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”You,” Dean says, incredulously, ”can’t drive.” It’s supposed to be a question, but it comes out more like he’s bewilderedly stating it.
”Last time I was on Earth before I met you was a brief moment in 1901,” Cas replies, a little defensively. ”And I can fly. I’ve never felt the need to know how to operate an automobile.”
”’Operate an automobile’,” Dean mocks under his breath, complete with an eye roll. ”Okay, get out, we’re switching places.”
They’re parked outside a gas station, where Dean had just bought coffee and topped up the tank, and where, when he got back in the car, Cas had blasphemously admitted to not knowing how to drive. And Dean really just can’t have that. It doesn’t matter that Cas is an angel, or that there’s an apocalypse looming, or that the only one alive besides Dean allowed to touch his baby is Sam and even he is on thin ice—this is something he has to remedy.
He gets out of the driver’s seat and rounds the hood, handing his keys over to Cas who reluctantly accepts them when they cross paths, and then he gets in on the passenger side instead.
Cas joins him on the bench seat again, and puts the correct key in the ignition on the first try, so at least they’re off to a good enough start.
”First order of business,” Dean says, ”driver picks the music.” It’s a sacred principle, that mainly exists because the driver tends to be Dean—but it’s not like Cas can choose anything that isn’t Dean’s classic rock tapes, anyway. Well, technically, Sam keeps his tapes in the car too—his screamy feminist punk from when he was an angsty teen and his screamy early-aughts emo that he brought back with him from college, and even, despite Dean’s insistence that he would burn those particular tapes, the terrible glam metal he’s somehow always liked—but he seems to think Dean won’t make fun of him for it if he hides them all as far back in the trunk as they can go. So, point is, Cas won’t find those unless he goes looking, and Dean is safe in upholding the house rules today.
Cas cautiously picks a tape at random from the box Dean hands him, something heavy on Led Zeppelin, because a lot of Dean’s tapes are heavy on Led Zeppelin even when he went into it with different intentions, and Dean says, ”Good choice,” and slots it into the deck. Then he tells Cas to start the car.
The engine turns once, the car skips forward a step then stops abruptly, and Dean’s life flashes before his eyes.
”With your foot on the brake,” he manages to say, despite the fact that his soul has ascended from his body.
Cas silently peers down at his feet, hand still hovering over the ignition, before he seems to admit defeat and asks, ”Which one is the brake?”
Dean gawks at him. ”The left one,” he says slowly. ”Right one is the accelerator. Do you… know anything about driving?”
”No,” Cas admits, a little sheepishly. “I know now that this is the brake,” he says, gesturing down at the footwell, where the angle Dean is sitting at means he can’t see if Cas even indicated the correct pedal. It takes him another second to realize that that was a joke, but by then Cas is saying, “It just never seemed pertinent to learn.”
“Well,” Dean says, because he does understand that, for all his ribbing and played-up disbelief. It might have been even more disbelieving if this millennia-old cosmic being did know how to drive. “That’s okay, Cas, I’m here to teach you.”
Cas turns back to the dashboard, hand almost by the ignition again, when Dean stops him with a, “Wait, hold on, not so fast.”
Cas looks back up, frowning. “My foot is on the brake,” he says, almost petulantly.
“I’m sure it is, buddy,” Dean replies, “but it turns out we might’ve some other stuff to deal with first. Like,” he pauses, looks around, then tries, “What’s that sign?” pointing at the closest one he can see.
Cas squints at it but says nothing for several seconds. Dean suppresses the urge to groan, then supplies, ”Yield,” after another moment, trying to sound pedagogical and patient. ”Means if there are other cars you have to stop and let them pass.”
”Oh,” Cas says.
”Yeah,” Dean agrees. Okay. Very basic driver’s ed, then. Not that Dean knows shit about driver’s ed, he never did that—he’d been 12 years old and under the sole guidance of John Winchester’s drill sergeant act the first time he drove a car. Most of the other times after that it was Bobby in the passenger seat, though, until finally Dean turned 16 and Dad got him a fake license with his real birth year. Not very useful for anything he’d actually need a fake ID for, but it was a gesture, and Dean treasured it. Two years later—but a few days off, Dad had been away on a hunt on Dean’s birthday—he gave him the whole car.
”Right, so,” Dean says. He moves into Cas’ space and stays there, too busy to overthink it, and points out everything that’s especially vital for now. ”Brake and accelerator. Use your right foot for both. Gear shift. Speedometer. Turn signal. Don’t wanna be the asshole that doesn’t use the turn signal.”
Cas follows along with greater focus than anyone should afford Dean’s attempts at education, and at the end quietly repeats, ”Turn signal,” to himself, like Dean’s comment meant that that was the most important part and he doesn’t want to forget it.
”Yes. Okay!” Dean claps his hands, which visibly startles Cas, which happens to make Dean aware of how close together they’re sitting. Right. He moves back a little bit to his side of the seat but lets himself keep his knee pressed against Cas’ thigh. Reassurance, or whatever. ”Well, I think you’re set. The rest of it we’ll deal with when it comes up.”
Cas looks incredibly not set, which does nothing for Dean’s confidence in letting someone else drive his car, but this time when Cas turns the ignition he is indeed pressing the brake, and the engine spins to life with the purr Dean’s been in love with since the moment he felt it in the pedals under his feet for the first time. He finds himself hoping Cas likes it, too.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he says, maybe a little overly enthusiastic. He looks over at Cas and catches him smiling shakily, which makes it all worth it. “Alright, keep your foot on the brake and shift into drive, then ease up.” He points to the D on the gear stick, not taking any more chances, and then they’re slowly rolling forwards.
Dean instructs Cas in tentatively guiding the Impala out of the parking lot and out on the main road, a whole lot slower than what Baby is used to, and Cas clearly hangs onto every word out of Dean’s mouth. It’s just shit like “little close to the curb there, dude” and “this BMW behind us is right up our ass, you gotta speed up”, but Cas nods and quietly adjusts to whatever Dean is saying, listening like this is as important as any heavenly mission, or something. It feels strange, in a good way. Dean throws a look at Cas, at how focused he is, and makes sure to add in a “good job”, too, for good measure.
”Stoplight,” Dean warns. ”Let go of the gas, let the engine brake until-- now, start carefully pressing down the brake pedal.”
Cas does what he says, bringing the car to a surprisingly smooth stop in front of the light. Then he looks up at Dean, and he beams. Dean’s heart does not skip a beat, because that would be ridiculous, but he does smile back. This is going alright.
The light turns green, and Dean continues talking Cas through every road sign they encounter, how far over the speed limit he can drive according to the speedometer without it actually being too fast according to a traffic cam, how to merge onto the freeway—and then Cas pretty much has the hang of it.
He’s still looking a little nervous, even more so now that they’re going faster, both hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel and posture all rigid—though it’s not like his usual posture is very relaxed—but he’s enjoying himself, Dean can tell. Dean leans back in his seat, reluctantly losing the contact between his knee and Cas’ thigh, and cranks the music up a little louder. He’s enjoying himself too, he realizes, looking at Cas, and then he realizes exactly what situation he’s gotten himself into.
In Dean’s defense, he’s never sat in the passenger seat next to anyone but his dad or his brother, so it’s not like he knew that watching Cas drive was going to be—well, like this. It’s not a new realization, just a new setting kindling the-- nope, he’s not going to say fire, just--. A sudden reminder. And maybe it’s not about the car so much as being able to look at Cas while his attention is elsewhere, and maybe he almost gets why Cas likes watching him sleep, actually, except—yeah, no, because Cas definitely doesn’t watch Dean sleep for the same reason Dean is now watching Cas drive. Obviously. And that works about as well as a cold shower, and really just puts a general damper on Dean’s good mood.
He looks abruptly away, goes quiet, but he doesn’t think Cas notices. There’s not really any need for further instruction now, anyway, not until it’s time to exit. He lets Cas drive for a little bit longer, and lets Zepp fill the silence.
Eventually, he does spot an exit sign with an additional sign for some shitty fast-food chain, and his stomach growls urgingly, so he shakes himself out of his minor funk and says, “Hey, turn off here.”
If drive-throughs were better adjusted for American muscle cars he might have taught Cas how those work, too, but as it is he makes him pull into the parking lot instead, plastering on a grin that is almost all real when the car rolls to a stop and Cas looks up at him expectantly.
“Congratulations, you passed your exam,” Dean says, before tapping the gear shift. “Now P for park.”
Cas’ parking job could definitely use a lot of work, but he didn’t mow down anything or cause any dents or scratches, so Dean calls it a win. He still finally shoos Cas out of the car and takes over himself though, because Baby draws a lot of attention, it would be embarrassing leaving her parked all crooked and taking up more than one space where anyone could see her.
He joins Cas back outside, pats his shoulder while he pockets his keys with his other hand. “You did great,” he says, embarrassingly earnestly, but he doesn’t think he minds, not here or now. Despite his own bullshit, he feels sort of like he’s initiated Cas into something, or like something has shifted a little between them. Which is stupid, because all he did was let a friend drive his car, but Cas actually does light up a little at the praise, and it doesn’t feel stupid. Dean considers that maybe if he gets another break from his schedule of stopping the Devil and killing monsters, he’ll run into a Kinko’s and make Cas a driver’s license. Cas might even find it funny.
“I enjoyed it,” Cas says. “Of course, it’s a lot slower than flying.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Man, you’ve only got yourself to blame for that one. She can go faster than 50 miles per hour.”
“I could fly to the other side of the Earth and back right now before you’d even have time to blink,” Cas says, sounding serious as ever, but his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly and ruins it.
Dean should have saved his eye roll. “Okay, show-off. Come on, I’m starving.”
He starts walking toward the entrance, but Cas stays put behind him. When Dean turns back around to ask what the hold up is, Cas says, “You’re good at this,” something in his tone that Dean can’t place.
“Driving?” he asks, packing as much of course I am, it’s all I ever do into it as he can.
“Yes,” Cas agrees, “but I especially meant teaching it.”
Dean doesn’t know why that’s something that makes him feel all warm and fuzzy, or whatever. “Yeah, dude,” he says, to cover up how flustered it made him. “I taught Sam how to drive, I know my shit.”
Cas smiles, small and secret. Fondly, Dean might kid himself, but the furthest he can realistically go is not up to angel regulations. “I never doubted that you ‘know your shit’,” Cas says, “I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Dean says lightly, but Cas frowns like Dean’s dismissal means he’s not getting his point across right.
“No,” he urges, “I want you to know I appreciated this, Dean.” And with that, Cas is the one walking into the restaurant—not flying off, the way he normally might have—while Dean stands frozen still.
He looks back at his car like she’s going to be able to tell him what happened today, or how to proceed. She doesn’t—but Dean’s stomach does, with another insistent rumble, and cheeseburgers are usually a decent incentive to get Dean moving. “Okay,” he says, and follows Cas inside.