SPN FIC - Cowboys and Angels
I keep hearing that song ("Cowboys and Angels," Dustin Lynch) on the radio -- and man, it sticks in my head. So here you go: one cowboy. One battered angel. And a smile you could interpret any number of ways. Little bit of a coda to Frontierland.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Castiel
GENRE: Gen (unless you want to see it t'other way...)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 600 words
COWBOYS AND ANGELS
By Carol Davis
I've got boots and he's got wings
I'm hell on wheels and he's heavenly…
- Dustin Lynch
"I sense a certain… reluctance to return to your customary clothing."
Dean managed not to yelp. Jerked back hard enough to dislodge his hat, though, and his heart stutter-skipped against his ribcage. Biting back what he wanted to say took some effort - somewhat less effort when he realized Cas still looked like hell on toast. Huge blood loss, and the energy he'd expended hauling the Winchesters back from 1861…
"Maaaaaan," was all Dean allowed himself.
The angel, who'd been standing in the doorway, shuffled the few steps over to Bobby's daybed and lowered himself down to a sit. Watching that was tough; Dean remembered all too well the kick-ass-and-take-no-names version of Cas who'd come striding into that abandoned barn through a hail of bullets a couple of years back. This version looked like a refugee from the local nursing home, pale and wobbly, somebody who'd lose an ass-kicking contest with an angry cat.
"You oughta get some sleep," Dean told him.
Cas shook his head. "We have much to do. Eve -"
"How about you let the rest of us worry about Eve?"
Team Free Will, Dean thought with an inward sigh. Striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. An old guy, a beat-up angel, a patched-together version of Sam…
"We -" Cas started.
And he cut himself off. Damned if he wasn't staring - checking Dean out head to toe. Seemed to be appreciating him. Which was… nice, sort of, particularly since Sam and Bobby had done nothing but mock him for taking the trouble to put together authentic Western gear so they'd blend in while they searched for the Phoenix.
Hell, everybody back in Sunrise had done the same thing, which was so much not what Dean had anticipated.
So NOT awesome, he thought peevishly.
It's impossible to give me a friggin' break? How 'bout a little A for effort? The HELL.
"It suits you," Castiel said.
"What?"
"That style of clothing. It suits you. Though - if it were 'broken in' a bit more? That might be -" The angel smiled. "I just - it suits you. And you enjoy wearing it, if I'm not mistaken."
I need sleep, Dean thought.
Because it sure as hell sounded as though Cas was coming on to him.
Like some bar chick.
Like…
I need sleep.
"I like Westerns," Dean muttered, his gaze straying around the room. "Clint Eastwood. You know? And the old stuff. John Wayne. Alan Ladd. Used to watch 'em with my dad." And maybe it was for no other reason than to go on talking, to distract himself from the battle that lay ahead - and the fact that Cas was freaking STARING AT HIM - he went on, "It's all black and white. Good guys against bad guys. The good guys always won. Ridin' horses across that big landscape. Saloon girls. Whiskey and -"
Whiskey.
His mouth puckered at the thought of the rotgut the barkeep had served him.
SO not awesome.
When he glanced back at Cas, the angel was still smiling. Kind of limply, but smiling. Weird, in a big way, but also… not.
It was a lot better than what he'd been getting from Sam and Bobby. A little moral support? A little "You did good"?
Yeah, that could go a long way.
"We have a little time," Cas said. "I'd like to hear more."
"You were probably there, you asshat," Dean complained. "Weren't you? You saw it all, and I'm gonna stand here and tell you about movies."
Castiel simply shrugged.
"All right," Dean sighed, reaching for a chair. "Alan Ladd. Shane. Here's what happened."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Castiel
GENRE: Gen (unless you want to see it t'other way...)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 600 words
COWBOYS AND ANGELS
By Carol Davis
I've got boots and he's got wings
I'm hell on wheels and he's heavenly…
- Dustin Lynch
"I sense a certain… reluctance to return to your customary clothing."
Dean managed not to yelp. Jerked back hard enough to dislodge his hat, though, and his heart stutter-skipped against his ribcage. Biting back what he wanted to say took some effort - somewhat less effort when he realized Cas still looked like hell on toast. Huge blood loss, and the energy he'd expended hauling the Winchesters back from 1861…
"Maaaaaan," was all Dean allowed himself.
The angel, who'd been standing in the doorway, shuffled the few steps over to Bobby's daybed and lowered himself down to a sit. Watching that was tough; Dean remembered all too well the kick-ass-and-take-no-names version of Cas who'd come striding into that abandoned barn through a hail of bullets a couple of years back. This version looked like a refugee from the local nursing home, pale and wobbly, somebody who'd lose an ass-kicking contest with an angry cat.
"You oughta get some sleep," Dean told him.
Cas shook his head. "We have much to do. Eve -"
"How about you let the rest of us worry about Eve?"
Team Free Will, Dean thought with an inward sigh. Striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. An old guy, a beat-up angel, a patched-together version of Sam…
"We -" Cas started.
And he cut himself off. Damned if he wasn't staring - checking Dean out head to toe. Seemed to be appreciating him. Which was… nice, sort of, particularly since Sam and Bobby had done nothing but mock him for taking the trouble to put together authentic Western gear so they'd blend in while they searched for the Phoenix.
Hell, everybody back in Sunrise had done the same thing, which was so much not what Dean had anticipated.
So NOT awesome, he thought peevishly.
It's impossible to give me a friggin' break? How 'bout a little A for effort? The HELL.
"It suits you," Castiel said.
"What?"
"That style of clothing. It suits you. Though - if it were 'broken in' a bit more? That might be -" The angel smiled. "I just - it suits you. And you enjoy wearing it, if I'm not mistaken."
I need sleep, Dean thought.
Because it sure as hell sounded as though Cas was coming on to him.
Like some bar chick.
Like…
I need sleep.
"I like Westerns," Dean muttered, his gaze straying around the room. "Clint Eastwood. You know? And the old stuff. John Wayne. Alan Ladd. Used to watch 'em with my dad." And maybe it was for no other reason than to go on talking, to distract himself from the battle that lay ahead - and the fact that Cas was freaking STARING AT HIM - he went on, "It's all black and white. Good guys against bad guys. The good guys always won. Ridin' horses across that big landscape. Saloon girls. Whiskey and -"
Whiskey.
His mouth puckered at the thought of the rotgut the barkeep had served him.
SO not awesome.
When he glanced back at Cas, the angel was still smiling. Kind of limply, but smiling. Weird, in a big way, but also… not.
It was a lot better than what he'd been getting from Sam and Bobby. A little moral support? A little "You did good"?
Yeah, that could go a long way.
"We have a little time," Cas said. "I'd like to hear more."
"You were probably there, you asshat," Dean complained. "Weren't you? You saw it all, and I'm gonna stand here and tell you about movies."
Castiel simply shrugged.
"All right," Dean sighed, reaching for a chair. "Alan Ladd. Shane. Here's what happened."
* * * * *