Chapter Text
They don’t kiss again. Things are not weird or tense or anything Diego was afraid of, and they continue their drive to South Dakota in a relaxed, peaceful fashion. But they don’t kiss again because…well, Diego actually has no idea why.
He wakes up when his head smacks against the window, and looks up just in time to see a sign spelling out “Singer’s salvage yard” in faded, rusty metallic letters.
Dean drives them past rows of wrecked, steel skeletons of cars and trucks, and Diego suddenly feels nervous. What if Bobby doesn’t like him?
He knows John is a finicky person, but he met him a long time ago, before Dean became this important to him. And to Diego’s understanding, he likes him- to a certain extent at least.
But he doesn’t know Bobby.
(And where exactly does Diego stand with Dean now?)
“God, I can’t wait to sleep in an actual bed,” Dean moans, turning down the radio.
Diego frowns because, “Every motel we stopped at had a bed, Dean.”
“Yeah, but not a real bed. You know, a bed that just one person slept in.”
In that case, Diego thinks none of his siblings had ‘an actual bed’. He’s sure that everyone shared with someone at least once.
“You’re awfully picky about sleeping arrangements for someone who lives out of a car,” he tells Dean.
Dean makes a dismissive noise and stops the car. They’re parked behind a truck, another one parked next to the house, slightly rusted and with a dog lying on the hood. It barks at them once, and then rests its head on its front paws, deciding that’s enough.
Diego looks curiously, feeling a childish urge to go pet it. It would probably be a stupid thing to do, considering the dog doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t know the dog, and he’d probably lose a few fingers- but that doesn’t mean he can’t entertain the idea in his head.
“Alright, let’s go,” Dean says, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in excitement, and gets out. Diego follows after him.
The house itself has seen better times, definitely. What with its peeling paint and shabby looking porch. But the longer Diego looks, the more charming, in a weird way, it gets. It looks lived in, he thinks would be a good word choice while taking his bag from Dean.
He hears the door open and sees John walking down the porch, looking them over.
“About the time. We thought you boys got lost,” he says. Diego would’ve mistaken it for a jab if not for an amused glint in his eyes. It reminds him strangely of Luther. His brother might be serious most of the time, but there were moments when his subtle sense of humor surprised them all. Much later because they would hardly notice he’s joking at the time, but Diego can admire him for being low-key about one thing at least.
Dean huffs, “We’re not that late,” he whines.
John claps him on the shoulder on the way up the stairs and gives Diego a nod of greeting. He returns it, at once keen on an idea of sleep in a horizontal position as well.
At the doorway, an older man is currently giving Dean a hug. Brief as it is, but it’s still more than Diego ever got from Reginald. He tries to imagine it; a hug with his father, and feels uneasy. Especially as his mind immediately supplies him with a needle to push in Diego’s neck and electrodes to stick to his head.
“Don’t just stand there,” he jerks out of his thoughts as the voice snaps, “get your ass inside and stop blocking the door.”
He hears Dean snicker from the hallway and considers throwing him a dirty look, but in the end, he decides on focusing on shuffling inside the house and away from the door as fast as he can- without making it look like he’s hurrying, of course.
Once inside, the man sticks his hand out to him and says curtly, “Bobby Singer.”
“Diego,” he takes his hand, and adds-because it’s only fair-, “Hargreeves,” and waits for a reaction.
Bobby just nods, giving his hand a firm shake, before disappearing further into the house with an off-handed, “Make yourself at home.”
If Diego was feeling bitter, he’d say that he doesn’t really know how to do that. But mostly he’s just confused by this whole interaction and tired from the trip, so he mutely follows Dean- who is still snickering to himself quietly- up the stairs. He trips him on their way up, and that does make him feel a little bit better.
- ●●●●
He wakes up way too early, with dawn lighting up the room with a soft orange glow, and Dean still snoring in the bed next to his. Diego wonders how that’s even possible since his face is shoved into the pillow (then wonders why is he so concerned with other people’s sleeping habits and positions), and crawls out of his bed soundlessly, sneaking out of the room on the tips of his toes.
He washes his face and brushes his teeth in the bathroom, then pads down the stairs. There’s a clattering noise coming from one of the rooms, and footsteps, so he follows it.
In the kitchen, Bobby is banging around with various bowls and pans, pot on the stove wafting out a strong smell of coffee.
“Morning,” he says.
Bobby grunts before returning the greeting, adds, “Take some coffee.”
Diego pours himself a cup, even though he’s not much of a coffee drinker. And in the end, he adds enough milk that the liquid turns beige, so he doesn’t know if it qualifies as coffee anymore.
He drinks in silence while Bobby presumably makes breakfast. He compares it to Mom’s routine, then feels ridiculous for it, and after that acutely aware of how much he misses her.
- ●●●●
When the two of them have eaten their breakfasts, Bobby shoves a plate with leftovers in his hands and tells him to give them to Rumsfeld. So here Diego is now, wondering how to go about feeding the dog from the hood without losing his fingers.
Rumsfeld barks at him, tail wagging with enough force his whole rear is moving. He’s a pretty big dog, he notices.
“Okay,” he says, not sure if he’s addressing himself or the dog, but then continues, “I have food for you.”
And when Rumsfeld strains against his chain, he adds with a frown, “Please don’t bite my fingers off.”
He picks up one piece of bacon and shuffles closer, keeps rambling.
“I kinda need my hands to work. Can’t throw shit if I can’t pick it up.” He’s talking to a dog, which is ridiculous. But so is everything else in his life.
He throws the bacon and watches as it disappears in Rumsfeld’s mouth, reasonably intimidated by a snap of sharp teeth.
But at the same time, he doesn’t actually have anything else to do. At least for now.
He keeps feeding Rumsfeld for a while, and when the plate is empty, he just sits on an empty gas container with the dog ignoring him in favor of sprawling over the ground at his feet and taking a nap.
He just sits there until he hears the door open and Dean’s feet walk toward him.
Diego glances at him for a moment when he stops next to him before going back to watching Rumsfeld sleeping.
“What are you doing?” Dean asks.
Diego shrugs. “Nothing? What time is it?”
“Eight,” Dean says through a yawn, “Dad woke me up for breakfast. You already ate with Bobby?”
“Mhm.”
He still wants to pet Rumsfeld, but he’s not sure how to do that. He doesn’t think Rumsfeld would really bite him, but what if he startles him? Should he just…touch him?
Dean is silent for a beat. Then he crouches down, calling out, “Rumsfeld!”
The dog perks up, climbing to his feet and going to nuzzle at Dean’s outstretched hand, tail wagging happily.
“Hey, boy,” Dean coos at the dog, scrubbing his fingers through his fur. He looks up at Diego and offers him a hand.
He takes it, not sure why, but then Dean’s tugging him down, closer. He doesn’t have a choice except to crouch as well.
Slowly, Dean shoves both of their hands in Rumsfeld’s fur and Diego carefully keeps his face from making any embarrassing expressions.
The fur is thick and not as soft as he expected it to be, but there’s a certain joy in petting a dog, he thinks. He knows a lot of people loves that; he doubts that dogs would be very popular pets if they didn’t.
(People tend to keep things that benefit them in some way- he should know, his father did that.)
He thinks about Five, who loved dogs, and Klaus, who brought one home when they were 14, and Luther and Ben, who seemed most sad when Reginald refused to let them keep it. Allison cried but it was a short episode and Vanya didn’t have much of a reaction, despite being the one who cared for the dog while they trained. Diego liked it well enough, but he knew there was no chance of Dad letting them keep it.
Dean’s hand is warm, still covering his own, and Diego thinks, this is when they kiss.
He doesn’t have the guts, though, because Dean hasn’t brought it up yet, and he didn’t ask Diego to share a bed last night and he didn’t- he didn’t do anything.
He loops both arms around Rumsfeld’s neck, causing the dog to lean into him and bring him down on his ass. He settles over Diego’s lap then, enjoying the scritches and petting.
Diego doesn’t dare to look up at Dean.