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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
- 2
- 3
A/N: I am so sorry for the sudden unexpected hiatus. I had a lot going on all at once, so I made a decision to put my fics aside while catching up. Not to worry though, I'm back on track now! Here's the chapter a few days before the usual update day just because I was gone for so long. I'm planning to update Apparitions earlier than usual too. 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 3 Ah! Work, Home, and an Angel!

To say he's been having nightmares lately would be the understatement of the century.
Dean would wake up, having flinched into consciousness, eyes staring into the darkness at his ceiling seeing nothing but everything at the same time. He'd scrub at his eyes until it hurt and take deep breaths. Often times he'd even reach for his phone to call Sam but would stop himself before he could actually touch the device. Sam had a life now and couldn't be bothered with petty things like Dean wanting to talk after a bad dream.
So because he still needed to get it out of his system somehow, he'd get up. He'd walk to the fridge, pull out a beer, then plop down on his couch and watch infomercials before he passed out in an awkward and often uncomfortable position. That was just how things had to be. Dean had no other way of dealing with the images that would corrupt and flood his mind after a hellish nightmare.
But this time, this particular time when he can't even remotely remember when he'd managed to crawl into bed and pass out, is different. This nightmare is unlike any he's had before and he's almost grateful for it if not for the fact that, well, it's a nightmare.
When he "opens" his eyes, he sees a long hallway, huge, tall, and purely white, looking as though people have been scrubbing the walls with bleach every hour. There's a single red door at the end that stands out among the many white that line the walls. Regardless of the number of horror movies he's seen, he still feels a striking urge to go to that one red door.
And so he does, trudging across the floor with a heaviness to his legs that he's not used to, eyes narrowing in on the door and noticing the small glass knob shaped with prisms. He lifts a hand to grip it, twisting slow and uncertain, when his ears are assaulted with a single scream. It sounds muffled by the wood, but he rips the door open without care for what he may be greeted with on the other side anyway. After all, he's always had this vigilante hero side to him thanks to growing up with Batman comics lining his bookshelf.
What Dean sees when he steps through isn't at all what he'd expected—but really, what did he expect? His mind draws a blank as he stares at a single figure curled into the fetal position in the middle of the room, their sobs bouncing off the tall walls and ceiling. They're the only other person, the only other thing in this tall white room aside from Dean. A prickling sensation runs down his spine, but he approaches the other figure anyway.
The sobbing is quiet, but, being that it's the only other noise in the room, sounds loud. Dean can't even hear his own footsteps as he walks, and even the door closing behind him lacks the slightest of noises.
He tries to speak-up to ask who the person is and if they're all right once he's by their side. He really does try. Nothing, there's nothing coming out of his mouth. It's like his vocal chords are broken and mangled because there's a soreness to his throat and the taste of blood is stuck on his tongue. It's even a struggle when Dean forces his body down to place a hand on the stranger's shoulder gently in lieu of his lack of a voice.
Anxiety pools in the pit of his stomach when the sobbing ceases instantly and bright blue eyes stare him down like he's a predator. Dean swallows once before letting go. He stands and attempts to back away, however, just as quickly a hand flies up and grabs his wrist with force. The figure uses him as support for getting up, arms hooking over his shoulders the moment they're on even level.
With the other person so close, Dean can clearly see the tear streaks decorating his cheeks. There's a certain smell too, a sweet scent like lavender mixed with fruit; he can't entirely put a finger on it. As the figure leans in closer and practically hugs him, clinging on in a manner that can only scream desperation, the scent tingles his nose.
"Please help me." The words cause Dean's stomach to drop, but he can't speak himself. With no way of responding, he just pets the stranger's back lightly and receives fingers clawing into his shoulder blades. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The walls come crashing down around them and Dean quickly realizes the nature of this dream, that it's different but definitely on par with the others. His nostrils are violated with a stinging smell that quickly overrides the pleasant one, strong and rotten, taking over with ease. The figure is sobbing into his shoulder now, but the wetness of that is not nearly as uncomfortable as the one he feels coating his fingertips.
Dean catches his breath when he lifts his hand. He'd recognize that liquid anywhere—its thick consistency and hideous odor is enough of a giveaway to anyone with a functioning mind. The question that is left unasked is answered just as soon as it is thought of. Dean's eyes catch on enormous clusters of feathers, soaked in the same fluid that sticks to his fingers, and his mouth drops open in a gape.
Those are wings. Those are big, white, blood-stained wings, and their broken, mangled state leaves Dean feeling sick and confused at the same time. The figure clinging to him winces before its grip loosens. Suddenly it collapses, arms slipping from Dean's shoulders and tumbling into a pile of limbs.
Dean can't breathe. His chest feels tight and his lungs cease up, heart pacing at a rate inhuman. He stumbles backward, barely able to keep on his feet, and all at once he's assaulted with the strong urge to throw up, run like hell, and break down crying. There are no words, even if he could speak, that would make this right. There are no words that would make him feel even remotely better with a scene like this in front of him.
He tries to scream, but as expected, there's no sound. He tries to move, but his legs are too heavy now. His entire body suddenly feels too heavy, the pressure of gravity weighing down on him like a ton of bricks. So he does the only thing he can do—he lets gravity win.
What should've been a sharp pain from hitting the ground is instead a warmth and softness. Dean is greeted with a bright light clawing at his eyes and he forces them to focus. The blurriness as they adjust is quickly replaced with the form of a man hanging over him, curious sapphire blues staring down at him with concern mixed in as well. It takes only a moment for the color to drain from Dean's face.
He lunges up and startles the other man, hands gripping his shoulders and forcing his body to turn so Dean can get a good look at his back. What he finds is the pristine back of a suit jacket.
"W-what are you doing?" Castiel's eyes are wide when he finally speaks up, concern replaced with bewilderment.
"A hallway and a room," Dean sputters, voice lined with apology as he lets go and presses his back against his wall, "all white. Too white. And wings, big ones. Bloody and super fucked up. I—shit, that was one seriously messed-up dream."
Castiel simply stares at Dean for some moments, eyes narrowing but not in anger. Instead his head is tipping as if he's processing Dean's words, and he eventually leans forward to look Dean in the eyes up close. "But you're awake now. You're okay."
Despite himself, Dean laughs. "Are you using contractions suddenly? You're so freaking weird."
The angel doesn't move from his place and his head tilts yet again. After some seconds, his eyes roll down, brows furrowing. "I heard you use them quite a bit and I figured I'd seem more 'human' if I did so as well. Since I'm bound here, I might as well learn your ways."
"Didn't your parents ever have the talk with you about fitting in?"
"No. There is a talk for that? What should I know?"
Dean's mouth opens as if to speak, but instead he starts laughing again, this time long and loud. "Oh my God. You're serious? You're actually serious," Dean manages to utter through laughs.
"Of course I'm serious." Castiel looks up again, focusing on Dean's eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Dean rolls his eyes, pressing an arm into his mattress to shift his body weight back up straight against the wall he'd been slipping down. He takes a deep breath that he slowly lets out through his nose as he shuts his eyes. His mind is still reeling from that bizarre nightmare, but he's feeling a little better after being able to interact with another human being. Well, not quite human, but close.
When Dean's eyes tiredly flick back open, he finds an opposite pair a bit too close for the umpteenth time now. It's not too late to speak-up, is it? "Dude. Personal space, remember?"
Castiel bows his head in apology and backs away, sliding his legs so they drape off the side of Dean's bed. "My apologies. I hope you at least had a decent rest despite your bad dream. You are a little heavier than you look." The last comment sparks Dean's rapt attention.
"Wait. You put me to bed?" Dean feels a bit of discomfort grabbing at his stomach, though he believes it's more than simply disliking a stranger handling him. "I don't even remember being sleepy."
"Well, I assisted you. You seemed exhausted, confused, and overwhelmed, so I wanted to help you sleep a little more. It's a simple thing for me to do." The angel lifts a hand and gestures with two fingers.
Oh. So that's why he's feeling uncomfortable. Dean shoots the other man a sharp glare. Violation seeps into his bones when he remembers the first time Castiel used his angel mojo on him. The force of thoughts into his head, memories and things he hadn't even known, wasn't something he liked or wanted.
"Dude, no." It's hard to hold back from snapping, but Dean manages to do so with great restraint. "Helping me get into my bed is one thing, but forcing me to sleep is another entirely. It's creepy and violating. Don't do it again unless I ask you to. Capice?"
A brief flash of something, maybe guilt or remorse, runs through Castiel's eyes when he looks up into Dean's before he turns his entire head to look away. "Yeah. I capice."
Dean doesn't bother trying to hide the small, amused smirk that perks up the corners of his cheeks. For some reason, he can't seem to stay mad at this guy. Maybe it's that childlike ignorance with how he says things like "I capice" or perhaps it's even the way his body language works, all birdlike with big blue eyed looks. Whatever the case, he's easily able to let go of his prior emotions and move right along.
Dragging himself out of bed proves to be harder than it usually is. With his head pounding from yesterday's drinking spree and mind still raw from emotions regarding Sam and that nightmare, Dean wants nothing more than to curl back up under the covers. But being that he has work today, it's only ten minutes before his usual alarm, and he is in desperate need of a distraction Dean doesn't bother fighting it.
He trudges to his shower with a slouch to his body, not even caring about the way the angel watches his every move with curiosity and confusion. Castiel, despite interacting with other humans before, likely hasn't stayed on Earth for long, Dean guesses. So when his eyes follow after Dean even when he begins to close the bathroom door, Dean isn't surprised.
"Stay there, Cas. Don't want you seeing things you shouldn't see. None of that mirror travel bullshit. Ignorance is bliss or whatever," he mutters, flicking the lock shut. One thing about this place he's grateful for is the lock on his bathroom door. He's especially grateful for it being that there's a stranger here.
Dean spends longer in the shower than usual. He takes his time cleaning himself and scrubbing his hair, metaphorically attempting to wash off all of the emotional crap from the day before as well. For a while Dean even lets the water just run over him as he keeps his eyes shut. It's surprisingly still very soothing despite everything and he enjoys it as long as his schedule will allow.
When he does finally finish and comes out, one towel slung over his shoulder and another around his waist, he finds his room empty. And despite his annoyance at the angel not listening, he's a bit grateful. After all, who'd want to get dressed in front of a complete stranger, particularly one who's not even human but merely looks the part?
Dean's as quick as ever to fix himself up. He already shaved the moment he got out of the shower and it never takes him long to throw on a pair of boxers, socks, loose jeans, and a work t-shirt. And despite his headache, he manages to drag himself back into the bathroom, slick his hair up and scrub his teeth, then wander into the kitchen. Speak of the devil—or well, angel in this case.
Castiel is sitting at the small table leaning against the wall between his kitchen and living room, and Dean's phone is being jabbed at in his hands. The angel's eyes are glued to the screen as he plays with the device and Dean watches for a moment before storming over and snatching it from his hands.
"You seriously don't even know not to touch things that aren't yours without asking?" Dean says, quickly making sure nothing was screwed up during the angel's "playtime."
Castiel turns to look at him and folds his hands over the table. "Your smartphones, they're fascinating. We have no need for them in Heaven, but I can see their significance here on Earth. They're very useful." There's a small smile turning the corners of his cheeks and it's actually kind of cute, but Dean does his best to ignore it or risk his macho status with a dumb comment.
As Dean makes himself a toasted bagel and pulls out the cheap off-brand cream cheese from his fridge, he hears Castiel speak-up once more. "Where are you going?" Dean turns around and glances over at the bag he'd dragged out with him and plopped against the front doorframe.
"I've got work. You know, the thing adult humans do to support themselves financially." Dean shuts the fridge, gets a butter knife from a drawer, snatches his bagel from the toaster (but not without hissing a curse under his breath about how hot it is), and then collapses into a seat at his table opposite of Castiel.
"Oh." Castiel leans in a bit, eyes fixed on Dean's. "May I come with you?"
To say Dean is surprised by Castiel's question is an understatement. He practically chokes on his bagel and has to calm his coughing fit before he can muster up a response.
"Dude, no way," Dean gets out between several coughs. "You stay here."
Silence follows and Castiel pulls back, and if Dean wasn't focusing more on finishing his bagel than paying attention to the angel, he'd say there was an actual pout across his lips briefly. "What am I supposed to do while you're gone then?"
Dean rolls his eyes. Was this guy intentionally being annoying at this point or was this just his personality? "Look, just watch TV or something. I've got cable for a reason." Dean gestures towards his TV and Castiel frowns.
"I'm nervous being here alone. I'm not sure of anything."
"You'll be fine. Just don't open the door for anyone."
Dean shoves the last of his bagel into his mouth and stands, tossing the cream cheese back into the fridge on his way over towards the front door. He puts on his work boots, hopping around as he slips them on, and his eyes flick over to Castiel who's practically sulking. "It's not that bad, dude, trust me. I'll help you find a hobby later even."
Castiel doesn't seem convinced. His expression reflects disbelief in Dean's words and the mechanic figures he's not going to have enough time to make him think otherwise for now. "Shit, man. I'm gonna be late. I gotta go, but remember, don't open the door for anyone. I've got my own keys and if I need help getting in, I'd speak up on that buzzer over there. Oh, and Cas?"
"Yes?"
"Don't ever do that touch transfer and memory thing again without my consent. It's creepy and a little violating, just like the forcing me to sleep thing."
Dean doesn't give Castiel the chance to say another word because he's rushing out the door and slamming it shut behind him. He locks it then shoves his keys into his bag before scrambling down the stairs and out of the building.
Castiel perks up, sliding his legs around on the chair then standing. He finds himself at the large sliding glass doors that lead out onto Dean's small porch, peering out the blinds with weary eyes and watching Dean drive off. He figures this is how a cat or dog feels when they watch their pet parents drive off to go somewhere, be it work, shopping, or anything really. It's a little lonely, a little scary, perhaps even more than a little boring.
Castiel can't remember the last time he felt boredom settling in. He's always had someone to talk to and that was enough for him. But with Dean suddenly rushing out of the small apartment to go do the human variation of a job, Castiel finds himself already recalling what being bored is like.
Well, since Dean's gone, he might as well do something.
Castiel peers around the apartment until his eyes settle on the laptop gracing a small desk at the other end of the living room. Dean had said not to touch anything without asking, but Castiel can't help wanting to use anything familiar. A computer is something he'd use on a regular basis and he's quickly becoming desperate for something to make him feel a tad more comfortable here.
In only a moment he's sitting at the desk next, hand lifting the screen ever-so-slowly, cautious of breaking it. Human computers certainly aren't as sturdy as their's and he refuses to give Dean the satisfaction of busting him on breaking his rule. Curiosity spikes when light pours out between the keyboard and screen. He lifts it only a few inches and Castiel furrows his brow at the obviously still on computer before he lifts the screen up all the way.
Okay, maybe he should've listened to Dean. Just this time anyway. His eyes are assaulted with large-breasted women, some half-naked and some completely nude, and there's even a live video cam playing off to the left with two women doing very personal things.
Castiel's cheeks darken and he barely stops himself from slamming the screen back down. He whips it downward most of the way, then gently closes the remaining. Humans.
A deep breath and several fast blinks later and he's off to sit on Dean's couch, following his initial suggestion of watching TV. Castiel has never watched television before. How does one even operate this device? What is the purpose exactly? His mind is swamped with questions no one is there to answer.
He shifts his body to get a better look, not realizing that his leg is digging into the remote discarded onto one of the couch cushions. When the TV pops on and he jumps back, he puts two and two together and lifts his leg to look at the remote with curiosity. Oh, he's seen these before. Humans use them to operate devices from afar all of the time.
That doesn't, however, mean he knows how to use one.
A frown promptly plants itself on Castiel's face as he fiddles with the remote. There are so many buttons, too many buttons that he doesn't understand the point of, but he figures the "CH^" is something along the lines of "Channel Up" and presses it. In fact, he keeps pressing it. He presses it until something catches his eye, something as silly as an infomercial, but he likes what he sees as the woman on the screen advertises a new electric fireplace.
Something strikes Castiel suddenly. He's stuck here and doesn't know much about human customs despite coming to Earth so many times. This TV—the purpose is becoming very clear with its convenient way to display information. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn a thing or two about humans. He presses the button on the remote again and comes to a channel about cooking.
Perhaps he won't be so bored after all.
Dean, on the other hand, needn't worry about boredom or figuring out what to do. As time goes by the shop is swamped thanks to a horrible pothole claiming victims one after another. There'd been an accident earlier that day and a heavy drill came crashing off a truck. Dean was grateful that Bobby understood when he was twenty minutes late.
He's half-way under a car doing a repair when Bobby walks in, kicking at Dean's foot to get his attention. "We all know about the accident down the road, but that doesn't explain why you look like you were involved."
Dean rolls out from underneath and gives Bobby a weak smile. "I had a long night."
"By long night do you mean one too many beers and a couple of hard ones?" Bobby asks and Dean chuckles.
"You read me like a book."
"Somebody's got to since Sam's been away. Can't have you gettin' into trouble, y'idjit."
Bobby walks around the car and over to a workbench, digging around in a drawer until he's found a wrench. Dean's prayers for Bobby to just drop it there seem to go completely unanswered.
"You sure that's all? I know you and your hangovers, boy, and this? This is beyond that," he says, pausing at the doorway that leads outside.
Dean sighs. How in the hell could he even begin to explain everything that happened yesterday and last night to Bobby without looking like he's just escaped from a Looney Tunes cartoon or Chuck Palahniuk novel? If not even Sam would likely believe all that happened, how would it be fair of Dean to expect Bobby to? Bobby was, and still is, like a father to him, and Dean doesn't want to risk screwing that up with an unbelievable truth.
Just when Bobby is about to make another comment, Garth comes barging in waving around a piece of paper with a grin the size of Kansas on his face. "Guys, I found out the date of the fireworks! They've been posting these up around town!" he yells, not caring that a couple of customers are waiting impatiently by the front desk.
Bobby promptly smacks Garth on the back of the head. The younger man gives a small utterance of pain, but Bobby doesn't seem to have any sympathy. "Get back to work, y'idjit. We've got cars backing up thanks to that nasty new pothole down by the town square." Bobby shoves Garth back towards the front desk and gives Dean a look before disappearing beyond the wall.
Dean slides back under the car to work, but his mind wanders off in a completely different direction, memories taking over his train of thought.
The fireworks were some of the best times of his life; the little carnival and Sam's stupid grins whenever he beat Dean with the side games, Bobby joining them and giving them a little extra money for greasy treats, and of course, the rides that the Winchester boys would go on over and over until their necks hurt and at least one of them ended up with their head over a trash barrel.
Best of all, though, were the fireworks themselves. Dean and Sam would sit so close they'd have to dodge remnants. They'd made a game out of it after so many years and Dean fondly remembers the one year the back of his pants caught fire. Sam had called him a "flaming ass" for the next several weeks after that whenever Dean would tease him.
Certainly to most people that doesn't exactly sound like the most amazing of times, but to Dean they most definitely were. It was when Sam and he were their happiest despite everything going on at home, and when the boys could pretend they were normal teenagers for even just a day. Sam probably enjoyed that part more than him, but Dean couldn't deny it was pretty nice for him too.
As Dean tightens a part of the car, he wonders if Sam will ever go with him to that little fair again. But even when the sad thoughts try to take over again, the tiny little terrors that enjoy reminding him of his brother's inevitable marriage, Dean is overwhelmed with warm memories. He smiles as he finishes.
x
Certainly the saying doesn't only apply to when you're having fun. Dean's day flies by and when he looks up at the clock finally it's already 5:30. He wipes his hands with an old rag, adding to the grease and grim caked up on it, and heads through the doorway towards the front desk. He's about to clean up the desk and switch the front sign to closed, but the jingle of the big bell Bobby hung from the door goes off.
Always customer-service friendly Dean decides to comment after picking up some stray papers. "We're actually closing in a bit, but can I help you?"
Two strangers walk through the door in silence, one man, one woman. The man's skin is dark, while the woman's is light and pale. They're both dressed in pristine business suits that strike Dean in an oddly familiar way.
For some moments the two look around with blank expressions, not even the slightest hint of emotion present, before their vision focuses in on Dean. Okay, like that isn't freaky.
"Hello. Maybe you can. Uriel, would you please wait outside for now? I'll be all right and can handle this one." If that doesn't win for most bizarre name of the day, Dean doesn't know what will.
The man gives a stern look to the woman, something strange in his gaze, but he doesn't argue with her and instead steps back outside the door. For a moment Dean almost believes he's her boyfriend or something. As she comes up to the desk, all smiles and sunshine suddenly, it quickly becomes obvious he's mistaken.
"We're a couple of co-workers surveying the area for strange, possibly paranormal related occurrences around town last night," the woman explains, her fiercely red hair becoming very apparent in the more proper lighting above the desk. "Did you happen to have electrical issues yesterday? Any static on the television or maybe whistling noises? Lights going out randomly even?"
Her questions bring a headache on for Dean who feels like, yes, she's right. Yes, some freaky stuff did happen yesterday at his apartment that sounds a heck of a lot like that. But for whatever reason, he feels this strong urge to lie, something protective creeping up in the back of his mind. So he does.
"Uhh, maybe. I don't know for sure. I was kind of shit-faced yesterday." The redhead laughs briefly, and Dean grins. Okay, so maybe it isn't exactly a lie. "But damn, I wasn't aware they were hiring such hot chicks at those places. Where'd you say you worked again?"
The woman's humorous expression shifts into one of surprise, but she's just as quickly back to smiling. "Oh. The Third Sphere Paranormal Society."
"Huh, I don't think I've heard of that place before."
"I'm not surprised, really. We're new."
There's something eerily familiar about the name of the place this woman claims to work at, much like the feeling he got at both of their outfits and initial mannerisms, but Dean swears he's never heard of it before. He begins to feel more unease by the second, though doesn't want to shoo the woman off. After all, Bobby would kill him for being so rude.
The redhead's eyes trail down Dean's face to his chest, and a small smirk replaces her previous smile. "That's a lovely tattoo," she says, eyes meeting Dean's once more.
"Huh?" Dean glances down at himself and mentally curses. During the later hours of the day it becomes so hot that Dean often changes into a tank top and this day was no different. The curved, low-cut shape reveals the black mark Castiel had explained about before, the one that binds them through his wish. "Oh, uh, you think so?"
"Hmm, yes, absolutely. Did you take random Enochian that looked good or are you aware of the meanings?" Dean's taken aback by the comment. Not only is this random chick kind of hot, but she's well-versed in mythology too? Well-versed hot nerd chicks always score high on Dean's "hell yeah" meter.
"Wait, you know what this is?"
"Yes. I know my angelic lore quite well. Those are binding symbols. Usually people only get such markings when they're professing their love for someone, romantically or otherwise. Did you know that?"
Dean feels a pinch in his stomach. "W-well, duh. I mean, I got the thing put on! Not randomly either. Ha, ha."
"Naturally. I didn't take you as the random type. Well, if you excuse me, I must carry on with my interviews." A wicked gleam flashes over the woman's eyes that Dean isn't sure of the reasons behind. She turns to leave and his nature takes over, doing anything he can think of to get her to stay a bit longer.
"Wait, uh. You know, I do remember some weird things like you described."
"Oh?" The woman pauses in place and peers over her shoulder.
"Yeah, but it's kind of vague. Like I said, I was pretty smashed." Something is eating at Dean, making him feel bad like he's betraying someone. Sometimes he really wants to take his brain out, shake it up real good, then slam it back in.
The man that was with the woman, Uriel, opens up the front door and peeks inside. The woman exchanges glances with him before turning back to Dean and handing him a card with a phone number on it. "Well, I believe that's enough for now. Why don't you give me a call if things become clearer, uh—?"
"Dean. Dean Winchester," he responds, taking the piece of paper and briefly looking at the number across it. "And you are? There's no name on here."
Wide eyes direct at him. "I'm Anna—" Her eyes flick off to different areas within the shop, but Dean hardly notices. "Milton. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again real soon regardless, Dean. It was nice to meet and talk with you."
The woman flashes him one last smile before hurrying out the door, her co-worker shooting Dean a hard glare that he feels he didn't deserve. Hey, he was perfectly gentlemanly despite how smoking that Anna chick is. What's that guy's deal?
Dean doesn't even bother to question the abnormalities about their encounter as he closes up shop for Bobby. He's far too busy peeking at the card every so often and grinning to himself like he's a damn high schooler excited about scoring the hottest babe for prom. Anna Milton, huh? Dean certainly wouldn't mind running into her again, that's for sure.
x
In the meantime while Dean is busy acting like an overly hormonal teenager during closing, Castiel is sitting propped up on the Winchester's couch, legs crossed on top of the cushions and hands in his lap. He's been watching some program about human psychology for the past hour and is more than fascinated by what he's learning. He had no idea, after all, that humans make most of their decisions unconsciously.
There's something simple and different about human entertainment he finds himself quickly adapting to as time passes. Television is such a simple way to learn facts quickly. Then there's the Internet, though with his ignorance he'd rather not accidentally see something on the more private side again.
Just as he's getting into a documentary about serial killers, his entire body clenches up. Castiel recognizes the high-pitched whistle coming through the speakers almost instantly, which is accompanied by static taking over the screen here and there. An eyebrow lifts as his body follow and Castiel heads straight towards the porch.
If he never knew what regret felt like fully before, now he does. Castiel's eyes stare straight down at the two figures standing below. Anna and Uriel. What in the Heavens are they doing here? Certainly this isn't about—
Castiel doesn't remember the last time he felt dread like this. It's an unpleasant emotion, deep in one's gut, pulling and wrenching until he's feeling a little physically ill, and he can't even begin to fathom how to feel better. Anna and Uriel are here and typically they only tag along when things get on the more messy side.
Castiel is used to being the sort of "troublemaker" among his brothers, breaking rules in order to assist others and messing things up as a result, so he acts on the first thing that comes to mind—he ducks and hides.
Punishment is the last thing he needs right now. He already feels weary about being forced to live with a human on Earth. Getting his rank stripped, his powers limited, or worse yet, being sentenced to the torture chambers is not something he can tolerate.
Luckily for him, it turns out extreme wishes like this can mask his presence from other angels. And while Castiel would typically consider that fact a dreadful thing, he's grateful in the moment. This is especially true being that he can still put his exaggerated hearing to good use.
"Do you really think it's true?" Uriel's voice is as deep and foreboding as ever and it doesn't make Castiel feel much better. "Do you really think he is meta-bound to a human?"
For some moments, Anna stares around, silent, though she's fairly quick to speak-up. "I'm afraid that's what's recorded in the system."
Castiel can feel his heart speed up. Oh, heavens, they know. They know. The system, despite its malfunctions, recorded the wish well this time and now likely all of Heaven truly does know.
"We will have to find him to confirm it however," Anna adds after some seconds with her typical stoic nature.
Uriel, on the other hand, seems the opposite. His eyes roll and he crosses his arms. "Why did that blasted thing not have this 'Dean Winchester's' address recorded?"
"I'm sure it was there, after all, Castiel found him the same we did through his soul's energy signature. It just so happens with our luck he was at work instead. The malfunction likely wiped the data Castiel had added into the system."
Uriel nods, though he doesn't let Anna's slow drag of eyes up the building and sudden focus on a single apartment go unmentioned. "What is it, Anna?"
"Nothing." She stares for some moments despite this, but eventually turns back to her comrade. "Let us return at a later time when he is home. We can track his exact residence that way."
Castiel waits until their voices fade into a flap of wings before he heaves a heavy and much anticipated sigh of relief. He may have respect for many of his fellow angels, but those who rank high in the third sphere like Anna and Uriel do frighten him in situations like this. The top ranks of third are well-versed in torture after all.
Once he's sure he's in the clear, Castiel forces himself to his feet, only to have to lean against a wall for support. He's feeling unusually more tired than usual and wonders if it's a side-effect of the wish.
As he hobbles his way to the living room to sit and watch more television, the front door is making a clicking noise. At first Castiel figures it's nothing to worry about, but once he remembers that being the noise the lock makes, he's on alert. Hell, to say Castiel dives towards the couch is an understatement.
Instead of other angels waiting on the other side to punish him, Dean's silhouette appears. He casually swings the door open and quirks a brow at the quietness. Once he's closed the door behind him, Dean drags his bag towards the living room, tosses it by the hallway, kicks off his boots, and then halts to a stop to the left of his couch.
"Dude, have you been there all day?" he asks, eyeing the angel who's now propped up on the couch with his legs hanging off, hands neatly tucked into his lap.
Castiel is more than relieved to have the Winchester home, but he wouldn't dare say it. "For the most part. You did tell me not to touch anything and to entertain myself with this." He gestures briefly at the TV.
A small laugh follows from the mechanic. "Okay, well, I mean, you could've used my laptop too, I guess—"
"NO!" The yell is accompanied by wide eyes and a clench at the fabric of his suit pants.
Dean's brows come together. Okay, so he'd gotten used to responses like that from Sam when they'd lived together, but that was once upon a time. The nostalgia trip is not an unwelcome one though.
Castiel bows his head and clears his throat. "I-I mean, no, thank you. I am content with the television."
Dean shrugs, satisfied with the "explanation"—who is he to nitpick?—and moves to flop down onto the cushions next to the other man. A long day at work leaves him apathetic to people's weird reactions to things.
"So when's the last time you showered?" Changing the topic has always worked for him in the past, so Dean figures it'll do him good now. "Those clothes look uncomfortable and stiff. You might as well change too while you're at it."
Castiel's eyes flick up to meet Dean's with uncertainty. "Normally these clothes are quite all right, but it seems your wish is rendering me a little more 'human.'"
"What's that supposed to mean? You're not an angel anymore temporarily or something? Thought you said you had all your powers and stuff still."
"I do," Castiel clarifies, shoulders slumping. "I have my powers still, I'm just very tired and things that normally don't bother me do. I believe there is a restriction in place at this point."
"And, uh, you being tired and bothered by things you're typically chill with is your reasoning behind that guess?"
"Mostly. I would rather not speak about the other factors if that's all right."
Dean shrugs again, this time raising his hands up into the air as well. It's not like he has to question these weird-ass angel laws of the universe, so he's not going to bother. Curiosity can shove it when all Dean wants to do is pop open a cold one and relax.
Before he can enjoy the peace and quiet of relaxation however, Dean has an angel to take care of. He drags himself to his feet and disappears into his room, only to return moments later with an old band T-shirt from that time he dragged Sam to see AC/DC and an old pair of ripped-up jeans. Once he's back, he drops the pile of clothes onto Castiel's lap.
"You. Stop being awkward on my couch. Shower. Down the hall on the right. Guest towels, including wash clothes, are on the bottom shelf. Crank the hot water. Trust me; it'll make you feel better."
The confused expression directed up at him melts into something Dean guesses is gratefulness. "Thank you."
He watches the angel wander towards the designated room and close the door behind him with a click of the lock. That allows Dean to head to the kitchen, get a beer, whip up something to eat from the cabinet, and then get as comfy as he can. He refuses to change into something more comfortable until he's had the chance to shower himself, so no point settling down completely.
What he isn't expecting is to be still watching TV almost twenty-five minutes later.
Dean has been shifting his eyes from the digital cable clock to his hallway every little bit for the past ten minutes now, and he's just about done doing so. Dean pushes himself up and stretches with a groan before heading down his little hall.
"Yo, Cas, did you fall in the toilet or wash down the drain? Is water to angels like it is to the Wicked Witch?"
Some silence passes and Dean presses an ear to the door. He doesn't hear the water running, so he assumes the other man isn't still in the tub, but Dean can't be too sure. Dean certainly isn't well-versed in lore or the real-deal. Who's to say angels don't just sit in there in some ritualistic manner?
He pulls back and raises another hand to knock once more, but his fist almost meets flesh as the door swings open to blue eyes, dripping dark hair, and the clothes he'd provided fitting around the other man's form fairly well.
"What are you doing?" The scratchy voice of the angel breaks the silence and Dean has to laugh and lower his arm.
"Apparently almost punching you in the nose."
"Why would you do that?" There goes the bird-tilt again. Dean's not exactly surprised.
"I was gonna knock again, asshat. Wasn't expecting you to suddenly open the door."
"Oh."
There's another brief quiet stretch before Castiel moves past Dean and towards the living room. "My apologies for taking so long. It was more enjoyable than I thought it'd be."
Dean shrugs for what feels like the tenth time. "Hey, man, hot showers are good. Can't blame you." Even if his impatience had turned into anger, Dean really can understand. After all of the times he's had long days at work or been down and chose not to overdo it with drinking, hot showers are one of the only things able to relax his tense muscles.
At this point he's about ready to soothe his own aches when something catches his attention. Dean can't remember the last time he had a house guest and his pet peeves are quickly coming back into play. Before he realizes it the words are slipping out in smooth, unhesitant lines, blunt and forceful.
"Cas, man, can you not friggin' drip all over my floor? If you can't tell, I don't own the place. I pay rent. So unless you use your useless angel mojo to contribute and make some money with a magic show or something, go drip elsewhere."
A certain coldness settles in the air and Dean's almost certain he just found a sure-fire way to piss off an angel. Castiel is silent, but the tenseness that's replaced former calm is more than enough to support this. He merely nods slowly then heads back to the bathroom.
Okay, maybe Dean's being a little harsh. After all, it's pretty much his fault Castiel is stuck here. But for crying out loud, the angel didn't need to walk around dripping wet, did he? Hasn't he heard of using a towel for its actual purpose, like, say, drying off first?
But then again, are angels even taught basic human "common sense"? They're not exactly residents of Earth after all. Hell, according to Castiel, angels are warriors, counselors, and governors, handling universal affairs and things humans can't even begin to comprehend. Crap. What an idiot you are, Dean.
"Cas, wait." After some seconds the mechanic is on his way down his little hall after Castiel. Maybe he doesn't like to show his guilt, but he sure as hell feels it. A lot.
It only takes a moment to make it to the doorway. Dean leans a hand against the pane and peers inside, green eyes meeting blue. A smaller towel is now laying around his shoulders, hair roughed up from likely having towel-dried it.
"What is it? If needed, I can clean up the floor."
"Nah, don't worry about that. Look, uh, sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I get it you're not from around here and don't know our ways."
"It's not exactly your tone that bothered me, Dean."
Dean quirks a brow at that comment. "Huh?"
Castiel turns back towards the sink and uses the towel to roughly rub over his head one final time before resting it back around his shoulders. He doesn't turn back towards Dean, but the man can certainly see his reflection in the mirror. It looks weary, uncertain.
"The truth of the matter is I am frightened." Blame the puppy eyes and way Castiel acts reminding him a little of Sam, but Dean definitely feels like a giant ass now. "I'm stuck on a planet I know precious little about that I typically come to for mere brief visits. Additionally, I'm tired. More tired than I've ever felt. And then there's the issue of Ann—"
The way he cuts himself off makes it almost impossible for Dean to resist asking. "What? Issue of what?"
A sharp intake of breath and fear reflected in his mirror is what greets Dean's line of vision. But instead of answering him, Castiel pushes past him and discards the towel onto the floor. Dean's not having any of this bullshit though.
The slapping noise of his hand meeting Castiel's wrist practically echoes in the hallway and he rips towards him so hard it takes the angel off guard. In fact, Castiel's barely able to keep his footing steady. Angel or not, he's definitely showing his exhaustion.
"Hold the fuck up." Dean doesn't care about the slow way Castiel's head turns to look at him, a blank, too emotionless expression plastered on his face. "What's the issue? You're not going to be all secretive when we're stuck in this mess together. Start talkin', asshat."
If Dean thought he knew what it was like for angels to be angry before, he's now realizing he was sourly mistaken. The emotionless features are met with a similar tone and his lights flicker. "Let. Go. Dean." Each word is emphasized as if a separate sentence, but Dean doesn't budge.
"No. Not until you talk. What's the matter with you? You've been weird since I came home. Well, weirder. Look, I don't know you well, but—"
"You're right, you don't. Now let go." This time Castiel's features are shifting into tight lines and his eyes are narrowing.
Dean's still not having it. Like he's going to let some angel come into his home and act like an angry little kid. No way in hell. "You can try to intimidate me with your lightshows and Dark Knight voice, but this is my home. And whether you like it or not, you are stuck here with me. So let's do each other a favor and not act like we're in preschool—"
"You said I'm useless!"
Dean's lips part to speak, but he's caught off guard and nothing comes out. When did—? Oh, right. That. "No, I said your powers are." It'd probably be in his best interest to think things through before continuing to talk, but hey, that's always been more Sam's style than his. "I mean, what good are they if they can't make money poof out of thin air?!"
There's no guessing when it comes to what Castiel's feeling this time. His eyebrows come together in a furrow and his lips go into a taut line before he responds.
"You see, this is what I meant by human wishes being trivial! All you care about are material things when there are so many more meaningful issues!"
"How the hell do you think humans survive, huh?!" If this angel wants a fight, Dean's more than willing to bring it. "Money! Unlike you assholes, we use a currency system and if we don't have any money, we're screwed!"
"But money isn't everything and there's plenty you can do without it!"
"It might as fucking well be when nothing else ever works out! Try living a shitty, depressing life then come talk to me, you privileged bitch!"
A harsh tug is all Dean feels before Castiel is storming off towards his front door. But Dean's never the type to let people get off the hook before he's gotten to say everything he wants to say and Castiel is clearly trying to avoid the rest of this confrontation. Screw that.
"Stop following me and let me be!" Castiel is practically screaming now, raised voice getting louder. And Dean, well, he's at the very least matching it.
"Shut the hell up and listen to what I have to say!"
"I am done listening to a man who cannot be reasoned with!"
"Look who's talking! Have you ever even been in my shoes?!"
Castiel stops short, whipping around to glare at Dean. "If you think your life is so bad and beyond repenting, then fine! I will somehow find a way to leave and you can go back to being a miserable egotistical alcoholic who's too stubborn to admit he's lonely and needs help! You can go back to rotting in your own flesh before you're even worm food! They won't even want you with the amount of poison that runs through your veins!"
All right, maybe it isn't Dean's best selection among the list of potential multiple choice, but what's done is done. He can absolutely be a spontaneous asshole. He'd never deny that. However, after the sound of his fist meeting the other figure's jaw actually clicks in his mind for what it is, Dean is feeling a tingle of regret ride up his spine.
Castiel stumbles back a few steps, more-so because he is taken off guard than tired, but Dean doesn't doubt that is playing a big role in it as well. Once the angel's regained his composure though, a thin trickle of blood rolling down his lip and cheek swelling, Dean steps back. There's a scowl forming across his features and retaliation isn't exactly out of the question.
"So angels really do bleed, huh? Color me surprised."
"You do not realize how incredibly lucky you are that I have advanced healing capabilities."
"What? That an invitation? Come on. I've been in more than a few brawls. I've got the never-quite-healed right ribs, jaw, and arm to prove it."
The smug, tough-guy act is something he's so used to he doesn't know when to stop. But Castiel is clearly more patient than Dean takes him for because he's turning away and heading for the door once more. Dean really should learn when to quit. Sam would kick his ass for this. Hell, he'll personally kick his own ass for this if he wakes up next in a pit of flames with cackling shadowy figures all around him.
His next attempt to stop Castiel from leaving is met with the angel smacking his hand away roughly and shoving him back, but Dean is ignoring the obvious attempts to be tolerant. By the time Castiel is turning away for the door yet again, Dean is grasping at his shoulder and doesn't notice the clicking noise echoing outside of the hinged slab.
"Why do you insist on stopping me? Why can you not simply let me leave?" Castiel's voice is quieter now and he turns to meet Dean's green eyes with an exasperated look. "It's what you want, is it not?"
"You said the wish is binding. You can't technically leave anyway."
"I am almost certain my brothers can somehow make an exception in Yggdrasil's programming." Castiel murmurs the words but barely sounds like he believes them himself. "Now let me leave."
"Not until we get a few things straight." Dean has managed to calm his own tone but barely.
"We have each made our points. This argument is over."
"No. You made your point by insulting me and my lifestyle."
"My swollen cheek wasn't yours?"
Even if Castiel is right—which, hell, he couldn't have been more accurate with his description of Dean's lifestyle and manner of being—it still pisses Dean off. It's probably because he's right that Dean's skin crawls and his stomach feels like it's on fire.
Which is why when Castiel tries to turn out of Dean's grip and head for the door again for what feels like the twentieth time, Dean's fingers clench harder and suddenly they're both taken off guard. Dean completely forgot he'd left his boots by the door and Castiel's clumsy, distracted footing stumbles over them, but his reflexes snatch onto the nearest thing to keep from falling. Oh, how lucky for Dean.
Both go flying down before either can understand what's happening in a mess of limbs and that's when a panicked Dean realizes what the clicking noise on the outside of the door is—his spare key. He's a little dizzy from bashing his head off Castiel's and going down so fast, but that doesn't stop him from scrambling to his hands and looking up with wide eyes.
"Hey, Dean, do you have a movie on in here or something? What's with all the noise—?"
Definitely not his best plan. Definitely not. It takes him only a moment to realize what this looks like when he darts his gaze from his younger brother to Castiel, who's lying back against the floor underneath him, breathing a tad unsteady. As if things couldn't get any worse, the angel's legs are spread with Dean's body pressed between them in the most R-rated pose he's been in since his last hook-up.
"Sam. Holy shit, Sam?" Dean's voice is hoarse from emotion and he swallows once, hard. He then utters the only thing that comes to mind. "T-this isn't what it looks like."
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Ah! My Angel