Pairing: Dean/Castiel

Notes: This is a total AU, with always-a-girl!Dean and male!Castiel. It's been hanging around in my harddrive for a while now and I'm not sure what to do about it. I like it and might continue, depends on the response.

For now, enjoy the crack/fluff.

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BABY BLUES

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Okay, so maybe she was a bit stupid. It wasn't like she'd expected anything to come of it – except for the part where she had, dammit – and who could blame the guy? It wasn't like she'd done anything to make a lasting impression beyond holy fuck be gone demon.

She'd been covered in grease and wearing a grey jumpsuit with the sleeves tied around her waist, sweaty t-shirt clinging to her frame with Singer's Repair Shop printed in bold letters over her back. And, God, her hair, she despaired as she looked at herself in the cracked mirror of the bathroom three days after her brief visit to La La Land. It was pulled back in a short (tiny) ponytail, but it looked more like a bird's nest and oh God that wasn't a hairpin what the fuck, so why the hell had she found herself going around waiting for a call that would not happen? She didn't make it a habit of hitting on unsuspecting tax accountants at work, she was usually too busy cranking up the volume to her favorite Zeppelin tape and getting down and dirty with car parts. It was just – his eyes.

And fuck this, she is not and has never been the girl in the family. Sammy had this covered, as he'd proved with the Shania Twain that had blasted from his room this morning. Huffing, Deanna fucking Winchester manned up and went back to work, Baby Blues Tax Guy in Weirdly Attractive Flasher Trench Coat forgotten. Well, mostly. Sort of. Dammit.

It figures her cell phone starts blasting the selected AC/DC of the Week as she's just settling down in front of the TV with a beer and a bag of chips six hours later.

"I didn't do it, or I didn't do it - this time," she answers around a mouthful of chips, because she remembers slamming the door that morning to Sammy's Shriek of Slipping on Something Slimy in the Shower and hightailing it to her trusted Baby, who always got her out of trouble (sort of. Kind of into it as well, but. Yeah).

A confused silence followed, or that's what it sounded like, before a Goodbye Ovaries voice that was Decidedly Not Sammy's, Ew replied. "You…are not the one who left this number in my coat pocket asking me to call you?"

Well, fuck you life.

"Um," she did not squeak, "maybe? Shit—err, I mean, this is a surprise?"

She might've scribbled her number on a post-it and added "Call me, Hot Stuff ;)" in what she swears was a moment of panicked insanity before slipping it into Baby Blues' pocket when he wasn't paying attention (his stare was intense, and she didn't think he noticed anything beyond what he was trying to move with the power of the Force, which at the time had been his car's hood).

"I…did not discover the note until now. I'm assuming you are Miss Winchester?"

Okay, this was officially the most awkward phone call ever (she politely told her inner Sammy to shut up as he tried to list past incidents with excited glee). Phone call from Hell. But taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that there was a pair of Baby Blues at the other end of the line and fuck, he'd actually called, and she cleaned up really fucking nice for eyes like that.

"Just Dee is fine, Mr. Novak," she replied with a smirk, now over the initial shock of hearing that sinful growl of a voice so close to her ear. It further supported her theory that it worked like a scrambling signal for her brain, security codes cracked and higher thinking processes hijacked.

"Then you may call me Castiel, Dee," he replied, sounding amused and she realized he'd been two huffs from chuckling from the moment she picked up the phone. That was good right? Well, she'd make it good, in any case.

"So, Cas," she drawled because Castiel? Really? She wasn't letting that slip off her tongue unless it was a moan and – okay, not productive. Unscramble, pronto! "Do you like coffee?"

"Yes." More amusement. Or bemusement, she wasn't sure. Didn't care.

"You like pie?"

"Apple, blueberry and rhubarb are my favorites."

She was going to bang this guy so hard she swears to God –

"—Saturday at three, the diner down the street of the library?"

"The one with the totally epic Cadillac interior?"

"Yes. It seems...appropriate."

She snorted, amused. "You've got yourself a date, Cas!" Grinning, she twirled her almost forgotten beer between her fingers.

"Go me," he replied and she would bet her Baby he was smiling as well. They hung up after a polite round of goodbyes, and Dee had about four minutes of gloating to do before it really sunk in and one beer wasn't enough anymore. She had a date, with Baby Blues, in two days, and fuck. She wouldn't be wearing half the repair shop on her skin and she wouldn't smell like a burned out engine, and her hair would not be the home of oil-drenched seagulls with questionable pieces of metal decorating it.

She hadn't been on a date since Lisa, which was the longest relationship she'd pulled off ever, and before her it was Jenny and before that Denise and—holy shit, she hadn't dated a guy since she was fifteen, which, okay, wasn't that long ago. Well, seven years but still – and fine, there'd been a long string one night stands of Women Sucks Give Me Dicks after Lisa and – she really had no reason to freak out. Five beers later and she felt much better and decided it was a good idea to crash Sammy's study party to tell him this, if only to delight in bitchface #1, #6 and #11 (How Are We Related, No Don't Tell Me and Is That Beer I Smell On Your Breath, Of Course It Is and Wait There Is Something You Aren't Telling Me).

"Dee! You can't just kick my door in!" Sammy whined, predictably, from his sprawl in the bed surrounded by books that had nothing to do with something healthy like porn or cars or other manly stuff her eighteen years old brother badly needed. She was buying him a Busty Asian Beauties on her next grocery run because she was an awesome sister like that.

"Sure I can, I just did didn't I? And I own this door, bitch," she replied, grinning and taking a gulp of beer in reply to bitchface #1 and #6 combined. Duh on #6. "I'm just passing by to tell you life is fucking awesome, you should look into that more often and, you know, get one."

Pushing away from leaning against the doorframe, she strolled over to the bed and flopped down half-over, half-next to the giant occupying it. Squirming and whining, Sammy made place for her as he always did in the end, bitchface #11 glaring at her on queue.

"You're one to talk," he grumbled, "You work all day, every day, and crash in the couch with half a liquor store."

Shrugging, Dee decided this was not the time to get into that argument because Sammy would never get it. Money didn't grow on trees and collage funds didn't fill themselves, food didn't cook itself, books didn't buy themselves. She's been a mother-father-brother-sister-friend since she was four and at nineteen Dad's last words to her were "Take care of your brother, take care of Sammy". She didn't need more than she had; dad's life insurance had paid off the two bedroom apartment (she tried not to think about that, it made her want to cry and/or puke), she had a steady job (and a side job for some pocket money) and a car and a smartass brother who were going places. Oh, and she had a motherfucking date with Baby Blues on Saturday. Yep, she was set.

"Not working on Saturday," she smirked, raising her beer bottle in cheers and downing the last bit with a satisfied hum. Sammy stared.

"Yep, I'm getting laid, bitch."

He looked like he'd bit into a tasty-looking sweet and discovered it was dogshit. Well, ew. "EEWW, Dee!"

Before he could strain something, she laughed and nudged his foot with hers. "I'm getting pie and coffee, squirt. Think you could take a shift at the Roadhouse? It's in the morning so won't ruin any evening plans you've got. I can make it, of course, but I kind of literally have nothing to wear, and won't make it to the mall until then, you know? Bobby's swamped."

She refused to meet his eyes because she knew the look she'd receive, and fuck but she always seem to forget that hello? Teenager and hormones? Sammy and hormones? She's still waiting on his period to arrive, the bitch.

"Of course, no problem Dee. You can drop me off on your way; I'll have Ash give me a ride home."

Grateful, she nudged him in the ribs. "Thanks kid." Settling down, she motioned for him to continue with whatever homework he was getting done way too early, making herself comfortable and wondering if buying a dress for the first time in three years would be weird or if she should just go with buying actual girl-jeans and throw on a Zeppelin shirt. What did Trench Coat, Suit Wearing Men go for anyway?

"…soooo," Sammy drawled, flipping a page. "Who is it?"

"Nice try, squirt," she replied absently, thinking her ass might actually look fantastic in a pair of jeans that fit. "Not happening. Call your girls and gossip over Sanita the Cheerleader if you're that desperate. "

He sighed and grumbled unflattering things under his breath but let it go, for now. She stayed a bit longer before turning in, exhaustion and alcohol putting her to sleep before her head hit her pillow.

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On the Big Date Day, Dee dropped Sammy off at the Roadhouse with a loud and messy kiss on the cheek (he secretly loved them, she knew, despite his bitching, the poor bastard). It was the bar she'd been able to get into as a costumer as well as a waitress years before it was actually legal, because she knew the owner's daughter and was very skilled at blending into that kind of crowd (bikers and rough and toughs, the glass is half-empty but you can always get a refill if you've got the means kind of people).

Satisfied she'd seen her brother off properly, she'd promptly taken herself to the finer part of town. It was going to make her wallet weep, but she wanted a pair of jeans that would last longer than a year and sometimes quality was a bitch. She ended up with a pair of dark ones, fashionably washed out at places, hugging her ass and thighs like a second skin and damn she was fine. A knee-length v-neck dress practically begged to be bought, and because it's what she remembers peeling off of dress-wearing women in the past, she grabs some tights as well. One can never go wrong with some socks as well, and reliable cotton panties and bras in the basic black and white.

She felt a bit silly going on what was quickly becoming a shopping spree hours before a simple coffee date, but she hadn't bothered buying more than a few socks in almost three years. She figures she could do with some more well-fitting underwear (she hadn't noticed she's up one bra size, when did that happen?), and something that wouldn't be covered in holes and grease and other unidentified stains. Maybe she'd hit a club after coffee this afternoon, she was free tomorrow and could afford a decent hangover. Plus, she hadn't been out on the scene in ages.

Feeling a bit less like she was preparing for war in the most pathetic thirteen years old Team Edward way, Dee wrapped things up with a quick lunch (oh hail thee, cheese and bacon burger) and headed home for a quick shower. It took her almost an hour to decide if she should go for the jeans, or the dress, and finally settled for the jeans paired with a simple tee that had just a hint of a cleavage cut. Running a brush through her short, dirty-blonde hair she decided against lipgloss but coaxed the last bit of mascara to shape rather than darken her lashes (according to Denise she'd been blessed with the long, dark eye lashes she'd kill for, which was as amusing as it was unsettling).

"Looking good there, tiger," she nodded and winked at her reflection, fingering the amulet around her neck and deciding to keep her weird charm bracelets and not-actually-shoelaces, it-gives-me-character strings on. Christ, how had she managed to walk around in those old bras? She made a solemn promise to herself to never neglect that ever again as she adjusted her tits in their new and approved accommodation. Tits should be treated with the respect they deserved, dammit, and so did her ass because woha these jeans were a totally worthy investment.

"Okay princess, enough of that," she muttered, pulling some hair behind her ear and wondering if she should thank her mother for the slight wave that threatened to make itself known as soon as she allowed it to grow past the short, spiky style she'd gotten used to. But yeah, she cleaned up nice. Hopefully nice enough for a second date, but hey, if she could charm her way out arrest she should be able to bag this, right?

In any case, she had about forty minutes and she needed to take her Baby on a spin with loud music busting her hearing to make up for the inexcusable amount of time she'd spent fucking preening. Enough of the rom-com, chick-flick script. God, she could really go for some pie right now. Apple, she thinks, because it doesn't turn your tongue and lips blue like blueberry, or make her nose crinkle like rhubarb.

Picking up her keys and cell, she slipped into her leather jacket dad had bought her years ago (a few seizes too big back then, but a good fit now) and headed out with an excited buzz in her stomach. She'd forgotten the feeling of potential that meeting someone new meant, and how much she fucking loved it. Time to go get 'em.

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Castiel Novak wasn't the sort of man that one would describe as spontaneous. At all. In fact, one might say the opposite. This might be why he's finding himself staring blankly at the racks of clothes in his closet wondering when picking up on offers from hot young mechanics became his thing. Because it very much wasn't. At all.

She'd looked barely twenty-five, and he passed that cornerstone four years ago. Yet here he was, thinking back on what amounted as an awkward phone call even for him, wondering what it was about this freckled, grease-covered, foul-mouthed woman that made him spend too long wondering about appropriate clothes for a coffee date and less time talking himself out of what he could already tell had a high chance of bringing trouble.

Gabriel would probably congratulate him on a fine catch, and getting out of his house for something other than work or church. The way Deanna (or, well, Dee) had said Cas kind of made him want to congratulate himself as well, but he would be wise not to admit it. Ever.

Selecting a comfortable white button-down, and some of his favorite brown slacks, he figured he was set to go; there wasn't much he could do about his hair. It had yet to yield for any product he'd ever dared try – and he had tried, over the years, before not being neat and tidy stopped being a potential death penalty.

He left fairly soon, fancying a walk to calm him down, because he wasn't a spontaneous guy and had dated a total of two girls, which he had both ended up in relationships with that lasted for years rather than months each. Neither had been a hot mechanic who blasphemies a lot and wears a jumpsuit like a cocktail dress, and he wonders if it's the novelty of the attention that has him entering the diner with an eager eye out for wild, blonde hair, green eyes and freckles. He's a bit early, so he shouldn't feel disgruntled (disappointed) that she isn't there yet, but he ignores this in favor of seating himself in a booth by the window. It has a clear view of the door and he politely explains to the waitress in a 50's diner style get-up that he's expecting someone and settled in to wait.

Five minutes past their agreed time, Deanna pushes through the doors and makes him think he could do this spontaneous thing this once, yes, absolutely no problem. She catches his eyes and grins, cheeks flushed from the wind and hair a little less wild than he remembers, ends curling delightedly. She's got a dark leather jacket on (should've seen that one coming), a dark-green t-shirt that brings as much attention to her eyes as it does her chest and slim waist, and a pair of jeans he is sure are responsible for the head-turns and wandering eyes as she makes her way to his table. The freckles are as sweet as he remembers, with or without the grease.

"Hi Cas!" she greets him, voice bright and warm, sitting down opposite of him. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting long; took my Baby out for a spin and traffic got worse than I expected. Have you ordered anything yet?"

He remember the way she'd talked about her Baby – a classic car she'd maintained herself – as she'd fixed whatever was coughing up smoke and making rattling noises in his Ford's engine. It was fascinating to watch her obvious passion for something like a car, and he hadn't minded not following the conversation on mechanic jargon that'd followed.

"I have not been here long, no," he replied, smiling and resisting the urge to widen when she bit her lip. "Nor have I ordered. What would you like?"

Waving a waitress over he watched her shrug, "A solid black coffee and some apple pie; been looking forward to it for days." Winking, she waited as he placed their order (same for him, only he asked for a latte) and leaned comfortably on her elbows on the table, picking absentmindedly at the pile of napkins beside her.

"So," she began, grinning, "A Ford, huh?"

Smiling in resignation, Castiel shrugged. "As long as it's functional, I have no complaints. My brother Gabriel disagrees, he's been pointing out the advantages of a Lexus for years, despite the improbability of me ever getting one, much less knowing how to handle it."

Wrinkling her nose in a dangerously endearing way, Deanna snorted. "No offence, but that sounds like a grade-A douche. I'm not above admiring shit from afar, you know, but you gotta match the car with the person, you know? You don't seem like a Ford guy, but you're definitely not a Lexus either. Or do you splurge money for the brand and name on everything?" Her smile was amused, teasing.

"No, I don't," he began, titling his head with a grin, "But what's the car to my person, then?"

Deanna smirked. "I'd be more than happy to find out, Cas."

End notes: Well there you go. I know nothing about cars, sorry. I don't know what my brain is doing but, well. Never mind.

Does anyone like this enough to have me continue?

Reviews are love! :)