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Castiel's usual definition of travel is "get there immediately or not at all." So it shouldn't surprise Dean when every time he sees a stop sign, Castiel slams on the breaks without any kind of gradual slow-down.
"Jesus Christ! Are you trying to break my neck?"
"The sign said 'stop.'"
"Okay, imagine there's another sign before that one that says 'slow the fuck down' so I don't end up flying out the windshield."
Castiel frowns. "But you're wearing a seatbelt..."
Dean's eyes nearly roll right out of his head. "Whatever. Just slow down next time. You're wearing out her brakes."
He braces himself in the passenger seat of his precious '67 Impala anyway. This was probably a terrible idea, but at least he'd had the sense to take Castiel to a relatively deserted rural residential area. There weren't any cops either, which was nice since he hadn't bothered to forge Castiel a driver's license and his current driving skills screamed "insane, or at least under the influence."
However, he couldn't quite bring himself to call the whole thing off. Last night had been the the third time in as many weeks that Castiel had teleported him somewhere without his baby, just because Dean had gone and managed to get himself knocked unconscious. Not only did Dean wake up constipated, but he was also missing his precious car. There was only one way to fix this problem. And so, he was sitting here with Castiel behind the wheel, smacking him on the arm as the angel forgot yet again to use his turning signal.
"I don't see how this is going to help with transporting you while you're unconscious," Castiel says as he reluctantly flicks the turning signal on.
"Dude, just throw me in the back seat or something. I don't care as long as my car's with me and I'm not getting teleported."
Castiel sighs and turns to face him. "That will be far more trouble than--"
"Look, I'm sorry that my my love of classic cars and regular bowel movements is inconveniencing you, but--watch out!"
Predictably, Castiel swerves far more than he needs to in order to miss the young boy chasing his ball into the street. Dean's seatbelt is off faster than should be humanly possible, and he's got his hands on the wheel in a less-than-successful effort to keep them on the road. Suddenly, everything jolts to stop and for once, he isn't angry at Castiel for hitting the brakes abruptly.
Dean coughs around the steering wheel embedded in his chest, but at least God still loves him and the airbag didn't deploy. Then his brain catches up, and his blood runs cold. He looks around in alarm--what if his constant companion has suffered serious damage? What if it's beyond his ability to mend? But no, they've "crashed" into a cornfield. The only damage is minor scratches.
And then he looks at Castiel.
Castiel, whose face is about two inches away from Dean's (and that might be too generous an estimate), is wide-eyed and breathing fast, but appears to have been spared any injury by the fact that Dean's halfway on his lap. Dean knows he should move because this isn't a comfortable position for either of them, but he's too busy staring into those big blue eyes and feeling the quick hot puffs of air as Castiel's chest rises and falls rapidly. His ears are ringing and the adrenaline is pumping and he thinks maybe he should lean a bit closer--
"Dean..."
Then, it strikes Dean that they are breathing the same air, for God's sake. He's back on his side of the car as quickly as he left it, and breathing harder than his companion.
"Uh." What the fuck was that, just now? Well, whatever. He's blaming on the (percieved) near-death experience. "I think... I think that was, uh, good for today. You wanna, um, help me push her back on the road, and I'll drive us back?"
Fifteen minutes later, they're back on the road and halfway to the hotel. Neither of them has said a word. Dean is too busy kicking himself over thinking the whole thing was a good idea. Castiel has barely made the tiniest of baby steps towards not being a menace on the road, his baby has almost been wrecked, and he's nearly locked lips with his guardian angel for reasons he can't fathom. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Maybe he just needs to get laid.
"Dean. I'm sorry."
Dean glances over and sees a truly remorseful expression on his face. Before he can turn away, Castiel continues.
"I nearly injured you and damaged your car. I didn't do very well." His eyes are downcast.
Dammit, if Castiel can't give Sam a run for his money in the "kicked puppy look" department. Dean turns back to the road and shrugs. "Nah, you did okay. It was your first time. And, hey, nobody died, right?" He turns back and grins.
Castiel meets his eyes and returns the smile. Well, maybe it wasn't all for nothing.
"We can try again tomorrow, if you want. But maybe in a different car."