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spn ficlet: impala67
impala67
Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Cas) | gen | ~800 words
Entirely![[personal profile]](https://www.tumblr.com/favicon.ico)
crossroadscastiel's fault; inspired by this screencap.
--
An ad for the dating app pops up while Dean is playing Candy Crush. Not that Dean would ever admit to playing Candy Crush.
INSTANTLY CONNECT WITH SINGLES IN YOUR AREA!
Dean snorts under his breath. Lebanon's population tops out at a little over two hundred; the closest thing to singles in Dean's area are the cows grazing along US 281.
Still, it couldn't -- well. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam hunting is the only normal he knows. It is. It's just that hunting is also really fucking lonely sometimes -- especially right now, when he's less than a month back inside his own skin and getting closer and closer to the wrong side of thirty-five. He's pretty much accepted that settling down won't even be in his cards, unless -- well. No sense thinking about that right now.
COMPATIBILITY MATCHED!
Dean snorts at that, too; he doesn't need some phone thingamajij to help him with that. He's always had a knack for blending in when he wants to, adapting to his surroundings, recognizing what people want to see and hear. He's just never figured out if it's part of the job, or if it's something he picked up from living on the road.
The app takes his cell number and email address, then asks him a good thirty questions about his likes and dislikes. He tells it he's looking for women only, because picking up dudes would just make him think of Cas, and he says that he prefers dark hair and light eyes, wants someone fairly close to his own age, no younger than twenty-five. No smokers, because it's nearly impossible to get that smell out of the Impala's leather. Nothing serious, because he travels a lot for his job.
He clicks the button that subscribes him to matches when he's away from his listed location. Lebanon isn't exactly a tourist hot-spot; if he gets any matches at all, it'll be when he's on the road.
+
He needs a profile picture.
"You want me to what?" Sam asks dubiously.
They're outside the bunker's garage door, standing in the narrow strip of shade cast by the retaining wall. A breeze is ruffling the trees and Baby's chrome is glinting in the weak sunlight.
"I want you to -- you know." Dean clears his throat. "Take my picture."
"With the car."
"Yeah, man. I just got her all shined up again."
Sam's mouth twitches. "And now you want a memento for your scrapbook?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"All right, all right," Sam says. He shakes his head, then points at the Impala. "Just stand over there and -- whatever."
Dean leans back against the car, one knee slightly bent. He rolls his shoulders and tugs on one of his sleeves, then rests his hands where the front quarter-panel curves up into the hood. He feels ridiculous. He probably looks ridiculous.
"You ready?" Sam asks, aiming the phone.
"Yeah," Dean says, except that the collar of his jacket is crowded up against his jaw. "No, hang on."
He shrugs off his jacket, then walks around to the front of the car and leans his ass against the center of the hood. He crosses he feet at the ankles, but he can't figure out what to do with his hands. Bracing them back on the hood makes him feel like a swimsuit model; crossing his arms makes his flannel bunch up under his armpits.
"Dude," Sam says, waving the phone. "I was watching the game."
"Yeah, okay. Come on, I'm ready for my close up."
Sam aims the phone again. Then he takes a step back. And another. Then one to the side. He fiddles with something on the phone's screen -- probably the flash -- then takes a step forward and gestures for Dean to move to his left.
"Okay, Ansel Adams," Dean says. "Who's holding us up now?"
"There's too much sun right there. Just -- just move over."
Dean slides back over to where he started, but he angles his body forward, cocking one hip against the side of the car. He still feels ridiculous. The breeze picks up a little; the tails of his flannel flap around his torso and he waves Sam off.
"Just a sec, Sammy."
He buttons it halfway, then unbuttons most of that, then starts buttoning it back up again, then pulls it off entirely and tosses it through Baby's open window. He leans against the car again, propping his leg up on the bumper and resting his elbow on his bent knee.
"Really?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. "This is what you want?"
"What's wrong?"
Sam's mouth twitches. Again. "Nothing. It's just -- that's a lot of Blue Steel for the family photo album."
"Shut the fuck up."
"All right, all right. Say cheese."
Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Cas) | gen | ~800 words
Entirely
--
An ad for the dating app pops up while Dean is playing Candy Crush. Not that Dean would ever admit to playing Candy Crush.
INSTANTLY CONNECT WITH SINGLES IN YOUR AREA!
Dean snorts under his breath. Lebanon's population tops out at a little over two hundred; the closest thing to singles in Dean's area are the cows grazing along US 281.
Still, it couldn't -- well. He hadn't been lying when he told Sam hunting is the only normal he knows. It is. It's just that hunting is also really fucking lonely sometimes -- especially right now, when he's less than a month back inside his own skin and getting closer and closer to the wrong side of thirty-five. He's pretty much accepted that settling down won't even be in his cards, unless -- well. No sense thinking about that right now.
COMPATIBILITY MATCHED!
Dean snorts at that, too; he doesn't need some phone thingamajij to help him with that. He's always had a knack for blending in when he wants to, adapting to his surroundings, recognizing what people want to see and hear. He's just never figured out if it's part of the job, or if it's something he picked up from living on the road.
The app takes his cell number and email address, then asks him a good thirty questions about his likes and dislikes. He tells it he's looking for women only, because picking up dudes would just make him think of Cas, and he says that he prefers dark hair and light eyes, wants someone fairly close to his own age, no younger than twenty-five. No smokers, because it's nearly impossible to get that smell out of the Impala's leather. Nothing serious, because he travels a lot for his job.
He clicks the button that subscribes him to matches when he's away from his listed location. Lebanon isn't exactly a tourist hot-spot; if he gets any matches at all, it'll be when he's on the road.
+
He needs a profile picture.
"You want me to what?" Sam asks dubiously.
They're outside the bunker's garage door, standing in the narrow strip of shade cast by the retaining wall. A breeze is ruffling the trees and Baby's chrome is glinting in the weak sunlight.
"I want you to -- you know." Dean clears his throat. "Take my picture."
"With the car."
"Yeah, man. I just got her all shined up again."
Sam's mouth twitches. "And now you want a memento for your scrapbook?"
"Shut the fuck up."
"All right, all right," Sam says. He shakes his head, then points at the Impala. "Just stand over there and -- whatever."
Dean leans back against the car, one knee slightly bent. He rolls his shoulders and tugs on one of his sleeves, then rests his hands where the front quarter-panel curves up into the hood. He feels ridiculous. He probably looks ridiculous.
"You ready?" Sam asks, aiming the phone.
"Yeah," Dean says, except that the collar of his jacket is crowded up against his jaw. "No, hang on."
He shrugs off his jacket, then walks around to the front of the car and leans his ass against the center of the hood. He crosses he feet at the ankles, but he can't figure out what to do with his hands. Bracing them back on the hood makes him feel like a swimsuit model; crossing his arms makes his flannel bunch up under his armpits.
"Dude," Sam says, waving the phone. "I was watching the game."
"Yeah, okay. Come on, I'm ready for my close up."
Sam aims the phone again. Then he takes a step back. And another. Then one to the side. He fiddles with something on the phone's screen -- probably the flash -- then takes a step forward and gestures for Dean to move to his left.
"Okay, Ansel Adams," Dean says. "Who's holding us up now?"
"There's too much sun right there. Just -- just move over."
Dean slides back over to where he started, but he angles his body forward, cocking one hip against the side of the car. He still feels ridiculous. The breeze picks up a little; the tails of his flannel flap around his torso and he waves Sam off.
"Just a sec, Sammy."
He buttons it halfway, then unbuttons most of that, then starts buttoning it back up again, then pulls it off entirely and tosses it through Baby's open window. He leans against the car again, propping his leg up on the bumper and resting his elbow on his bent knee.
"Really?" Sam asks, raising an eyebrow. "This is what you want?"
"What's wrong?"
Sam's mouth twitches. Again. "Nothing. It's just -- that's a lot of Blue Steel for the family photo album."
"Shut the fuck up."
"All right, all right. Say cheese."