SPN fic: A Coat Is Just A Coat (except when it's not) -- UNFINISHED

[mclachland]

a coat is just a coat (except when it's not)
by mclachlan
dean/castiel, sam, belial
takes place during S5 (don't ask me specifically when -- i have no clue)
warnings: crack
summary: in which Dean needs a filter between his brain and mouth, and coats are purchased.

author's notes: this has been on my harddrive (and in Google Docs) for about A YEAR and I'm tired of looking at it, so it's being posted, unfinished. i don't even care anymore. much love to tigbit and staraflur for listening to me bitch about this at random points during the last year.

if anyone wants to write the rest of it, have at it. do it in the comments! i love it when people do that! <3





The silence that follows is the kind of stifling that can usually only be found on a 97-degree day while wearing a sweater. Under a parka. In a sauna. On the sun.

But God (or whoever's up there these days and still batting for the Home team) bless Sam, because he barks out a nervous laugh and attempts to attempt to read some article about a weapon called Chi Ro on the 'net.

Dean clears his throat because he wants his airway as open as possible when he starts to scream bloody murder. "So."

Sam keeps his eyes resolutely on the article, his stare so determined that the radiation from the screen is probably giving him cancer of the face. "So, when you say 'Cas'…"

Suddenly the Dr. Sexy, M.D. marathon on TV isn't so important.

"We're never talking about this. Ever."

"Okay. Yeah."

Dean nods and clicks off the television, tapping his fingers against the plastic of the remote, wondering just when the earth will open and swallow him whole. They're on the cusp of the capital-A Apocalypse, people are dying out there, Lucifer's armies are growing by leaps and bounds, and there seems to be no end in sight. So where the fuck is his goddamn earthquake? Isn't Missouri is on a major fault line?

And you know what? Fuck this. Today had been a good day. It was probably the first day that Dean had the luxury of sleeping more than three hours (which had felt like a dream and for a moment upon waking he definitely thought it had been), Sam brought him breakfast from the diner up the street, the news didn't yield anything out of the ordinary (except some story about a kid in Washington state stabbing his 9-year old brother eight times in the head and he really can't think that this is the world he's trying to save or he'll shoot himself right the fuck now), he treated Sam to a half-decent Italian dinner, they came back and reveled in their food comas, a Dr. Sexy, M.D. marathon was on, and the motel had excellent internet service.

And Cas showed up. No leads, no bad news, just popped in to say hi and ask Dean how he was holding up.

Which, yeah, was pretty much icing on the cake, because that right there made it the best day in the history of ever.

Cas hadn't stayed for long, too worried about the defenses of the Third Babylon, whatever that is, but had spared a quiet, tired smile for Dean and wished he and Sam a good night before hurtling off to wherever. And Dean, cozy on the bed, full from dinner, and one of his top ten favorite Dr. Sexy episodes on, had sighed happily and said, "God, Cas is a fucking wet dream come true."

In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing to say out loud. Or think, in any capacity.

Dean never wants to speak of this again to anyone, let alone Sam, but his baby brother is like a puppy. When he grabs hold of shit, he doesn't let it go.

"Does… Does he know?"

Dean is a mature adult, which is why he throws the remote at Sam's head instead of the television set. "Dude, what did I just say? Never again."

Sam holds up his hands placatingly, like he's the one who just dropped the bomb to end them all. "No, no, sorry. Sorry."

Dean turns over and hopes sleep comes fast. He closes his eyes and hopes the earthquake comes faster.

"So," comes Sam's voice from across the room, "when you say 'wet dream'…"

--

It didn't happen all at once. It wasn't like Dean looked up one day and thought, "Cas really needed to get his dick in me five minutes ago." It was a gradual thing, like the build-up to anger or if the tide came in and just… stayed that way. It's not like he's never seen a guy on the street and thought, "yeah, I'd hit that", or even brought one back to his motel from a bar, because he totally has. But it is the first time he's spent sleepless nights watching the skies, or waiting for all the electronics in the room to turn on by themselves, or driven down back roads without any music and panicking about being left behind when the situation they're in is over.

And that's the fucking rub, right there.

He's never dealt in the long term, not since he was ten and still under the impression that maybe they'd find some quiet place in the middle of nowhere and settle down. Hell, these days he's not even making plans for tomorrow, because Lucifer's swanning around the world causing massive property damage and, really, The Devil. He hasn't been under any impressions that he'll be around to see the new season of Dr. Sexy in the fall.

Except… well.

Now he kind of wants to stick around.

--

It's two days after The Night That Won't Be Mentioned Again and Dean has had it. They've been trailing a demon named Belial (who, Bobby assured them, is not someone to be taken lightly, because apparently that's what they've been doing with all of Lucifer's buddies). Belial'd been sighted by some hunter in a town of three-thousand that kind of… imploded on itself.

He slams on the breaks, the Impala screeching a protest, and ignores the driver behind him that lays on the horn before finally zooming around the car. He ejects Machine Head and tosses it into the backseat somewhere.

Sam pushes away from the dash with a grunt. "What the fuck, Dean!"

"Okay, I'm only going to say this once," Dean grits out around clenched teeth, fingers around the wheel tight enough to break it off the steering column. "So you'd better put those Dumbo ears to good use. Nothing's changed, okay? Nothing. I am not going to start parading around in sequined tops. I am not switching up Physical Graffiti for fucking Cher. I am not going to jump you in the middle of the night, so you can start sleeping in boxers again -- and don't think I haven't noticed the sweatpants, you gigantic douche." Sam has the good grace to look guilty. "I am still the biggest, baddest bad-ass that's ever walked the earth. Doesn't matter who I fuck or want to fuck; I'm still your brother. You hearing me, Sammy? You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?"

Sam draws in a shuddering breath and nods, staring at Dean with eyes as wide as dinner plates.

Exhaling sharply, Dean nods at the steering wheel and breathes a few times before pulling back onto the road. He's not sure what the uneasy feeling in his gut is, but it must be his colon tying itself into a square knot. It's too quiet in the car now and not even the awkward quiet from before when Sam was shifting in the seat and looking around for a quick escape route just in case Dean decided to forego reason and try to fuck him up the ass. No, now it's the silence that comes after someone just got ripped a new one. It's the horrible schism that opens up between the person who yelled and the idiot that so totally deserved it; this big, yawning gulf is stretching out, Dean on one side and Sammy on the other and Dean really can't deal with this shit right now.

"Sam --"

"I can't even say I'm surprised. I mean, I'm surprised, but I'm really not. You were always doing the smoldering stare thing when he came around, and, sure, at first I thought it was because you were trying to make his head explode with your mind, but once I thought about it--"

He almost slams on the brakes again. "You've thought about it?"

Sam nods, relaxing into the seat, and suddenly the air is alive with curiosity and love and imminent, epic teasing because big brother said something stupid. "And Jesus, Dean, but couldn't you have taken the easy road for once? It had to be an angel? And not even a well-liked one! You had to have the hots for the one who's gone rogue and has his entire family after him."

He's not blushing, he's not. "Dude, it's not like I'm… Shut up."

Grinning, Sam settles back into the seat like he owns it and Dean's two seconds away from opening the passenger door and shoving Sam out. "I knew it. I knew it from the minute I saw the imprint of his hand on your shoulder."

"You're going to feel the imprint of my fist in your head if you keep it up."

Sam laughs, then falls into a comfortable silence that Dean can totally live with. It'd be even better if he hadn't thrown Machine Head somewhere in the back, because he's had "Space Truckin'" stuck in his head for about a week and really wants to hear it. But the silence is good, too.

"Not that I care, but even you're not that big of an asshole that you won't make it good for him. I'm thinking candles, rose petals and an orchestra playing "Wind Beneath My Wings"."

"Get the fuck out of my car."

Except Sam, the contrary dick that he is, doesn't get out of the car and they find a diner somewhere in Morrilton that boasts the best lunch this side of the Mississippi; it's no time at all before Dean has his hands wrapped around the biggest burger he's seen in three years, but he can't even bring himself to enjoy it.

It's too hot in here, too crowded. What kind of diner in Arkansas is crowded at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday? And what the hell do they have playing over the speakers? The last person to have heard this song when it was originally released died twenty years ago. And Jesus Christ on a motherfucking pogo stick, it's like a Norman Rockwell museum in here.

Sam, sitting across from him and picking half-heartedly at a salad that probably went bad three days ago, looks up and glares at Dean.

"Dude. Cut it out."

"What?"

"With the…" Sam makes a gesture with his fork that signifies absolutely nothing. "… Shifting. You look like a four-year old that needs to take a whiz."

He throws a ketchup packet at him. "Shut your face. Doesn't it bother you that it's been, like, a week and we haven't heard a fucking peep from Lucifer? I mean, what kind of douchewaffle starts up an Apocalypse and then just fucks off? Like, "Well, see ya'll later, I'm peace-ing out." You know what? I bet he's chilling with God somewhere right now with a bucket of popcorn and they're watching us tear ourselves apart over this whole thing. It's Y2k. I bet that's all this is. It's all hype."

Sam stares at him, mouth slack, and Dean shifts in his seat.

"Dude, what? It could be."

A look crosses Sam's face, and real fear grips him at the sight of it. It's one of those "awww, how
adorable" looks. A gigantic comforting hand pats his where it's gripping his burger like a lifeline. "I'm sure Cas is fine."

"That's not what this is."

Sam smiles smugly around what maybe once was a carrot. "Oh man, you should see your face right now. Dean, it's okay. You're entitled to worry about your great, big gay angel boyfriend."

Dean picks up his fork.

--

They've been on the road for, like, six and a half minutes -- Sam's still whining about the tong-shaped gouges in his hand, the wuss -- before there's a rustling noise that definitely isn't part of Sabbra Cadabra and Dean nearly swerves off the road when he glances into the review mirror.

"Jesus Christ, Cas!" Dean gasps, heart pounding, and ejects the cassette. Sam slowly lets go of the ohshit! bar and turns in his seat, smiling widely at their new passenger in the back. Dean watches in the mirror as Cas meets his gaze and tilts his head in that weirdly charming bird-like way.

"Hello, Dean." Dean's heart does not flutter at being greeted first. "Hello, Sam. You’re tracking Belial."

"Cas, where the fuck have you been?!" Dean demands like the psychotic girlfriend he is, then
blinks. "Wait, how did you find us?"

Cas's eyes go immediately to Sam. "Your brother left me a voicemail."

Of course he did, the sneaky fuck. Dean turns a cold glare on Sam, who ignores him the way he's done since birth and asks Cas about the Third Babylon. The question's innocent enough, but something sad enters Cas's eyes and Dean is totally going to punch Sam in the mouth.

"We didn’t… We were outmatched," Cas says softly, like it's the end of the world. Oh, wait.

"Hey, it's all right. Is the fourth one still standing?"

Cas nods.

"Well, there you go. Make sure the fourth one is, you know, good and we'll call it a win. Forget the third
one!"

"I don’t think it will be so easy," Cas says, turning his attention to the world outside the Impala. "I don’t have the luxury of… brotherhood any longer. My allies are few. I lost a great many of them with the Third."

Yes, Dean, way to remind him that he's an outcast and is being hunted and has NO FRIENDS.

Dean studies him in the mirror, takes in the tired slump to his shoulders, the frighteningly human circles under his eyes, and feels a swell of something in his chest at the sorry sight of him. He has the overwhelming urge to pull into a motel parking lot, rent a room, and just curl up with Cas and rest for a while. No sex, just… quiet.

Dean clears his throat and pointedly looks away from Cas's exhausted reflection.

"Your coat's not holding up too well," Sam observes loudly, and Dean tries to concentrate on the road as Cas nods in agreement.

"Yes. It is growing increasingly hard to continually piece it together." Cas attempts a small smile. "It is a shame. I’m somewhat attached to this garment."

Dean really has no idea what he's going to say until the words are already out there, slicing through this downer of a conversation and embedding themselves into the upholstery. "Hey, Cas, why don't you pick the next song?"

Sam whips around. "What?!"

Dean shrugs, although it feels more like an anxious twitch. "What?"

"You never let me choose the music!"

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Dean reaches over and punches Sam in the arm. "That's because Cas has infinitely better taste in music than you do, Mr. I Know All The Words To Every Kelly Clarkson Song Ever."

"He's probably never listened to human music! AND I'VE KNOWN YOU SINCE BIRTH!"

"His taste is still better than yours. C'mon, Cas, this is a limited time offer. You'll never get a better deal than this. Take a look at some of the shit I have in the back there and pick one."

Cas licks his lips but makes no move to find the case holding all his cassettes. Sam says nothing, too busy sulking and composing mall-goth poetry in his head.

"Sam, do I need to get my bangs down for all this emo?"

"Fuck off."

"Immigrant Song."

Dude. What? "Dude. What?"

Cas looks down at his hands resting in his lap before meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror. "I heard it while in Boston a week ago and… Do you have Immigrant Song?"

Oh, holy God.

"DEAN, TRUCK!"

--

For nearly six days they chase Belial up and down the whole of I-35 and still somehow beat him to Oklahoma City because obviously Belial isn't taking this shit seriously. Great Bend, Kansas is razed to the ground, but Claycomo, Missouri collapses into one giant orgy. Dean's never seen so many bare-assed, ugly people in one place before, and he's never going to look at horses the same way again.

Sam suggests they split up when they get into town and he abandons Dean for a rake-thin redhead walking into the town library before Dean can even voice a protest. He'd bitch Sam out for chasing some tail when the whole city is about to go kaboom, but he's pretty sure that Sam's actually in the library to look at books and the redhead was incidental.

He checks the time on his phone -- 11:24am -- and glances around the street for something to do until Cas calls with news of Belial's whereabouts. Dean kind of wants to call Cas anyway, just to see what the weather's like in Bangladesh or why God made dogs so awesome and cats such douchebags or who actually shot Kennedy, but Cas will be all, 'Dean, these questions are impertinent and illogical because I am Spock and I can knock you out with a touch, so live long and prosper, bitch.' Or something along those lines.

So he chills in the Impala, parked on the side of a main strip, and people-watches like a creep because he frankly has nothing better to do except sit there and look pretty. Contrary to popular belief, he can sit still for extended periods of time and not get into bar fights or girls' pants or find something that's in need of a good killing. But Christ it's boring. He's pretty sure there's a Pop Up Video marathon on VH1 that he could be watching right now.

He makes a note to introduce Cas to the pop culture wonders of Best Week Ever the next time they're ensconced in a motel room, killing time, because oh god, he can picture the commentary now: "I don't understand. Why is he so… Of course this is real life. How can he see forever? He is a mortal child! Dean, I think that boy is possessed."

Comedy gold.

Adjusting the seat so he can lie back, Dean gets comfortable and clutches his phone, heart thumping at the thought of Cas calling anyway, for no reason, like how he popped in a week ago just to see how Dean was doing. Maybe he won't call at all -- maybe he'll simply appear in the passenger seat before they have to go fight the good fight.

Maybe Dean will start wearing dresses and call himself Dina.

Fuck this.

He yanks on the adjust lever and sits up roughly, nearly knocking his head off the steering wheel. And wouldn't that just figure? Belial comes tap dancing into town while Dean's passed out in the fucking car.

This is starting to feel an awful lot like pining. Dean doesn't pine. Dean hates all kinds of pine -- the whiny kind and the kind that gives him allergies in the spring. Just because he wants to bone an angel (and maybe hang out with said angel and curl up with him in the dark and maybe tell him a little bit about the fears he has about all of this and how grateful he is that the angel pulled him out of Hell because Dean's kind of a dick and didn't actually thank the angel for that) doesn't give him license to become some little emo pussy who pines.

Dean Winchester doesn't pine. Dean Winchester looks around, picks some hot bitch or bastard out of the crowd, and shows them just how lucky they are to have been chosen by the goddamn Righteous Man.

Since Belial's off having a siesta and Sam's browsing through the Young Adult section and Cas is
reporting to the Vulcan high command, Dean's got time. He's going to pick someone right now, find a motel, and most decidedly not pine.

He rolls down the window and peers out onto the street. While there aren't too many people around that he would A) rate higher than a 4 on the hot-or-not scale and, B) figure more than a classic zero on the Kinsey Scale, he still has more of a chance with any of them than most people.

But it must be an off day in Heaven because a smoking hot chick comes walking out of a store across the street, her blonde hair swept back into a neat bun, the hem of her smart-looking jacket brushing against her alabaster ankles, heels strapped and adding a hint of edge to the woman of the working world thing she's got going on. He can tell that beneath all of that neatness and demure surety is a fucking wild cat in the sack. Probably an all-night screamer. Those rouged lips would look amazing wrapped around his dick.

As she passes by the car, Dean sticks his head out of the window and cranks the charm up to
11. "Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but wonder what a class act like you is doing in a rustic setting like this. Maybe you'd like to explain it to me over a drink."

What actually comes out of his mouth is: "Excuse me, miss? Where did you get that coat?"

This is just pathetic.

The woman stops and the coat opens, baring legs that go on for miles. All he can think is 'Cas would look good in that jacket.'

She glances down at herself and absently pats the part of the coat covering her hip. "This? Just bought it, actually. The Naked Truth, right over there." She points a long, artistic finger in the direction of the store she just walked out of. "They have a good selection, good prices… Although you don't seem like a nice coat kind of guy."

Dean takes offense to that.




What would have happened if my brain would cooperate:

DEAN BUYS CASTIEL A NEW COAT BECAUSE HE'S INSANE AND BELIAL IS IN THE STORE AND HELPS HIM PICK OUT THE COAT. DEAN'S PLIGHT AMUSES BELIAL TO THE POINT WHERE HE CALLS OFF THE DESTRUCTION OF THE TOWN. SAM CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS THEIR LIFE.

CASTIEL ADMITS TO DEAN THAT HE WAS NOT MADE FOR BATTLE, BUT ACADEMIA, AND DEAN HAS A VISION OF CASTIEL READING TO HIM IN BED AND IS IMMEDIATELY GUILTY BECAUSE 305794587 PEOPLE HAVE DIED AND HE'S THINKING ABOUT GOING DOMESTIC.

DEAN GIVES CASTIEL THE COAT, AND CASTIEL IS CONFUSED/WARY, AND SAM FILMS THE EXCHANGE ON HIS CELL PHONE BECAUSE IT’S ENOUGH MATERIAL TO MOCK DEAN FOREVER.

AT SOME POINT THERE IS SEX. HILARIOUS, HILARIOUS SEX.

Comments

[kel-reiley.livejournal.com]

THIS IS GOLD. I DO NOT CARE IF IT IS INCOMPLETE. GOLD, I TELL YOU!

Yay!

[annabella-aar.livejournal.com]

I'm so glad you finally posted something new (even if it is unfinished)! You have so much talent, please keep writing.

86656556

[lsrtorottrpo.livejournal.com]

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[mabbly.livejournal.com]

Absolutely brilliant the way it is.

[gabs186.livejournal.com]

Bwahahaha! I LOVED Sam in this, absolute gold. Sad that is wasn't finished but dayum, awesome stuff.

[hollybennett123.livejournal.com]

This is hilarious and fabulous in every way XD

[shaishda.livejournal.com]

I just have to say this was hilarious. I laughed so many times and so hard I can't even. You are awesome.