Chapter Text
Dean had said yes before Sam even finished asking.
That was the problem with Sammy, had always been the problem with Sammy — the kid could get Dean to agree to basically anything if he just said it in that particular baby-brother voice, and twenty-six years of practice had made him genuinely frightening at it. So Dean said yes, he'd be best man, sure, no problem, and it was only afterwards, standing in the stuffy front office of the mechanic's shop with a grease rag in one hand and his phone in the other, that he thought to ask when the wedding was. Summer, Sam had said. Next year, probably. We're still figuring it out.
Great. Easy. He was already putting his phone away when Sam said: also —
And something about the also should have been a warning, in retrospect.
— there's a Betrothal Ceremony first. Three weeks. At the church.
Dean hadn't set foot in a church since their mom's funeral. He was four years old then, which meant he was working off about twenty-six years of second hand impressions from bad movies and conversations, along with the vague conviction that the whole enterprise involved a lot of standing up and sitting down for no discernible reason that anyone had ever satisfactorily explained to him. This did not feel like enough preparation. He told Sam this. Sam told him he’d be fine, it’s just a church, and so Dean had simply said, yeah sure, okay, I'll be there, and he spent the next three weeks not thinking about it.
He thought about it the whole drive over.
Dean knew that churches smelled a particular way, incense, maybe, and dust, and something else, like old floorboards, and the memory of that smell sat in the back of his throat for the whole hour he was on the road and made him feel four years old in a way that had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with the fact that his mother was dead and a church was the kind of place where you said goodbye to people.
It was June in Kansas, which meant no shade and a sky so flat and blue it looked painted on, and Dean had been sweating since Salina, with the windows down and the air coming in smelling of cut grass and road, and by the time he pulled into the church lot his shirt was sticking to the back of the seat.
The building was a real church. Not one of those suburban conference-centre deals with a carpark the size of a Target. Stone steps, actual stained glass, a little sign out front in those white plastic letters that usually said things like He Is Risen or Repent Now, except this one said All Are Welcome. Dean stared at it from the driver’s seat of the Impala.
He spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding whether that statement included him specifically. Considering it was a Catholic church, he concluded it probably didn't, which was fine, completely fine, it’s not like he’d been planning on joining.
He sat in the Impala for seven minutes and nine seconds, which he knew because he listened to When the Levee Breaks from start to finish, and then he got out of the car because he wasn’t about to be the guy who drives over an hour just to be late for his brother’s Betrothal Ceremony, which sounded like something from a Jane Austen novel and still made no sense to him even though Sam had sent him a Wikipedia link about it. He never would’ve pegged Sam for the religious type that did these weird rituals, but whatever, love changes a man or something.
The ceremony was at four, which meant Dean had arrived at three forty, which meant he now had about fifteen minutes to kill in the parking lot of a Catholic church and that was fifteen minutes more than Dean currently knew what to do with.
He made his way around past the rectory — there was a side strip of parking along the church wall, staff overflow, whatever — and there was a car under a canvas tarp close to the wall that he did not look at, because he was looking at the church, and you can only look at one thing at a time.
He found the back of the building, where the dumpsters lived and the church didn’t look like a church anymore. The afternoon was thick and still, and Dean leaned against the brick wall and lit his cigarette and the smoke went straight up because there was no breeze to do anything else with it. He stared at the Impala from across the lot.
He was going to think about nothing. That was the plan. That was a completely achievable plan.
He thought about Sammy's fifth birthday instead.
About how John had forgotten and Dean had fed coins into the motel vending machine one by one in his pyjamas — it had taken a long time, the coins kept bouncing — to get him a Twinkie and the elderly woman at the front desk had come out and given him a handful of mints because she felt real sad for them and now the woman at the front desk was probably dead and Sammy was Sam and twenty-six and getting married, in a church, which was great, it was genuinely great, and Dean was happy for him.
Dean flicked ash onto the asphalt.
He was going to stop thinking about the vending machine, because this wasn't useful and there was nothing to be done about any of it and Dean was happy for Sam — he'd said that already — and the point was twenty-six was young, that was the point, he just thought twenty-six was too goddamn young to be doing all this, though what he knew about love or about any of it would fit inside the Twinkie, probably, so.
He'd been smoking for about two minutes, looking at his watch, really getting somewhere with how the fuck did this happen and why the fuck did I agree to this, when the door opened beside him.
"You can't smoke here," some guy said.
Dean didn't turn around. "Great. Noted. I'm almost done."
"The grounds are—"
"Consecrated. Yeah. I got it. Look, I'm not actually here because I'm religious. I'm here because my brother's doing some sort of weird ceremony and I’m his witness. So."
"You still can’t smoke here."
Dean sighed and finally turned around.
The man standing by the doorway had messy dark hair and blue eyes and was maybe forty, give or take, in the extremely unfair way where forty somehow made a man more attractive instead of less. Stern jaw, sharp nose, soft mouth, and all these things in obvious disagreement. He looked serious in a way that made you curious about what it looked like when he smiled.
He had his sleeves shoved up to the elbow and his top button undone and Dean clocked all of this in about two seconds flat because he was good at reading people fast and also because the guy was, objectively, empirically, extremely good looking, and Dean was only human.
In fact, he was the kind of aggressively handsome that made Dean’s brain go somewhere stupid.
The guy crossed his arms. Dean's gaze went to his forearms for about half a second.
"You’re on church property."
Dean looked around theatrically, more to look away from him than anything else.
"There a sign somewhere that says that?"
"No."
"Then how was I supposed to know?"
"I’m telling you now."
Dean took a drag, slowly, purely out of stubbornness and mostly just to see what would happen. The man watched him do it without changing his expression, which was — it was a hard expression to read, actually, and as previously mentioned, Dean was generally pretty good at reading people. It was one of the few things he was reliably good at, and this guy was not cooperating with that.
Then, instead of leaving, he leaned against the wall about a foot away. Which was a strange move for someone who'd just told Dean off.
Neither of them said anything for a moment.
"So is this where lightning strikes," Dean asked, "or do I get a warning first?"
"You could consider me telling you as a warning."
"I'll finish this one."
"That's very generous of you."
He said it in a way that was dry and a little amused, and Dean glanced at him sideways. He was looking out at the parking lot now, hands in his pockets, like he'd stepped outside for some air and the telling-off had been incidental. His hair was too long, curling behind his ear and a little over his shirt collar, a faint flush along the back of his neck where the afternoon heat was getting to him.
"You know," Dean said, "if you really want me to stop you could just say please."
"Please," the man said, without missing a beat.
He was completely serious. Dean laughed, against his will, and took one last drag and then ground the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot and pocketed the butt because he wasn't an animal.
"There you go," Dean said.
"Thank you."
"So do you volunteer here or what?"
The man considered this. "Something like that."
He said it in the way of someone choosing the least informative but true answer. Dean waited. Nothing else came. "That's real vague."
"Yes." He didn't seem bothered by this. "I know your brother. Sam. He talks about you."
"Good things, hopefully."
"Mostly."
Dean huffed a laugh. He stuck out his hand. "Dean."
"Castiel." He had a firm grip. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Dean's brain chose to notice the line of muscle in Castiel’s forearm where the tendons moved as he shook Dean’s hand. Dean told his brain to knock it off. He was going to let go and have a normal conversation.
Dean let go. "How do you know Sam?"
"Through the community outreach program. He's been helping for about six months. Him and Jessica."
"Sam's into that," Dean said. "Surprising for a lawyer y'know. Meanwhile I'm out here smoking by a dumpster and being a disappointment."
"I doubt that's entirely accurate."
"It's pretty accurate, actually." Dean looked down at his boots. "But I appreciate the vote of confidence."
A pause. "Is that your car?"
Dean followed his eye line to where the Impala sat in the corner of the lot, which was where Dean always parked her — end of the row, away from other cars, as much space as he could give her. "Yeah," he said. "Why?"
"Sam mentioned his brother would be driving a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala."
"He mentioned the car specifically?"
"He mentioned it at some length, yes." A contained almost-smile appeared, a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "I gathered it was important. He described it as a very beautiful car."
"He’s not wrong," Dean said.
Castiel looked at him for a moment, this very direct look, like he was deciding whether to say something. Then: "Sam says you fix cars."
"For a living, yeah."
"What kind?"
Dean blinked. In his experience, people didn’t ask what kind.
"Classic American, mostly. Old muscle. Chevys, Dodges, that kind of thing." He stopped himself before he could keep going, because he was aware that he had a tendency to go on about this. "Why?"
"My car is older than both of us and I'm fairly certain it's dying," Castiel said. "I keep meaning to find someone who knows what they're doing."
Dean asked, before he could stop himself, "What year?"
"1968." He nodded toward the far side of the building, already pushing off the wall. "I'll show you, if you like. Before the ceremony."
***
It was the tarp he'd walked past on the way in.
Dean had thirty seconds to feel stupid about that while Castiel lifted it off.
Deep blue, hard top, two door, original trim, a chrome strip along the door that caught the afternoon sun like it was trying to get his attention on purpose. Oh, that was a good car. Dean stopped walking. He actually stopped walking, because that was a genuinely good car, and whatever happened on his face right then was probably extremely visible, because when he looked up Castiel was standing with his arms folded, watching Dean with a measured smile, the kind that suggested smiling wasn’t his default and he was making a conscious exception.
"That’s a ‘68 Fairlane 500," Dean said. "Factory colour?"
"As far as I know."
Dean walked around the front of it and ran his hand along the hood. It wasn't latched right, he could see that from here. He reached out and pressed down, just to check, and the latch gave a quarter-inch before it caught. Then he stopped. He looked at the badge on the front left fender. Looked at it again.
"You wanna pop the hood real quick?"
Castiel produced a hefty set of keys. The door swung open and Dean got a glimpse of the black leather interior, and then Castiel leaned across the bench seat, one hand braced on the dash, reaching to pull the hood release and Dean got a view of something else entirely, which was the way those jeans pulled across the curve of his ass, and the hem of his shirt riding up at the small of his back, and Dean was looking at that for — a second. Maybe two seconds tops. In the way that you look at things that happen to be in front of you when you happen to have eyes.
And then, because Dean’s body had never once respected the concept of timing, he felt his dick take an interest in the matter.
In a church parking lot.
Dean Winchester, ladies and gentlemen.
Then Castiel was out and Dean propped the hood open and looked inside.
And then, mercifully, he forgot about everything else.
The 428 filled the bay the way a big block fills a bay — which is to say, completely. Every inch. It sat low and wide under the stock hood, the rocker covers running the full length of both sides, the iron intake manifold running straight across the top with the Holley four-barrel sitting centred on it, a unit that looked almost too large for the space until you remembered what it was for.
Nothing on the outside of this car could’ve told you what was hiding under the hood. That was the thing about these Fairlanes. Ford hadn’t given them a performance hood, hadn’t given them anything that said hey, look at this. They’d just dropped the engine into a car that looked like something a guy in a short-sleeve button-up and khakis buys because it’s reliable and the payments are reasonable, and it just so happened that nobody got around to mentioning the part where it would do a hundred and ten on a straight road without breaking a sweat.
Nobody ever looked twice at a Fairlane. That was entirely the point.
Dean had his phone out before he'd consciously decided to reach for it, pulling up the VIN decoder. He knew the block. He just wanted to see the number confirm it.
It did.
"Holy shit."
Castiel’s eyebrows rose.
"Sorry— but dude. This isn’t just a ‘68 Fairlane." Dean heard his own voice do something embarrassing with the volume. "She’s got a 428 Cobra Jet."
"What does that mean?"
Dean stared at him. Of course. Of course this car belonged to someone who had no idea what he was looking at.
He beckoned Castiel to come closer and pointed at the R on the VIN badge.
"See that? R-code. Means she left the factory with a 428 Cobra Jet V8. That’s the FE big block right there— iron heads, iron intake, Holley four-barrel sitting on top." He pointed each component out as he went. "Ford rated it at 335 horsepower, which everyone knew was a lie. Real number was closer to 410, maybe more. This car would put you back in your seat. They sandbagged it on purpose ‘cause insurance companies were starting to lose their minds about muscle cars and if Ford put the real number on paper the premiums would've killed the market. So." He ran his fingertips along the edge of the engine bay, and he was aware, distantly, that he’d lost the thread of stopping himself. "They put this engine in the Mustangs first, early in ’68, then opened it up to the Fairlane. Ford only put the CJ in 22 of this body style. These came out of the factory with a Cruise-O-Matic, but at some point this one had a four-speed swapped in." He straightened up. "Somebody knew what they had and decided they wanted more of it."
Most people glazed over inside fifteen seconds when Dean started talking about cars. He could always tell. There was a specific quality of polite vacancy that fell over people’s faces when they were waiting for him to stop.
He glanced at Castiel to check for it and Castiel did not look vacant. He looked interested. Genuinely, specifically interested, head tilted slightly, looking at Dean's face the way Dean looked at an engine: like there was something in there that repaid the attention, and he intended to find out what it was.
Which was fine. It was an exceptional car. It was completely reasonable to be standing close to someone and looking at their face while they talked. That was just called listening. People did that.
Dean looked back at the engine. Castiel didn’t say anything. He just stood there and didn’t offer Dean the polite conversational exit of a follow-up question or a yeah wow or any of the normal social machinery people used to indicate they were done listening. He just kept looking at Dean with that same unhurried attention, like he had nowhere else to be and no particular interest in pretending otherwise and let Dean's explanation sit in the air between them, and Dean got the uncomfortable impression that this was what Castiel did: waited, without any particular need for the waiting to end.
"She’s something," Dean said. To the engine.
"Yes," Castiel said. Not to the engine.
Dean kept his eyes on the Holley sitting up on the intake, looking deceptively inert. Everything about this engine looked deceptively inert, all that capability just quietly waiting there. There was a lot to look at. The bodywork alone — the chrome strip, the original trim, the way the blue looked in the afternoon light — was worth a sustained look, and he was looking at that, and also at Castiel in his peripheral vision with his arms still folded and his head still tilted, which was fine—
Anyway.
The Holley could flow enough air to make your eyes water, wide open at full throttle. Or it could, when it wasn’t drowning on idle, which this one clearly was because Dean could already see where the fuel had been pooling and burning off on the manifold.
"Is she stalling on you?"
"Constantly."
"How long’s she been doing it?"
"Since I purchased her about eighteen months ago," Castiel said. "I’ve had two people look at it."
"And?"
"And I’ve had two people look at it," Castiel said dryly.
Dean snorted. "Yeah. Well. Carburetor’s probably flooding on idle. You’re lucky it hasn’t caught fire."
He crouched at the front, looking under the car, and spotted it — liquid catching light where it had pooled on the asphalt. After that he couldn't really justify not doing it properly, so he lay down on his back and looked up at her underside.
Cracked coolant hose. No rust on the body, though. Not a spot. The Fairlane was gorgeous and the engine was, probably, a complete disaster.
He told Castiel all of this while lying on his back on the asphalt, the summer heat stored in the blacktop pressing into his shoulder blades. Castiel crouched down beside him without being asked and held his phone up as a torch. He could have handed it down and stepped back. He didn’t. He stayed there, close enough that Dean could smell his cologne — warm, cedar-adjacent — and looked at the underside of his own car with the focused expression of a man who understood almost nothing he was seeing and had no embarrassment about it whatsoever.
"In its defence," Castiel said. "It starts. Most of the time."
"Yeah well you've got a coolant leak, which is— how are you not overheating?"
"I don't take it far."
Dean pushed himself out and stood up. He brushed the asphalt off his shirt and looked at the car, then at Castiel, who had straightened up beside him with his hands in his pockets and was also looking at the car. There was a line of sweat at his temple.
"The hose is the urgent one," Dean said. "Carburetor too. Everything else you’ve got time on. But if either of those go while you’re driving—"
"I take your point," Castiel said. Then: "Can you fix it?"
"Yeah, I can fix it. If you want to bring her by the shop. Or I can write you a list, if you’d rather take her somewhere local."
Castiel considered this. "How far is your shop?"
"A little over an hour—"
"Dean!"
He turned around. Sam was coming across the parking lot at the pace of someone who had needed Dean somewhere else for a while and was done being patient about it, which was a pace Dean recognized and did not especially enjoy.
"You were supposed to be inside ten minutes ago," Sam said, arriving breathless and already giving Dean the look. "Jessica’s parents are here, the ceremony starts in twenty— oh, good! You’ve met Father Novak."
Dean felt something in his chest actually drop.
He looked at Sam.
Sam smiled, guileless as the day he was born. "Father Novak runs the parish. He’s going to be doing the ceremony. Father, this is my brother Dean."
Dean looked at Castiel.
Castiel looked back at him. He had his hands in his pockets and his head tilted just a fraction and there was an expression on his face that Dean’s brain tried to classify and the classification that came up first was interested and it was the specific, warm, direct kind of interested that had no business being there on a priests face, but was also an expression that offered Dean nothing useful and Dean was busy speed-running every inappropriate thought he’d had in the last twenty minutes—
"Dean and I have already met," Castiel said. To Sam, technically. He was still looking at Dean. His voice was low and a little rough, and it matched nothing Dean had ever associated with a man of God in his entire life.
Fantastic.
Dean was thirty years old and had spent the better part of a decade figuring out that he liked men the way he liked women — which was to say a lot, sometimes inconveniently — and he’d gotten pretty okay with that, he had, he was completely fine about it, but there was something about finding out that the guy you’d just spent twenty minutes wanting to ask for his number was actually a priest that made the whole personal-growth arc feel extremely beside the point.
"Great," Sam said, and grabbed Dean’s arm. "Father Novak, we’ll see you inside. Dean, come on, I need you to be a person—"
"Yep," Dean said. "Yeah, coming, let’s go."
Sam towed him toward the side door and Dean went, because that was what he did, he went where Sam needed him to go, that was the whole reason he’d driven over an hour and put on a tie that was slightly too tight and stood in a church alley smoking a cigarette like a man trying not to think about anything.
He looked back.
Castiel was still beside the Fairlane, with the hood still propped, watching Dean go with the same quality of attention he’d had throughout the whole conversation.
Dean was thirty years old and a grown man and a mechanic from Kansas and he knew better and he faced forward and kept walking.
He was completely fucked.