startling both of them awake with its eerie, robotic message: The National Weather Service has issued a tornado emergency for the county of Lucien, Mississippi, including the towns of Harrington, Fall Springs, and Juketown. A tornado is confirmed on the ground, moving southwest at thirty-five miles per hour. This is a Particularly Dangerous Situation.

You are in a life-threatening situation.

Flying debris can be deadly to those caught without shelter. Mobile homes will be destroyed, and significant damage will occur to homes and businesses. Complete destruction is possible.

Find a safe place in an interior bathroom or storm shelter. If you are outside, seek shelter in a substantial structure to protect yourself from flying debris.

Tornadoes are difficult to see and confirm at night. Take shelter now.

We repeat: TAKE SHELTER NOW.

Dean and Castiel stared at each other over the seat as Dean pulled up the radar image. The red, orange, and blue blotches looked the same as previous storms, but Castiel knew this one was different. How could a colorful blob feel foul?

“Dean? Is it close?”

“About thirty minutes away.” He bit his thumbnail as he studied the images.

“Should we follow it?” Castiel entered team lead mode and considered their medical supplies. He had restocked some items, but a storm this dangerous? He knew he was insufficiently prepared. “Help the people in the damage path?”

Dean clenched his teeth. “We just need one successful deployment,” he said quietly.

Castiel stared at him, slack-jawed. He must not have heard him correctly. Or, Dean wasn’t thinking straight. “Dean, it’s night. We can’t deploy now. We’ll just wait until morning.”

“We have to. The moment this probe gets hit with the twister, we are scot-free.” Dean swallowed, but then he sat up as he steeled himself. And Castiel knew no matter what he said, Dean was going to die on this hill. “We’re going to deploy, and then we are going home.”

Chapter Text

This was incredibly stupid and reckless.

“Dean, we need Sam.”

Dean shook his head vehemently. “No, no, no. He’s, uh, sitting this one out.”

Castiel furrowed his brow and snapped, “Dean, this plan is already suicidal, and you don’t want any back-up from the one person who can actually ensure our survival?”

“Look, we don’t need a witness!” When Cas stared at him, completely confused by that outburst, Dean admitted, “I just want to get close enough to shove the probe outside and claim the twister damaged it.”

Castiel rubbed his hands over his eyes. “What did Chuck say to you, Dean?”

Dean’s face paled. “Uh…”

“This isn’t you. This is him making this stupid call!”

The tension in the Imp boiled over. Dean whirled on him, face contorted with emotions too quick for Castiel to parse. “If it’s so stupid, then you can stay here! I don’t need you!”

That cut deeper into Castiel than anything Dean had snipped at him so far because it boiled down to his greatest fear: that he wasn’t needed.

Wasn’t wanted.

That simple statement felt like it had ripped open Castiel’s chest and exposed his still-beating heart. He had to take a deep breath. But, Castiel compartmentalized that hurt to analyze it later when it was safe to do so. He crossed his arms and scowled back at Dean. “So you can go off and be a martyr? No, I don’t think so. I’m staying.”

Dean sputtered. “I’m not….whatever.” He blinked first and turned away from Castiel, breathing hard.

The Imp roared to life and took off down the road, leaving Gabriel’s van behind. A sinking feeling was all Castiel could sense as they drove into the darkness. He knew he couldn’t leave Dean. No matter what happened, Dean was too important to him now.

As they traveled towards this twister’s path, the radar refreshed, and Castiel pointed to it. The multicolored blob looked pixilated. “I think the radar is malfunctioning.”

Dean shook his head and gunned it harder. “Nope, that’s a debris field. This tornado is chucking shit in the air high enough that the radars are picking it up. About twenty thousand feet or so. It’ll be raining parts of this town miles away onto the next one in the storm’s path.”

The Imp shot down the highway. The storms that the National Weather Service had predicted had died out. Those were the cells Chuck had decided to chase. But Castiel’s supercell was still churning, and the tornado on the ground was tearing up small towns left and right. On his laptop, Dean pulled up another storm chaser’s live feed to get a bead on things. It was dark, only appearing like a ghost amidst lightning flashes and power flashes. But in those few flashes on the screen lurked a true monster.

“We should name this thing,” Dean said, apropos of nothing. Castiel looked up from the radar.

“Name it? Like a hurricane?” Castiel asked, and Dean nodded.

“This outbreak is nuts, dude,” Dean said solemnly. “You called this supercell–it’s going to be a history maker. You should get the honor to name it, even if it’s just for us.”

This twister was insane, unending, and Castiel said nothing. He knew Dean would object, but he still blurted out, “Lucifer.”

Dean snorted hard until he saw how Castiel’s face hadn’t cracked as if making a joke. “You can’t name a storm Lucifer. Mother Nature isn’t evil.”

Castiel had no idea how to explain that his storm felt wrong. Castiel could only describe it in terms of good and evil. He was named after an angel, and he was certain this was no ordinary storm. A tornado chewing through small town after small town, in the middle of the night, when people are asleep and not expecting it? That sounded downright evil to him.

“DEAN!”

The headlights suddenly revealed a dozen cows milling around in the middle of the road.

The Imp came to a stretching halt a scant few inches away from the cow catcher on the front actually catching a cow on it. Dean and Castiel let out surprised gasps when their seat belts locked them in, bracing for an impact.

They bellowed in alarm, but still didn’t move. A fallen tree had knocked down the wire fence on the side of the road. Now, they have to deal with a black-and-white mooing wall with dozens of shining eyes.

“Oh, come on,” Dean groaned, and he lay down on the horn. “Moooove!”

Castiel flopped open the window to start frantically waving his arms and making weird noises. They still barely shuffled. Ears flicked and tails switched so they weren’t in a hurry.

Dean inched forward and gently pushed through the milling crowd with the pointed metal grate on the front of the vehicle. As soon as they cleared the last wayward cow, they flew down the backroads again, until they hit another obstacle.

Lucifer’s damage path.

They dodged downed trees and power lines. One tree was too large to dodge, so Castiel hooked it up to the front winch, and Dean grabbed the small chainsaw he always had and quickly cut the tree in half so they could pull the top away to create a passage. The oldest oaks lost some branches, but the younger pines had toppled like bowling pins. Their needles scraped the windows as they drove through the blockage.

The tornado, Lucifer, was still on the ground, but now they were passing damaged houses with torn-off roofs, fields mowed down to bare earth, debarked trees, and flipped cars. They drove past small towns, wiped from the map. Ambulances, cop cars, and firetrucks were parked everywhere, the flashing lights searing his eyes. People wandered around in pajamas and sandals like zombies, standing among the wreckage of their homes, bloody with dirty clothes. Dogs milled around, and Dean shook his head sadly.

Water puddled on the roads, high enough that the Imp lost traction and hydroplaned occasionally. Still, Dean pressed on, the steering wheel creaking the only soundtrack to the vision of destruction they passed.

“Dean, what are we doing? Should we search and rescue?”

“No, they got that. We need to deploy.”

Castiel turned to him, his body freezing as if it were full of ice. “You said we were just ditching the probe.”

Dean waved around them – at an intersection, a cop directed them down a detour due to downed power lines. “I know, I know I said that. But…shit…this data is invaluable, Cas. The more data Sam collects, the more data the DOW team collects, gets us closer to understanding why this happens. And give people better lead time. Better warnings.” Dean swallowed hard. “I can’t let them down.”

“Alright, fine, but why can't we wait until morning? This twister is a monster. They are calling for more storms, aren’t they?”

“This thing has got to be an EF-5,” Dean said with fearful awe. “They’re very rare. Getting numbers on it would be a scientific first. And the NWS and SPC predictions don’t always pan out. We have this twister on the ground. It’s going slowly enough that we can get around it and deploy. The Imp can handle things if they get hairy.”

“Dean,” Castiel swallowed hard, knowing he was truly putting his life on the line for Dean right now. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah, I think so. Though the damage path is frigging weird, man. We’re going northwest to southeast. Most tornadoes in the Northern Hemisphere travel from southwest to northeast. Next, you’re gonna tell me it’s anticyclonic.”

“Maybe it is.” Castiel would not be surprised by anything this twister did.

Dean just shrugged. Eventually, after an hour of watching this storm on the live stream as they travel through back roads, highways, and through sleeping neighborhoods, they finally get ahead of the storm on a simple two-lane road, with a dark forest on the left and a field of knee-high beans on the right.

As they stepped outside, they couldn't see the approaching twister, even with the anvil crawlers lighting up the sky. They parked on the side of the roadway since they had about a mile of lead time. It was coming through the forest straight at them. The humidity was high enough to choke on, and Castiel could hear this tornado snapping trees in the distance over the boom of the continuous rolling thunder.

The entire drive, Castiel felt like they were hunting a monster. Now, the monster was coming right for them.

Just focus on the mission and get ready to run.

Dean opened the back of the Imp, slowly slid the probe out, and lowered it to the ground. Castiel turned on the sensors–only his years of military service kept his fingers from shaking and fumbling the switches. He flipped the last one just as the trees on the other side of the road whipped and shook violently.

But Dean wasn’t moving; he stared at the black churning sky, the tornado that was bearing down on them, and his face shifted from nervousness to horrified confusion. “Wait, this isn’t right. It can’t be here yet–”

Castiel didn’t know what happened.

Dean was next to him. And then, he wasn’t.

A burst of whirling wind shot out from the tornado and hit them like a freight train. It barreled from the trees like a bull, only lit up from the constant lightning flashes and the Imp’s headlights.

Their window of opportunity for a safe escape slammed shut.

Dean was picked up and smashed into the Imp like a ragdoll. He flopped to the ground bonelessly, trapped by his leg under her steel fender.

Castiel and the probe went flying as high winds enveloped them. Castiel crashed onto the ground, shoved away from Dean across the road towards the field. Shit, shit, shit!

He just barely managed to grab onto the tire rim and haul himself under the Imp. He army-crawled over the rocks and gravel, cutting up his palms. He ignored his raw, bloody hands, and he hauled Dean’s unconscious body under the Imp.

“Dean? Dean!” Castiel screamed, but the din of the tornado was so strong he couldn’t hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Dean wouldn’t wake up, and Castiel saw the ripped jeans and the large amount of blood staining the fabric a deeper red on his right leg, the lower portion at an odd angle.

The Imp moved and creaked over them. Castiel’s face was sandblasted with dirt, rocks, wood, and glass. A small soft thing plopped onto the ground, and Castiel grabbed it. Toothless. He shoved it into Dean’s waistband and ripped off Dean’s belt to make a quick tourniquet. Hard to believe that only twenty-four hours ago, he was unbuckling this same belt for a very different reason.

Oddly, the winds and howling died down.

Castiel wondered why he felt like something was still wrong. Just as he tightened the belt and tied it off around Dean’s thigh, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. A massive black shadow mowed down the trees across the road. The sandblasting happened again, but the din of the monster was now twice as awful. Do tornadoes have calm eyes, like hurricanes?

Castiel watched in horror as the asphalt road was peeled off the ground in great long strips and flung away.

Trees crashed down across the highway all around them. The sound of the world ending was the cracking of large trees, the smashing of concrete, and the groaning of steel.

Power lines above them snapped and crackled, smoke and ozone filled his nose, fighting the heavy copper of Dean’s blood.

All of a sudden, with a massive creaking groan, the Imp was launched skyward.

The same winds that sent the Imp flying also flung Castiel and Dean off the road entirely. They tumbled down a small embankment into the bean field. Castiel shoved Dean against the grassy embankment in the lowest ditch he could find and climbed on top to protect him. The ditch was full of water and litter, but it offered a little protection from the winds. Castiel’s back burned from the force of the winds over them. It churned through his clothes like steel wool. But still, he kept Dean tucked under himself as he tried to protect his friend. His back stung horribly. He dug his fingers into the wet dirt to hold on and prayed to God that it would stop.

He cried out in terror as something large crashed over them. The winds and sounds were suddenly quieter. Something, a piece of heavy, flat debris, now offered some protection from the monster outside.

Eventually, the hellish winds stopped and lifted. The sound stopped, the earthquake roar stopped. Castiel, his body pumping with adrenaline, tried to push off the thing, but it was too heavy for him. It felt like plaster or something. A wall, maybe? It didn’t matter. Castiel pulled out his phone from his pocket and used the flashlight to find his way out from underneath. The thing was propped at such an angle they could crawl out with a couple of inches to spare. Castiel grabbed Dean and pulled him free from their accidental shelter, laying him on his back in the field. They were both covered in mud, dirt, grass, and blood.

It looked like a bomb had gone off. Downed trees, ripped up roads, and snapped power lines strung all over. The transformer for the power lines smoked and hissed, and electricity crackled. Cars from other places were strewn about, crumbled like paper balls. The green bean shoots were mowed to the raw dirt. It stank of gasoline, burnt ozone, wood, wet dirt, sulfur, and death.

The five-ton Imp was just gone.

Castiel watched the shadowy giant march on; he thought he saw ghostly tendrils extending from Lucifer’s base in the lightning flashes. The bottom resembled tendrils instead of a typical debris ball. He thought it would continue its reign of terror unabated. How many more people would feel its wrath?

Instead, the massive tornado suddenly, and without warning, dissipated into the night sky.

Castiel slumped and breathed a sigh of relief that they were alive. He reached down to touch Dean, but something was wrong. He was oddly limp.

Dean wasn’t….

He wasn’t breathing.

“No. No, no, no.” Castiel felt his neck, but there was no pulse. Castiel got on his knees. He put his bloody, muddy hands together and did chest compressions for thirty seconds, then blew air into Dean’s mouth.

His lips were stiff.

He did twice, despair and bile creeping up his throat as he tried to stop his tears from flowing, from his heart breaking. “Come on, Dean, wake up! I need you, dammit.”

He bent down the third time and breathed hard, trying to reinflate Dean’s lungs. He cradled Dean’s face in his shaking hands, barely able to see his face due the darkness and grit in his eyes. His bloody palms left bloody handprints on both sides of Dean’s face. Castiel prayed against his unmoving lips. “Please, please, please, he’s all I have. Please.”

Under a lightning flash, Dean coughed hard, sucking in a rattling breath.

He groaned and opened his eyes. He looked at Castiel for a few seconds, blinking rapidly. “Hey, angel…” he whispered before he fell unconscious. He was breathing, though. His pulse was shaky, but it was there. Oh, fuck, it was there.

Castiel’s back, which had protected Dean, was freely bleeding everywhere. His hands were slashed to ribbons, his eyes full of dust and dirt. His clothes were ruined; the trench coat was shredded. His ribs were screaming in pain. As soon as the adrenaline crashed, Castiel knew he would be in a world of hurt.

But they were still alive.

His eye was caught by what protected them. It was a section of plaster wall. It must have been part of a local church. There was a familiar painting on its pockmarked, wet surface, a fresco of the archangel Michael in his golden armor, defeating the dragon Lucifer.

Somewhere in the eerie, utter stillness of the night, he thought he heard voices, high-pitched yelling. But then, everything became too much. He became dizzy, his stomach roiling as he tried not to vomit. Castiel knew that loss of consciousness was about to happen as the edges of his vision grew darker. “Help? Help!” His voice was shredded and didn’t carry at all.

Thinking on his feet, Castiel opened the music app on his phone and began playing the first song listed as loud as possible.

The opening bars to Bad Moon Rising filled the air in the debris-covered bean field, hopefully acting as a beacon.

“I see the bad moon arising
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
I see bad times today~

Don't go around tonight
Well, it's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise~”

Castiel finally lost the battle.

He collapsed limply next to Dean’s bloody body on the trampled, muddy ground.

Chapter Text

Castiel stood and moved in time to the beeping of the heart monitors. He took the soft, black t-shirt and smelled, sad to notice Dean’s scent fading from them. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He had unpacked and repacked this duffel a hundred times by now. He knew its contents better than his own bag. They had been smart in moving their personal effects to Gabriel’s van, just in case. It meant most of their stuff survived the tornado.

There was a groan from behind him and the creaking of the bed. “...Cas?” The voice was raspy as hell, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, thank God,” Castiel said as his shoulders slumped with relief. He didn’t turn, though. His knees shook, and he had to hold onto the counter, but he didn’t move.

From the chair next to the bed, Sam stopped snoring and sprang to life. “Dean?”

“Sammy? Where…?”

“Hospital.” Sam’s voice was barely holding it together from sheer relief. “You got knocked around pretty bad. Do you remember anything?”

Castiel couldn’t turn around. He couldn’t face Dean; he couldn’t look at him. His fingernails dug into the surface of the counter to keep him still.

“Me, Cas…twister. Black.” Dean took a sip of water from the cup on the table. Castiel heard him swallow greedily several times. “Cas? Please?”

Castiel’s head hung limply, and he just shook his head. I can’t.

“Bobby?”

“He’s here. He and Rufus stepped out to get food or to go to the bar. You’ve been out for a week. It’s been rough on everyone.”

“A week? Cas, turn the hell around,” Dean demanded. His voice wavered. “What? What happened, Sammy?”

“I had the Imp wired for tracking, Dean. As soon as you took off, we tailed you. We had to wait for the twister to leave so we could find you—longest two minutes of my life. I thought….” Sam paused to collect himself. “Cas saved your life. He hid you in a ditch and put a tourniquet on your leg. It was pretty messed up.”

Castiel still couldn’t look at Dean because he didn’t do enough. His back and hands still stung from the abrasions; he missed the comforting heft of his trench coat. Sadly, it was ruined beyond repair. It felt like armor. Now he had none.

“Cas, please.” Dean sounded so afraid and that’s what broke his resolve. He turned around, and Dean scanned him over inquisitively. His face was a little thin, he had dark circles around his eyes, and his eyes were glassy from pain and whatever was in the drip attached to his hand. It was a relief to see him awake, finally awake. “You’re okay?” Dean's voice was harsh and slow.

Castiel clasped his scabbed hands behind his back. “A few minor injuries, but, yes, I’m okay.” His shoulders inched, the scar tissue from the missile attack growing thicker from the twister’s sandblasting effects.

Dean’s initial relief soured as he frowned. “Then why…so squirrely?”

Castiel swallowed hard to keep the bile from creeping up his throat. He couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Because I didn’t do enough,” he said bitterly.

Tucked in beside Dean was Toothless, washed from mud and blood as best as possible. Dean grabbed it, and as he did, he stared at the way the blanket lay on his legs. He reached down and gently touched the space where his right shin should be.

Where the blanket lay oddly flat.

Dean’s hands flew to his mouth. He ripped back the blanket and saw the crisp white bandages ending at his knee. He moaned in horror as he reached down to touch the space. His eyes grew glassy as a single tear trailed down his cheek.

Sam’s eyes swam with tears. Castiel wasn’t faring any better as he tearily apologized over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Sam wiped away his eyes and quickly pulled the blanket back up. Dean sat back, eyes wide and silent. Sam, unsure, tried to smile. “Geez, Dean, at least I only broke my ankle. We don’t always have to one-up each other.” It landed poorly, and Dean stared at him, unblinking. Sam held his hands up. “Sorry.”

Dean quietly started petting Toothless, lost in his thoughts.

Sam gave him several minutes to gather himself. He texted Bobby that Dean was awake. “Why, Dean? Why did you take such a risk? With an EF-5?”

Dean couldn’t say anything. Just kept shaking his head. Couldn’t speak at all. Castiel recognized he was going mute. He had done it before, when things got to be too much. He stared at Castiel, eyes running over him repeatedly, looking for wounds.

“We’re alright, Dean. We survived. You’re safe.”

Dean looked out the window, eyes far away.

“I think Chuck had something to do with it,” Castiel prompted. They had discussed things on and off this past week, but neither could make heads of tails of Dean’s recklessness. “Whatever he said was enough to make Dean forget all reason.”

“What did he want?” Sam demanded. Castiel knew he should stop Sam from asking so many questions, but he’d been stewing for a week. Sam was allowed to be upset. They’d both been worrying themselves to death over why Dean did this.

Dean took a long sip of his water cup and sighed heavily. He had to try twice to get the words out. “The Imp. Either I give up the Imp, or your doctorate was fucked. One deployment in a twister and the Imp is ours.”

“Dean…” Sam was shocked. “You’re an idiot!”

“She’s ours, Sam! She’s mine. She's our brand, my baby. Our channel wouldn’t be the same without her.”

“And now, neither will your life,” Sam snarled, using one crutch, stomped outside, leaving just Dean and Castiel alone in the room.

Dean groaned and punched hard into the bed repeatedly until he exhausted himself. Castiel waited until Dean had punched all the fear and shame out into his pillow before he approached and took Sam’s vacated seat.

“We’ve been taking turns watching over you.” He didn’t mention he had barely left this room in a week, knew how many tiles made up the ceiling, and how many made up the floor. He was familiar with the nurses’ schedules and knew which ones were more lenient and which ones were stricter. He knew when the sun rose over the parking lot outside and how long it took to walk to the cafeteria for coffee (5 minutes and 43 seconds round trip). Sam had been kind enough to supply him with one of those massive clover honey bears for all those coffees.

Now, Dean was awake. Castiel tried to hold back from touching Dean. It would hurt so much more if he gave in to the urge.

But then, Dean held out his arms, eyes bright, lip quivering, and Castiel’s resolve crumbled. He sat on the edge of the bed and held Dean gently. And he let Dean cry into his shoulder for a long time as he rubbed soothing circles on his back. He was an ugly, sobbing mess. “This isn’t the end, Dean. You can prevail, I know you can.” He held tight to Dean, trying hard to keep himself together. His throat was closing up with the sheer amount of fear and anguish Dean shook with. The nurses didn’t need to find both of them a weepy mess. But he couldn’t do it. Tears escaped him. That seemed to startle Dean, and he pulled back and touched Castiel’s wet cheek.

Castiel pulled back and handed Dean several tissues from the box on the side table. Dean blew his nose noisily and tossed the tissue across the room, missing the trash can by a mile. Dean reached down and touched the empty space again as Castiel picked up the tissue and threw it away. He sighed. “I…tried.”

“You saved me,” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged helplessly. “Not your leg.”

“But you saved me. I remember dying, Cas. I remember being in the light and then your handsome ass zapped back into my body.”

He said it so casually, like Castiel’s failure wasn’t just his own. Dean saw it himself. His face burned with shame. Never mind all the implications that there was an afterlife, something beyond all this. Looks like Gabriel had been right on that account. Castiel tried to deflect. “Well, you saved mine in the laundromat that first night. I had nothing left. If I hadn’t found you, I might have walked into traffic by accident or on purpose. You saved me. Giving me purpose and helping me find my faith again.”

“Sounds like we came full circle,” Dean said. He petted the little dragon and sniffled. He wiped his eyes. “Can you find Sam?”

“Sure.” He popped his head outside, and Sam leaned against the hallway wall, face in his hands. He patted Sam's shoulder and nodded. “Dean wants to speak to you.”

He held open the door so Sam hobbled inside, face unreadable as he sat in his vacated chair.

“Sorry, guys, but I don’t think a beach trip is happening,” Dean said forlornly. When they just stared at him, he cleared his throat. “Look…I’m sorry, alright? I fucked up.” They were quiet for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Sam’s anger deflated as tears filled his eyes. He leaned in and pulled Dean into an awkward hug.

“You’re a fucking idjit,” Sam said, voice heavy with relief when he pulled back.

Dean tapped his fingers on his thigh. “So…Sammy…what happened to her?”

“She was about six hundred feet from you in that field. And no scrap marks on the ground either. She sailed clean over,” Sam said. Even Castiel could tell from the awe in his voice that it was an impressive feat. “She’s completely gutted. She was chewed up and spit out, but her armor managed to hang on.”

“And us? We were out of its path. What happened?”

“The tornado had a satellite, Dean. The supercell created another tornado that circled the original funnel. You couldn’t see it, but the twin sideswiped you guys first, then the main EF-5 hit, like a one-two knockout. They think the satellite was a high EF-3.” Sam rubbed a hand over his face.

Castiel knew this tornado would be on all their PTSD nightmare rotation for the rest of their lives. He still heard the growl of the winds as the asphalt was ripped off the ground, the Imp thrown easily into the darkness, debris flying over their heads, parts of roofs and walls flying by, and the pain in his back. He’d been managing fine with over-the-counter pain pills for his shoulders, but he’d barely been sleeping.

“So, we got Clever Girled by a pair of tornadoes.” Dean summed up, and that made Sam smile for the first time in a week. Dean was weak and just sat for a moment trying to gather his breath. “Sammy, please tell me you got your data?”

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, Dean. Direct hit. The probe was demolished, but we got the readings we needed before it disintegrated. The Imp cataloged winds just over 250 mph before her swan song.”

“How the hell did we survive?” Dean asked. “250…the only way to survive that is by being underground.” He looked between them, face growing pale as he trembled. “How did we live?”

“I don’t know. Cas pulled you into the ditch, and some debris protected you. I’ve been sending my thanks to God and every angel I can think of,” Sam said, with a knowing look to Castiel because he had seen the painting on the wall too when he and Gabriel had found them. Neither mentioned how many hours they shared over the past week in the hospital’s church, with bent heads, waiting for Dean to wake up.

Dean gave Castiel a knowing smile. “Hey angel…” he had whispered when he returned. Castiel wondered if that gray angel had something to do with their survival.

Dean lay his head back against the bed and sighed in relief. “I’m glad, Sammy. Really glad.” For the first time, something like hope filled Dean’s eyes. He looked at Toothless again and grinned at them. “Cas, Sam. Mark my words. If Hiccup can learn to ride Toothless missing a leg, I can learn to drive the Imp.”

“The Imp?” Sam’s face screwed up. “Dean, that’s …why?”

Dean smiled. “It’s personal, now. I’ve got a bone to pick with Mother Nature. Exactly how many bones I lost. And I still have the best tool to get ahead of the game. The Imp could handle an EF-4. But we got taken out by an EF-5. I can build her better. This time, we are paying for her with cold, hard cash we get ourselves. No one will own her, or me. I’m not a marionette anymore. Once you get your doctorate, you won’t be either.”

“Trust me, I will be giving Chuck a piece of my mind,” Sam promised darkly.

“Hey, don’t break your hand now. You never could follow through on a punch.” Dean warned.

Sam just shook his head, flexing his hand and fingers as if preparing them to do exactly that.

“Promise me you’ll at least wait til you get your doctorate,” Dean said.

“Fine, Dean, I swear.”

“Sam. You should know that it’s easy to make it look like an accident if you trip him down the stairs,” Castiel said. He felt Chuck deserved more than that–he did have a great right hook–but he didn’t want Dean to worry further.

Sam nodded in agreement. “Thanks for that food for thought.”

As Dean pet Toothless, he wore a small smile at their antics. Castiel turned to him, growing serious. “Dean, you should know that no one would blame you for retiring.”

“Nah. It’s gonna take a while, but I can do it.” There was a fire in his eyes, and Castiel knew Dean would be okay. “But I need both of you there. We make a hell of a team. And with climate change taking hold, the storms might even become year-round, and they’ll only get stronger. It’s all hands on deck. If El Reno couldn’t keep down Tim Samaras, then Lucifer isn’t keeping Dean Winchester down, either.

Sam and Castiel’s eyes met. “Right.” Castiel thought of the check Sam had given him a few days ago. Explaining that it was Castiel’s agreed-upon fee, Dean had tightened his belt on the trip as much as possible to make sure he got every penny. It burned in his pocket.

The door knocked, and a doctor, a nurse, Bobby, and Rufus appeared behind them. There was a celebration as Dean was alive, then a smack upside the head from Bobby before he and Rufus hugged him. Bobby gave Castiel a thankful nod.

Rufus gave him a crisp salute from his days as a ranger in Vietnam. Castiel returned it. They had bonded over beers and war stories when Rufus snuck a six-pack in one night. Castiel wondered if it was also to gauge his character. “Your vigil’s over, son. Thank you for your service.” Rufus whispered.

They finished the salute in tandem, and Castiel had to work to keep his eyes from filling. It felt like he was now just…dangling helplessly in the air, falling without a parachute. He had no ground, nowhere to aim.

Bobby was quiet but kind, and Castiel saw his influence on Sam and Dean right away. He knew why these boys cherished these men so much.

The doctor and nurse informed Dean of his options, how he would need physical therapy, and the surgeries they performed to save his life. The scene was odd, since Castiel never saw this side of life after he saved them. He ensured that people were medically sound to access the proper doctors and specialists. He never had to wonder about the next steps for someone with a new disability.

Dean was overwhelmed, but Castiel stood as far apart as he could without leaving the room. He desperately wanted to hold Dean’s hand, but he couldn’t do it.

Castiel needed to leave.

This wasn’t his fight anymore. There was no way Dean would want him around as a constant reminder of the worst day of his life. Castiel was going to be without Dean, and it ripped his soul apart. Leaving Dean behind at his lowest point, too? It was an awful betrayal of the extraordinary friendship they had cultivated. But Castiel convinced himself that this was best for everyone. Dean had his family and his supporters. He would be okay.

Whether Castiel would be was a different question.

Once visiting hours were over, Rufus, Bobby, and Sam headed out to their shared hotel room nearby. Tomorrow, they would finally start moving forward with their new lives. “Cas? Aren’t you staying?” Sam asked when he tried to follow them out.

“I…don’t you think you should?” He asked instead.

“I need to sleep on a bed, man. The doctor says I’m going to need a longer recovery because of all the running around.”

But Dean, watching this back and forth, grew cold. “Geez, Sam, I’m a grown man. If Cas doesn’t want to stay, don’t make him.” He crossed his arms and huffed.

Sam shook his head and mouthed, “Talk to him,” before slipping out.

Castiel sighed. He and Sam had several discussions during the past week. Sam didn’t hate him anymore–he can’t, knowing Dean was alive due to him. So, Sam knew something was between them and was trying to help in his own way. Sweet, but ultimately misguided. Castiel couldn’t stay, which also means the odd friendship they’ve started forming will end, too.

He pulled out the cot and laid it out next to the bed. “They’ve allowed you an overnight guest because of what happened. I’ve been here every night.”

“Hope you like cartoons,” Dean said as he used the TV remote to put on some Scooby-Doo reruns.

“You can watch what you want,” Castiel said. But instead of settling on his cot, he watched Dean mouthing along to every word with a little smile on his face anyway. Toothless was in Dean’s lap, positioned so that he also faced the TV. Castiel’s stomach rolled at the asymmetrical lumps under the blanket.

When it finally went to commercial break, Dean looked down at him. He patted the side of the bed. “I won’t bite unless you ask.”

Castiel swallowed, feeling lost. “Dean, I…don’t know what to do.”

Dean sighed heavily. “Let me guess. Taking off with your brother?” Why did Dean sound so defeated?

Castiel shook his head. “He already asked me. He wasn’t able to stay until you recovered, and I wouldn’t leave until you were conscious. He had another tour booked up in Nebraska, but he and Sam have been talking every day.”

“Oh. Then, are you heading back to Illinois? I’m sure Sam can figure out a ride for you.”

“I mean…Shea would probably take me in, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest.”

Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes. Was he pushing Castiel away on purpose? His face suddenly seemed so young and fragile. Like Dean wasn’t the toughest man in the world, but was just a barely held together papier-mache statue. “I don’t want to leave you, Dean. That’s my problem.”

Dean watched him, petting Toothless as he did so. “You want to stay? With me?”

“Dean…I want you to know, without a doubt, that I…” Dean was watching him so intently, and he lost his nerve. “...yes, I want to stay.” It was close enough to the truth. “But…”

Dean’s face fell. “But what?”

“I have to leave. Because there’s no way you’ll want me around. I’m too much of a reminder of what went wrong. I wasn’t good enough to save your leg. I don’t think I would want to see me under such circumstances.”

“Cas, quite putting words in my mouth.” Dean scooted over and patted for Castiel to sit by him. “I don’t want you to leave–I want to be selfish and ask you to stay.”

Instead of focusing on the first part of Dean’s statement, he got hung up on the phrasing for the second part. Castiel tilted his head and squinted. “Why would that be selfish?”

“Because you’re awesome and deserve someone better than a chronic fuck-up like me.”

It seemed that he and Dean weren’t so dissimilar after all. “Dean, you’re forgetting that you’re also the most compassionate man I’ve ever met. You’ve been kind to me when no one else was. Do we make mistakes? Yes, we're only human. But you’re brilliant, and resilient. You will persevere.”

“You know all that shit applies to you, you know?” Dean said wisely.

It took a moment for him to wrap his head around that. If Dean said it, perhaps there was still hope for him, too. “Then yes, I want to stay with you, Dean. Like you said, we make an excellent team.”

Castiel finally allowed himself to sit next to Dean and breathed in Dean’s scent. The antiseptic hospital stink muddied it, but he didn’t care. “You know, I’m a medic. I can help you adjust to your new life.” He had already researched the best physical therapy in Sioux Falls, and his check will cover it nicely.

“You mean my new limitations,” Dean grumbled bitterly.

“You should know I only say what I mean. I meant life. I want to be there for you. For every stumble and every fall.”

“Cas, I need you to understand it’s not because of what you can do for me. I just …want you around.” He picked at the scratchy blanket. “You make things better. The scary shit isn’t so bad with you by my side.”

Castiel swallowed hard. It healed something in his heart he never knew needed healing. If Dean wanted to continue their friendship, he would do so.

Dean smiled shyly. “But, I need you to know I don’t want you as my best friend. I mean, not only that.”

Castiel’s heart skipped a beat as his mind came to a screeching halt. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You see, there’s a pretty big fall I’m more concerned about. I’ve never done it before. Worried about skinning my knees on the way down.”

Castiel and Dean’s eyes met for a moment, and he almost swooned. His beautiful, field green eyes were full of adoration. It was overwhelming to be on the receiving end of such affection. Castiel wondered if this was what Dean saw when he looked at him. Heaven knew Castiel had not been subtle with his fondness for Dean. “That one? It’s not so bad,” Castiel teased, a slight smile on his lips. For once, he felt like he had the upper hand in a situation. “I promise to catch you.”

“You mean that, angel?” Dean whispered.

“Yes, Dean. I only mean what I say.” Castiel smiled brightly. “And in this case, you should know that I love you. More than you can possibly imagine.”

Dean breathed in deeply and sighed happily. “I love you, too, Cas,” he whispered. Castiel melted, hearing those words he never thought he’d hear from the world’s most wonderful man.

Dean wove their fingers together and kissed him gently on the mouth. Castiel could finally replace the memory of cold, stiff lips with warm, slightly chapped but soft ones.

The heart rate monitor narced on them by beeping faster–Castiel soon heard footsteps coming. He plopped onto his cot just in time for the night nurse to poke her head in and raise an eyebrow at them. “No getting handsy, gentlemen–your man needs to rest,” She pointedly told Castiel.

Dean saluted. “Aye aye, Cap’n.” She rolled her eyes as she closed the door, and they burst into quiet laughter.

Heeding her warning, as Castiel knew she was one of the stricter nurses, he stayed in his cot, and Dean returned to his cartoon, but they still managed to hold hands, even though it was a little awkward.

Castiel glanced around the room to see his three squadmates again. All sepia brown, like old pictures. Except they didn’t scare Castiel anymore. He knew his PTSD wasn’t gone for good. His nightmares would still be there. But his guilt at not saving them had been lifted. He felt…alive…for the first time in a long time.

Hopeful.

He and Dean, like everyone who survives a disaster, would pick up the pieces and continue on. It’s what humanity did.

When he blinked, they were gone. His penance was completed. A weight was finally lifted from his chest. Now, he could start living again.

Castiel watched Dean and smiled softly to himself. No matter what happened next, he would walk with Dean to the ends of the earth: in sickness and in health, through storms and hell itself.

~THE END~

Chapter Text

~One Month Later~

Sam managed to grit his teeth and earn his doctorate with flying colors. Due to Dean's extended need for a cast and the nature of his hospitalization, Sam’s graduation was pushed back. Dr. Shirley then handled the presentation of his diploma after he defended his thesis. It came off as him being kind to Sam in a time of need. Normally, Sam preened at such attention, but today it made his blood boil. Especially when he referred to it as “an unfortunate accident.”

As soon as he had his diploma, Sam could no longer keep his anger in check.

Sure, Dr. Shirley didn’t make him go after the Lucien county tornado in the dark by himself; Dean made that call and paid for it. Sam still got a lump in his throat whenever he saw that bandaged knee. Sam inadvertently helped Chuck back Dean into a corner. And for that, Sam can’t forgive himself.

So, he took that roiling anger out on Chuck’s face.

The sucker punch knocked his professor stumbling to the floor. Chuck was horrified and mortified, cradling his busted cheek as Sam towered over him in a fury, shaking out his hand. “I know what you said to him, Chuck.” Sam hissed. “Dean’s missing his leg now, and I can’t forgive that.” He meant it mostly to himself.

“I’m sorry about what happened, but I didn’t make him go after that tornado, Sam. You heard me say only chase what you can manage safely. He wanted to go off galavanting into the night, that’s his call.” Chuck said as he got to his feet, his face already gaining a nice purple shiner. He brushed his clothes off with as much grace as he could muster. “We’ll call it even.”

Sam spun on his good heel and hobbled out of Chuck’s office with as much righteous anger and dignity as he could muster with a boot on. He gripped the paper in his hands.

I’m not done with Chuck just yet.

It didn’t take long for Sam to find what he was looking for in Dean’s email: Chuck’s contract, signed with Dean’s familiar signature. It spelled out everything in black and white.

If the good doctor thought he had the situation under control, he had another thing coming. It was a terrible day for him when the full story of Dean’s accident and injuries came out, along with that contract being dropped online.

The storm-chasing community wanted blood; people fought for days over what had happened. Videos were made, there were comment threads with hundreds of responses–the heat just wouldn’t die down. Even after a week, it just wouldn’t quit. Even the civilian media released the story, and Dean’s hospital phone had to be disconnected because reporters kept trying to call him.

Sam and Gabriel’s plan was two-fold. Once Sam uploaded the documents, Gabriel kept the flames online by poking and prodding at everyone to keep the story going, maintaining pressure as long as possible.

Ultimately, Chuck was let go from his position at the college, and Charlie found herself in charge of the DOW and the team the following season. She was not exactly thrilled about the sudden promotion, but she took it in stride and said they needed more female leaders in STEM, anyway. Pamela even offered to be her driver next year.

Dean was relieved to hear of his firing–a weight seemed to lift right off his shoulders. While Sam never confirmed it was them, Dean grumbled anyway. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”

Sam met Gabriel’s eyes, and they both laughed at that. “It’s alright, Dean-o. We all need some assistance from time to time.” Gabriel said knowingly. “All you can do is put your best foot forward.”

He froze like a deer caught in car headlights when he remembered who he was talking to. Sam’s cast had been downgraded to a walking boot, but Dean was on crutches and a wheelchair.

It was Castiel’s deadpan delivery of “Really?” that made everyone laugh. They would figure things out, together.

~*~

~One Year Later~

On their one-year anniversary of the accident, Dean, Castiel, and Sam finally got that beach trip.

Unlike the previous year, which had a spectacular finale to a quiet year weather-wise, this year had been quiet all season, except for occasional storms. Since Gabriel was doing very little business, he offered a private tour to Sam, Dean, and Castiel, a week-long vacation to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. It was offered at a very steep discount, and Sam happily footed the bill for them, as both an anniversary gift for Dean and Cas, but also an apology.

They arrived in early June, just before hurricane season and the crowds of the July 4th holiday. No one was particularly interested in going hurricane hunting.

The warm sandy beaches and cool gray Atlantic were precisely what the doctor ordered. And he marked this momentous occasion with a homemade, wooden peg leg. He beamed at the jokes from onlookers and made Castiel take lots of pictures in funny poses on the beach before he swapped it out for his actual prosthetic, a mix of metal and plastic, lightweight enough to handle the sand without issue.

Dean had worked his ass off to be up and walking in less than a year. It had taken hundreds of hours, dozens of fights, breakdowns, near misses, and backwards steps. At times, Castiel almost went out looking for pills to ease the frustration and guilt. But he didn’t. He stayed by Dean’s side, and now he was walking on his own volition. Castiel was brought to tears at his triumph.

Sam also had to wipe his eyes as he watched his brother walk for the first time on his own.

Gabriel just slapped him on the back with a hearty congratulations and almost knocked him right into a dune.

Luckily, Sam was there to catch them both.

Castiel couldn’t help but notice how Dean was a little crooked on his new leg. After all, it didn’t have the bow he originally had. But it was a cute quirk. I wonder if Dean could make a wooden leg with that curve, again.

Casriel needed the fresh air and sunshine, too. The South Dakota winter had indeed been rough this past year; he was used to 120-degree weather with a seventy-pound back on his shoulders, not four feet of snow at negative twenty.

They spent a lot of time together, as well as with their own brothers, and it was a truly bonding experience to stay in a house on stilts near the ocean for a week. Sure, they almost killed each other, Gabriel was still a prankster at heart, and Sam and Castiel were usually at his and Dean’s combined mercy, but it made Castiel happy to know this was his new family. He loved them all, even Sam.

Sand castle contest, visiting a rum distillery, checking out the lost colony of Roanoke play, visiting the reenactment ships, and the lost colony of Roanoke itself. Seeing the wild horses during the day and at night, Dean and Sam try and fail to catch ghost crabs, instead finding a crowd watching sea turtle eggs hatch, the babies flopping towards freedom in the open ocean. It was the best vacation Castiel ever had. And the end of the day was the best part, where they could sleep in a queen bed, tangled up in soft sheets and softer words.

In fact, Castiel was so full of love and devotion for Dean that he proposed to him on their last day, on the last beach walk. He made sure they were out of sight of any crowds and pulled the thrifted silver band from his pocket.

Dean cried, and while he might deny it later, Sam had photographic evidence of the messy tears and the messy kiss. He was too busy to notice how Gabriel gave him a longing once-over.

The ring was perfectly sized.

~*~

Their wedding was small, held in the field behind the junkyard and officiated by Pamela. Shea was Castiel’s best man, and played her part to a tee, being his open shoulder to cry on when things got tough and helping him keep his nerves as the appointed time grew closer. She even came prepared with two custom t-shirts that declared: ‘I met my husband at Gas-N-Sip and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.’ She truly was someone special.

Dean had Sam as his best man, and Gabriel worked as the event coordinator with Charlie.

Shea's father tagged along to meet the storm chasers who survived the impossible. Some DOW members, like Charlie and Kevin, showed up, and some chasers, like Andy, tagged along as well. He’d gotten along with Gabriel like white on rice, much to Sam’s chagrin.

Nobody had a dry eye out in the field, with its colorful wildflowers and baby blue sky as far as the eye could see. Especially not when Bobby walked Dean down the aisle and Rufus had to hand him a handkerchief to dab his eyes, mumbling about his allergies.

Castiel couldn’t remember ever being so full of happiness, to the point his chest hurt. They wore suits, his forest green, Dean’s sky blue.

Castiel didn’t know how he had gotten here, sharing his joy with friends and family who mattered. They only recorded the ceremony for themselves.

Castiel made sure to shove the cake in Dean’s face gently but surely. It was messy, fun, and life-affirming. Dean wore his prosthetic easily now, and they even managed to dance a slow little number without losing his footing or stepping on Castiel’s toes.

On the horizon was the flickering of summer lightning as a thunderstorm passed over the horizon. Ten different people checked their radar apps to confirm it wasn’t severe. Afterward, everyone paused for a moment to appreciate the heavenly fireworks before the party continued late into the night.

~*~

~Three years later~

Some things never changed, no matter how long you were away from them.

The Imp was ready, Dean was ready; even Castiel was eager to get going. This new season started dropping tornadoes in February, and Dean was biting at the bit to get back on the road. The first hint of spring, once the roads thawed, and they were ready for the long haul. Castiel had spent the winter reorganizing and expanding their medical supplies and rations, including a bunch of MREs from a local army supply store.

The new Imp smelled like freshly welded steel, the black ice car freshener, and new leather. It smelled like Dean, with notes of oil and cinnamon, and a hint of musk from his deodorant. It smelled like home in a way their apartment didn’t. It felt like returning home after a long deployment away. Castiel was surprised at how much he missed this magnificent machine. He patted the dashboard and made sure Toothless was back in his post, looking out at the new impact-resistant plastic that made up the windshield.

“Hi ho silver, away!” Dean crowed as they left his garage for the first time since the accident, using a newly installed hand clutch for the pedals. “You with me, Cas?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Castiel is always happy to answer it honestly.

“Always.” He held Dean’s hand, silver band glinting in the morning light, and kissed the back of it. Dean rolled his eyes but blushed happily, anyway. “Though sometimes we end up in places we shouldn’t.”

“It’s all just part of the adventure,” Dean said wisely, and Castiel had to agree.

They were chasing a random supercell that had some oddly high CAPE values. It was the only blip on the radar for half the state around them. If it dropped, which Castiel felt could happen at any moment, they were ready with a new camera.

The adrenaline rush of a drop from a C-130 was remarkably similar to that of an EF-2 funnel on the ground in South Dakota.

Castiel found he had missed it something fierce. And from the way Dean was whooping and hollering, he did as well.

They pulled over onto the shoulder and hopped out to get a look at their storm. The familiar feeling was back in his stomach. Dean’s face beamed like the sun as he waited for Castiel to join him by his side to inspect the slate gray storm clouds. Their fingers curled together as they held hands and just breathed. The familiar scent of flowers, grasses, and wet earth filled the air. The air was warm, which meant the storm was lively.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Dean said, shoulders slumping as he relaxed.

“Me, too,” Castiel said warmly. “Sam asked for pictures.” He broke away from his husband and pulled out his camera phone. Dean rolled his eyes, but he posed by lifting his prosthetic leg and placing it on the new fender, which was both shiny and polished. The new Imp, Imp II, or Impii for short, was ready for her close-up.

“Come on, Cas, you don’t have any excuses not to get some pics, too.” It was true. Castiel had bulked up in the three years since Dean found him after the mugging. A lot of it from him physically helping Dean get back on his feet.

Castiel still woke up once a week to nightmares–dead squad replaced with high winds and a dead Dean. But it helped to wake in Dean’s arms every morning.

Living in Sioux Falls had been an adjustment, but he had been the happiest he had been in his life. Reconnecting with Gabriel, meeting Dean's family, and becoming friends with Sam have all been wonderful experiences. His work as a local emergency dispatcher had been rough, but rewarding. This break was desperately needed.

He was hoping to change gears and start a nonprofit that helps victims after natural disasters with food and medical help. The speaking fees and YouTube money had helped a lot towards that goal.

They still uploaded, mostly personal vlogs about Dean recovering and his work on the new Imp. And this year, Sam’s new position at the Storm Prediction Center in Norman, Oklahoma, was met with lots of congratulations for his genius baby brother. Dean knew the kid would one day be the one helping with the warnings when shit hit the fan. It was sad that Sam was so far away, but Dean knew he had Gabriel keeping an eye out for him.

Dean smiled as they watched a funnel touch the ground about three miles away. A strong wind blew a tree branch towards them, and Dean caught it one-handed. He immediately held it up and started singing the theme song from The Avengers. “Cas, did you see that?”

“I think Thor approves,” Castiel joked. As Dean scrambled down, he told him, “This is just getting our feet wet. We don’t have to intercept anything.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Where’s the fun in that? Let’s get going. I’ve built her to tank winds over 250, but obviously haven’t had the chance to try it out.” The spikes were strengthened, and the steel sheets were on a different system, allowing them to deploy faster. She now had three axles to accommodate the extra protective weight. He had also included soundproofing so that those hailstones wouldn't be as ear-splitting in the future.

She also had a new black box on her outer shell, with explicit instructions from Charlie that the data he collected from close calls was just an extra benefit, and he shouldn’t go galavanting off just for their sake. The Chuck incident was still fresh on their minds.

The thing was, Dean was happy to help when it was on his own terms. He still planned to surprise the new DOW students later this year with a tour of the new Imp.

Castiel followed Dean back into the Imp. “We can’t go too crazy,” he reminded Dean. “We have a summit to get to in a few days in Oklahoma.”

“Boo, a room full of nerds,” Dean said, but he was only being playful. He and Twistex had been invited to speak about their close tornado calls to discuss better storm-chasing conditions and how to help new people to the field avoid injury. As Samaras said a long time ago, it was only a matter of time before the house won the pot. “I’d rather stay home and storm chase with you.”

Castiel kissed Dean fiercely. He now understood the call of the storms, how it sang in your blood. “You are home,” he said. “As long as we have each other, we are.”

Since there was no one around to witness him melt in his husband’s arms, Dean allowed himself to do so just a little bit. Dean still looked at the storm a little too long–Castiel decided to tell him what he was sworn to secrecy about.

“Gabriel plans to pop the question to Sam while there,” Castiel whispered secretively. He thought about the custom ring Gabriel had made, a branching path of silvery lightning carved into a black band. “I never thought lightning would strike me twice. I’ll be luckier still if Samitch accepts.”

“About damn time!” Dean grumbled as they hopped back into the Imp and drove after the needlelike tornado squirming in the fields. “The orbiting thing they’ve been doing has been driving me nuts!” His face screwed up in confusion for a few seconds. “Wait, when did they start dating?”

Castiel sighed. “They haven’t, officially. But they are best friends who live together and have sex. I think they are, but Sam hasn’t realized it yet.”

That made Dean laugh heartily. “Sam surprises me how he can be the world’s smartest dumbass, sometimes.”

Castiel chuckled. “Well, to each their own.”

They gave chase, Castiel filming and directing, Dean driving down the highway as they followed their tornado. Across the road, Dean and Castiel filmed and witnessed a red pickup truck being brushed by the passing tornado, which spun around multiple times before almost being pushed into the ditch. Still, the other driver managed to keep himself upright and burned rubber down the road to escape. “That’s what a Chevy can do!” Dean yelled with a fist pump.

After the driver drove away unhurt, their tornado spun out, but Dean had excellent fodder for their next upload, and they were alive. Castiel’s heart only raced a little bit as he held Dean’s hand tightly.

“We’re good, Cas, she won’t let us down,” he said brightly. They pulled over and studied the storm for a moment. “Anything?”

Castiel shook his head. “I think she was a one-and-done.”

Dean checked the radar on the new laptop. “Yeah, the cell is falling apart.” He pouted. “Should we head for Oke, now, like reasonable adults, or something?”

“Yes. There will be plenty of opportunities later.” The Gulf was bathtub hot, and the La Niña weather pattern was going strong, which meant stronger storm squalls were predicted. But Dean had built the Imp to handle another Lucifer, and Castiel had complete faith in his husband’s mechanical prowess.

Dean squeezed Castiel’s hand as they turned around to continue their original plan to Norman. But of course, Castiel knew some things would always be up in the air.

“Oh! Since we're going to Oklahoma, we gotta stop by the Twister museum in Wichita! Please, sweetheart?”

Like that. “We’ve been on the road for an hour and you already want to detour,” Castiel huffed. When Dean cut his wide eyes and pouty lips at him, he held up his hands. “On the way back,” he offered.

“Hells, yeah,” Dean pumped his fist. As the opening bars to AC/DC’s Back in Black filled the cab, filling Castiel’s chest with the familiar rumbling bass, Castiel knew he was home.

He and Dean would handle any punches life threw at them together. Til death do us part.

~The (Actual) End~