Work Text:
The decor in the Wild Bill suite is awful, Cas thinks, but the worst part of it is the tapes: shelves and shelves of old VHS tapes with more western films that he even knew existed, each one hand-labelled with a title and date. The moment they walked in last night, Cas took one long look at those tapes and knew he wouldn’t make it out without watching at least two of them—three if the hunt dragged on.
A conservative guess, in hindsight, considering that it’s only ten in the morning and they’re already on film number one. Dean had apparently phoned the sheriff last night to let him know they’d stop by in the afternoon, claiming they would need the early hours for research; and of course by “research,” he meant waiting until Sam and Jack left for the graveyard to pop a tape in the VCR.
“I don’t see how this is educational,” Cas says over the noise of the television. “These are actors from California, not outlaws from Dodge City. How does this help us with authenticity?”
Dean is sitting next to him on the double bed, picking M&Ms out of the trail mix that Sam bought and shoveling them into his mouth. Every so often the movie makes him laugh right after he knocks back a handful, and the candy rattles around like bells against his teeth. “John Wayne’s from Iowa, dude.”
“And he grew up in California,” Cas points out—he’s heard this story too many times before.
Guns flash out of the corner of his eye, but he hasn’t really been paying attention beyond a few cursory looks. Dean’s gaze hasn’t left the screen since the movie began— Angel and the Badman , it’s called, which made him groan when Dean picked it out with a shit-eating grin—and that means for once, he can let his own eyes wander.
”Okay, Miss Wayne, didn’t realize you were such a fan.” More M&Ms are crunched, mercilessly, between Dean’s teeth. “Heh. Miss Wayne—but they sell it, you know?” he says abruptly, waving a hand towards the small television. “It’s in the walk and the way they sit, the confidence of it all. When John Wayne grabs a gun, he ain’t messing around. We’re the actors today, and we gotta sell it like him.”
Cas only hums in response. He takes his time observing the other man’s profile—his eyes all lit up, his strong nose, his lips moving along with the dialogue onscreen—and realizes, very suddenly, that he’s never seen Dean this happy.
The thought has a bitter aftertaste.
He knows it’s unfair, but he can’t help wondering if this was Dean’s life in the past few months, old movies and easy smiles when Cas had nothing but a void to call his own. Only Jack has really bothered to catch him up to speed, and even that was done in quick snippets—whatever went on in his absence, he thinks, it must have done the Winchesters some good.
Dean looks to him for a response and he glances quickly back to screen, watching the outlaw Quint argue with a very kind-looking young woman. “I suppose. He just seems angry to me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why you’re the Angel, angel,” Dean grins.
“Does that make you a bad man?” he asks dryly, then watches as the Badman grabs his Angel by the shoulders and pulls her in for a kiss.
Oh. Cas blinks. Maybe he should have been paying closer attention.
He wants to say something else, cover over his tracks, but in the crucial second that follows, he feels himself begin to freeze. He just implied that—but no, there was no way he could have seen that coming, unless it was supposed to be an obvious build-up in which case he’ll have to admit to not actually watching the movie. A more confident man might look over to gauge Dean’s reaction, but Cas is not that; he’s stuck watching the actors on-screen as they embrace.
He feels his stomach do a flip, like fish jumping out of a pond. For all his years on earth, for all the hours he’s put into this well-worn body, Cas still gets a jolt of surprise when he sees humans kiss, as though he needs to be constantly reminded that this is something people can do. It’s not necessarily an unpleasant surprise.
To his relief, though, he hears Dean just laugh away the question, and soon the kissing couple pulls apart.
“Thought I was supposed to be your righteous man,” he jokes. “Hey, how’s that for a film—Angel and the Righteous Man?”
“I’m sure Chuck would be interested,” Cas says weakly, hazarding a glance. He catches the tail-end of a grin as Dean turns back to the screen, and then he’s faced with a profile again. “How much more… research is left for today?”
“‘Bout forty minutes left, then your diagnostic,” Dean says around a mouthful of food—he’s starting to ration the candy now, mixing it in with a few peanuts and cashews.
“My diagnostic?”
Dean swallows and shoots him a grin. “Gotta test you on your western lingo, see if you’ve learned anything.”
Cas can’t help but bristle at that, thinking of all the human lingo he’s picked up in his time, all the pop culture references and odd hand gestures that were once foreign to him. If he can learn emoticons, he thinks, he can easily learn to tip his hat a few times and say howdy . “I don’t need a test for that, Dean.”
“Yeah?” Dean abandons the movie now in favor of turning towards Cas; he even abandons the bag of trail mix. “Let’s hear it then. Gimme your best, cowboy.”
As he repositions himself, his knees curl up closer to his chest, letting one fall to the side and brush against Cas’s thigh.
Cas stares down at the point of contact, thinks of how ridiculous it would be to sit around reciting westerns instead of working on the case, then tries to remember a good line of dialogue.
“You dim-witted nail-bender,” he says in his best Southern accent. He raises his eyebrows to invite Dean’s appraisal and draws a barking laugh from the hunter—which makes his chest swell with pride until he remembers that they were going for realism here.
“You’re hammin’ it up too much,” Dean explains, seeing his slight frown. “Kinda sounds like a cartoon character.”
Cas considers this; he mouths the line again, silently this time to test how it feels on his tongue. He knows his voice is much deeper, rougher, than any of the men in the film, but this time he doesn’t try to fight it, just lets the rumble wash over his words and smooth out the accent until it’s a subtle drawl: “You dim-witted nail-bender.”
It comes off meaner than before, languid and just a bit cruel. But based on his reaction, Dean seems impressed; his mouth is hanging open rather stupidly.
“That’s—yeah, that’s the one,” he says.
“Are you satisfied now?” Cas continues in the same tone, keeping up the bit just to prove he can. “Am I cowboy enough for you?”
And really, he thinks, Dean has too little faith. Maybe he should try working in customer service before lecturing other people on how to control their voice; Cas was told he had a wonderful tone when speaking to shoppers, once he stopped asking all of them about their favorite fruit.
Dean clears his throat loudly, shooting a glance at the forgotten movie before his gaze is drawn back to Cas. “I mean, uh, not too shabby. Could always do with more practice.”
“Your wish is my command,” Cas deadpans, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. But instead he finds it hard to break Dean’s gaze, open and unflinching in a way that sparks his curiosity. Usually Dean refuses to look at him when they’re sitting this close, always looking just a bit uncomfortable when their faces are mere inches apart—and come to think of it, his ears aren’t usually this pink either, which confuses Cas until his brain finally lands on the explanation.
He answers out loud, almost absentmindedly, the question raised in his head. “Ah. Your cowboy fetish.”
It’s hardly a secret. He’s had several conversations on this topic with Sam—after Sam explained what a fetish was, of course—and yet Dean’s face flares up with an embarrassed red as if he’s been caught in some act.
“Dude, what the—I don’t have a fetish!”
“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas assures him a bit too quickly, switching back to his normal voice. “I know it’s nothing personal. Just research, as you said.”
Dean’s attention is already back on the television, pointedly looking away from Cas, but he seems to relax at those words—even if the blush stays fixed on his cheeks.
“Just research, huh?” he echoes.
Cas follows his gaze and watches Quirt ride into town, comfortable and commanding on his horse, almost regal; when he looks back, Dean’s face is set.
“Alright,” he says, turning back to Cas with a glint in his eye. “Then let’s get to it. So you can talk like Wayne, sure, but can you carry yourself like him?”
Cas tilts his head, his brain catching up with the sudden shift. “You mean can I ride a horse?” The answer is yes, of course, but to his knowledge they wouldn’t actually be travelling by horseback in Dodge.
“No I mean—” Dean readjusts again, and the bed creaks under his weight— “just the stage presence, sort of. A guy like that takes up space and won’t budge an inch, but it’s not showy. It’s gotta be understated, subtle.”
Cas thinks he’s already a pretty understated person, if not always subtle, but the expectant look on the other man’s face is enough to make him go along the whole routine. Besides, whatever awkwardness passed through Dean just a moment ago seems to have dissipated, and Cas won’t look a gift good mood in the mouth, as they say.
He looks down at his own body, his legs stretched out in front of him on the bed and his hands placed neatly on top of his thighs. Apparently not very cowboy-ish.
With Dean’s eyes on him, he considers his next move: He leans back into the cushions a little more and lets his hands slide up his thighs, propping his elbows casually on the pillows on either side of him.
Dean scans over his new reclining position and nods in approval. “Better,” he admits, “but here, let me—” He leans forward and Cas feels his heart jump, but Dean just places a hand on his thigh, and then he’s gently pulling, spreading his legs just another inch so that Cas takes up more space on the bed.
The hand pulls back after a second, and he instantly feels ridiculous. Here he is in a tacky, overpriced motel room, lounging like a king.
“This what you want, Dean?” he drawls in his faux-accent, hoping the sarcastic edge in his voice will hide his insecurity.
Dean sucks in a breath; maybe it’s the dip in the bed, but he seems to sway a bit, leaning into Cas’s space and bringing their faces even closer together. “Say that again.”
Cas blinks. “This what you want…?”
“Again,” Dean says. “For practice.”
Cas studies the look on his face, trying to guess at his game, but all he sees is a pair of bright green eyes and tongue peeking out between two lips—all he sees is anticipation. And so, in the calmest, lowest, most cowboy-cool voice he can conjure, he mutters, “Is this what you want, Dean?”
Just like that, the space between them closes. Dean’s lips are latching onto his.
That jolt of surprise—it’s back again, making his brain spark like wires, making his stomach jump and flip and all sorts of other metaphors that humans use to describe their indescribable emotions—he’s experiencing all of them at once. Without really thinking about it, Cas lets his eyes flutter shut and mouth fall open slightly, feeling the drag of Dean’s bottom lip against his, and then all at once the sensation is gone.
It’s so quick that Cas never has time to kiss back.
He opens his eyes to see Dean’s mouth gaping in surprise, as if he wasn’t the one who just kissed him. Kissed him , just like in the movies—Cas feels lightheaded.
“Crap. Oh crap, I didn’t mean, I’ve just been so—ever since you’ve got back,” he says, a jumble of words that makes absolutely no sense.
“Dean, it’s alright.” Cas is still stuck about thirty seconds before, back when he was tasting the coffee Dean has for breakfast, but he wills his brain to catch up. “It’s just, well… the excitement of this city getting a hold of you.”
Dean laughs, high-pitched and a little desperate in the back of his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that, and not the fact that you were gone for way too friggin’ long, Cas.”
The movie has been over for a while now, but he still stares at the screen like there’s something there to hold his attention; Cas wants that attention back on him.
So he reaches out and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m here now.”
I’m here, Dean, you can have me, I’m your Angel , he wants to say. I’m here, I’m here, you can take me.
There’s no response, so he tries again, this time in his cowboy drawl: “I’m said I’m here—”
“You don’t get it!” Dean says suddenly, wrenching his shoulder out of Cas’s grasp. “It’s not the stupid accent, it’s you, dude, okay? I wanted you back so bad, and now that you’re here—” He seems on the verge of saying something else, but he takes one, searching look at Cas and shakes his head. “I just forgot my place for a second, that’s it.”
Cas takes all this in and finds himself arriving at a very sharp realization, one he probably should have pieced together before: that maybe Dean hasn’t spent the time in his absence watching old movies and laughing his heart out, that maybe this bursting happiness was a more recent development.
“I think I do get it,” he says.
“Not really.”
He doesn’t want to spook Dean again, but he wants—more than that, he needs him to know that he really does gets it this time; they’re on the same page now and maybe they always have been, and so he channels a man far more confident than himself and does the first thing he can think of.
He kisses Dean back.
Dean makes a noise like he’s been shocked, sort of a squeak, even, but before Cas can second guess this decision, he feels two hands grab onto his trenchcoat and push . He falls back against the headboard and Dean follows, breaking the kiss only to loom over him and breathlessly ask, “What the hell?”
Cas isn’t responsible for anything he says at this point; he’s too busy staring at Dean’s lips. “I think this is called kissing. Maybe it could be educational for you.”
“Shut up,” Dean says—and then they fall right back into it, Cas leaning up to meet him halfway.
They’re going to be late for the sheriff, he thinks as he bites down on Dean’s bottom lip and runs a hand through his hair. Too bad.
* * *
“Okay, we got this. Think Wayne, think Kilmer, think gunfights in Tombstone . You ready?”
Dean is looking at him expectantly from the driver’s seat of the Impala, and perhaps for the first time since inventing free will, Cas feels completely, utterly ready.
“I’m your huckleberry,” he murmurs, low in his throat just like they practiced.
Researching for a case is always a slog, he thinks—but right now, in the middle of the road in Dodge City, the gasp he gets in return makes every second worth it.