#jukebox remix

CHEESE DO YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT OR-? ___ Watching a newly human Cas crumple to the ground after running head first into a metal pole was as panic inducing as it was comedic.

Listen- Years of the Winchester brothers laughing at each other's misfortune, Scooby-Doo cartoons, and questionable coping mechanisms has trained Dean to laugh at any/all bodily injury not obtained on a hunt.

Unfortunately that means Cas continues to stay on the ground for about 15 seconds before Dean realizes something’s wrong.

“Shit-” He weaves under the mess of pipes and beams that litter the space above his head- The ones that he’d been so careful about not cracking his skull on but had neglected to warn Cas about, “You okay?”

Cas is flat on his back, staring up into blank nothingness, and even in the dim basement lighting there’s a very clear red mark right above his eyebrow.

“Cas?”

The newer human blinks slowly, once then twice, before slowly turning his head towards Dean's voice, “Why are you shouting?”

“I’m not-” He takes a breath, letting his words echo off the walls and back towards them, and drops down next to Cas, “I’m not shouting.”

Cas winces, “It’s- It’s unnecessary.”

“I’m not shouting, I promise.” 

The mark on Cas’ forehead is already starting to swell, there’s no blood or broken skin, but the former angel flinches away then makes a pitiful noise in the back of his throat when Dean lightly touches the wound.

“That’s gonna’ be a nasty goose-egg,” He laughs again, but this time it’s forced, “How are you feeling? Headache?”

“Yes.”

“Your ears ringin’?”

“Yes.” Cas’ eyes focus and unfocus on Dean’s general vicinity, obviously working overtime to put together what he wants to say next, “We should consider making this room less hazardous.”

“Yeah buddy, we’ll put pool noodles on the pipes right away,” He holds up his hand, about arms length from Cas’ face, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Cas’ answer is quick and confident, “Six.”

“Dude… I don’t have six fingers.”

“Of course you do,” Cas smiles widely, like he’s divulging some fantastic wisdom, “Humans have up to ten fingers, ten, Dean.”

“Yeah, but-”

“I know you have ten, I re-attached them myself-” He sloppily raises his arm, pointer finger extended, and moves to tap Dean’s palm, frowning when he misses by a mile, “Hmm.”

“And you did a great job with that, man,” Dean bends over, trying to arrange Cas in a way that will make him easier to haul to his feet, “Wanna’ try standing up?”

“Not particularly.”

Dean already has Cas’ arm around his shoulder, “Great; Three, two, one-” 

You’d think the floor was made of ice from the way Cas nearly keels back over several times on his way up, and he almost brains himself on the piping again, but eventually Cas is standing on his own two legs- albeit leaning heavily on Dean.

“I had… so many fingers- My true form…” Cas trails off as Dean starts their slow journey towards the exit, one hand reaching over to cup the top of his head to prevent any more damage, “But humans…. I advocated for an 11th finger to dictate one's dominant hand but it-” he sways a bit, “It was disparaged.”

“You always talk this fancy when you’re concussed?” The last time he’s heard Cas talk so… formally, well, he was getting regular lobotomies.

“I’m not sure…” Cas squints at him a little, “I don’t mind the head injury.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Cas nods, then winces, “Yes, it means I get to see two of you.”

I always have time to talk about Chevys!

These little details I mentioned at the end are more for people who write about 67’ impalas and such more than they are for spotting ‘em in the wild, but let’s get into ‘em anyhow!

Seat Materials

This is the easiest to knock off the list first. I see a lotta’ fics fall into this trap- I’ve been victim of it myself, because there’s just something appealing about leather seats- but the interior seats are vinyl. Like, bar stool upholstery type vinyl. The steering wheel as well! Well- Kind of.

Stock 67’ Impalas actually have a wood steering wheel! I have no clue what Baby’s originally was, I’m betting the Walnut style, but it looks like John added a modified cover to it, so Baby specifically has a wood wheel with vinyl padding.

Here, you can kinda’ see what a stock steering wheel would look like on an Impala (Left)) ignore the center console, we’ll get there)), vs Baby's (Right)-

Shifter Placement

Okay, there’s a saying “3 on the tree, 4 on the floor”

Meaning, a three-speed shifter will go on the steering column of the vehicle (kind of where you’d see a blinker on most cars nowadays) and a four-speed shifter will go on the floor of the vehicle OR on the center console (see, told ya’ we’d get there)

When 67’s were being produced, a bench seat was still the cheaper option than a bucket seat, which is why it came with the three-speed option and the pricier versions came with the four-speed in the center. 

In the context of Supernatural specifically, Baby’s gear shift is up on the steering column and, while we’re here, Baby isn’t a manual transmission; She’s an automatic. We know this from Dean telling Jack “‘D’ is ‘Drive’.”. The Winchesters are rockin’ a PRNDL.

Here's what a 3 on the tree looks like (Left) and a 4 on the floor (Right)

Other

Originally this is where I was gonna’ cover transmission, but that got lumped in with the shifter placement, so here’s some extra stuff!

Two big “others” come to mind about Impalas, first one is the engine! The reason I (and the old geezer who taught me most of what I know) will always be loyal to a good classic Chevy is the swapability of their engines. This was because these cars either came with a “Big Block” (454) or a “Small Block” (359) engine, but sometimes you weren’t gonna’ make a different body for each, so the manufacturers had to make sure the car would be compatible with either engine and that it’d be easy to substitute one engine for the other. This means a lot of the mechanics of these old ones are open and easy to access, and sometimes (depending on the part) you can take a piece from a 454 and use it in the repair of a 359.

Second one, and this is a very obscure thing but I think it’s so kickass- Spotlights.

There was a kit for 67’-68’ Chevys that gave ‘em spotlights, it wasn't stock, but it was an option.

All you needed were a few basic tools, a centre punch, the kit, and some beer, and now you’ve got spotlights on your Chevy.

Why were you able to slap spotlights on your Chevy? Well, back then lot’s of cars had kits for ‘em, but they were on almost every police car, so volunteer first responders might install a set on their own vehicle. GM, Chevrolet's parent company, made spotlight kits to order, and even if you weren’t using them for work, they made driving in bad weather way easier. These and Continental kits are some of the more common modifications you’ll see to a Chevy.

A continental kit is just a kit that mimics the way Lincoln Continentals had a tire on their rear.

Here’s what a Chevy might look like with a spotlight kit (Left) and without (Right)

Aaaand here's what a Contenential kit looks like, just for fun-

So yep, those are some of the more random, minor Chevy details that not everyone will need to know about, but are interesting none the less.

Pushing Whumpee's head down to make them stare at the floor and keeping them in the uncomfortable slumped posture

Oho, this was so fun to put my own spin on, mighta' taken some creative liberties but oh well... CW for blood and general SPN stuff, hope this is good for you Jenny o7

---

“Hey, Cas…” There’s a burning in Dean’s ribs when he breathes, an ache that goes too deep to be ignored, “I think we’re lost.”

The angel doesn't reply right away, just keeps unevenly dragging the two of them through the underbrush. Dean thinks he’s supporting his own weight, he’s not really sure, he hasn’t been able to feel his foot since those demons got the drop on them back at the cabin.

‘Routine poltergeist’ his ass. 

“Cas…”

This isn’t the worst place to be lost, honestly it looks right out of Dean's dreams, a lake as smooth as glass, stars filling the otherwise unlit sky, a sandy beach that backs up to woods thick with cedars and hemlocks. But they lit that cabin piled with demon meat suits up almost an hour ago and Dean’s starting to feel the cold in his bones.

“Cas-” They stumble and Dean wheezes out a cough, “Can we take a breather?”

He really just wants to lay down and nurse the wounds Cas refuses to heal.

The angel turns to him and, wow, have his eyes always been so blue? Maybe it’s just the splatters of red across the bridge of his nose that’s really making the color pop.

“We need to keep going.”

Cas is hurt too- He’s pretending he isn’t but Dean can read him like a book, and he saw that demon stick Cas with a weird looking pole before Cas’ angel blade found a new home in its sternum, he’s hurting too.

“Just a quick break,” Dean’s not begging, he’s not, “We’re both hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas stumbles forward a few more steps before his resolve begins to sway. Dean can see the moment of acceptance in Cas’ eyes, when he decides to stop, when he decides that they’re not going to drop down into the dirt and instead hauls both of them out of the bushes and onto the sand, “I- I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay.” Dean drops down to his knees, looking towards the surface of the lake and feeling a detached sense of awe. 

There’s worse places to rest for a while.

“I can’t heal my vessel.” Cas is on the ground next to him, chest heaving, “They- they warded me-” He lifts up his shirt and it’s hard to tell exactly what he’s showing off through the blood; It looks like there’s a shape underneath it all, formed from split, bubbling skin.

A brand, Dean’s brain provides.

“I can’t heal you.”

Dean reaches out to ghost his fingers over the wound, “What’s it doin’?”

“It’s-” Cas swallows, looking up at the sky for a moment, looking like nothing more than a man from Illinois begging to be something more, “It’s a trigger. I tried to use my grace to heal you, Dean, I swear but-”

The edge of Dean’s vision is starting to get a bit hazy.

“I could feel myself leaving.” The angel looks frightened, it doesn't suit him, “I think it will separate my true form from my vessel once I use my grace.”

“That sucks.” The ache in his ribs has spread to the rest of his chest, “Think I could use some healing right about now…”

The world shifts a bit then suddenly stops, when moved to stop him from face planting into the sand, Dean can’t say.

“I want to heal you.” There’s a hand in his hair, it’s comforting, “I don’t know…”

Cas trails off and Dean focuses on the feeling of Cas holding onto his hair- His knees hurt and his back is slouched at an odd angle and the beach is so thin that Dean’s hands are nearly in the water, but that doesn't matter.

“If I told you not to look back, would you listen?”

What kind of a question is that? Of course he would, he’d listen to Cas even if it killed him.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Why does his mouth taste like copper? “I’d listen.”

“Good.” The hand in his hair tightens and his head is forced downwards and- despite the promise he just made- he tries to lift it back up to ask what the angel is up to, only for it to be shoved back down.

The hand in his hair hurts now, it’s too tight, too hot, there’s heat radiating off of Cas in waves and it hurts, it’s blinding- 

He’s firmly pushed forward enough that he needs to brace his hands on the shore just to stay upright, back screaming in protest. He didn’t even realize he’d tried to look at Cas again. 

His own face is staring back at him from the surface of the lake, bloody and battered, lip split, and then there’s Cas.

Maybe it’s the concussion talking but Cas damn near has a halo above him, reflecting in the water brighter than the stars. His eyes too, are glowing, and his hands-

The water ripples from a breeze Dean doesn't feel and all he sees is wings, wings, wings-

Gone is Jimmy Novak, now there’s something new, something so vast even the lake can’t fully catch its reflection. In the corner of Dean's eyes it burns, so bright he knows it’d be the last thing he ever saw, but in the water it’s clear.

“Hey, Cas.”

A skeleton smiles sweetly back at him, framed with the mane of a lion, then the antlers of a stag. The rings of Saturn wrapped around its wrist bones, a rib cage filled with birds Dean’s only ever seen in museums, and wings.

There’s something wrong with them, they’re barren and, in some places, just bone. But they’re spread wide, they’re touching his shoulders, they’re scraping heaven itself, they’re beautiful.

His head is so foggy from blood loss, from the sheer drunkenness of this moment, that he doesn't realize how close he is to turning towards the light till he’s forced back to the ground with those painfully gentle fingers.

I love your worm lazarus rising and I need to see more. I just got an idea; worm dean crawling out of his grave at the beginning of the episode. he is worm

Yeah yeah, okay, I hear y'all, this is an old one so bear with me folks TvT ---

Dean wakes up to a cold bed, a hangover, and phone that wont shut up.

He blindly gropes around for the offending device, knocking the Vonnegut book he’d found in the dollar bin off his nightstand in the process, his fingers finally closing around the durable case Cas insisted he buy after shattering his third phone in just as many months.

It’s a good thing Charlie found a way to get them essentially limitless money, he can’t buy cheap burners anymore, not when he’s trying (in vain) to catch up to Cas’ score in Candy Crush.

He swipes at the screen with his thumb, still keeping his head stubbornly buried in his pillow, not particularly caring if he accepts or denies the call.

Of course, the moment the ringing stops and he thinks he’s in the clear, someone’s voice is screaming at him through the small speakers and he wishes he’d just chucked the whole thing out the window instead.

“Hello?” Finally deciding to bite the bullet, Dean opens his eyes and is immediately assaulted with a ray of sun peeking through the curtain and shining right onto his face.

“-EAN WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO!?” 

He blinks blearily at the caller ID.

‘Claire-bear’ is the name that he reads, it’s right under a picture of Claire and Cas, where Cas, looking absolutely angelic for someone who’s now 100% human  is showing the young woman one of his flowers while her face is scrunched up in the beginnings of a sneeze.

Damn, he loves this photo.

“Morning,” Dean’s head is pounding too hard for him to scrounge up a nickname for her. He pats the bed next to him, expecting his uncoordinated limb to whack into a shoulder or face, “Cas, Claire’s-”

His hand hits the mattress.

Dean shoots up in bed, realizing Cas is no where to be fucking seen, and tips his head back with a groan.

Great, he gets to deal with an angry Claire all alone.

“Dean, are you listening to me!?”

“Nope,” He pops the ‘p’ at the end of his word, “Why are you calling me so early?”

There’s a scoff and a pause, she’s probably rolling her eyes at him (the little shit), “It’s 12pm.”

“No way,” Now it’s his turn to scoff, glancing toward the scooby-doo themed alarm clock Sam bought him last christmas as a gag (jokes on him, this thing fucking rocks) and realizing, with shock, that it is 12pm, “Well how about that… Why are you calling me?”

“I’m calling because the fucking FBI rang me up this morning-”

That has Dean out of bed and pulling on his robe, ready to run out the door in his pajamas, “What did you do!?”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” He steps over his clothes from last night, the ones he didn’t bother putting in the hamper because he was a little buzzed and wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed, “Seriously, you want an alibi? Because Cas and I went out last night, so anything you think I did-”

“I know you went out last night! You were at that fucking mullet rock concert.”

“You better not be insulting AC/DC,” All other concerns are pushed to the side in defense of his music taste, “I know it’s not you have piss poor music taste, but Cas and I worked hard for those tickets, no stolen money or anything, and we had an awesome time, so you can fuck off.”

“Do you even remember what happened?”

Cas’ pajamas are discarded on their bathroom floor, he’s probably already dressed and out in the garden, “Uh… We drove like 2 hours to the concert, rocked out, I got wasted, Cas drove us back because the fucker somehow still can’t get like, super drunk-”

“Anything else you wanna’ say about the concert?”

“You’re talking like Sam right now.”

“The kiss cam, Dean! You and Cas wound up on the freaking jumbotron!” 

Huh, oh yeah, he vaguely remembers seeing him and Cas up on a screen, they’d both waved, Dean had laid one right on Cas’ perfect lips, and by the time they broke apart the cameras were already pointed at some other couple in the crowd.

Wait-

“Claire, how did you find out about that?” 

“Because it’s all the internet can talk about right now!” Then she adds on, “And the FBI!”

“What…?” He opens up his bedroom door and begins to plod down the stairs, “The FBI called you this morning because I kissed Cas last night? Man, they’re a little late to the game.”

Claire at least waits for him to finish his snarky comment before she drops the bomb on him, “I got a call because my father, Jimmy Novak, who has been missing for years, was spotted being groped by Dean Winchester, the wanted murderer, by thousands of people last night. There’s video footage of it and, lemme’ tell ya’, even though I know my dad’s long gone, it’s still gross to have to see you and Cas going at it like that.”

Oh fuck.

That’s not good.

Cas isn’t in the kitchen when he runs in to tell him about the news, but Jack is, plopped down at the table, squinting at his laptop screen while he munches on a bag of doritos, looking every bit the community college student he is and not the all-seeing cosmic god that he was for a bit.

He taps his pseudo-son on the shoulder and mouths out ‘where’s Cas?’ as he tries to stay equally focused on Claire's rundown of the FBI call.

Jack barely looks up at Dean when he quietly responds, “He went to the store for fertilizer.”

Okay, that’s okay, he just went into town and-

“He what!?”

“Dean, what’s going on?”

“Not you, Claire, I’m talking to Jack- hang on one second-” Despite it apparently being 2pm Dean feels like it’s far too early to be dealing with something this big, “Jack, when did Cas leave?”

“2 hours and 47 minutes ago,” Unlike Cas, Jack’s still fully graced up, and thus can do things like tell Dean exactly how long his husbands been missing while simultaneously giving Dean a small heart attack.

“Son of a bitch,” He needs coffee- no, he wants coffee- he needs Cas, “Claire, hey I’m back, I gotta’ go, call me if you hear anything else, and send me those videos you saw.”

“Good luck old man, don’t let Cas get arrested.”

“What about me?”

“You’re not wearing my dads face.”

“Touche.”

Claire hangs up before Dean can even pull the phone away from his ear and, for a moment, everything’s silent, it’s just him and Jack in the kitchen, and he can pretend that Cas is going to walk through the door any minute and everything will be fan-fucking-tastic-

“Is this about that viral video of you and Cas?”

Son. Of. A Bitch.

“How do you know about that?” Dean can feel his eye beginning to twitch.

“A classmate sent it to me and asked if the guys in the video were my dads,” Jack shrugs, “I said yes. I’m glad you two had fun last night!”

“Maybe a little too much fun.” He turns on his heel and marches to the hallway closet, the one with the hidden safe all the way in the back that holds all the things he can’t afford to lose.

One day he’ll figure out a way to shove Cas and Jack and Sam in there.

He takes a deep breath as he shoves aside his leather jackets, not even lingering when his fingers graze Cas’ beloved trenchcoat (it’s covered in black stains that refuse to come out, but Cas couldn’t part with it, so they stored it away safely), and tries to work out a game plan.

If the FBI thinks they’re in Kansas then they’re probably pulling out all the stops, Dean doubts they’ll be able to drive out of state without being caught and, frankly, he’s tired of running.

“Jack!” He hopes Jack hears him, even with his head stuck behind a layer of winter coats as he fumbles with the dial on their safe, “Text Sam and tell him not to go out, I don’t want him accidentally getting caught if something happens.”

God (Chuck, Jack, Amara, whoever) knows that Sam deserves his stable life with Eileen more than anyone else, even if he’s still got a foot in the hunting game where Dean jumped ship, unable to stomach the thought of losing anyone again.

“Okay!” Jack calls back almost instantly.

‘Okay’ is not the word Dean would use to describe anything right now but he doesn't have time to explain that to Jack, not as he’s pulling out a plain folder from the safe and thumbing through it to make sure it has every single forged paper, document, and certificate he could ever ask Charlie for.

“Jack! Do you remember the safe code?” He’s double checking every paper, then triple checking it.

“09082008-” Jack shouts back, sounding a bit closer than he had before, “Why?”

Dean shoves the papers back into the safe and closes it, ducking out of the closet and almost bowling over Jack.

“Jeez,” He tries to laugh, but it sounds weak, “Are we teleporting around like a chip off the old block now?”

Jack cocks his head to the side, “I walked… What’s wrong?”

“We might be getting some visitors,” He pulls aside the curtain in the living room and closes it just as quickly- He might be retired, but he knows an unmarked car parked on the curb when he sees it, “And I might be goin’ away for a bit.”

“I’m not a child, Dean.” Jack leans against the doorjamb to the kitchen, probably not as oblivious as Dean would like him to be to the feds coming up their yard, trampling his spotless yard and Cas’ prized flower beds, “Will you be home for dinner?”

There’s a knock on the door and Dean smiles tiredly.

“Probably not, kid.”

There’s a couple officers on his doorstep, one already has his hand on his sidearm as though Dean’s going to attack them like a rabid animal.

“Can I help you officers?”

“Dean Winchester?”

“Nobody here named Winchester,” Feeling stupid and cocky, he holds out a hand for the officer to shake, “Dean Smith, how can I help you.”

He sees a flash of silver and suddenly there’s a handcuff around his wrist.

“Dean Winchester, you’re under arrest for the kidnapping and imprisonment of James Novak-” They continue to rattle off his list of supposed crimes as they force his hands behind his back, cuffing them together firmly as though that’ll stop him from picking the locks if he wants to.

“Hey, what’s going on here!?” He tries his best to sound like a pissed off suburban dad, “You’re arresting me in front of my kid!?”

The officer doesn't answer, just mumbles into his shoulder radio, “Suspect is in custody, bringing him in now, lets make sure he’s not put in the same holding cell as Mr.Novak.”

Ah, so Cas is already at the precinct.

Awesome.

---

67' Chevy Impala, 69' Chevy Impala, 59' Chevy Impala

Fuck- 59'

Those curves are fun at first, but with the continental kit making the gas tank a bitch to access and lack of safety standards when they were first produced I don't think they're the best for daily driving.

59's are kinda like hookin' up with a bendy yoga chick, a fun night, but do you really wanna' eat quinoa for the rest of your life?

Marry- 67'

Without a doubt I'm marrying the one that with a steering column that wont impale me in a crash. 67's brought back the old coke-bottle figure with a bit more subtlety, they were the first to have shoulder belts and side lights as standard, they've got a good build and are easy to maintain if you know what you're doin' and treat 'em well. That's marriage material.

Kill- 69'

Tags:

Jukebox 78's: For original posts that include art, writing, etc.

Jukebox 45's: Small ramblings that may or may not be coherent

Jukebox Mixtapes: Reblogs!

Jukebox Remix: Asks & Awnsers

Garage Tunes: My love letters to classic cars

More Below the cut, ask box is always open, Ramble On my friends!

Panini!Cas is @noxemma and me's shorthand for this fic after the thought process of "Hey, what if Dean moved down the road from the commune where Endverse!Cas lives?" and let it snowball from there!

Here's an exerpt feat. The Paninis™ 

“This is what you’re up to?”  It really does catch Dean off guard- Not that he believes all the rumors, of course, but he was expecting a little hedonism. Maybe some psychedelics, at the least a joint or two, not… sandwiches. Cas shrugs and slides a steaming plate towards Dean, “Among other things.” “Listen man, I’m not complaining-” He’s not, because this sandwich looks heavenly; Fresh cheese and bread from the farmers market, tomatoes that Cas probably grew himself, all pressed together and warmed on top of his little wood stove. It takes everything in him not to moan like a C-List porn star when he takes a bite, “Ju’th wathn’t-” Cas arches an eyebrow and Dean swallows his food hastily. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”  He watches the hippy putter around his little kitchenette, putting together a second panini for himself, “Everyone in town thinks you’re up here holdin' orgies on the weekly.”