Or at least, he pretends to be. And he pretends to be a terrible singer all the time.
More often than not, if they are in the Impala, Dean is singing. Loudly. Off key. Messing up the words and making odd sounds in attempts to sing along with the guitar solos.
Sam finds it incredibly irritating, because it loses it’s charm about five songs into any road trip and Dean just won’t stop, dancing around and drumming on the steering wheel as he drives, growling out dirty lyrics at the top of his lungs.
“Can’t you make him stop?” Sam asks Cas finally. “Withhold sex or something?”
Dean snorts a laugh. “Cas wouldn’t give up a second with this sweet ass just so I’ll stop singing. And didn’t you say we weren’t ever going to mention me and Cas having sex again?”
“Yeah, well. I’d deal with a conversation about my brother and my best friend getting it on if it meant you’d shut up.”
Cas stays silent. He’s learned his lesson about getting in the middle of these types of arguments.
Besides, he doesn’t mind Dean’s terrible singing.
Because Cas has heard Dean’s real singing voice. It happens sometimes when they’re driving alone, late at night, when everything is still and quiet and it feels like the whole world exists solely inside the metal frame of that car. The radio will land on a cheesy soft rock station, and Dean doesn’t bother to change the station, because that would mean pulling his hand away from Cas’, and well, that’s just unacceptable.
So instead, Dean will roll his eyes and leaves the station where it is. And then Cas hears it. The low, quiet humming that slowly turns into actual words. Deep and sultry, and much more on key than it ever is when the sun is up.
There’s one song in particular Dean sings to him, a soft ballad about “turning your angel eyes my way”. Cas knows the general public probably thinks it’s saccharin and a little cliche, but he loves it. He wants to answer the questions Dean sings, to tell him exactly what he did to win Cas’ love. But he also doesn’t want his own voice to interrupt, so he never does. He just listens, lets Dean’s voice flow through him until he’s dizzy with it.
Dean and Sam continue to argue, but this is one fight Cas can’t help Sam win.
He wouldn’t mind if Dean sang every minute of the day.
It’s funny. I used to daydream about being old enough to go on dates, and drive around with friends in their cars. I had this image of myself holding hands with a really cute guy, listening to the radio… driving along some pretty road, up north maybe… when the trees started to change colors. It was never about going anywhere, really. Just having some sort of freedom, I guess. Now that we’re old enough, where the hell do we go? (It Follows, 2014)
Cold morning grass, plucking fruit from damp branches, herbal teas in vintage cups, the first Christmas song on the radio, driving in the rain, heavy pillows, matches.
Pilled wool blankets, broken cinnamon sticks, hot cider steam that seeps into your cheeks, decaying branches that wake in a coat of crystal frost, stargazing in the frigid air.
Oatmeal cookies, tea light candles, thrifted sweaters, early sunsets, mismatched mugs, leaves in the pool, board games, a full moon.
A fluffy loaf of bread, lacing your boots, a vintage thermos, gloomy lights, smoking chimneys, Pinterest recipes, flooding gutters, live music.
A burning log that falls and sends sparks into the sky as it impacts with the dirt, your first bite into a crisp apple, gingersnaps, mini pumpkins, breakfast waffles, rumbling thunder.
Wrapping up in an oversized flannel, the first snow, stray cats in the night, hot chocolate, fallen trees, county fairs.
Collecting pinecones, warm breasted birds that procrastinate their departure, dark red leaves, classic fall movies, burning incense.
Picking an apple from a mound of colors, melting butter on a fresh baked muffin, wool socks, extra blankets on your bed, storm sirens.
Cinnamon sprinkled in the top of your latte foam, shiny copper mugs, boot imprints in the mud, caramel sauce, rain that only dries by the fireside, hot flakey biscuits that burn the roof of your mouth.
Wind blowing through tall dying grasses, peanut butter cookies, the sound of migrating geese, farmers markets, harvest festivals, a breeze that blows out your candle.
Fog that mutes your perception, wood carved trinkets, warm donuts, hearty stews, spinning vinyl, coat buttons, dusty bookshelves, lampposts.
Vintage ovens cooking autumnal pies, whipped cream on the tip of your nose, dogs wearing sweaters, scones, leaf piles, misty rivers.