Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Ah! My Angel	By : shallowshadows Category: Supernatural > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 1167 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Oh! My Goddess, nor the characters from SPN. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
A/N: Even though I'm not as into anime and manga as I used to be, I continue to have a soft spot for Oh! My Goddess, one of the few manga I still read once in a while that finally ended this year after almost 26 years! This will not be a complete adaption; instead, this fic is just very loosely based off of OMG (ie; there are no goddesses with angels as their familiars, just angels). That being said, I will be adapting some concepts, scenes, and events from the manga and anime for this fic. I hope you enjoy!
Updates every two weeks on Mondays. I'm not sure of the chapter count because I always write more than I expect to from my outlines.

Ah! My Angel

Chapter 1 Ah! You're an Angel?

Dean usually expects his alarm blaring his favorite classic rock station on IHeartRadio to the be the first thing he hears when he wakes up in the morning, but instead he's obnoxiously blasted with "Eye of the Tiger" and flinches so badly he gets a small kink in his neck. He lays there for a bit, eyes fixed on his phone like he could blow it up with solely his mind. No such luck. The ringing eventually stops, but quickly begins again after a few seconds of silence. He groans and reaches for his phone with clumsy fingers, practically dropping it off of the nightstand before hitting the "answer" option this time. "Yeah?"
"Dean!" The eager voice of his younger brother meets him on the other end of the phone and Dean realizes he was clearly too tired to even to see who had been calling in the first place. "I'm so happy you picked up the phone! I have awesome news that I had to share in a more personal way than texts!"
Sam's voice sounds even more cheery than usual, something Dean would've said was weird some time ago. Back when they'd lived together with their dad almost two years ago Sam had always sounded so miserable, fighting with their father on and off on a regular basis, bunting heads over the smallest of things. But lately the Sam of then becomes more and more of a distant memory each time Dean receives a chipper text or occasional phone call.
This has been a growing trend, not unusual, since Sam had gone off to college. He seemed to finally be enjoying life. He made friends, met a nice girl he started dating named Jess, scored high on his law school entry exam—Dean was and is happy for him, truly. Sam is the brother he'd practically had to raise himself and he wants nothing more than for him to be well and happy. But despite that, Dean can't help the odd sinking feeling in his stomach as Sam continues speaking on the phone.
"So Jess and I… We were talking a lot lately, about the future and stuff." A few seconds of silence only makes Dean's sudden unexplained anxiety worse and Sam laughs, or rather, giggles like a child who's learned how to ride a bike on their own with the training wheels off. "I figured since I did so well on my entry exam and I'd been thinking about it for a while, I'd finally surprise her."
"With what?" Dean sleepily asks, laying back into his pillow and trying his damnedest to mask the sinking feeling likely leaking into his tone. He hopes to the high heavens he won't regret his question that encourages Sam to carry on.
"I asked her to marry me, Dean, and you know what? She said yes. She actually said yes! Oh my God, the look on her face and the way she reacted, it was the cutest thing I've ever seen!"
Dean's stomach drops to the floor, but he can't help the smile from perking up his cheeks as well; even if Sam can't see it, he hopes it shows in his exhausted voice. "I'm happy for you, Sammy. Really. Congrats."
"I know," Sam responds, practically beaming, "and thank you."
There is quietness for a while and Dean knows it's partially his fault. Sam makes a few attempts to restart the conversation but Dean brushes them off with short, simple, and uninterested answers, his gaze trailing from random object to random object around the room until finally at his phone again where he quickly looks at the time. 8:35AM. Dammit, Sammy. Today was his day off.
"So, uh," this time Sam's voice sounds louder, a tad frustrated as he speaks, "did I wake you up?"
"No—" As short as the word is, Sam manages to find a way to interrupt Dean halfway through with an annoyed grumble. "Okay, yeah."
"Is that why you're so, I don't know, out of it?" Dean bites his bottom lip. There are so many things he wants to say, so many reasons why he is "out of it," and there is one in particular that is causing dread and insecurities to eat at the back of his mind. But, as he well knows, he isn't the "talk about feelings" type as much as Sam wishes he was. "Dean. Come on."
"Sammy, I'm just tired. You asked if that's why I was out of it and it is."
"Do you think I was dropped off by a stork yesterday or are you really that bad with excuses?"
"Ha, ha, wise ass. No, I'm seriously just tired. It's before 9 on my day off."
Sam's silence on the other end speaks volumes about his disbelief in Dean's half-truth. Like usual, he can always tell when his brother is keeping something from him and Dean knows it. "Is that really all or are you lying by exclusion?" he suddenly adds, tone flat.
Dean rolls his eyes even if Sam can't see it. "All right, Sammy, why don't you use your psychic powers to tell me what you think I'm hiding?"
"We've been over this. One, they're not psychic powers or abilities. And two, exactly how many times have you called me 'Sammy' through-out this conversation when you know I hate that?"
"About, hmm, three," he murmurs, his grin obvious in his voice. He knows he's getting what he's playfully dubbed a 'bitch face' despite not being able to see the expression of his brother on the other end of the phone. "But I thought you had those weird dreams that tend to come true. Creepy Twilight Zone crap. Do-do-do-do, y'know?"
The younger Winchester blatantly ignores the first comment. "Sure, yes, but that's more heightened intuition or something. Nothing supernatural. Mom had it too 'cause she was a mom. Woman's intuition heightened by mama bear mode."
"Aww, Sammy, is this your way of telling me you're pregnant, seeing as your 'heightened intuition' has gotten stronger lately?"
"Dean, I swear to God—"
"I'm happy for you though, about your engagement. When's the wedding?"
Sam seems a bit taken off guard at the topic switching back and goes quiet on the other end. A moment more passes before he finally responds. "We haven't decided yet, but we want a date convenient for most of the guests. It'll be a small gathering by the ocean. I really want you to come. When it comes to family, you're all I've got left aside from Bobby and I'm not going to make you sit inside of a church. I know you hate churches."
"Look, Sam, as much as I'm happy for you, you know how I feel about weddings—"
"Dean, please."
"I'd love to, because I bet there'll be a bunch of babes all dressed up as bridesmaids and I want to see your big stupid teary-eyed face, I just—"
"You're my brother and I miss you."
Dean's snappy comebacks and excuses all drain from his head instantly. Damn, he went there. Dean can't argue that those words reach into him and twist something in his chest hard, because despite not wanting to admit it, he misses Sam too. He misses their road trips across the country together in Dean's Impala. He misses how much shit Sam would give him for eating nothing but fast food while Sam himself would get a salad or one of those health shakes. He misses the dirty, judgmental looks he'd get for each corny pop culture reference he'd make or how he'd enjoy the idea of some nerdy thing like LARPing or RPGs. He misses the short jokes, shoulder grabs, warm, stupid, girly, totally-not-enjoyable-but-kind-of-actually-that-Dean-will-never-admit-to hugs. He misses Sam and everything that makes Sam, well, Sam.
When Dean sits up in the bed, he can't help rubbing the back of his neck in a guilty fashion. He knows how much this would mean to Sam and even himself (after all, any excuse to see Sam is a good excuse), but he also knows how drunk and awful he acts at weddings, how they make him feel like complete and utter crap despite the happy atmosphere and hope for the future. He wants to go, wants to make Sam happy and do this for him, but he knows himself better than anyone in the end.
"All right, fine. But you'd better have insurance or something," Dean finally says, interrupting the rambles of Sam's many different begging attempts on the other end that Dean had mostly zoned out while thinking.
Sam sounds almost grateful when he responds, clearly more than content with the news. "Awesome. So I'll keep you updated and let you know when we send the invites out. It probably won't be for a while though, maybe a year or two while we focus on studies. She knows how much law school means to me."
Dean knows himself better than anyone in the end—and saying "no" to Sam is a weakness of his he won't and can't deny, especially when they hardly see each other anymore. Dean works as a mechanic, so his schedule is especially packed during the spring, summer, and fall, and he hardly wants to drive all the way to California in the winter through the storms of the rest of the country. Sam's a full-time student who works during most of his spare time, particularly in the summer even with taking classes then too. Their schedules clash and so any opportunity to spend time together is often met with disappointment. Dean doesn't want this to be one of those times, not when it's such a big day for his younger brother.
"So, uh, Dean, now that that's out of the way, are you going to tell me what you're not saying or do I have to play the guessing game with you?"
The older Winchester sighs overdramatically and shifts his body, rolling over onto his stomach and hanging his left arm off the bed, the right holding the phone to his ear. "Can we not, Sammy? I'm really not up for the chit-chatty talk-about-our-feelings crap."
"Well, you never are. But if you really, really aren't—"
"I'm really, really not."
"Okay." A simple one-word response is enough to signify Sam's not giving up the war, but that he's willing to forfeit the battle. "So I guess I'll text you later. Let me know if you do anything different today for once. I know how you waste time watching TV and doing other unproductive things on your day offs." A small chuckle follows the words, which instantly lightens the mood once more.
"Yeah, yeah, okay. Let me know if you decide to pull the stick out of your ass or if, you know, that's actually a kink you and Jess are into. That'd be kind of sexy of her and I'm not judgin'. Just sayin'."
"Gross, dude, I'm not talking to you about our sex life."
"Lighten up, bitch. I was kidding."
"Whatever, jerk."
The call ends with their usual joking banter before they say their goodbyes and Dean is left lying there feeling stupid and overemotional about things he feels he has no right to be this upset over. He's always wanted for Sam to be happy, yet he can't help the selfish desire to stop the marriage and anything that comes after that. His arm flops down by the other one, phone dropping onto the floor from the few inches off the ground his hand is. The gentle clunking noise does nothing to distract him from his suddenly whirling out of control thoughts.
If only his head didn't work the way it did and he could just let go of the brother he's so desperately clinging onto. If only he could find a more productive way to spend his time and be as motivated as Sam to improve himself. If only he could discover how to live in the present with his goals set in the future, the past becoming merely memories and lessons learned.
If only he could just silence the static in his head long enough, then maybe he could—
There's a very good reason why Dean Winchester should never be left alone to dwell and overthink things such as situations like this. Over the years Sam had begun to notice it more and attempted to help him without much success due to the younger Winchester's own personal conflicts. The more Sam and their father fought, the more Sam left to be alone, and in an almost chain-reaction fashion, Dean's overthinking became worse, as did that very good reason he shouldn't be alone in his thoughts. He had their father to thank for originally showing him that very good reason in the first place.
Dean knows. He knows his particular chosen method to drown out the noise in his head is stupid just like his father's and yet he does nothing to combat it, instead giving in to the ridiculousness that is his overthinking problem "solution." He drags himself into the kitchen, opens the fridge, pulls out two six packs of beer and tucks a tiny bottle of something harder into his front pocket, moves his body towards the living room, falls backwards onto the couch—and then he drinks.
He drinks until both packs are gone and the small plastic bottle, also empty at this point, is lost somewhere on the floor. He drinks until his stomach hurts and he can't see straight, the urge to throw-up building minute by passing minute. He drinks until he forgets half of his conversation with Sam and can successfully pretend it never happened. He drinks until all he can hear in his head is silence and the striking ache in his chest feels like just a distant memory.
Time passes and he finds himself, fly down and a hand messing around, watching some terrible porno with his favorite 80's rock blaring in the background. One of his neighbors, one of the few home since his day off doesn't coincide with most of the others, angrily bangs on the wall every few minutes with threats to either report him to the landlord or call the cops. But Dean merely grounds out a, "Shuddup," before taking his freehand to toss a bottle at the wall in a feeble attempt to scare him off. He doesn't care about his neighbor's complaints but it quickly becomes annoying when he's trying to enjoy himself and forget all his troubles.
"Dean Winchester, this is your last warning! I was enjoying my peace and quiet before you started being an intolerable arse as per usual! I am this close to calling the—!" The clashing noise of the glass as the bottle shatters against the wall causes the man on the other side to pause his complaints, seemingly shocked momentarily before his voice picks up again over the loudness. "Did you just… Did you seriously just throw a bottle at my wall? Did you seriously just throw a bloody bottle at my godforsaken wall?!"
Dean grunts and rolls his eyes, further aggravated now that he can't at all focus on what he was doing. Of course, the intoxication is certainly not helping, but he really wants someone else to put the entirety of blame for everything on and that British bastard is making it way too easy. "Shob' it, asshath!"
A thud against the wall, likely a punch, proceeds more yelling. "All right, Winchester!" He can already tell where this is going and he's so not in the mood. "If you want to play that way, you know I am more than willing to play along!" A moment of silence from the other side passes and then a string of loud knocks on his door begin, angry shouts for him to open the door following.
Dean is about to throw another bottle at the door when suddenly his music is interrupted by static, loud and uneven in volume, mostly overpowering the angry neighbor on the other side of his door. His TV's audio becomes screwy only moments later, the picture going in and out between a mess of pixels and the program he was watching. His lights flicker and his clocks go a little crazy, the digital numbers speedily flicking through 0 to 9 over and over again, followed by what sounds like a high-pitched whistling that pierces Dean's ears to the point of pain.
Dean, far too drunk to comprehend what is happening in the least, lifts his hands to cover his ears, face scrunching in agony, teeth clenching tightly together. Almost as quickly as it begins, the whistling stops, and he flinches when both the TV and radio completely shut off at the same time. The angry screams and knocks on the other side of the door cease almost immediately after the electronics, the only sounds for some minutes annoyed grumbles that eventually fade as the man returns to his apartment with an angry slam of his door.
Dean sits in confusion as his clocks and lights return to normal, but the radio and TV remain off, the only signs of electricity running into each object the little red power indicator lights. He feels something warm trickle down his cheeks from his ears and he lifts a hand to wipe at it, finding red coating his fingertips. "Wha' t'hell?" Dean mumbles, words slurred from a mix of the alcohol and ringing in his sore ears. He looks around with weary eyes before getting up on his feet and hobbles to the bathroom to clean his face and ears.
Thoroughly disturbed, he examines himself in the mirror while wiping off the thin trickles of blood along his jaw. Dean's not sure if he's dreaming or just too drunk, but he figures in some way that this is karma for his obnoxious music, so he doesn't bother to even attempt to turn back on the radio when he returns to the couch. Instead, he flicks the TV back on, keeps the volume low, and changes the channel to some bad documentary on bank robbers of the early 20th century.
Because of this combination of things, the alcohol, the boring television program, and his aching head, he starts to doze off after a while, nodding in and out between commercial breaks for small periods of time, mostly 5-10 minute intervals. He doesn't remember bringing his cell phone with him or turning off the volume, but wakes up a time later to find it vibrating on the small side table next to his armrest. He reaches for it, eyes struggling to focus on the screen. It's a text from Sam checking in on him with a simple 'What's up? Did you get more sleep?' Dean doesn't even know how to answer that for once, still confused from what happened not long ago. Was he dreaming? After all, he's still extremely drunk. But even so, that doesn't explain the dull ache in his ears or the dried blood on the hand towel he brought back with him.
It's after a few minutes of failing to come up with an explanation for Sam that Dean decides he's really hungry and desperately wants something ready-made to be delivered. He figures he's still too drunk to properly make something and doesn't want to unnecessarily worry Sam by ending up in the hospital from stovetop burns or something of the like. All of the clocks in the apartment read 1:26PM, so Dean concludes, despite his hazy state of mind, that it's not too early to order pizza. He clumsily operates his phone, opening the dialing area and squinting to enter the digits of a place in town where he and Sam used to get pizza all of the time.
When he presses call, he makes sure to lean against the couch for support, body slightly turned, a shoulder pressing into the back cushions and a cheek resting over the top of them. He puts the phone to his ear and closes his eyes. The dial tone carries on for a while longer than usual, not striking strange to him in the least. Pizza places get busy, right? Maybe they're just taking a lot of orders? Dean doesn't even consider that he'd likely be getting a busy tone if that were the case. Instead, he stays the way he is and just waits.
A clicking noise on the other end perks him up just a tad and he's about ready to murmur his usual order when a gravelly voice picks up on the other end instead of one of the preppy pizza people. "Hello. You have reached the Angel Relief Office. How may I assist you?"
Dean's mouth hangs open a bit and he opens his eyes halfway, brows furrowed together in confusion as he stares at a wall. "Wha?"
"My apologies. I can repeat if you wish."
"Uh. Ya'?"
"What I said was—you have reached the Angel Relief Office. How may I assist you?"
Dean's brows come together further and he can't help biting down onto his bottom lip and swallowing, two nervous habits he picked up over the years. He sits in silence, trying his damnedest to force his tired and drunken brain to work. "Y'said… Angel R'lief Of'ice?"
"Yes, that is correct."
"I'm… drunk."
"Oh." The words are more meant to be a reassuring gesture to Dean himself that his confusion is only natural more than an actual conversation piece to the voice on the other end. The simple response sounds neutral, neither judging nor content with the words. "I understand."
Dean nurses his bottom lip for a while before attempting to speak again. "I th'nk I dialed the wron' numba'."
"This help line is reserved for those who desperately need assistance from a celestial level of being. I am most certain you did not dial this number mistakenly."
"Huhwha?" Dean lets himself slide down the couch until he's lying on his back, now directing his bewildered looks towards the ceiling of his apartment. He hasn't heard someone speak with no contractions at all since his 10th grade English teacher. She was kind of hot, actually. "Why y'talkin' so funneh?"
"I do not understand. I am speaking in a humorous manner?"
"Y'don't use… the thingehs. The… the… contrapuns—c-contractions."
"I do not understand the relevance of my grammar in regards to this conversation, Dean. I feel that it is just fine as you still clearly understand me."
"Nevamin'," Dean mumbles, rubbing his head with his free hand, eyes shut tight. "So wha's this—wait, how'd y'know muh name? I didn' say."
The voice on the other end seems to be losing a bit of patience, perhaps at the point of annoyance even. Dean can't blame him—not even Sam can handle Dean for long when he's this drunk, why would a complete stranger be able to? "That is not relevant either. You dialed this help line for a reason, Dean Winchester. What is it?" the voice asks, pressing for an answer Dean isn't sure of himself.
"I jus' wan'ed a pizza, man," he says helplessly, further confused by his full name being used, "an' I dial'd t'wrong numba instead. Unless dis a prank, cuz then Sam's gon' git it good, I'swear."
The man on the other end goes quiet and Dean hears a bit of noise that sounds something like typing, but he isn't entirely sure especially in the state he's in. "Nourishments for a single afternoon for the reasons you desire are not relevant to this office. We assist in granting a heart's true desires. And I assure you, this is not a trick with mischievous intent."
"True desiyahs?" Perhaps it's due to his drunken state of mind, but Dean begins to, likely incorrectly, put the pieces together of what he's actually dialed. He turns to look at his television, recalling the bad porno he'd had on earlier, and a sly smile perks up the corners of his cheeks. "Oh, I geddit."
"Ah." The voice practically sighs, perhaps in relief, perhaps in irritation, Dean isn't sure. "I was beginning to believe you were too intoxicated to intelligently grasp the complete concept of my words."
"Mnn, m'too." Dean laughs and licks his bottom lip. The good news in his mind is that he hasn't accidentally dialed a complete stranger, nor has he dialed the pizza place and is being pranked terribly by Sam and his asshat friends at the restaurant. The bad news is that he still isn't sure who, what, or where he's dialed, but with his head going back to the memories of the film he'd been watching prior to the strange "dream" he'd had, he figures he's reached some sort of sex hotline. True desires, huh? What else could this guy be going on about so "seriously"?
"So, Dean, what is your wish?" The words snap Dean out of his thoughts and he almost bites his lip hard enough to draw a small amount of blood, which makes him flinch in surprise.
"Uh," he spits out, ignoring the soreness of his lower lip, "I jus… I want…"
"Yes?"
"I jus' want someon' to fu'fil m'needs," he responds, feeling awkward saying this to another man despite his intoxicated state of mind. Seeing as there are usually woman on the other ends of these things, he kind of wonders if he's accidentally dialed a gay one, but the thought isn't a priority in his mind when he's so intoxicated.
"One moment, please, as I process your request and input it into the system." There is more typing on the other side, which makes Dean feel more confident with his conclusion. Surely the guy is just looking up some babe with a gorgeous voice and setting up the redirect call correctly. Maybe they even directly add the service onto your phone bill like some of the others Dean has called before. "How strange."
Dean quirks a brow at the words. "Wut's strangeh?"
The man on the other end sounds a bit concerned as if something has gone wrong and Dean can't imagine what in the world that could be with a sex hotline. "You, well, your request has been approved by the system successfully," the man begins, typing away at whatever keyboard he's been tapping at, "however, the caliber of this particular wish is beyond our usual capabilities, so the machine is having difficulty processing it and finding an angel to bind you with until the wish is fulfilled."
"Wut?"
"I cannot say I am completely surprised that you have caused our system to malfunction, Dean Winchester," the man explains, "because you seem as though you are the type to encounter these bouts of misfortune as regular occurrences."
"I hav' n'idea wut yer talkin' 'bout," Dean murmurs, confusion returning as he slowly grows more and more tired with each passing second, the alcohol catching up with him.
The voice on the other end sighs, not bothering to hide the frustration in its tone. "No matter what I continue to try in an attempt to cease the processing, I cannot stop the machine. It seems as though it is calculating every possible way to grant your wish and searching for a solution that will actually be substantial. I am going to receive punishment for this more than likely if I do not fix it, I just know it." The typing continues, this time more rapidly, as if nervous or angry.
Dean can't help feeling bewildered, because all he wanted was a simple sexy-voiced woman to help him pick-up where he'd left off prior to his neighbor's ranting. Had such a simple request really broken their computer system or something? Even figuring out something like this is far too much for Dean's overtired and over drunk brain to process however, because he can feel sleep claiming him, which would make his original request moot point anyway.
"You have my apologies for the wait. I am not entirely certain how long this will take. I would rather not place you on hold however, as I am aware of the importance of person to person interaction for humans."
"Dude, yer voice remin's me of Ba'man," Dean babbles, eyes draping closed. He doesn't even care to notice the man's odd tidbit about humans enjoying such interactions as if he himself isn't one of them. "Tot'lly not sexy enuff fer me anyway."
"Your intoxication is making you delirious, it would seem. Perhaps it would have been a more intelligent choice of me to have made this an in-person consultation when you were sober."
"Izzat how y'talk t'all yer clients?"
"Mostly, yes, and most do not take any issue with it. Do you find a problem with how I am speaking, other than my lack of contraction use?"
"N'sexy 'nuff. Girls who use dis stuff like sexeh. Yer voice'd be good for 'em even if n'f'me. I jus' like girls though, das why."
"I am concluding that I was correct in assuming you are too intoxicated for this call." Momentarily he feels a sense of familiar, mind shaping a "bitch face" much like the ones Sam directs at him during their in-person time, and the voice on the other end begins to mumble quietly to the point that Dean cannot comprehend the words anymore. Either that or Dean's just too damn out of it at this point, he isn't sure. "Dean?"
"Mm?" That he understands.
"I will resume this conversation with you at a later time once the machine has been addressed and you are more capable of rational thought."
"Bu wut 'bout—?"
"You will receive your wish, as promised. We are generally beings of our word and do not see much a point in lies and deceit. Oh, and Dean." Before Dean can respond with some stupid slurred response or even a half-hearted "huh?" the voice's tone changes to one of slight concern and continues on. "Please get some rest. I do not claim to know your reasons for reaching the state of intoxication you are in, but I do know that your voice reflects a deep emptiness or void within you that alcohol fails to correctly fill."
Dean opens his eyes, moving his phone down briefly and squinting at the number lit-up on his screen. "Wut y'talkin' 'bout?" he asks, lifting it back to his ear.
"Loneliness can be a heavy burden to carry. I am truly sorry."
Silence follows those words and Dean hears the "bloop" noise his phone makes when a call has ended. He brings it down from his ear to look at the number he'd dialed one last time before grumbling and letting his arm drop to hang off limply. He's too far gone to bother cross-checking the number with the pizza place at this point and the chances of him correctly processing what just happened are slim to none. Instead, he stops fighting the strong urge to give in to what's been claiming him for quite a while now as his phone slips from his hand and hits the old red throw-rug that covers his floor.
It feels like only seconds have gone by when he regains consciousness to a striking wake-up call straight through his temples. Dean groans and rubs his head, already loathing his decision to drink as much as he had. He opens his eyes to darkness, directs them toward the digital clock on his cable box, and waits for them to focus correctly. 11:59PM. Damn, he's been out for a while. Perhaps his body needed the rest though, because he realizes that sleep has always been something out of his grasp, and with all of the extra stress and worries lately, the strain is becoming apparent.
He moves to sit up, swinging his legs over the front of his couch with an arm pressed into the cushion to brace him up. His eyes continue to struggle focusing in the lack of light, but his hearing is as sharp as ever, because the moment something tips over in his kitchen Dean is quick to reach for the nearest heavy object, which happens to be his old baseball bat that he keeps next to the couch for nostalgia's sake.
Bat in hand, Dean moves cautiously toward his kitchen, doing his best to keep balanced, alert, and focused despite the pounding in his head. It's easier said than done because he almost trips several times, barely able to keep from falling needless to say continuing on. So this is what Sam had meant when he said one of these days Dean's alcohol problem would be the death of him—death by tripping and falling into a glass cabinet, that is.
As he approaches the doorway, he slows and presses his back against the wall there before peeking around the corner, knuckles turning white from how hard he's gripping the wooden handle. His knuckles turn whiter when he spots a shadowy figure standing by his sink. Dean curses himself for being so drunk because he's obviously left the door unlocked or something because there are no signs of a break-in thus far and there is clearly someone here that shouldn't be here. Dean knows Sam's silhouette well enough by now and he's the only other person with a key to Dean's apartment.
So instead of sneaking up and attacking the bastard, Dean's bright idea is to go with the first thing that pops into his head. "Hey! Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my apartment?"
The figure stills, and then turns to face him, the kitchen too dark to reveal anything other than his outline. Which is exactly why Dean is hella confused with the answer he hears in return. "There is no need to be frightened. I am not here to hurt you, only to access your situation in-person and to pick-up where we left off with our conversation. Therefore, the bat is not necessary and you may put it down."
"What the hell are you talking about? You're someone I don't know and you're in my house and—shit, ow." Dean cringes when a sharp pain shoots through his temple and into the back of his head. "Dude, screw you. I shouldn't be confronting you or talking or anything except getting rid of this damn hangover! Now get out of my apartment or I'm callin' the cops and I hate the cops."
The figure doesn't move for some seconds, instead seeming to process Dean's words, but then its head tips somewhat like a Parakeet's and Dean can't help being taken aback by the weirdness of it. "You do not remember, do you?" the figure asks, tone devoid of emotion.
"Remember what? That I drank too much, left my door unlocked, and now there's a stranger in my home who needs to get out?"
"You did not leave your door unlocked, Dean. I entered through the mirror in your hallway."
Dean laughs, almost as if it's a reflex. "Are you serious? Do you really expect me to believe that? And how the hell do you know my name?"
"It is the truth. Is that not enough? You humans complicate everything. And how I know your name is not of importance. I have already said as much."
"'You humans'? Are you high? Dude, seriously, get out of my apartment or I'm going to smack you over the back of the head and drag you out myself. You're creepin' me out."
The figure sighs, an arm moving into the air. Dean lifts the bat back up a little higher in response as if expecting to be attacked, but instead the figure simply snaps its fingers. Dean hisses a curse when the sudden bright spotlights of his kitchen blind his oversensitive eyes and he releases a hand from the bat to shield them enough that they have time to somewhat adjust.
"There. Now that you can see me, hopefully you will understand I am of no threat to you."
Dean's tired vision begins to focus onto the figure after some moments, which turns out to be a man of similar height to him, about 6-feet-tall and dressed to the nines with impossibly bright blue eyes the color of sapphires. His skin is a little more tan than Dean's own and his dark brown hair is a tousled mess. The black suit covering his body is pristine and lacks even a wrinkle, speck of dirt or a single hair, the only out-of-place thing the blue tie that matches his eyes twisted backward.
Those insanely blue eyes that don't exactly look human are focusing solely on Dean and he gets a chill down his spine. "Dude, have you been staring at me like that this entire time?" he asks, lowering his bat slightly, but still on guard. "It's kind of creepy, even knowing it was dark like ten seconds ago, which in itself is kind of creepy because I didn't realize I had the goddamn Clapper installed in my kitchen. Look, I know I'm hot, but you look like you want to jump my bones and I didn't invite you in."
The stranger quirks a brow. "Do not flatter yourself. You are certainly not someone I want to 'jump,' whatever that implies." He motions the first two fingers on each hand while saying the words to emphasize.
"Are you trying to freak me out or are you really just this weird?"
"How do you believe you appear to me, if I am strange to you?"
"I dunno. You're the asshat standing in my kitchen. What the hell do you want? My TV? 'Cause you ain't having it. I blew a pretty penny on that thing."
The stranger's shoulders slump slightly, his brows come together, and his eyes narrow, head tipping like a bird once more. "Why would I want your television?"
"Uh, duh, because it's a TV and worth money." The stranger remains in the same position, eyes narrowing a tad more. "Shit, geez. So you don't want the TV. Then why the hell are you in my apartment?"
"Our telephone conversation, Dean. You remember," the man says, taking a step forward. "I will make you remember."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. This doesn't have to get physical. 'Cause I assure you you don't want to hear my body talkin' since that would mean my fist slamming into your fa—"
Before Dean can finish his sentence, he almost stumbles backwards because the man is right in front of him now, having not even taken another step. He leans in towards him, eyes staring straight into Dean's own, sending yet another chill down his spine. Dean can't help swallowing hard before he raises the bat high into the air, a self-defense reflex surely, only to have his wrist grabbed. He tries to move it but finds he can't, an iron grip holding it in place.
"Dude, what?! Let go and get out!"
"I already told you I am not here to hurt you. Why do you insist on trying to inflict physical harm onto me?"
"Gee, I dunno, Professor Calculus, maybe because you're a grown man standing in another grown man's kitchen when he doesn't know you and you won't listen to him and leave."
The stranger's brows furrow once more, likely in confusion at the name Dean threw at him. He doesn't say anything, instead raising his free hand to Dean's face, pressing two fingers to his forehead in one swift motion. Dean tries to speak, but the sharp pain of his hangover increases when his head rushes with memories of earlier that day, from his conversation with Sam and the ache it caused in his chest, to his drinking fest to forget it all, to his angry neighbor having to deal with the consequences of said drinking fest, and then finally to his desire for pizza and the accidental phone call—
More memories come into his head—no, not memories, these are things Dean doesn't recognize, nor understand. These images, these words Dean doesn't remember but is being introduced to, they seem bizarre and don't make sense, explaining everything that the man on the other end of the phone had been talking about. The existence of angels, angels helping humans in need and granting wishes, a giant machine that processes such things and makes them a reality, all of it makes Dean's head hurt more than ever and he won't believe it, doesn't want to believe it.
He gasps, almost falling to his knees, the only thing stopping it from happening the strong grip still holding his wrist. What Dean does actually do is drop the bat, the clang of the wood hitting the vinyl tile loud enough to wake a neighbor or two, but he couldn't care less right now. He's far too tied up in his current situation discovering that angels really exist. "W-what just happened?" he asks, voice strained and bewildered as he struggles to keep standing. His head pounds and it's hard to focus on anything.
"I told you I would make you remember. Of course, I also attempted to clarify by adding some information." The man steps back, releasing his hold on Dean's wrist. "I will give you some time to process. After all, I understand it is a lot to be exposed to all at once."
Dean stumbles out of the kitchen until he's reached his couch and practically collapses backward onto it, eyes watching the kitchen's doorway with a weary gaze. "What's going on?" he asks, not caring that his voice is shaky. Screw worrying about one's macho status right now, this shit is seriously messed up. "And what the hell are you?"
"I thought I had made that clear with the information I gave you," the man says, stepping into the living room after a moment. He looks around once, examining his surroundings, before focusing his attention back on Dean. "I am an angel. Because you successfully caused our office wing's particular machine to malfunction and need resetting, and were far too drunk over the phone anyway, I am here to grant your wish in-person." He moves until he's standing just a few feet from Dean, small flickers of the Winchester's porch light shining through the open blinds and causing patches of illumination to not only cover the so-called angel, but to glimmer off those dark blue sapphires. "Now Dean, let us try this again. What is your wish?"

A/N: This is a slow-building Destiel fic. Like OMG, expect lots of fluff, awkward moments, and cockblocks from jealous and/or protective family, friends, and enemies! Dean's loneliness is a parallel to his codependence with Sam in canon if not already obvious. Oh, and not to worry! Lots more of Sammy will be in this fic too, but I don't want to spoil how he's going to transition into his canon role as a main character. That'd ruin the surprise. ;)
As an additional note, I currently have eight different SPN fics planned with ideas ranging from as far back as January 2013; in order of ideas, "Ah! My Angel" is actually fourth on the list. I just went with whichever fics, this and "Apparitions," which will be up next week, I was in the mood to write first. It's been a while since I've written and generally worked on chapter fanfics (the last time I touched my Hetalia ones were April 26th, 2012 and May 3rd, 2012 according to the files), so it's going to take some getting used to, especially considering I wasn't a regular updater. In other words, please have patience with me!
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Ah! My Angel