Lost in Transition

A/N: For my little wonder, Benny "Deborah" Lafitte

"We're just two lost souls, swimming in a fishbowl, year after year…"

– Pink Floyd "Wish You Were Here"

It wasn't often that Castiel stared glumly at the hot dog rotisserie down aisle three.

No, it was actually too often that at this point often might as well be pigeonholed "desperately and pathetically always".

The Gas n' Sip, unlike his desperately and pathetically monotonous life so far, was never packed to the brim with customers. Welcome to Sugar City, where, ironic enough, no one even knew what it meant to get Full Throttle'd. Living in the shallow comfort of bucolic-infused suburban homes tended to have that ignorance-is-bliss effect.

Come to think of it, Castiel can't recall the last time he's been handed a couple of crisp Lincolns in exchange for gas. Like hell if the station doesn't make a profit on bagged ice though. The only thing more consistent than inconsistent customers is the perennial Indian summers in Idaho.

He could always watch the local news (which was basically a string of natural disasters and the occasional right-winged sermon condensed into an hour long View segment), but then he might as well talk to gossip correspondent Deborah Staley live on the field. Deborah was the five-foot assistant manager who bared the mouth of a sailor and a heart of gold. Nothing ever phased her naturally inquisitive thirst for the truth—especially when it came to the new kid coming into town wearing nothing but a trench coat and a cute face.

Miraculous in its sound, the bell tolled above the rustic threshold. Castiel craned his head, trying not to gape at the really attractive costumer walking in. He wore long, unshorn chocolate hair underneath a heaven-white beanie and tattoos in places flannel couldn't cover, outlining his toned physique. What Cas was limited to at the moment was the backside of him—but he wasn't complaining.

He must not have been too subtle because he a shove came from the little woman next to him. Yet, even she had to acknowledge the Calvin Klein exemplar. "If you spent as much time stocking the shelves as you are pining over Armani's fall hipster collection, this place would be fucking spotless. You know, for the record."

"At least I get paid to pine," Castiel noted, admiring the handiwork of God as the guy bent down to retrieve his credit card. Normally, Cas wouldn't deign as low as he's bending—especially since he was something of a role model to George Clooney, Zac Efron, Ryan Gosling, and whoever else was on the latest People subscription—but from his nosebleeds on the security cam, it was the guy's own fault for having butterfingers.

Debbie laughed before turning on her heels, "And I'm the Queen of England."

"Dude, Unattached Drifter Christmas isn't for another five months, you're gonna have to come up with a better excuse than—no, Trojan as in the Trojan War—dude, you're confusing porn with reality again—look, I'll be out in a minute, just—whatever, Jerk."

Cas marveled at the sight before him, particularly entranced by the lip ring Calvin ran his tongue over in a way that should have been criminal. He mumbled an apology into what he presumed was the Blackberry in his hand until he saw a couple items on his table.

The cashier salvaged his self-respect, seeing exactly what Calvin put down: a pack of peppermint gum and—surprise, surprise—Trojan condoms. His lips turned into a sly smile as dared saying, "Busy night?"

He almost immediately lamented the grave mistake of butting into someone's personal business without second thought—a stranger, nonetheless. Then Calvin's face formed a replica smile that, in no way, had the power to melt the sun. "As much as he'd like me to get laid, no," he said. "The gum is for me."

"And he is…?"

"My brother," Calvin amended, gesturing to the literal black beauty of a car parked outside. "He's probably the guy pumping the Impala with nonexistent gas."

Castiel laughed, face turning scarlet. "And that's probably my fault. I'll get you checked out."

"I don't think it'll make much of a difference to a five-year-old with hypertension," he replied, handing him his Visa. This emitted a small laugh out of Cas. It was probably wishful thinking, but he could have sworn the guy deliberately mired the handling process because Calvin's fingers definitely touched his as he accepted the plastic.

The cashier ran the items up on the scanner, albeit his gradual transformation into a giant tomato. If he turned his head an inch, he would've found Calvin's cats-eye marbles scanning him like a girl at prom. Fortunately, the register was jammed, leaving his mind to concentrate on something other than virtually everything he shouldn't have done between the last nineteen seconds and nineteen years of his life.

Starting with not looking like a total incompetent.

"At the risk of sounding like a complete idiot, your eyes are, like, amazing."

Like a crane, Cas's head gradually elevated to meet the similarly amazing eyes of the tattooed stranger, whose face was turning a respective fuchsia. He was almost tempted to swing a glance behind him to find Debbie, their boss Naomi, or even Chris "Captain Kirk" Pine on the cover of Us Magazine (then again, who else would willingly be on duty near the ass-crack of midnight?), but his endeavors would be worthless because Calvin was staring at him and him only.

He spluttered a half-assed "thanks" handing him back his things (compliments weren't in the teen's vocabulary) and, by the grace of God, managed to compose a concrete sentence: "I don't think it's idiotic."

He felt like he should've said more (like, for example, you're kinda incredibly gorgeous too, just FYI) but the door swung open again, revealing the same man from outside—Calvin's brother. He snatched the bag of stuffs out of his brother's hand irritably before feasting his eyes on the nerd boy behind the counter. A Cheshire smile spread like Nutella across his face. He then proceeded to underscore his clearly-made point by addressing Calvin as "honey" and slapping his finely-shaped ass on the way out.

A few minutes later, Deborah returned from the toilet-shaped eye of Sauron, asking what trouble the young employee had gotten himself into. Not only did he owe his manager an explanation after his laughing fit, but he also owed the register $18.69.

"It's business, Sammy. You wouldn't understand."

"It's hedonism, Dean. I understand perfectly."

If there's one thing that never changed in Sam Winchester's lackluster existence, it was the trivial arguments he had with his older brother. The first-born was so stubborn he might as well be shoving coals up his ass—a trait that he had without question inherited from their father and was since amplified by Uncle Bobby—but then again, so was he. The two might have been from the same peapod (even if there's no solid proof), but there was no way in hell Sam was anything like Dean.

Except maybe the way he dressed…and the big mouth… and they had the same job…

Alright, this was starting to sound like Oprah's Reunion Special.

"Business can be pleasure," Dean retorted, hurtling at him the towel he'd been drying his hair with. The youngest Winchester tossed it aside, making sure it fell on Dean's bed because there was no way he was sleeping on damp springs. Not after Montana when his brother sabotaged his rent-a-bed by turning it into a water mattress.

Sam scoffed, collecting his jacket and the room key to their stingy motel. There wasn't much more he could process after uninterrupted reruns of brother-sex on-demand. "Give Benny a big wet kiss for me."

"And many more," Dean said in a blissful singsong. Again the youngest rolled his eyes, heading out the door. He shrugged on his brown fleece, soundlessly thankful for the cool weather Rexford had to offer on short notice. He was on his way to the Dine n' Dash across the street when he jarred shoulders with someone lesser in height.

"Sorry, I—" Sam stared disbelievingly at the apparition before him. It was hard to forget a familiar stranger with a pale face, dark brown hair, and those discreditable blue eyes that practically spun his universe out of alignment a couple hours ago. The only thing missing was his blue and white worker's uniform. "Castiel?" The boy gaped at him in the same dubious fashion. Immediately, Sam jumped to worst case scenario. "Oh God, I totally butchered your name. I saw your nametag and took a shot in the dark..."

"Oh so you were checking me out?"

Sam's mouth ran fruitlessly. "Oh, no—I just—I was just—"

The handsome guest laughed as his face turned into a landscape of red and pink hues. He lent out his hand which Sam accepted. "I'm just pulling your leg. You got it, but Cas will suffice… um—?"

"Sam," he rejoined a little too eagerly, "short for Samuel, but I hate formality."

Cas laughed and God, did he want to crawl into a Hobbit hole for the rest of eternity. "Nice to meet you, Sam short for Samuel."

"Hey, uh, if you're not busy, maybe we can head to the Dine n' Dash across the street," he suggested like the great pretender he was. It was a miracle words even came to him. He usually wasn't this forward with anyone—not like he's hit on a metric-ton of guys in the past, or like he's had the time to, traveling coast-to-coast all the time—but there was something about Castiel (Cas, he amended) that was different. The guy only said two words to him and suddenly he was on Cloud 9.

Cas smiled kindly. "I'd like that. I was just heading up there anyway."

And that's how Sam short for Samuel ended up on an informal date with a wide-eyed gas station lieutenant. Cas will suffice sat across from him in their cramped booth, boring holes into the menu. Sam couldn't decide whether to gawk or laugh. The guy could be taking the LSAT's beneath the pricelist he was so focused.

"The cheeseburgers are to die for," he said, causing the boy's head to turn up curiously. The twenty-something shrugged as he emancipated a smile. "At least that's what Dean says."

Cas let out a satisfied hum as he replied, "So you've been here?"

"A few times, yeah," he said, letting him chew that over while casually browsing the menu. Red wine chicken, he thought reproachfully, if this place got any more sun the grapevines would turn into raisins. Potatoes au gratin, however…. "We usually pass through Nampa on the way to Portland but we were running low on fuel."

Cas set his menu aside. "What's in Portland?"

"A '65 Fastback, but I think the guy's BS-ing. My brother and I run an auto shop back in Sioux Falls. We buy classic cars, fix 'em up and sell them for twice, sometimes three times the face value. It's kind of like a family business. Dean gets some 'employee discount' with the wholesaler in Portland but I'm pretty sure it's code for prostitution."

Sam had to admit he really liked the way Cas was observing him as he spoke. He had these bright pink lips that bowed into each other, like a landslide would plow into ruddy terrain after an earthquake. After a second, he spoke, "So you guys are, like, drive-by tourists?"

"That's one way of putting it," Sam said, laughing good-naturedly. "I mean, mechanics isn't really my forte, I'm just working up towards something else… even though I'm not entirely sure what that something else is right now… does any of this make sense?"

Cas nodded knowingly. "Unfortunately, it does. I've moved so many towns in the last two years alone, just trying to find what my greater purpose is. You hear all these stories about fate and destiny that eventually you get curious and start to seek it out for yourself."

"Do you feel like a Hallmark card?"

Cas blushed profusely as a slow but steady smile broke his concentrated semblance. "A little bit, yeah," he confessed. A waitress rounded their table to take their orders—a Cobb salad with a side of potatoes au gratin for Sam and, unsurprisingly, a cheeseburger and fries for the slightly younger patron.

As she disappeared into the back, Sam rested his elbow on the table as a rest for his head and blew a nice, long raspberry. "I guess that means we're both utterly lost."

"But if we're both lost, doesn't that make us found?"

The two ate in silence after that—not the family-road-trip silence that Sam wished he had if it wasn't for Dean's freaking cassette tapes blaring down the road, but the kind that was comfortable and didn't take much easing into in order to fully appreciate. For once, he was grateful for his brother's unmanageable OCD. He'd be sure to repay him in fuel (like hell he was going to buy him more plastic to feed his addiction).

That is, after he repaid Cas for his kind services. After they walked back to their adjacent rooms (a little closer than before, he noted), Sam lent down and kissed him on the cheek. He tried not to linger like he did with the credit card back at the Gas n' Sip, but he still made it known on both parties' behalf that he was savoring the small but significant embrace.

And then Cas smiled so wide that Sam thought he'd get sent back to 1955. "When will you be back?"

"We ride out tomorrow night, should be passing through in a week or so."

"Hopefully it's not just a passing through."

It was Sam's turn to smile at the phrase-turned-question, saying, "Definitely not a drive-by. Although, I have a feeling we'll meet somewhere down the line. Drifters don't stay drifters if they settle in too long."

"We better get inside before a couple of Christian missionaries hold us in contempt for holiday word larceny," Cas noted, grinning. Then, before either of them could overthink anything, Cas almost expertly pulled Sam into his lips. Sam's mind willed to catch up with his mouth that was kissing him back like tomorrow would never come to pass.

Tomorrow morning, he would tell his brother to swing by for him on his way back from Beaver State. The rest of the week wouldn't be spent staring down an open highway or a greased-down rotisserie in a shop at the end of an exit, but instead in the comfort of a stingy motel as Cas slothfully traced every tattoo on Sam's body and Sam smiling because for once, he and his midnight lover found comfort in being totally and completely lost.

-END-