Chapter Text
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Dean picks up the check, pausing to roll his eyes at Sam's fruit salad on the ticket, and takes it to the register by the entrance of the restaurant. Castiel takes the opportunity to jump over to the other side of the booth, sliding in beside Sam.
Sam looks up from reading through message boards on his laptop. Castiel sits close, his knee pressed up against Sam's leg on the bench. Sam gulps at Castiel's proximity and focus.
"I need your help," Castiel says.
"Okay," Sam replies, careful to be noncommittal.
Castiel looks behind them. He makes sure Dean is still preoccupied. Dean impatiently waits behind a little girl on her tiptoes, counting coins on the counter. Castiel returns his attention to Sam, whose own anxious feelings are clear on his face. Castiel frowns but does not have the time to offer any reassurances.
“I need your help dating,” Castiel says.
“Oh?”
Castiel nods, says, "I need your help dating Dean.”
"Oh- oh ?" Sam stutters.
Castiel had hoped his clarification would dissuade Sam's apprehension, but Sam's look of uncertainty hasn't dimmed. Castiel takes a moment to consider this. Sam had the same look when Castiel offered to tag along on the Winchester brothers' hunt.
Castiel said he was interested in doing more fieldwork, but Sam and Dean thought maybe he was just irritated by Crowley hanging around him. Castiel mostly stuck to Dean as they explored the vamp nest, his assistance speeding up the case's completion. Dean was content by the efficiency of Castiel's bladework, and Sam didn't mind coming out of the case relatively unscathed.
Castiel asks, "So? Will you help me, Sam?"
Sam wants to pawn Castiel off on someone else, like Jody or Donna, but he knows Castiel would have already explored alternative resources; he came to Sam for a reason.
Holding back a sigh, Sam says, "Of course, Cas."
If nothing else, it will be a good distraction.
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"I had thought something small would be a good way to start. I've researched and found this is one of the safest places to have a date. The least offensive." Castiel frowns, takes a moment to ponder his own words.
He adds, "Unless, I suppose, your date is lactose intolerant."
The tables are short, the tops of Sam's knees brush uncomfortably at the underside of the tables. He does his best to ignore the bumps he feels stuck to the bottom of the table, undoubtedly leftover gum from previous customers. Castiel appears unconcerned, writing something in a hand-sized notepad. The notepad looks like it may have been picked up from the last motel room the Winchesters rented. Castiel doesn't look as though he minds the occasional jostling of children as they run by through the narrow walkways. The closest table is less than three feet away, and Sam does his best to make himself smaller after the umpteenth time a child bumps into his elbow with an unconvincing apology.
"Maybe an outside seat would be better," Sam tries. His nose twitches at the smell of sour milk. "More intimate?"
Castiel looks around the parlor, taking in the black blobs on the walls painted in a poor imitation of a cow's spots.
"My understanding was that animal prints are arousing."
"Not cows."
They take a place in line, Castiel studying the ice creams behind the tank, listing the flavors aloud to Sam.
"That one is made with yogurt, I believe," he says, pointing to a chocolate flavor. "Would you like that one?"
Sam shrugs, "Sure. But I don't think I have any change on me."
Sam had assumed they would only be scoping out the place, he hadn't expected to actually purchase any ice cream.
Castiel waves him off, "I can pay."
Castiel insists Sam choose a topping as well, so Sam chooses chocolate cookie crumbles, which seems to please Castiel. Castiel chooses gummi bears. As Castiel hands over the cash, leaving enough for a tip, Sam accepts both his and Castiel's cone. Sam leads their way outside, but Castiel rushes ahead to hold the door open for him.
"What flavor did you get?" Sam asks, licking at his cone.
The crunchy bits of cookie add extra sweetness to the frozen yogurt. It's almost too sweet but the cold is a welcome sensation in the heat that meets them outside.
"I believe it is called 'Razzle Dazzle Raspberry,'" Castiel says.
Before Sam hands over Castiel's cone, he licks a taste of Castiel's pink ice cream and nods in approval.
The seats outside the parlor have fluorescent blue and purple umbrellas overhead, but they provide no shade. Sam pulls on a pair of sunglasses and directs Castiel to sit with his back to the sun. They eat their ice cream in silence, but they don't eat fast enough and can't prevent the treat from melting down their hands and arms. Sam means to get napkins, but the crowd in the parlor has grown since he and Castiel sat outside. Sam isn't eager to rejoin the fray.
Sam eats half his cone before deciding he's tired of the taste. The remaining half sticks to his skin and to the table. Castiel scowls at each drop of melted ice cream that falls on his clothing.
"This isn't a bad idea for a date," Sam says. "Dean might like that blueberry pie flavored ice cream."
"This is somewhat messy," Castiel admits.
Using one hand, Castiel pulls out his notepad and scribbles inside.
Sam takes his and Castiel's cone and finds a trash bin to dump them in, feeling somewhat guilty by the waste.
"Maybe we should find somewhere to wash our hands," Sam says.
"That would also be something worthy of noting."
Before Castiel can pull out his notepad again, Sam stops him with a clean hand on Castiel’s arm.
"Washroom first, Cas."
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In a rare opportunity of reprieve, Sam takes time to flip through the bunker's card catalog, trying to reorganize the Men of Letters’ books and paperwork. Despite what Dean may believe, Sam finds the chore to be anything but entertaining. Sam has the attention to detail that makes him good at the tedious process, but he hates it. But if Dean were to help, Sam would find some fault in Dean's approach. The library needs to be of a particular manner if Sam doesn't want to be stuck in the bunker for days on end searching for what he needs.
Organizing in the quiet of the bunker reminds Sam of his work-study at one of the libraries in Stanford. The thought of that optimistic kid has Sam feeling maudlin. He welcomes the music coming from a set of Bluetooth speakers connected to Dean's phone. Dean plays a mix of 80's pop music: Hall & Oates, Whitney Houston, Huey Lewis and the News. It's not Dean's usual playlist, but Sam doesn't mention it. Sam smiles reflexively whenever the music is interrupted by the chime of an incoming message on Dean's phone.
Dean laughs at his phone. The automated clicks of the keyboard on Dean's messaging system sound through the speakers.
"Mom?" Sam asks.
Dean looks up, shakes his head, "Nah."
"Cas?"
When another message comes through, Dean returns his attention to his phone and laughs again, "Nah."
"Dude. You're not seriously trying any of those dating apps again, are you?"
Dean rolls his eyes, says, "After that last experience? Give me some credit, will ya?"
Sam raises an eyebrow. Graciously, Sam lets it drop, and continues his filing.
Some time during the Thompson Twins, while Sam takes a break to drink coffee and play mancala against Dean, Castiel steps into the library.
"A livestock fair," Castiel says.
Sam and Dean share a look, ask Castiel, "What?"
Castiel straightens to attention, clenches and unclenches his fist. He catches Sam's eyes before he turns his attention to Dean.
"Hello, Dean," he says.
"Cas," Dean returns. "What's this about a fair?"
"Uh. I have reason to believe there may be a restless spirit at a fair nearby."
"Okay," Dean slams his hands down, rattling the stones in the mancala board. "We're not doing anything now."
Sam narrows his eyes at Dean, making sure Dean doesn't touch the board. He's caught him cheating twice already.
"Actually..." Castiel starts.
Again, Castiel catches Sam's eyes, and Sam understands. Sam stands before Dean can.
"Actually, you can stay here," Sam says. "I'll go. I don't think Cas will need both of us, will you?"
"No. Sam's help should suffice."
Dean looks like he wants to argue, but the opening notes to " True Blue " begin playing through the speakers. Sam laughs as Dean scrambles to shut off the Bluetooth feature of his phone. Castiel's face goes through a look of recognition and then confusion. Castiel opens his mouth, but Sam speaks before Castiel can.
Sam pulls Castiel out of the library, saying, "Give me ten minutes to pack, and you can tell me about this spirit."
Sam stuffs a backpack with essentials for a day trip. He debates the merits of packing and carrying around a bottle of shampoo.
Sam asks, "Is the fairground far?"
"I have to confess, Sam: there is no restless spirit haunting a fair."
Sam tosses the shampoo bottle on his bed. At Castiel's look of guilt over his own lie, Sam does his best to tamper down a smile.
"I kind of figured. So where are we headed?"
"There is a livestock fair not far from here," Castiel says, taking Sam's backpack from him. "I have conducted additional research for an acceptable date. This particular fair should have games, rides, and fried cuisine."
Sam lets his smile take over his face at that. Castiel had been serious about the notes he took during their ice cream date, and for the fair date, Castiel has printouts in his truck from the fair's website along with blog listicles of fair foods and rides.
"It's my impression some of the games are not made to win," Castiel confides during the drive. "But my understanding is it is customary to win a prize of a stuffed toy for your date."
Sam reads the notes scratched along the margins of the printouts. Castiel's notes offer insight into Castiel's opinions on the dubious merits of deep-fried Oreos and his own rating system of fair rides based on their name. He isn't impressed by the rides that swear to touch heaven.
"What's this?" Sam asks. "Is this a... frowny face?"
Glancing away from the road, Castiel nods, "Yes. I did not think Dean would appreciate the slingshot."
"Yeah, he's got a thing about heights, I think," Sam says. "He probably won't like any of the rides."
"Oh."
At Castiel's look of disappointment, Sam assures him, "He'll like the turkey legs."
Castiel sighs, "He does like to overindulge."
Sam pays his and Castiel's way into the fairground, helping Castiel wrap the neon green band on his wrist. Sam buys tickets for food and rides, though he doesn't expect they'll use the tickets for the rides. The fair is a mix of people wearing cowboy boots and jeans and people more casually dressed for the balmy weather. There's cheering from one corner of the fair, a section blocked off with fences, smelling like manure.
"What happens to the livestock at these fairs?" Castiel asks.
"I guess rodeo stuff like cow wrangling and bull riding. A petting zoo, maybe. There are competitions between the animals too, like fattest pig, I think."
"And what does the fattest pig win?"
"Um."
Sam thinks back to his experience with livestock fairs. "Charlotte's Web" is the only example that comes to mind, and he's pretty sure the fattest pig got eaten.
Sam says, "Its owner gets a big ribbon."
Castiel is pleased by the answer, and Sam points out one of the game booths in the opposite direction of the cheers.
Castiel plays a game of ring toss and wins a pencil eraser in the shape of a lamb. Sam tries lobbing ping pong balls into fish bowls. He gets a pencil eraser in the shape of a fish as consolation. They take seats at a competition with water pistols and a motorized racetrack, but lose out to a young girl in poofy space buns and overalls. They wave away the fair worker's offer of more pencil erasers.
"These games are difficult," Castiel concedes, and though his words are calm, Sam can tell the losses are grating on Castiel's nerves.
"Maybe we can move on to the food?" Sam suggests. "I think they serve fresh-squeezed lemonade."
Castiel nods, "Do you think Dean would like that?"
Sam had almost forgotten.
"Oh, uh. Let's try it anyway," Sam says.
They manage to snag a seat on a bench by the pendulum ride. The bench’s seat is uncomfortably warm, but with the setting sun, and the lights blinking on, it's not a bad place to be. The screams of the attendants on the ride somehow sound louder the further away the gondola gets from the ground.
"I took Jess on a fair date once," Sam offers.
"Oh?"
Sam feels Castiel's eyes on him, but Sam keeps focus on the pattern of blue-red-orange-green of the lights that line the side of the ride.
"She wanted to get on every ride twice, but we only had enough money to do a few. It was finals week and I still had one more test on Tuesday. She had finished all of hers--aced them, of course--and her parents and her sister picked her up that Sunday. She went home for vacation for the first summer semester. I stayed on campus for a week by myself before classes started and I got a new roommate."
Sam clears his throat, drinks his lemonade. He and Jessica stayed at the fair until the lights of the rides were shut off and all the booths were shuttered. His roommate had already gone home that afternoon and Jessica spent the night with him in his dorm. They kissed and cried and laughed through the night. Sam promised he would love her forever, and he meant it. Jessica kissed his cheeks and his jaw and his neck and told Sam when they got married their wedding theme would be carnival but no clowns would be allowed under penalty of death. He felt so young when Jessica left that Sunday. Sam hugged her tight and never wanted to let go.
Castiel takes Sam's empty hand in his. Sam hadn't thought about that night in years, a memory so far away it might as well have belonged to someone else.
"We rode the Ferris wheel in a cabin by ourselves," Sam says. "I think it's, like, a requirement for the perfect fair date."
Sam looks to Castiel, expecting Castiel to let go of his hand and pull out his notepad, but Castiel doesn't. Instead, Castiel nods thoughtfully.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says.
They finish their lemonade and Castiel throws away their cups. They run into the little girl in space buns and give her the rest of their tickets. On the car ride back to the bunker, Castiel gives Sam his pencil eraser.
"Perhaps I should research further before any other attempt is made in winning a stuffed animal."
"I think any prize would be appreciated," Sam offers. "I enjoyed myself."
Castiel glances at Sam, gauges Sam's sincerity. Whatever he reads on Sam's satisfies him, and Castiel responds with a small smile.
Sam keeps the erasers on his nightstand.
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Sam wants to tell Castiel this date is ridiculous, but he bites his tongue. Castiel looks determined, standing with his hands gripping the railing of the rink.
The only people at a roller rink at eleven in the morning turn out to be: a group of three teenagers obviously skipping school to play air hockey; two women gossiping at one of the picnic tables closest to the food window; and a pair of six-year-olds skating laps and doing tricks around the rink.
Then there's Sam and Castiel.
"Mister, you won't learn if you stay on the wall!" the little boy says during one of his passes by Sam and Castiel.
The little girl pulls on his arm and the boy stumbles but stays upright. Sam tries catching the little boy's footwork in case he needs to mimic it. Sam's own knuckles are white where they hold onto the railing alongside Castiel, trying to maintain his balance. He flinches with every accidental shift of his feet.
"Matthew!" the little girl says. "Don't be mean!"
The children chase each other until one of the women at the picnic table calls out to them that their pizza is ready.
Rink void of anyone else, Sam takes his chance and releases his hold of the railing. He doesn't immediately fall down and it's promising enough for him to lift one of his feet and bring it down in a small step. It's not skating, but it's a sort of step, and he tries with his other foot. As soon as the wheels at the bottom of his skates touch the ground, he knows he's going to fall back.
It isn't the worst pain he's felt that week; that award goes to the knife wound he got on a hunt, still stitched and healing on his shoulder. The heat that rushes to his face has nothing to do with the pain and everything to do with the chittering laughter he hears coming from the teenagers, their game forgotten in exchange for gawking at the giant man who deigned take up roller skating in his mid-thirties.
"Sam, are you okay?" Castiel asks, kneeling beside him.
Castiel's hands hover, unsure and anxious. There's raw concern on Castiel's face over Sam, Sam for having lost his balance doing something grade-schoolers have no trouble with. And Sam can't help it, a laughter bubbles out his mouth and he's covering his face with his hands, still flat on his ass, guffawing over his absolutely piss-poor balance.
Sam peeks out through his fingers and sees Castiel smiling hesitantly.
"Cas. I think at least one participant of a roller-skating date should probably know how to roller skate."
Castiel pulls off his skates and helps Sam pull off his own. He holds his hand out for Sam to grab, lifting Sam up as though Sam is weightless. Sam lets Castiel wrap an arm around his waist, holding both pairs of skates and leading them back to the rental kiosk.
"It was a somewhat dubious endeavor," Castiel allows.
"It's ridiculous," Sam says.
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The werewolves of Saint Louis County have accents so heavy Sam is caught off-guard on several occasions, tripped up trying to understand what they're saying. He dodges their claws, but only-just. He doesn't want to offend Donna by asking, " What? " for the millionth time. He decides to follow Dean's lead and shoot whenever he finds an opening.
"Did this one seriously say what I think he said?" Dean asks, kicking the boot of one of the last dropped weres.
"It's just sad," Donna says in agreement, shaking her head.
Sam is still trying to unravel the were's monologue. He only realizes he missed his cue when the silence goes on for too long. He looks up to see Donna and Dean giving him twin looks of concern, Dean's own look with a twinge of exasperation.
"Yeah," Sam tries. "We should get out of here."
They take care of the bodies and Donna's grin never falters even as she scolds them for reflexively reaching into the trunk of the Impala for a celebratory can of beer.
"I really wanna thank ya for comin' all this way! I almost wasn't sure what I was seeing, but when ya offered ta come up, I just knew I was right on the money."
"Nah, you're great," Dean assures her.
"Oh! I know an all-night diner in town that serves amazing cherry pie with fresh whipped cream topping. Let me getcha boys a late dinner--my treat!"
"Deal," Dean says.
"Deal!"
The two stand by the front of the Impala, hands on their hips, smiling at each other. Sam taps the roof of the car.
"Maybe we should clean ourselves up first," Sam suggests.
"Good idea!" Donna says, but she doesn't look away from Dean. "I'll text ya the address of the diner. See ya in thirty?"
"Yah, sounds like a plan," Dean says.
Donna waves to them as she drives away, Dean waving back with no irony. Sam and Dean kill the fire and Dean speeds out of the clearing, racing to the motel. Dean taps his hands on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the Blondie song playing on the radio.
"I tell ya, man, werewolves have become way too political. Do you remember them being this complex when we were younger?"
"Yeah... Hey, were they Canadian or something?" Sam asks.
"Canadian?"
Dean gives him a look like he's crazy, and does nothing to answer Sam's question.
"Dude, what's with you? It's like you left half your brain in Kansas."
"Sorry." Sam rubs the back of his head. "I think it's whiplash."
Dean rolls his eyes, "From the hunt or from your date with Cas last week? Man, I told you, stilts on wheels is not a good combination."
"Yeah, yeah. That joke's no funnier than it was the first forty times you said it."
Dean doesn't immediately respond, but Sam braces for the next thing Dean might say at his expense. The song on the radio fades out and a local DJ prattles on about congratulating caller number 107 for winning tickets to a hockey game. Dean lowers the volume when a commercial for a lumber store comes on after.
"Maybe..." Dean starts.
Sam looks over at Dean. Dean's mouth gapes open and close like a suffocating fish. He struggles to find his words.
"Yeah?" Sam asks.
"Maybe you should skip the celebration for tonight?"
Sam considers this.
Encouraged by Sam's silence, Dean continues, "You know, you've looked out of it all night, ever since we found that pack. I don't know if it's really whiplash or maybe you need the break, but you can stay in the room instead of going out. I'm sure Donna will understand."
Sam wants to let Dean know he's fine, really. He's just not willing to admit that despite all the Aramaic, Enochian, and Latin he can understand, he found himself straining to work out the rhythm to the werewolves' thick, Midwestern American accents. He thinks about the leftover Italian salad from lunch that he has in the motel's refrigerator. He had ordered an extra to-go, ignoring Dean's exasperated sigh. He was pleasantly surprised by Biggerson's new recipe, is all.
He also has some soap hidden away in the side pocket of his duffel. Something organic that smells like rose and lavender, picked it up from the mall on one of his trips with Castiel. He's enticed by the thought of having the room to himself, having an opportunity to kick back before they're on to the next hunt.
"Yeah, maybe I should," Sam says.
"Yeah!" Dean claps Sam on his leg. "It'll be good for you, you know? A little 'Me' time."
"Ri-ight," Sam agrees, now uncertain of how altruistic Dean's suggestion had actually been.
He doesn't dwell on it for long before Dean raises the volume to the radio and forces Sam to sing along with him to " Your Love ."
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