Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean sneaks out of the motel room before the sun has even broken the horizon. He doesn’t really need to sneak out, since his father is dead to the world and will be so for hours after all the alcohol he consumed last night, but years of long habit keep his feet light and his movements swift. He dresses in the dark, grabs what he needs from the trunk, and is out and into the nearby woods before anyone can notice.

Maybe someone else would be uneasy walking into a forest in the middle of nowhere when it’s still dark outside, but Dean has a gun and a stake, and he’s not afraid to use either.

He walks until he finds a small little clearing, where there’s enough room to sketch out a good sized summoning sigil. After he sets down his bag and walks the area, making sure nothing jumps out at him, he takes out the can of spray paint and begins marking up the clearing, white lines sharp against the green grass.

It’s a pretty basic sigil, all things considered. Five points, a star in the center, and various symbols of protection and invocation scattered around the edges. Most people don’t bother learning it because psychics insist only they can properly use it, but the truth is that anyone can use this summoning sigil as long as they know how to draw it correctly, and the first thing Dean learned to draw after his name was a devil’s trap.

Then again, the other reason that most people are happy to leave it to psychics is because sometimes summoning the appearance of your soulmate can cause a feedback loop and an explosion, but Dean isn’t most people.

Hell, after last night, Dean probably isn’t going to be even a minority of people. He can imagine the number of hunters who have mothers who died when they were kids, fathers who became hunters and dragged said kids all over the country, and little brothers who had a knockout incoherent screaming match and stormed out promising to never return probably can be counted on one hand.

Which is why Dean is here, alone in the woods at daybreak, spray painting a sigil into the grass and praying that this soulmate summoning thing actually works. That maybe, just maybe, there is one person in the entire damn universe who might not leave Dean high and dry like every other member of his family.

As the sigil dries, Dean walks back over to his bag and double checks the contents, just in case. Hunters can’t afford to be cocky and think one check is enough, after all, and it’ll be a long goddamn walk if he missed something when rooting around in the Impala’s trunk under the light of a flickering streetlamp. Fortunately, it’s all there: sharp knife, large bowl, lighter, feather, holy water.

Unfortunately, it is apparently turning out to be a cloudy day, because even though Dean’s internal clock tells him the sun should be well and truly above the horizon, the daylight is muted and the air is cold.

The summoning doesn’t need sunlight, of course, but it would damn sure help.

Dean sighs and looks at the way he came. He marked the trees, and he could always pack everything up and go back – but go back to what? Sam’s gone, his dad’s likely going to make a break for it as soon as he wakes up, like he always does, and then Dean’ll just be staring at the wall and going out of his mind. Again. And this time, Sam won’t come back after he cools off. If there’s one person Dean knows inside and out, it’s Sam, and he’s never seen Sam so angry. He knows Sam meant it, when he said he’d leave, and he also knows that John bellowing that he shouldn’t come back would only cement Sam’s determination.

Plus, the kid never texted Dean. And he always texts Dean. Habit, for hunters. Otherwise your family thinks you kicked it and died.

Dean fingers the soft quills of the feather he grabbed from the trunk. It’s nothing special, just an eagle quill, useful for only very basic rituals, but a soulmate summoning ritual requires something from the air and the land and the water, and a feather was the best thing he could find. Even under the muted overcast light, it gleams and shines as he turns it over in his hands, the promise of a brighter future, one where he could roam the skies and earth and waters with a soulmate at his side.

One where Dean wouldn’t always be so abandoned, so alone.

So Dean sets his jaw, grabs the bowl, and gets to work.

The first ingredient is a bit of dirt, dug from where Dean walked. Earth is the easiest ingredient, really, since humans are of the land. He dumps it into the bottom of the bowl, which is laid at the center of the star now.

He clears his throat and says, “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”

Next up is water. It doesn’t matter whether water or air is represented next, since humans can use both, but Dean would rather put the holy water in now as a deterrent against evil morons gatecrashing the party, so he empties the flask over the earth in the bowl and repeats again, “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”

After that, Dean crouches down and lays the feather carefully in. The last thing he needs is for it to blow away, so he quickly says, “I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”

With the land, the sky, and the water all accounted for, the soulmate summoning ritual is basically primed for ignition. All that remains is the personal touch, the bit that makes the magic go and seek out the face of his soulmate, his other half, his beloved and relays the image into the flames that appear before the one who is doing the seeking. So Dean grabs the knife, cuts his palm, and lets his blood flow into the bowl, watching as the sigil painted in the grass goes from white to gold and not even wincing as the air begins to crackle with energy.

After all, it’s a bit late to turn back now.

He strikes a match and lets it fly, shouting one last time: “I, Dean Winchester, summon my soulmate before this circle!”

The entire bowl ignites like it was filled with gasoline and not wet dirt and a feather. The flames shoot up high, intense enough that Dean stumbles back a little, because he’d expected, like, a human-face-sized bit of flame for him to peer into and not a column of light that stretches towards the sky like a skyscraper. He also knows that the flames sometimes are different colors depending on exactly what materials are used to represent the three elements, but he’s never heard of or seen flames in this color, this white-hot blue light that reminds him of star fire and comets.

Still, the column stabilizes after a moment, so Dean dutifully scoots closer and squints, trying to make out a face or some kind of landmark in the flames. Usually, if people are lucky and everything goes perfectly, they get a glimpse of their soulmate’s face. If they’re not so lucky, they might get an image of a place their soulmate’s been, or an impression of their voice, or something far less helpful.

Dean . . . Dean gets nothing.

There’s no face in the flames, no voice, no taste, no landmark. There’s nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

The flames burn out, abruptly, going from roaring forest fire to simmering ashes in seconds, the magic in the ritual having consumed all the blood Dean gave it. Dean swears and kicks at the bowl, and then swears some more when the heat sears his toes through his shoes. He examines the sigil in the grass, now seared into the ground, but it’s as perfect as the one he looked up last night, and all the ingredients were legitimate. And the invocation isn’t exactly easily messed up, given how short it is.

Which all means one thing: Dean has no soulmate.

He is alone.

Dean sits on the grass, and stares at the sky, and feels nothing.

And then he frowns, because the sky is actually changing. The overcast clouds that lingered ever since he trekked out to this clearing are parting like the red sea, opening around a hole right above the clearing. He could say it was the wind, which is now starting to pick up, but that would be wishful thinking, because he can see the lightning flashing in the clouds and hear the rumble of thunder. Even the ground is vibrating and shaking, and Dean dives for his gun because like hell is he going to be caught off guard and with his pants down now that some kind of supernatural entity has taken an interest in his dead end, useless soulmate summoning ritual.

The wind really picks up then, howling like a tornado is coming, and the trees groan and shudder around him. It gets so strong that even the bowl and Dean’s bag are lifted off the ground and go flying into the trees, and Dean’s resulting curse is lost amidst the noise.

Dean lifts his gun, cocks it, and points it straight up at the heavens –

And stops.

The whole world falls silent, and the switch is so abrupt and surprising that Dean almost wants to pinch himself, but he does not take his hands off the gun, because a shaft of brilliant sunlight is falling through the hole in the parted clouds and something is coming through the sunlight.

A shadow falls upon the earth, huge and terrible, a shape Dean’s brain fails to recognize or categorize, and it is moving and –

And it’s coming for Dean, angling towards him.

Some animal instinct in Dean – the primal, raw beating heart of his soul, the part that John honed into a fine hunter – wants to turn tail and flee, because he’s never seen any monster that looks like this, that has this kind of otherworldly power, that can part the heavens and command the sunlight. And no demon would do this kind of lightshow, they’d just hop in his meatsuit and drag him all over the earth.

But Dean steels himself and steadies his hand, because hey, hunters discover new monsters all the time. It’s kind of how hunting works. He even tries to cheer himself up with the knowledge that if he does discover this creature and kill it, he’ll probably get to name it.

If he can kill it.

The creature gets closer and, as Dean squints against the sunlight, he realizes that the shadow looked so weird because, firstly, the creature has two wings that are moving, slow and graceful like an eagle, and secondly, the wings are supporting a humanoid sort of figure. Which, again, nothing Dean has ever seen, but hey, at least it gives him a nice central mass to aim for.

A huge gust of wind blows into the clearing when the creature alights on the grass. The wings, which had already been terrifying by the size of their shadows alone, are truly awe-inspiring, stretching to the edges of the clearing, flexing and shifting, and Dean would almost think that they’re real feathers of a real bird. But they’re not, he knows they’re not, because the colors – deep greens and purples that darken into black as deep as midnight – are out of this world and utterly unnatural.

Even the humanoid figure at the center of those wings is unnatural. It stands too still, it doesn’t blink, its chest doesn’t rise and fall. And for some reason it’s dressed like a rich person accountant, complete with a full suit, dark blue tie, and long, tan trench coat. Dean’s seen many monsters try to blend in with humanity, but never one who aimed for, like, Wall Street normal.

Then the creature speaks, and all thoughts of Wall Street go straight out of Dean’s mind.

“Hello, Dean Winchester,” this creature says, eyes laser focused on Dean, voice deep and rough like a phone sex hotline connected straight to all of Dean’s deepest, darkest, most shameful fantasies. “I am Castiel.”

Which is when Dean remembers that, oh yeah, just because a monster has a name doesn’t mean it isn’t a monster, and he fires.

Castiel doesn’t blink at the gunshot. He doesn’t panic or scream or attack. Worst of all, he doesn’t even die. He just looks down and frowns at the new round hole in his trench coat, smooths a hand over it, and just like that, the bullet hole is gone.

“That was rude,” Castiel tells him, frowning slightly.

“Well, I’m not exactly gonna let you eat me, am I?” Dean retorts.

Castiel tilts his head and his wings draw back. He looks like a bird when he does it. “Why would I eat you?” he asks, sounding absolutely mystified. “I do not require sustenance. And I do not imagine you would taste very good.”

And, well, like hell is Dean going to take that lying down. He chambers another bullet and lifts his gun again. Maybe a headshot will do what a center mass did not. “Hey, I am delicious,” he says. “Monster snack heaven. Last week’s vamps would’ve loved a piece of my sweet, sweet bod. ‘Cept I killed them.”

“You are a hunter.”

“Yep. And you are?”

Castiel squints at him. “I told you. I am Castiel.”

Dean rolls his eyes, because why does he always get the monsters who play dumb? “Yeah, I got that much. I mean, what are you?”

“Oh. I am an angel of the Lord.”

Dean shoots him again. This time, he aims for the head.

Unfortunately, Castiel does not die.

Even more unfortunately, Castiel’s giant fricking wings move, so fast they blur in Dean’s eyesight, and, between one blink and the next, Dean finds himself slammed against the nearest tree, those big wings caging him in, his hands pinned by his sides, and Castiel’s face inches from his own. His eyes are blue, as searing and unnatural as the greens and purples of his wings, and Dean kind of feels like they’re peering into the depths of his very soul.

And most unfortunate of all, Castiel says, “Is it customary to greet your soulmate by shooting them?”

“Soooo,” Dean says slowly, because Castiel gave him a really, really long explanation and Dean honestly stopped listening after the first sentence. “Angels exist.”

“Yes.”

“You’re an angel.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re . . . my soulmate?”

Somehow, this question offends Castiel more than the two before it. His wings flare wide and high, like a predator trying to scare off a competitor, and now that the sun is fully shining down upon the clearing, Dean can truly make out the finer details of his wings: the feathers, some as long as his arm and some as long as his leg; the colors, shimmering and shifting in a way that escapes description; and the way they so effortlessly hold still or move on a dime, without any effort on Castiel’s part.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and he sounds . . . not upset, but intense. Like he’s telling someone the sky is blue and can’t quite tell why they’re not believing them while looking at said blue sky. “Why do you not believe me?”

“I. I, uh.” Dean looks sideways, down, left, right. Anywhere to escape Castiel’s piercing blue eyes. “Angels aren’t exactly common, okay?”

“Are my wings not proof enough?”

“Uh, I thought angels had fluffy white wings. And halos. And harps. You know, to sing hymns and all that?”

Castiel makes an amused sound. “You should read the Bible,” he remarks, which is so not what Dean expected him to say. “Angels are warriors of God. I’m a soldier, Dean. Fluffy wings would only be a detriment in combat. And if I showed you my halo, your eyes would burn out of your skull.”

“Wait, what?”

“My true form is very damaging to the human mind. Only certain, special people can perceive my true visage without harm,” Castiel explains. His wings are softening, dipping downwards to cocoon them again, and with Castiel’s low, dark voice and the warmth of a body pressed all along his front, Dean feels a bit like he’s taking part in something way more intimate than just two dudes talking.

Well, one dude and one angel of the Lord.

Then the last part of Castiel’s words register. Dean swallows hard. “So, I’m not special, huh?”

“It has nothing to do with your being. It’s tied to a bloodline.”

“Oh.”

Dean tries his best to sound convincing, but he must fail. That, or angels can read minds or something. Because a soft feather brushes under Dean’s chin, pushing with surprising strength, and Dean finds himself being forced to lift his head until he’s pinned again by Castiel’s vivid eyes. They’re glowing now, a little bit, shining white-blue hot like the innards of a star and swirling with immense, ancient power, and it’s this, more than anything, that convinces Dean that he’s staring at an honest to God angel.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asks softly. “Why do you still doubt what I say?”

And Dean can’t answer (i’m no one i’m nothing i’m just an idiot with a gun) but he can’t look away, because Castiel won’t let him. He pushes at Castiel, shoving against the tree and his chest, but both are immovable as stone. Even Castiel’s wings hold steady when Dean tries to go sideways instead of forward. Castiel doesn’t even seem to notice that Dean is trying to get free; either Dean needs to exercise more, or angels are just really goddamn strong.

Castiel looks at him – really looks at him, from the bottom of his feet to the very top of his head, one long slow drag, impossibly slow for how fast Dean’s seen him move. It’s unbearably intimate, it’s torturously thorough, and it’s too much –

“You don’t think you deserve a soulmate,” Castiel says, voice too loud in their little cocoon. He sounds at once like he’s discovered the secret to the universe and his favorite pet dog just died, triumphant and terribly sad.

Dean swallows hard. Castiel’s damn wing still keeps his head from moving, but he lets his gaze go out of focus. He stares at Castiel’s ear rather than his eye, anything but his all-too-knowing eyes. It’s one thing to know something about yourself; it’s another for an angel of the goddamn Lord to call you out on it. And if Castiel can look deep enough into his soul to figure it out, well, then he can probably see exactly why Dean doesn’t deserve a soulmate.

So Dean croaks out, “Why the hell did you answer the call?”

Why didn’t you just ignore it, why didn’t you just stay in heaven, why didn’t you just stay away?

“Because you are my soulmate, and you asked me to come,” Castiel answers simply, and his wing brushes down Dean’s face, a caress softer than any hand. “So I came.”

Castiel finally stops pinning Dean against the tree when Dean’s stomach lets out a loud rumble, complaining about the breakfast he didn’t eat. He doesn’t go far though, and it’s seriously annoying, because Dean almost trips over Castiel or his wings about seven times as he tries to hastily pack everything. When he finally gets annoyed enough to make Castiel stand a solid six feet away and stop poking things like some five year old child, Castiel stares at him without blinking, because apparently angels don’t need to. Weirdos.

Finally, though, everything has been neatly shoved back into Dean’s bag. Dean slings it over his shoulder and offers Castiel a polite smile. “So, uh, nice meeting you?” he says.

Castiel tilts his head. “Where are you going?”

“I gotta check out of the hotel. Make sure Baby is okay. And, uh, probably try and find someplace to eat.”

“You have a . . . baby?” Castiel pronounces the word like it’s a foreign concept and not, like, the beginning stage for every human being. It’s adorable, and Dean should not find it adorable, but he does.

“Nah, that’s what I call my car.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, brightening. His wings fluff up and spread wide, as if he’s preparing to fly. “A human method of transport. Yes. That will be useful.”

“Can’t you just – ”

Castiel leans forward and clamps a hand on his shoulder, tight and unbreakable, and the world goes very dark for a moment, colors spinning into nothingness at his feet, the very air growing still against his body, like he’s been hurtled through space and time.

“Fly,” Dean finishes, a beat too late, looking at his own goddamn car.

“I just did,” Castiel says, a tinge of pride in his voice. He frowns slightly when he sees Dean’s eyes tracking his wings in the reflection on the Impala and rolls his shoulders back, almost like he’s trying to make himself smaller – and then his wings are just gone, as if they were never there.

“What the hell?”

“Guess again.”

“I am not saying ‘what the heaven.’”

Castiel smiles lazily at him, indulgent and smug like a cat that’s got the cream. “Those of the Heavenly Host can blend in with humans to walk among them, Dean. Do you really think you are the first human to behold us as we are?”

Dean thinks this over for a minute. Then he levels a finger at Castiel. “You totally came down with your wings out to impress me, didn’t you?”

“Would you have believed I was an angel if I didn’t?”

“Yes,” Dean says, just to see what Castiel will say.

Castiel does not disappoint. “Lying is a sin, Dean.”

“So smite me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I just sinned? Doesn’t that mean my soul is damned to hell?”

“Your soul is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It is far too righteous for hell,” Castiel says earnestly.

Dean opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“Are you experiencing a problem with your jaw? I can probably heal – ”

“Nope,” Dean says, dodging Castiel’s hand. “No, nope, I am not sober enough for this kind of thing. You don’t just – just say things like that!”

“ . . . Would you like me to engage in sin as well?”

Dean tries to imagine Castiel engaging in the types of sins Dean does. He pictures Castiel drunk, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned, eyes glazed over, voice even deeper from too much alcohol, even more prone to staring and touching Dean and saying all kinds of stupidly intimate stuff, and all too suddenly that is just. Too much. Dean’s just done with the day.

He hefts his bag higher and stomps towards his room, muttering under his breath.

John is nowhere to be found in the room, and all of his stuff is gone too. There’s no note or anything, but Dean just feels relief. This is normal. This is how things usually go: Sam gets mad and goes one way, John gets drunk and mad and goes the other, and Dean is the one left behind, quietly trying to keep them both alive. Besides, John did at least take his phone, because it’s off the charger, so he can at least call Bobby or Dean if he needs help.

“This is a very small room,” Castiel observes, from right next to Dean.

Dean yelps and almost trips. “Dude! Personal space!”

Castiel stares at him like he doesn’t understand English. Dean gestures wildly between them and almost whacks Castiel on the arm, because Castiel is seriously way too damn close.

“Personal space,” Dean repeats. “Like. My space bubble. That other people don’t come into. Because it’s mine.”

“I am not a person. I am a celestial – ”

“That other people and angels do not come into!”

Castiel takes one step back.

Dean glares.

Castiel takes two more.

Fortunately, now that Castiel is actually out of his way – although he still keeps moving, orbiting Dean at a careful three steps away like he’s the moon and Dean is the earth and it’s terribly distracting – Dean is able to get everything else packed in short order. It’s not much, since Dean learned a long time ago not to get attached, but Dean still double checks the table, bed, and drawer before he zips up his bag and heads out. Castiel follows like a silent puppy as Dean locks the room, checks out at the front desk, and raids the vending machine, and yet, somehow, when Dean goes to head out into the parking lot, there is no stalker shadow at his back when he reaches the Impala.

Dean throws his bags in the backseat and looks around, but nope, there’s no trenchcoat wearing angels anywhere in sight. He frowns, because he didn’t hear Castiel leave – but then again, Castiel doesn’t actually make noise. Even his wings were silent when they moved.

It stings a little, that Castiel would get bored of him within only like two hours, but Dean takes a deep breath and pushes away the hurt. He isn’t surprised, after all. Castiel really should have left the second Dean came back to the hotel. Or hell, even the second he got a good look at Dean’s soul. At least he did the courtesy of saving Dean a long trek back to the hotel.

Everyone leaves, and this should not be surprising, Dean tells himself. Everyone leaves, and this is fine.

He slams the door shut and gets in the front seat. He does one last check, making sure nothing has been tampered with and certainly not looking for a flash of tan coat and black wings, but eventually his growling stomach takes precedence and Dean starts the car and pulls out.

Slowly, the hurt starts to fade as Dean cruises down the open road. The sun is shining, his favorite song is playing and hey, he got to meet an angel. That’s something no one else Dean knows can say.

Also, he sees a sign for the best pie in the state, and Dean can certainly use some pie.

He’s just craning his head to make the turn where he hears the strangest sort of flapping, rustling noise, like a nature documentary has interrupted the radio. Dean turns his head and is nearly slapped in the face by a huge wing.

“I have procured breakfast,” Castiel announces.

Dean just about crashes the car.

It turns out that Castiel did not fly back to Heaven or whatever. No, he apparently wandered off when Dean was gaming the vending machine because he disapproved of the food quality and inquired about actual breakfast food. And then, instead of telling Dean what he was doing, he just flew off and got said food and then, upon seeing Dean was no longer at the motel, he looked for Dean’s soul and winged his way into Dean’s car.

Or, so Dean thinks. He’s kind of distracted by the blazing hot and amazingly tasty breakfast burgers and tater tots, which he is cramming into his mouth as fast as possible.

“Should you be driving while eating?” Castiel asks, apparently blithely unconcerned about Dean’s total lack of manners.

“Done it a million times before,” Dean says through a mouthful of burger. “Dude, this is awesome! Where’d you even get this?”

Dean doesn’t recognize the town or the restaurant Castiel gives him, but Castiel helpfully tells him that it is a highly recommended breakfast establishment about one hundred miles north of their current location.

“Wow. So you really can fly.”

Castiel gives him a sour look. “Did you think my wings were just for decoration?”

“Well . . . no. But like. I saw you fly down from the clouds, and you didn’t go that fast.”

“Yes, because I deliberately limited myself to what your human eyes could perceive,” he says, like it’s common sense. “Typically, we fly much, much faster. I could be halfway around the world in the time it takes you to think about blinking.”

“So . . . you can teleport.”

“No, teleportation is – ”

“Dude.”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Shut up and let me enjoy my breakfast. It’s too early for science lectures, Cas.”

“Cas,” Castiel repeats. He tilts his head. “Why do you call me such?”

“Uh. . . should I not call you that? It’s a nickname.” When Castiel continues to stare at him, Dean explains hastily, “Humans give nicknames as like. A sign of affection. It’s not an insult, I promise.”

“Cas. Hmm. I quite like it,” Castiel says thoughtfully, and his wings fluff up and spread wide. Dean would complain about them blocking his vision, but they don’t; right now the greens and purples are more vivid than the black, so his wings are almost like transparent glowing feathers of green and purple stripes than solid black feathers. They’re warm too, like Dean’s back is being covered by a very soft eletric blanket. “Yes, you may call me that.”

“Cool,” Dean says, and crams more tater tots in his mouth.

They stop for the night at a motel. Dean orders a double room by habit and regret swims up in his chest, regret that is half Sam and half John, but then Castiel brushes his elbow and the regret fades away, because hey, at least Castiel can get some sleep.

Except: “I don’t sleep,” Castiel says, frowning slightly. “Angels do not require rest anymore than we require sustenance.”

Dean tugs off one shoe and then tackles the other. “Well, I need my four hours, so . . .”

“I’ll watch over you,” Castiel says and perches on the desk chair like some kind of night sentry, unblinking as always. Dean’s learned the hard way that Castiel takes almost everything very, very literally now, and he can just imagine Castiel staring at him all night, and just. No.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Dean tells him and drops the second shoe by the first.

“How do you plan to stop me?”

“I don’t know, I figured you would have flapped back to Heaven by now! Don’t you have important angel things to do?”

“Nothing more important than you.”

The sincerity burns Dean better than any whiskey ever has; he has to clear his throat a few times and look away to gather himself. Castiel is not only very literal, he’s just so earnest and he just says things like that, and it does absolutely terrible things to Dean.

Still, he can’t let Castiel win. “Hey, I survived over twenty years without you.”

“I’m still not sure how,” Castiel says. “You have many scars. And you have terrible eating habits. I assume our Father must have really wanted us to meet, otherwise you would have likely come to Heaven instead of me coming to earth.”

“Dude, you do not comment on people’s eating habits. That’s rude.”

Castiel shrugs. “You know as well as I do that you have unhealthy eating habits, so it is the truth.” He pauses. “But I do not think you will desist even if I ask, so I have cleared your arteries. And restored your liver.”

Dean gapes at him, because: “When the hell did you do that?!”

“When I touched you for the first time. It only took a moment.”

“A moment,” Dean repeats. “A moment to do all of that?”

“I am an angel of the Lord,” Castiel reminds him. “I can fly faster than you can see, I can speak any human language, and I can kill almost any monster you will ever encounter. Healing you is but a small feat of the power at my disposal.”

For some reason, Dean’s mind snags on the “kill any monster” part. He narrows his eyes, because angels sure as hell haven’t been killing monsters in the past or else Dean and everybody else would have seen them. So if Castiel is going to kill them now. . . “You’re planning to follow me around everywhere, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Dean imagines Castiel on hunts, giving the truth point blank when not asked and taking everything anyone says literally. Moving so quietly Dean can’t hear him and probably scaring the hell out Dean when he does so. Staring at Dean when he’s researching or eating or trying to sleep, and Dean not able to make him go away.

Dean says, “I need a drink.”

“Would you like me to procure – ”

“No!”

Castiel is still there in the morning. Dean might dismiss it as a hallucination or a very vivid dream, but when he yawns and rolls over, scrubbing at his eyes, the sight that greets him is way beyond his ability to imagine.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Castiel must have finally given up in his quest to stare at Dean. The curtains, which Dean definitely closed after he brushed his teeth, are now flung wide open and are letting in the morning sun. The two chairs that were in front of the window have been neatly piled by the desk Castiel was sitting on during their argument over whether or not to leave the light on because I’m an angel, I can see in the dark, Dean. The other twin bed has actually been shoved a few inches over, so that it bumps right up against the nightstand.

All of this has now created a nice little patch of empty floor where Castiel is, apparently, sunning himself.

Castiel has his chin lifted, as if to increase the surface area upon which the sun can shine, and he is sitting cross legged and shirtless, his back a wide expanse of smooth, unmarked skin as far as Dean’s eyes can see. Most damning of all, though, are his wings, which are spread up and wide, curving where they’re too long and about to bump into the wall.

Dean swallows hard. In the clearing, the wings had gleamed green and purple under the sun, but things are a little different now that Dean isn’t worried about being killed and is much closer. Now he can see that the light reflects off Castiel’s wings like a sunbeam glittering off a raindrop, scattering brilliant specks of color all over the room. The most prominent, of course, are the purples, running around the edges like the feathers are dipped in them, and the greens, which run down the center like veins, but Dean sees tiny glimpses of other colors as Castiel’s wings shift and twitch lazily, even though there’s no breeze in the room.

Looking at them, Dean has to wonder if he would have assumed Castiel was a monster if he wasn’t raised a hunter, because Castiel’s wings are so beautiful that Dean is sure people would worship at Castiel’s feet if they only saw one glimpse of them.

The right wing dips down, feathers splaying across the floor, and Castiel turns very slightly to look at Dean over his shoulder. “Good morning, Dean,” he says.

Yep, the deep voice wasn’t a hallucination either. “Morning,” Dean replies. “You, uh, felt the need to redecorate last night?”

“I will restore the room to rights when we leave,” Castiel promises.

“What’s with the wing show? I thought you put them away yesterday cuz you didn’t want people to see.”

“I did,” Castiel says, and nothing else. His right wing lifts back up and then stretches high, towards the ceiling, followed by the left wing. It’s almost like those yoga exercises Lisa kept trying to get Dean to do, but for wings.

“And?” Dean prompt, when it becomes clear that Castiel is not going to actually answer him.

Castiel hums. “It was more uncomfortable than I thought, containing my wings within this vessel. I would prefer to have them out when I can, if you don’t mind. Also, I can tend to them much more easily in this form than on the plane we hide our wings on.”

“Vessel?” Dean repeats, because that’s a word that never goes well in sentences. He slides out of his bed and crosses to the other one so that he can stare more closely at Castiel, because he didn’t think angels would be like demons – but then again, his references for angels are cartoons and church stained glass windows. “Are you possessing some poor bastard?”

Castiel’s wings shiver, a little movement that starts at the center of Castiel’s back and ripples outward towards the ends, sending a cascade of purple and green lights flashing across the room. It’s only when the movement reaches the end and the wingtips flick that Dean realizes Castiel is actually slightly amused, like he wanted to laugh but didn’t know how to manipulate shoulders and so used his wings to approximate how a human would.

“No,” Castiel says, face open and smiling. “When it became clear I had a human soulmate, one of my brothers fashioned a vessel for me, in preparation for the day I would walk alongside you. I did request some genetic material from my bloodline, so that this vessel could properly contain me, but this body is mine and mine alone. I did not take any person from their family, Dean.”

“That’s, uh, good. I guess,” Dean mutters. He scoots to the edge of the bed, watching the graceful churning and twirling of Castiel’s wings. Castiel doesn’t breathe, so his chest doesn’t rise and fall, but Dean could get used to seeing the rhythmic shifting of his wings as akin to that. “Why is it uncomfortable, though?”

“My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler Building,” Castiel explains mildly, like he’s explaining how to load a gun and not confiding precious bits of angelic lore. “This vessel allows me to compress myself to your plane of existence, but it is . . . I suppose the closest analogy would be putting your foot in a shoe that is a few times smaller. Serviceable, but not exactly the most comfortable.”

And, well, Dean can’t argue with that. If he was a thousand feet tall, he’d probably feel super uncomfortable in a 6 foot tall body too.

“Does it bother you? My wings being out?”

Dean snaps his head up. Castiel’s voice is edged with something Dean does not like, something uneasy and wary and entirely not at place with the confident angel who’d flown down from Heaven and declared himself Dean’s soulmate. But he must take too long to respond, because Castiel draws his shoulders up, and his wings slip into that translucent form again, the one Dean has learned is the midway stage before they disappear entirely.

“No!” Dean blurts out. “No, it doesn’t.”

Castiel gives him a look over his shoulder that says he doesn’t quite believe Dean. His wings don’t vanish, but they do fold up, pressing close to Castiel’s back and making him look suddenly smaller again. Vulnerable.

Dean keeps babbling. “I just. You know. I had questions. No one knows anything about angels, dude. A day ago I didn’t even know angels took vessels! Or that their wings could look so cool instead of, you know, boring plain vanilla white. So yeah, you can keep them out. If I had wings that cool, I’d keep them out 24/7.”

“My wings are not cold. Is black customarily a color – ”

“They look really awesome, Cas,” Dean interrupts, rolling his eyes. “I know your wings are warm. Angels run hot, huh?”

“I suppose grace would register as warmth to human skin,” Castiel says, which explains exactly nothing, but the smile is back on his face, and his wings shimmer back to that gorgeous array of blacks and purples and greens. He turns himself around and one of his wings arcs towards Dean, curving to a stop just in front of his knees. “Would you like to touch them?”

Dean yanks his hands away. “Uh, pretty sure I shouldn’t be – ”

“Why not?”

“What if I hurt you?”

Castiel laughs at that. “Dean, as I keep reminding you, I am an angel. You would find it very difficult to hurt me.”

“Well, yeah, I punched you and nothing happened, but your wings are different, dude.”

“If anything, my wings are the strongest part of me,” Castiel tells him. “This vessel you see, it is a human form that I have placed myself in, but my wings are part of my true form. The only part I can let loose upon this plane in their actual shape, in fact. Unless you have angelic or demonic strength that I do not know about or have strengthened yourself with very powerful magic, you cannot hurt me.”

The wing drifts a little closer. The colors are even more mesmerizing right under Dean’s nose, because they are truly beyond definition. Calling Castiel’s wings purple and green would be like calling the sun yellow; it’s so much more than that.

But still: “Isn’t it, I don’t know, blasphemy for a human to touch an angel’s wings?”

“You are my soulmate,” Castiel states, deep and low and unyielding as diamond. “You touching my wing is not anymore blasphemous than me touching your arm.”

And then Castiel goes for the killing blow. “Dean, I want you to,” he says softly.

Dean swallows hard and pinches himself, just to be sure. Then he reaches out one trembling hand and touches Castiel’s wing, and god. There are no words. The feathers are unbelievably silky, like the best, highest count thread sheets Dean has ever laid down on. They’re also incredibly strong when he runs his hand down one, because they don’t even bend a little bit under his pressure. And, best of all, they are warm, like a bath that’s just a little too hot but is perfect to soothe away the injuries of a long hunt.

Dean looks at Castiel, who is staring straight back at him, a small smile upon his face. His other wing has come around, like it’s shielding them from prying eyes even though the room is empty besides them, and for the first time in a long time, Dean doesn’t feel alone at all, even though Sam and John are both gone.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says hoarsely, and draws his hands back.

Castiel inclines his head, regal as any king, and then stands up. He closes his eyes briefly, and Dean catches the faintest glow of power before Castiel reopens them and is suddenly fully dressed again, suit and tie and trench coat. His wings spread wide and arc high, as if in preparation for flight, and Dean grins because, hey, looks like it only takes an angel one day to learn what Dean likes best in the morning.

“Hell yes, you can go procure me some breakfast.”

By the time Castiel has winged his way back with breakfast – burritos and fries, score – Dean has found a new hunt. Or, well, what’s shaping up to be good signs of a hunt. Usually Sam is better at the tech angle, but where there are headlines about bodies dropping from “animal attacks,” there are usually monsters to be found.

Castiel takes one look at the article and makes a face. “You think that is supernatural in origin? Animals do attack humans, Dean.”

“Not ten of them in a week.”

“Perhaps it is a pack.”

“This town is well traveled and nowhere near a big forest or park,” Dean points out. “Five bucks it’s a monster. Ten it’s a werewolf. Full moon last week.”

Castiel hums. “So we are hitting the road, then?”

“Yep. Unless you’re gonna flap off somewhere and meet me there later?”

“I’ll need to hide my wings again, so I might as well get used to the human way of travel. Even if it is remarkably slower.”

“Hey, don’t insult my car.”

“I could fly the car. And you, of course.”

“Absolutely not.”

It is not, in fact, a werewolf. Dean finds this out when he manages to con their way into the morgue to get a look at some of the bodies. Fortunately, Castiel’s dead-eyed-stare and professional dress – although Dean had had to fix his tie, and why in god’s name Castiel can recite any known language but not correctly knot his own tie defies explanation – had done wonders to get them past any close scrutiny of their fake badges.

Dean bites his lip. “That’s . . . a lot more than a werewolf normally takes,” he mutters. He prods tentatively at the seriously savaged body. “Maybe it is a – Cas, what are you doing?”

Castiel, who is currently so close to the ripped-open chest cavity that he’s basically nose deep inside it, does not stand up. He instead closes his eyes, tilts his head, and inhales even more deeply, and wow, Dean does not want to know what he’s picking up.

“Cas,” Dean hisses.

“I don’t sense any EMF or sulphur, so that rules out ghostly and demonic activity,” Castiel says. “This person did suffer from a mild . . . hmm. A mild bladder infection.”

“Cas, please stop smelling the dead guy,” Dean tells him, which is a sentence he never thought he’d have to say to anyone, much less his soulmate. “Also, seriously? You got all that from a sniff?”

“I could learn more if I – ” Castiel begins to say, and lowers his hand towards the open chest cavity he had been sniffing.

Dean grabs his hand and drags him off before they get arrested. Castiel, after a brief pause where he’s as immovable as a pillar of stone, follows his lead, although he keeps sniffing the air like a damn bloodhound and attracting strange looks from every person they pass. Dean grits his teeth and pulls harder and blesses his lucky stars that he grabbed everything from the sheriff before they went into the morgue.

They get into the car without incident, and Dean spreads the pile of papers on the dashboard. The victims had no known connection beyond the fact that they lived in the same town and probably went to the same grocery store, but then again, most police offers aren’t looking for the kind of patterns and connections hunters do. Dean marks off a map of each victim’s location as Castiel obligingly finds each file and tells him, and they end up with a sort of circle around the local park.

“Well, it’s not much, but I’ll take it,” Dean says. “Now I just need to make sure I have silver bullets."

“I thought you decided it wasn’t a werewolf?”

“Unless your angelic nostrils say something different, that’s still my top choice. Maybe this werewolf was just a little overzealous.”

“Hmm.”

Dean is just putting his key into the ignition when a thought occurs to him. “You know how to use a gun, right?”

“I’m not well versed in firearms, no. But I can protect myself.”

“Being really, really strong will not help you kill a werewolf, dude.”

“No, but this will,” Castiel says, and he brings his hand up and closes his fingers together around thin air.

Or, rather, what used to be thin air. Now there’s a gleaming short blade clasped in his palm, with a rounded hilt and sharp edges that come to an impossibly fine point at the tip. Dean has no doubts it can cut through flesh like butter.

“Uh, what is that?”

“My angel blade.”

“You guys have blades?”

“How did you think angels conducted combat? With their fists?”

“Well . . .”

Castiel relaxes his palm and the blade winks out of existence. It almost looks like Castiel slides it up his sleeve, but there’s no telltale bulge of weaponry up his arm, and Dean figures it makes more sense for Castiel to be able to summon his blade and wings out of another plane than to just physically carry a blade around all the time.

And then Castiel frowns and leans forward. “You missed the turn for the park, Dean.”

“Damn it.”

After three hours of fruitless wandering, Dean decides to split up. Castiel isn’t happy about it, and he refuses to take a flashlight or a gun.

“I don’t require such weapons. And I can see in the dark, Dean.”

Dean scowls and tucks the extra flashlight into his pocket. “Then why’d you let me add all this stuff if you weren’t gonna use it?”

“I presumed you were being overly cautious.”

“No, that’s what you are. Come on, man, I’ve been hunting since I was a kid. I know what I’m doing. We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

“You’ll also increase your chances of getting lost.”

“Hey,” Dean says, “my sense of direction is excellent. The Impala’s back that way, you’re gonna go in that direction, and I’m gonna go this direction. We can meet up again in an hour.”

Castiel’s frown deepens, and he opens his mouth, as if to argue, but then his shoulders slump and he sighs deeply. “I always forget,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Humans are very prone to taking the initiative.”

“Uh . . . Okay?”

“Very well, Dean, we can split up. If you need me, please pray to me, and I will come.”

At that point, Dean is itching to get away, so he just nods and stomps in the grass, grateful that Castiel does not follow him. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees the telltale shimmer of Castiel’s wings sliding into this plane of existence, but then he turns past a tree and loses sight of Castiel altogether. It leaves Dean alone for the first time in two days, and he revels in it.

Castiel is nice, after all. He’s weirdly solicitous of Dean, getting him food and stuff. And he answers any question Dean asks, which is a damn strange experience after life with Sam and John.

But Dean is never able to forget that Castiel is not at all human. He moves too quietly, doesn’t blink or breathe or eat or drink, and stares at Dean if they’re not actively conversing. Hell, even if they are conversing. Sometimes it’s really funny, because Castiel knows exactly nothing about technology or pop culture, but most of the time, Dean will look up and catch Castiel’s gaze and be hard pressed not to shift into fight or flight. Castiel is unmistakably a warrior and a predator, and every instinct Dean has screams at him not to show his back.

Still, sometimes that warrior’s edge comes in useful. Castiel had made approving noises when Dean had shown him the stockpile in the false trunk, and even gone so far as do . . . something to Dean’s bullets, although when he had tried to explain, it had gone right over Dean’s head.

Sam would’ve understood, Dean thinks wistfully, edging around a fallen tree. Sam would have loved to pick an angel’s brain. Unfortunately, the brat still hasn’t called or texted Dean back, and Dean’s done trying to reach out. He knows Sam made it safely to Stanford, thanks to his phone’s GPS, but he also knows Sam probably needs a lot longer to cool off. And if he misses out on Castiel, well, that’s what he gets for not responding when Dean texted him about something cool.

Dean is in the middle of picturing Sam’s epic tantrum when he finds out that Dean’s soulmate is an angel and has been hanging around for a few days when he picks up on the sound of thudding footsteps, fast and loud, too noisy to be Castiel.

He whips around and his flashlight falls upon the sight of – well, he’s not sure what, beyond it having blood all over it and mangled clothes. He fires once and the thing howls in pain, but if anything it runs faster. Dean curses and fires a second and third time, but the creature dodges the second bullet and is basically on top of him by the third.

Dean throws himself to the side as the creature blows past the spot where he was. It smells truly awful and it’s snarling like a motor engine, landing on all fours like a cat and baring misshapen teeth at Dean.

Dean whistles lowly. “Wow, you’re ugly,” he comments.

“HUNGRY!” the creature roars back.

“Oh, you talk? Great. I’m gonna let this do the talking for me, though,” Dean tells it, and fires right at its ugly head.

And because it’s just Dean’s luck, the thing dodges and makes another run for him again. He can’t jump out of the way again, it’s too close, so he gets slammed to the ground for an up close and personal face-eating attempt while he leverages his gun to keep it off him. Claws rake down his side, tearing through clothes and into skin, and Dean yells in pain. He works his silver knife free and slams it into the creature’s ribs, but it doesn’t even flinch and just scrabbles harder to get to Dean’s throat.

Dean suddenly wishes he hadn’t insisted he and Castiel split up.

If you need me, please pray to me, and I will come.

And Dean’s never been the praying kind, but well, he doesn’t want to end up the dead kind, so he puts all his strength into keeping the damn monster off his face and thinks, hopes, prays, Hey, uh, Cas. Castiel. Got a slight problem here? The monster kind? Could you perhaps maybe come and help a guy –

Suddenly, the creature yelps and goes backwards. Bright light surrounds its head, too bright, and the monster screeches and screams as it’s hauled off of Dean by something.

Or someone.

Castiel is standing there, face set in that focused expression, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, but there’s none of the softness that accompanies his focus when he looks at Dean. Now he looks truly the part of the avenging warrior, wings spread wide and high, one arm locked tight around the monster’s neck and his free hand pressed to the monster’s skull.

That’s when Dean realizes that the monster isn’t glowing; Castiel is, and he’s basically burning the monster alive.

Dean swallows hard and is suddenly very, very grateful that Castiel is his soulmate and didn’t smite him the second he came down from Heaven.

The lightshow ends as abruptly as it began. The monster’s screams cut off as abruptly as though it had been muted, and Castiel lets it fall to a heap in the ground, his expression shifting into quiet disinterest. He looks more like he just stepped on an ant than he murdered a monster via angelic power, not the least bit out of breath or scared.

“So that’s what smiting looks like,” Dean says, staring at the monster and its blackened, still faintly smoking face.

Castiel’s head comes up and he focuses on Dean. All at once he looks concerned, and he steps right over the monster and crouches by Dean. “Where are you hurt?”

“What makes you think – ”

“I can smell your blood,” Castiel interrupts. He pokes Dean hard in the cheek and shoulder before Dean begrudgingly pulls up his ruined shirt and reveals his wound. Castiel puts his palm down, going quiet, and that super bright light starts to shine again.

The super bright light he used to burn out a monster. “Whoa, whoa, don’t smite me!” Dean yelps, trying to pull away.

Castiel scowls and grabs his shoulder, holding him as effortlessly still as he had held the monster. “Human hands can heal as well as harm,” he says shortly. “So can mine. Now please, hold still, Dean.”

Castiel presses his hand to the wound and Dean squeezes his eyes shut – but nothing happens. At least, no pain. Definitely no smiting. Instead, that same warmth that’s a shade too hot fills Dean, as if he’s being covered in Castiel’s wings, seeping into his chest from the wound where Castiel is touching him.

All at once, Dean feels completely wide awake, energized and alert, all his aches gone, all his needs satisfied. It’s like eating a full course dinner without the bellyache and drinking a whole case of beer without the intoxication. It’s amazing.

“See?” Castiel says, as the bright light fades away. “Good as new.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dean mumbles.

“Did you really think I’d smite you?” Castiel asks, sounding amused.

“Dude, you just burned a monster’s eyes out with that same bright light, how was I supposed to know?”

Castiel squeezes his shoulder tight. It feels possessive, like a brand. Dean should want to pack up and run away and never look back, but he doesn’t. He wants to lean into Castiel, into his constant unending staring, into his confused face when Dean makes jokes, into his soft, silky, strong wings. He wants to believe that just this once he gets lucky, and he gets to have this amazing soulmate who is all his, who is an angel of the Lord and somehow wants him.

“You are my soulmate, and I am yours,” Castiel tells him, eyes locked onto Dean’s. “I will never hurt you. Ever.”

Dean swallows. “Okay,” he says, and both he and Castiel know he’s saying okay to more than just Castiel’s little promise. “Okay.”

“Good,” Castiel replies. “Now. What is the customary ritual of ending the hunt?”

“We salt and burn the – oh, okay, good to know angels can just, uh, set fire to bodies,” Dean says belatedly, after Castiel has snapped his fingers and gotten a healthy little blaze going. He’s a little sad, because it’s cathartic as hell to burn the monster and know it’ll never hurt anyone else, but then he brightens, because there’s another post hunt ritual he can drag Castiel into instead.

“Rugaru are best handled with fire. What’s next?” Castiel asks.

Dean grins and claps him on the shoulder. “Now, we go find us some pie.”

Castiel, as it turns out, isn’t really a fan of pie. Or fries. Dean even pulls out all the stops and orders him a Sam-approved healthy salad, but Castiel eats one leaf, makes a face, and sets the spoon aside.

“Dean, it all tastes like molecules,” he protests. “I don’t think there is anything on this menu that can – ”

“None of that,” Dean interrupts. “We are finding something you like to celebrate with if we have to order the entire menu.”

“I must admit that I don’t quite grasp how human transactions work, but that sounds like an expensive endeavor.”

“Well, this ain’t my credit card,” Dean informs him smugly, and flags down the waitress to order more food. Fortunately, this is a 24/7 diner, and serves breakfast all day, so Dean grabs Castiel’s fries and sets about ordering some breakfast.

Castiel does not like pancakes, waffles, or hash browns. He makes a curious face at the eggs, but ultimately declines those too.

“How can someone not like waffles?” Dean mutters, shaking his head. He pushes his half-eaten burger to the side – well, more like towards Castiel, because the table is getting kind of full – and digs into the waffles himself. They’re best hot, after all, and he can always zap the burger in a microwave on the road.

He’s halfway through the blissful mouthful of warm, syrup-drenched pancake when he hears Castiel make a very strange sound.

Dean looks up and finds Castiel with Dean’s burger in his mouth.

“Uh . . .”

Castiel makes the noise again. He’s never seen that expression on Castiel’s face before – eyes wide and startled – but he’s uncomfortably aware that the noise Castiel is making is most certainly not one of disgust. Not even close.

“Cas, what are you doing to my – ”

Which is when Castiel unhinges his jaw like some kind of snake and takes a humongous bite of burger. It’s like Sam but even worse, because Castiel doesn’t need to breathe and can’t choke, so he just happily inhales half a burger without the slightest pause. He must chew with angel speed too, because it’s only a few seconds before he does that weird jaw thing again and halves the burger with another bite.

“So . . . I’m guessing you like burgers,” Dean says slowly.

Castiel swallows and grins wide, teeth sparkling under the diner lights. “This burger makes me very happy,” he says solemnly, and eats the rest in a third final bite.

Warmth curls in Dean’s belly, settling in amongst the hot waffles and fresh pie and salty fries. Sure, Castiel has never expressed unhappiness with following Dean around and insists he likes it better than Heaven, but there’s a big difference in hearing Castiel say it and seeing him actually, visibly enjoying himself.

Even if he did just polish off Dean’s burger.

Castiel looks down at the empty plate, a mournful expression in his eyes. “Ah. I seem to have finished it.”

Dean can’t help but melt at that. His all-powerful, teleporting, angel of the Lord soulmate, pouting because he finished off a burger too quickly. It’s adorable.

And he’s all Dean’s.

Needless to say, they get a healthy share of burgers and pie to go.

It becomes a ritual for them: Dean finds a hunt, Castiel rides shotgun, Dean interrogates witnesses and cops while Castiel looms in the background, they find the monster and kill it, and afterwards they go and find some pie and burgers to celebrate. Dean educates Castiel on pop culture and music and How Humans Act, and Castiel talks Dean’s ear off about the inaccuracies in monster lore and, weirdly enough, bees.

Every night Dean goes to bed knowing that Castiel is watching and keeping the nightmares at bay, and every morning he wakes up to Castiel sunning himself or poking tentatively at Dean’s laptop or watching the television with his patented squint of confusion. Castiel never complains about the long drives or the loud music, and Dean doesn’t complain about Castiel’s habit of standing way too close or rummaging all through Dean’s stuff whenever he pleases. Castiel never quite comes around to pie and he can’t get drunk, but at least they can both enjoy the same greasy as hell burgers.

It’s the best time Dean’s ever had. There are no cases they can’t solve, no places they can’t reach, no monsters they can’t kill.

So, of course, that’s when the demons find them.

The hunt starts off innocuously enough. There’s a town where people are going missing in droves and their families are reporting that they all went nuts beforehand: lashed out, showed inhuman strength, got weirdly obsessed over strange things like salt-free diets. One or two crazies going off their rocker is weird; seventeen and counting means something supernatural is afoot.

The town’s on their way, so they roll into the motel and put on their FBI suits. Or rather, Dean does; Castiel has gotten very attached to his trench coat and rarely takes it off, and Dean suspects it’s only angel mojo keeping it clean and intact after so many hunts. It turns out that five of the last victims were all tracked to a barn on the edge of town, so Dean and Castiel stroll in to check it out.

It doesn’t look like anything special, just old and falling apart. Inside there’s graffiti all over the walls and floor, like some local kids went to town on them. There’s no footprints or dead bodies or blood. Dean’s just about thinking it’s a dead end when Castiel comes to an abrupt halt at his side.

“Cas?”

Castiel raises an arm – and then stops. It looks like he hits an invisible wall, and when he presses hard against it, his hand doesn’t move an inch. And Dean has seen Castiel lift a car with one hand without any effort.

“Huh,” Dean says. “That looks like when a demon is trapped in a – ”

Castiel whirls on him. His wings flash into existence at his sides, shimmery and translucent, but they’re crackling with energy and agitation, little sparks running up and down. “It’s an angel trap,” Castiel snarls. “Dean, you have to run. Run, now!”

“I’m not leaving – ”

“RUN!” Castiel bellows, and there’s genuine fear in his voice that shakes Dean to his very core, because what could scare Castiel, Dean’s angel who burns monsters and ghosts at the snap of his fingers, Dean’s partner who stares down belligerent sheriffs without breaking a sweat, Dean’s soulmate whose fighting is poetry with blade and fists?

That’s when a force slams Dean into the wall, hard enough that his teeth rattle in his head, and a man walks into the barn, a smirk set into his black-eyed face.

“Ah ah,” the demon croons. “There’ll be no running. We put so much effort into the welcome mat, after all.”

Castiel flicks his blade up, fury in every line of his face. His wings crackle like thunderstorms behind him and Dean is sure that if he could get out of the angel trap, he’d burn the entire place to the ground instantly. “You dare to attack one of Heaven’s Host?”

The demon shrugs. “Well, I didn’t do anything. I just scribbled a few lines on the ground and you happened to walk into them.”

Dean rolls his eyes. It takes a lot more effort than he expects, given the demon’s psychic hold on him. “Well, how about you just happen to take a nosedive on Castiel’s blade and we’ll call it even?” he says.

The demon looks at him and grins. “Now, why would I do that? See, I think I have the upper hand here, actually. All I have to do is squeeze,” he says, “and this little wayward seraph will do anything I want. For starters, he’s going to put away that lovely little blade.”

Castiel growls.

The demon squeezes his fist tight.

Dean’s throat locks up. He opens his mouth and gasps for air, but even though he’s pulling it into his nose and mouth, nothing goes past the vice around his throat. He kicks his feet against the wall, but all that earns him is the demon’s mocking laughter.

“Let’s try this again,” the demon says. “Put away your blade, seraph.”

Castiel relaxes his hand and the blade vanishes. The demon opens his fist, and Dean wheezes as air streams into his lungs again.

“Dean, are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” Dean rasps.

Castiel turns his head back to the demon. Even without his blade, he still looks dangerous, eyes set and wings churning at his back. “What do you want?”

The demon hums a little and flicks an imaginary speck of dust from his collar. “Well, I want a lot of things: a vacation, and a tender soul to rend apart on the rack, and maybe a hellhound. But, you know, I figured, might as well start small. This meatsuit’s a little . . . beaten up. Honestly it’s barely holding together. Can’t quite contain all of . . . well, me.” He smirks, walking forward. “But then I got to thinking – rumor has it that a seraph of Heaven has been following around a human, and he’s got his own personal, made to order, practically indestructible meatsuit! And, well, if it can hold an angel, certainly it can hold little ol’ me.”

Castiel rears back, confusion written all over his face. “This vessel cannot contain an angel and a demon,” he says. “My grace would destroy you in an instant.”

“Oh, that’s right, how did I forget,” the demon says, mockingly sad. “Oh wait, I didn’t. I’ve done my homework, angel. If you were to leave that vessel, it’d be free real estate. And seeing as I’ve got your soulmate at my mercy, I’m thinking you’ll do it.”

“And leave Dean here? Absolutely not.”

The demon sighs. “You have my word I’ll let the human go. Honestly, he’s tainted goods anyways. He smells horrible. Too much angel stink, if you ask me.”

“And I’m to trust your word?”

“If I wanted the human dead, I could have killed him already,” the demon points out. “All it would take is one flick of my wrist to break his neck.”

“I would resurrect him,” Castiel shoots back. He says it as casually as he says Your gun is on the nightstand or This movie is wrong about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah – like it’s a fact of life, easy as breathing, regular as the sun rising and not defying the very laws of mortality. That Castiel, an angel, would resurrect Dean, a human, without hesitating for a second.

The demon looks at the ground, where the angel trap is, and then back up. “Not from inside that trap, you wouldn’t,” he says smugly. “You’re cut off from Heaven. And who knows how long it would take for someone to come by and let you out? Your human might be nothing but dust and bone fragments by then.”

Dean swallows hard. He doesn’t exactly want to die here in a broken down barn at a demon’s hand, but he also does not want to think about a demon walking around in Castiel’s vessel. For one thing, it’s Castiel’s. For another, he can’t imagine the kind of wreckage a demon could do in a specially-made angelic vessel.

But Castiel looks at Dean, and his eyes . . .

“Don’t you dare, Cas,” Dean snaps.

“Dean – ”

“Don’t. You. Dare. You know better than I do what a demon could do with your meatsuit. I’m not worth that many deaths.”

“You are worth anything,” Castiel hisses, eyes going blue-white hot with power.

Dean shakes his head. “I’m definitely not.”

Castiel’s eyes fade slowly back to their normal blue. He looks down and away, throat working around words he doesn’t say. His wings drift slowly down, folding up and close to Castiel’s back, even though they don’t go away fully. Castiel looks utterly torn, and it’s the strangest look Dean’s ever seen on his face, because Castiel has always known what is right and what to do. He’s never wavered on his path. He found Dean and called him his soulmate and followed him until Dean gave up and accepted him.

And now, he’s wavering on giving up everything for Dean.

So Dean tries again. “I don’t want that, Cas,” he says softly. “I don’t want that on my hands or my conscience.”

For a long moment, he almost thinks Castiel will ignore him, and bile rises in his mouth because if Castiel leaves can he ever come back? Even if he can, will he? Everyone leaves and it is not surprising, but for the first time, it’s not fine, Dean doesn’t want Castiel to go, he wants to see Castiel inhaling burgers, he wants to admire Castiel sunning himself, he wants to feel Castiel’s warmth when they lean against each other to watch movies. He wants all of Castiel and more.

Castiel tilts his head slightly, like he’s hearing something in the wind, and Dean has half a second to wonder what, when Castiel straightens and says, “I’m not leaving you, Dean.”

He was listening to Dean pray.

The demon’s face sours dramatically. “Fine,” he spits. “Then we’ll do this the hard way.”

Dean hits the ground hard when the demon turns all of his attention and power on Castiel, chanting something, but he doesn’t even have a second to breathe before three more demons are pouring into the barn. They’re vicious and fast and strong; Dean only gets one shot off before two seize him and fling him clear across the barn.

When he picks himself back up, his eyes land on a horrifying sight: Castiel on his knees, face bloodied, a demon pulling on each arm and another grabbing at his wings.

The first demon is shouting the chant now. “Potestas inferna, me confirma. Potestas inferna, me confirma. Potestas inferma, me confirma!” And every time he says it, Castiel glows a little brighter, until his entire face is a featureless mass of that blue-white crackling light Dean knows in his grace.

And Dean’s gun is on the other side of the barn, but there is a large pipe next to him.

Dean grabs the pipe, jumps to his feet, and swings as hard as he can at the chanting demon. He connects with a very satisfying clank. The pipe warps and the demon barely flinches, but it’s certainly enough to make the demon turn on Dean, frothing at the mouth with rage.

“Why you little maggot – ” he starts to say.

But it’s too late; with his concentration on Dean again and with the other demons having trampled all over the angel trap, the psychic hold on Castiel is broken and Castiel takes full advantage. Castiel yanks his arms free and sends both demons flying head over heels; he snaps his wings together and the demon at his back hits the ground. And then, just as the first demon is realizing his mistake, Castiel turns burning eyes on him and starts marching forward, every inch the avenging angel coming to cleanse the earth.

The demon turns and takes off running at demonic super speed, and Dean curses because now they’ll have to hunt him down –

But with a flap of his wings Castiel is there, somehow right in front of the demon, and he halts the demon’s escape attempt with a palm to its face. He keeps pushing when he connects with the demon’s face until the demon falls to his knees, and then Castiel smiles.

“You really thought running would save you?” Castiel asks and his palm lights up with holy fire.

The demon screeches, its whole face flashes orange and white, and then it slumps over, eyes burned out.

Castiel pivots on his heel and faces the three remaining demons. His wings snap out and spread wide, sliding between Dean and the demons as if to shield him.

“Dean, close your eyes,” Castiel grits out.

“Cas – ”

“I said, close your eyes,” Castiel repeats, and he’s not just glowing, he’s vibrating with energy that crackles all up and down his wings and torso. An awful, high pitched ringing sound splits the air and Dean cringes, curling in on himself, tucking his face into his knees and covering his ears with his hand as Castiel goes nuclear on the demons.

Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the light still stings.

And then it’s over – the high-pitched ringing cuts off abruptly, the light dies away, and the only sounds are Dean and Castiel breathing heavily. Dean looks up, tentatively, and finds no sign of the demons. All that’s left are piles of faintly-smoking ash scattered around the barn.

“Dean? Are you all right?”

“As fine as I can be,” Dean replies, shaking his head to try and make the ringing in his ears stop. “You?”

Castiel frowns and sways on the spot, like he’s drunk. “I. I think – I think I may have overdone it,” he says faintly, and then collapses.

“Cas!”

Somehow, Dean gets Castiel back to the hotel. He’s not really sure how, because he spends most of the trip frantically worrying about Castiel, who is passed out in the backseat, and then worrying about how to get Castiel into the hotel room without people seeing his enormous wings, and then worrying about how to arrange Castiel comfortably on the bed. However, Castiel is also very heavy, since he’s basically dead weight, so Dean is eventually forced to just lower Castiel onto his stomach on the bed before his arms give out.

Fortunately, this room only has one king-sized bed. Dean had laughed about it when the clerk apologetically told them it was the only room left and Castiel had freaked the clerk out by saying I don’t sleep, but now Dean is only astoundingly grateful. Castiel’s huge wings don’t quite fit on the bed, they’re much too long, but Dean is able to push the sofa up next to the bed and fold Castiel’s left wing onto that. The right wing he leaves sprawled across the expanse of the bed.

And after that, well, Dean experiences a rather worrying moment where he doesn’t have any idea what to do.

For one thing, he has no idea how to fix a passed out angel. If it were Sam, Dean would make sure his injuries were fixed up and then leave him a water bottle. But Castiel doesn’t even breathe, much less drink.

For another thing, he has no idea who to call. Normally, he’d call Bobby or check his dad’s journal, but he’s pretty sure neither of those usually helpful resources would be of any use in this situation. Dean had learned from John that angels didn’t exist, after all.

So that leaves Dean with the worst case scenario – the one where he sits around and waits and hopes.

He’s too afraid to leave and get food, so he crams a granola bar into his mouth and washes it down with water from the bathroom sink. He takes the fastest five minute shower he’s ever taken, just to get the demon stink off of him, but Castiel is still passed out and unmoving on the bed when he returns. He paces around the room, lining the walls with salt and carving a devil’s trap into the bottom of the bathmat which he places at the room door.

And then he sits in the chair, and waits, and hopes.

It’s not lost on him, the fact that he is mirroring Castiel’s behavior. Castiel watches him all the time and normally Dean hates it, but now he’d give anything for Castiel to sit up and stare at him with those all-seeing blue eyes again.

After one hour, he stops getting up every five minutes to check if Castiel is breathing (he’s not, angels don’t need to breathe, and the heart attack Dean gets every time he forgets really gets old after a while).

After two hours, Dean starts praying. Castiel normally appears almost instantly when Dean prays or if they’re together, his head turns to Dean immediately. It’s strange now, to see Castiel just lie there and not even twitch. Even his wings aren’t moving at all, and they’re so dull Dean can barely make out the purples and greens that are usually so vibrant.

After three hours, the adrenaline crash really hits Dean hard. He finds himself starting to nod off in his chair, and the fifth time he nearly hits the floor he gives up and relocates. He has no desire to accidentally hurt Castiel by jostling his wings, so Dean bunches up his jacket into a nice pillow and sits on the floor next to the bed. It’s an awkward angle, but he’s definitely slept in worse positions, and this gives him the optimum position to immediately see if Castiel’s eyes open.

Dean waits and watches . . . and falls asleep.

He wakes up the next morning because something is tickling his nose. He grumbles and pushes it away, but it returns and brushes against his cheek. Something clocks in Dean’s brain as not right because this isn’t like a blanket corner or a stray dust ball; this movement is purposeful and alive, and Dean’s eyes are shooting open because his brain is finally kicking in and –

Dean looks up and sees bright blue eyes staring right back at him.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. His voice is deeper and rougher than normal, like he’s spent all night screaming instead of being silently passed out on the bed. “Why are you on the floor?”

Dean stares at him, and for a moment he feels too many emotions and has too many questions. He wants to jump for joy, he wants to hug Castiel, he wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. He wants to say I thought you were dead and What the hell happened? and You’re okay, oh my god, you’re okay.

What comes out, though, is: “What the hell, Cas, I thought you were dead!”

Castiel makes a rumbling noise of displeasure. His face wrinkles against the bed and his wings lift high into the air, rotating and flexing, like he’s testing his range of motion. Then he sighs wearily and says, “No. It’s much harder to kill an angel, I assure you. And much messier; my wings would be seared into the ground, and the explosion of grace would likely have leveled the barn.”

Dean is too busy being horrified at the idea of Castiel’s beautiful wings burnt into ash on the ground to reply, so Castiel just continues, “I was merely . . . recharging, I suppose you would call it.”

“What, you were like a DeLorean without enough plutonium?”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel replies grumpily. “Also, you still have not explained why you are on the floor when this bed is large enough to house both of us. And you actually need sleep.”

Dean gestures half-heartedly at the wings Castiel still has sprawled all over the bed. At least they look better now, vibrant and gleaming again under the sun. “Your wings. They were – I didn’t wanna – ”

“You can’t hurt my wings. You’d need demonic strength for that. Or angelic.” With a grunt, Castiel lifts his right wing up, curving it above the empty space like an umbrella. “Get on the bed, Dean.”

“Cas – ”

Castiel’s hand shoots out. He grabs Dean’s shoulder and pulls, and he’s definitely recovered because only through angelic strength could he have yanked Dean fully onto the bed without moving any other body part or showing any strain of effort at pulling a full-grown man up off the floor.

And for the icing on the cake, before Dean can even register his new position or protest, Castiel is lowering his wing back down, covering them both like a warm, fluffy, bullet proof blanket.

Castiel sighs and closes his eyes. “That’s better.”

“Thought you didn’t need sleep,” Dean mocks, because if he thinks for more than a second about having Castiel’s wing on him, he is going to pee his pants. Or spontaneously combust.

“I am not.”

“Sure looks like it.”

Castiel opens one eye and glares at him. “I am restoring my grace through my connection to Heaven,” he says archly, all high and mighty like Dean didn’t have to carry him all the way from the car and dump his motionless body on the bed. “It is a slow process and very taxing. And I did not wish to leave you.”

“Why would you need to – ”

“It would have gone faster had I returned to Heaven,” Castiel admits. “Filtering energy through a vessel takes effort. Also, although Heaven’s power is mighty, the further you are, the longer it takes to travel.”

“Oh.” Dean swallows hard. He probably would have panicked if Castiel had flown off to Heaven, and there’s something rolling restlessly in his stomach at the idea of Castiel predicting that and choosing to stay, even though it extended his recovery time. “So uh. What did the demon do to you?”

“Nothing of import.”

“Cas.”

After Dean pokes him a few times, in both his wing and his side, Castiel begrudgingly explains. “He attempted to expel me back to Heaven, but without my vessel. It took a great deal of my strength to resist the banishment, and more so to keep my hold upon this vessel.” He pauses. “The incantation was very rudimentary. Effective, of course, but not eloquent. I suppose the best equivalent would be using a very blunt knife to hack at a plant until one has separated the root from the stalk. It was very unpleasant.”

“Is that common knowledge? Angel traps and angel exorcisms?”

“No. Nor should they be. I will need to report to my superiors so that they are aware.”

Castiel’s casual, off-hand tone catches on that roiling feeling in Dean’s stomach like sticks in a bicycle chain, jamming everything into a great big mess. Dean says lowly, “Are you planning to report to your superiors that you were gonna serve those demons up an angelic vessel on a silver platter?”

“That will not be an essential piece of information.”

“Essential piece of – Cas! You nearly gave those demons a free meatsuit!”

“My orders were to protect you,” Castiel replies, starting to sound annoyed. “Whatever the cost.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?”

“Dean – ”

But Dean can’t stop now, he’s on a roll, sparks are flying in his gut and “Is everything because of orders? Did you fly down here because of orders? Did you follow me everywhere because of orders? Did your superiors want a report on what the funny humans do down here on earth?”

Castiel’s wings tense. Dean has always known they were strong, as invincible and unyielding as Castiel himself, but there’s knowing that fact in the back of his mind and there’s feeling the feathers lock up like an immovable stone blanket pinning him to the bed. Dean would probably have better luck clawing into the mattress to escape than pushing that wing off of him.

“Dean!” Castiel snaps. “Angels may not have the freedom of thought and will that humans do, but do not do me the disservice of thinking me an unfeeling robot. Any angel with a human soulmate has a standing order to protect them; what hurts you hurts us, and what hurts us hurts the Host, and what hurts the Host hurts Heaven itself. Furthermore, I have fought demons many more times than you have. I am older than the Earth, Dean; I killed demons in the first war, when Michael cast down Lucifer, and I have commanded garrisons against them many times after that. Even if the demons had succeeded in forcing me out, I would have returned to destroy them, because this is my vessel. And that is assuming that the demon would even survive contact with the grace that would linger inside the vessel.”

It’s the most words Dean has ever heard Castiel say at one time.

It’s also, perhaps, the most words Dean has least wanted to hear Castiel say.

Perhaps he takes Dean’s silence as disagreement, for Castiel’s face goes stormy and sullen. He sits up with a huff, lifting his wing off of Dean, and moves to the edge of the bed. But his voice is softer when he speaks again, no longer the righteous angel of the Lord, just tired and sad. “Please have a little faith in me, Dean. I have placed so much in you.”

Dean had ramped up the temperature in the hotel room last night, because Castiel runs hot and his skin had been startlingly cold when Dean dragged him in. Still, even though neither of them have touched the thermostat, Dean feels shockingly cold without Castiel’s warm wing blanketed on top of him.

The roiling mess in his stomach is even worse, now. He has no idea what he imagined Castiel’s response would be, but somehow what Castiel did say is even worse. Because Castiel is right, he is an angel billions of years older than Dean, he’s fought wars more ancient than Dean’s own bloodline, and he probably did have a plan that was more elegant than Dean’s hit the demon over the head with a pipe one.

And now Castiel is sad, shoulders and wings drooping as he half-heartedly combs his fingers through some of his feathers, and Dean can’t stand it.

He pushes himself upright. “You uh. Want some help?”

“With what?” Castiel asks. He sounds utterly exhausted, like he needs ten more hours of sleep, and even his hand movements are lethargic, not the precise elegance he usually displays.

Dean swallows, but the guilty feeling doesn’t dissipate. He clears his throat instead. “With your wings. They look a little ragged.”

“Oh.” Castiel tilts his head, looking at his wings like he’s checking them to make sure that there isn’t another set of wings Dean might be referring to. “This won’t take me much time, don’t worry.”

The idea of Castiel finishing fixing his wings in a hurry does things to Dean. He finds himself moving without conscious effort, shuffling to kneel behind Castiel, so close that he can feel the warmth of his body through their clothes. If he bent his head, just a little, he could kiss Castiel’s neck.

“Cas,” Dean says, “let me? Please.”

For a long moment, there is only silence, and Dean braces himself to hear the telltale flap of feathers that indicates Castiel flying away. Of deciding Dean isn’t worth it and going back to perfect, shiny, wonderful Heaven. Of leaving Dean alone.

But instead, Castiel’s right wing slowly curves backwards, all of those gorgeous purple and green feathers brushing up against Dean’s arm, tentative like a kicked puppy who is hopeful for pets instead of blows but can’t be sure. This close, Dean can see the numerous patches where feathers were ruffled out of alignment by the fight and the demons, and he’s almost too afraid to touch them and make it worse, even though he’s the one that offered.

Like he can read Dean’s mind, Castiel reminds him, “You can’t hurt my wings, Dean. Just run your hands through and straighten the feathers.”

Dean lifts his hand and reaches for the closest patch. Then he hesitates when a new fear takes shape. “What if I pull some out?”

Castiel shrugs. “If they are already loose, then they’re meant to fall out and new ones will grow in. It’s honestly more irritating to leave loose ones in my wings.”

And after that, Dean has no more arguments or excuses, so he takes a deep breath and sticks his hand in. Castiel’s wing is so warm that it feels like sticking his hand into a nice, heated car, but his feathers shift and twitch as Dean combs his fingers through, so he can never forget what, exactly, he is touching. Slowly Dean falls into a rhythm, running his fingers through the bottom tier and working his way up, and he finds it not dissimilar to untangling Sam’s long hair when the kid was young.

Of course, Sam didn’t shed feathers as long as Dean’s arm.

Fortunately, when the first feather comes out after Dean touches it, Castiel blows out a long sigh and his shoulders relax. Seeing his clear relief helps Dean get over his instinct to freeze, and he gently lays the feather down at his side.

About halfway through the wing, Dean remembers to ask: “Am I, uh, doing this right?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel answers. “You’re doing it absolutely perfectly.”

He sounds a bit drunk and when Dean leans forward, he can see that Castiel’s eyes are closed shut and his face is lax like a contend cat. Dean hasn’t even touched his left wing, but it’s fully splayed out and relaxed on the bed, no longer arched up and shielding them both like Castiel normally has it. Dean is sure that at any sign of danger, it would flick up immediately, but for now, Castiel is basically putty in Dean’s hands.

When Dean finishes the right wing, he smooths a hand down the entire length of it, marveling at the wingspan. He takes a small sense of pride in how the feathers are all perfectly aligned and shimmering in the sunlight now, all the loose ones carefully piled on the bed. When he pulls his hands away, Castiel stretches his wing and hums in satisfaction.

“Left one?”

In lieu of answering, Castiel just lifts his left wing lazily and presses it against Dean, butting it against him like a cat.

A laugh bubbles out of Dean’s throat before he can stop it. “Okay, okay, I get the message,” he says, eagerly burying his hands in the expanse of feathers.

He works through Castiel’s left wing, combing through healthy feathers and gently tugging out loose ones, and midway he looks over and sees that Castiel has let his head loll to the right, appearing for all intents and purposes like he’s fallen asleep again. He looks strangely young like that, not the millennia-old warrior of God or the intense, unyielding celestial being who’d flown down and claimed Dean as his. He just looks like Cas, Dean’s soulmate who likes burgers, hates jam, and one time wandered off in the middle of an interrogation to follow a bee and came back an hour later with honey. Cas, who likes to sun his wings in the morning and watch children’s cartoons all night along.

Cas, who he almost lost.

Without even thinking about it, Dean lets his hands slow, right in the middle of Castiel’s wing. The guilt is churning inside of him now, growing like a cancer, and only the feel and the sight of Castiel’s feathers inches from his face keeps him from vomiting.

Castiel notices. “Dean? Are you all right?”

Oh, right. He needs to speak. Communicate. Words. Those are things. Castiel can read Dean’s mind, but he doesn’t often, because Dean asked him not to. Because Dean’s an idiot.

“Cas.” It’s about all he can manage.

And Castiel knows him better than he knows himself, because his gorgeous wings arch up and curve backward, cocooning Dean in soft, warm feathers. Dean is at once protected and surrounded in the reminder that Castiel is alive, that he’s safe and here and not being torn apart by demons. It’s just enough to loosen the knot in Dean’s throat.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Cas.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, patient as always. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m – ” I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I got so angry, I don’t want you to go. Such dangerous truths. Dean shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. If he owes anyone the truth, it’s his soulmate.

He starts with, perhaps, the easiest. “I’m sorry.” They’re words he’s said so many times – to John, to Sam – and usually it gets brushed off.

Castiel, as always, remains the unique outlier. “I’m sorry too,” he says, voice gentle and soft. “I didn’t mean to brush off your concerns. I just. You are very important to me, Dean. I would give anything for you not to feel pain again.”

Each word is like a little dagger into Dean’s heart. But Dean learned a long time ago to operate under pain, so he breathes it in and says the next thing. “I don’t know why I got so angry. I just do, sometimes. When things go wrong, it just comes out and I can’t – I can’t stop it. No matter how much I want to. I just lash out and say stupid things, mean things at anyone who’s nearby and I can’t – ”

A hand on his knee cuts him off. Castiel’s hand is as warm and grounding as his wings, fingers closed firmly on his knee. He has no idea how it’s comfortable for Castiel, but he shuffles forward to close the distance anyways, until his chest brushes against Castiel’s back when he breathes.

“We all have our faults,” Castiel tells him. “You are not the only person who lashes out when they feel impatient, or angry, or scared. Or who fails to communicate when it would be wise.”

Against his will, a smile curves onto Dean’s face. He feels like he’s as weak and wobbly as a pile of jello. Acceptance and forgiveness isn’t something he’s used to, not even this implicit kind. “So, uh, we’re both dumb asses?”

Castiel hums. “I prefer the word soulmates. Less dumb. Less ass.”

“Matching set of idiots, then?”

“Dean.”

But that’s a smile Dean can hear in Castiel’s voice, and when he tentatively winds his arms around Castiel’s chest, Castiel covers them with his free hand instantly. His wings squeeze Dean tightly, not cutting off his air but certainly making him feel like he’s wrapped up in a blanket of something much bigger than himself, something much stronger than their stupid arguments, something so scary he’s almost afraid to put a name to it.

Dean tips his head forward and rests it against Castiel’s neck. Castiel takes his weight easily, and Dean knows that even if Castiel lost his powers and couldn’t actually pick Dean up with one hand without breaking a sweat, he’d still let Dean do this, and that knowledge is heady.

“Cas,” Dean says, because he still has one last thing to say. “I don’t want you to go. Back to Heaven.”

“I don’t – ”

“Stay with me,” Dean begs, because if he lets Castiel go he might never see him again and that will destroy him. “Please, Cas.”

But Castiel – Castiel isn’t saying yes or holding onto Dean or anything, he is actually moving, turning and twisting and pushing at Dean, as if he’s trying to get away. Dean squeezes his arms even tighter, putting everything he’s got into holding onto Castiel, because even if he knows Castiel is better off without him, he won’t let him go without a fight. He already let Sam and John go; he can’t lose Castiel too.

Eventually, though, Castiel remembers that he is an angel and much stronger than Dean. His wings spread outwards and up, until Dean is forced to unlock his fingers or break his arms. Dean squeezes his eyes shut because he refuses to have the last sight he has of his soulmate be Castiel looking at him with disgust before he flies away.

Or worse, pity.

Then, confusingly, Castiel moves and gets closer. The warmth of his wings fold around Dean again, soft and protective; his knees bump into Dean’s; one hand settles heavily onto Dean’s shoulder, the other on Dean’s waist, like talismans grounding him into the present.

Castiel says, “Dean, I am not leaving you.”

Dean swallows and keeps his eyes shut. “But you gotta. I won’t – I can’t keep you here. Not against your will.”

“Why would my will ever be to leave you?”

And Castiel has the audacity to sound confused, like he doesn’t understand. Like he hasn’t already got ample evidence of why Dean is a terrible human being. But hey, maybe Dean’s a better actor than he thought. That’s okay, he’s still got words. His words drove away Sam; they can drive away Castiel.

“I’m sure Heaven is much better than down here.”

“Heaven is perfect,” Castiel says, “for humans. For my kind, it is static and unchanging. Bland and featureless. Earth is so much more than that.”

“Earth has got death and monsters and sin, Cas.”

“And it has joy and beauty and love. You’ve shown me that.”

“I insulted you. And shot you. And walked you right into some demon’s hands – ”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, shaking him like a misbehaving puppy. “Would you listen to me for once?”

Dean shuts his mouth. He can give Castiel this. He can take Castiel’s last words and memorize them. One day, in the far future, they might not even hurt to think about when he’s alone and drunk in a bar.

“I know how you see yourself, Dean,” Castiel tells him solemnly. “You see yourself the way our enemies see you: destructive and angry and broken. And you think that hate and anger is all you are. But I see you. I see that you are caring and kind and selfless. I see that you would do anything for those you love. You’d let your brother walk out of your life to chase his dreams. You’d let your father trample all over you in his quest for vengeance. And you would drive me away in a misguided attempt to protect me. You would do all of this for love. How could I possibly leave you?”

And the way Castiel says that, like it’s a stupid, impossible question –

Dean opens his eyes. Just a little. He keeps his head lowered, so that all he sees are Castiel’s knees, touching his. “You’re – you’re staying?”

Castiel squeezes his shoulder tight, so tight it almost burns. Dean welcomes that pain, the reminder of Castiel’s angelic strength, his unyielding nature, his single-minded determination.

“When I go back to Heaven for good,” Castiel says softly, “it will be with you, and not a minute, not a second before.”

That sounds like a promise.

That sounds like a vow.

That sounds like something dangerously close to the kind of forever happiness Dean never imagined.

Dean clears his throat. “That sounds like you plan to, uh, stick around. With me. On Earth. Even though I just pissed you off.”

Castiel’s wings brush against Dean’s skin, sliding up and then down like he just shrugged his shoulders. Or maybe sighed, because Dean can feel the air from Castiel’s exhale. Either way, Castiel takes his hand off of Dean’s waist and does something.

Then Castiel orders, “Open your hands.”

Dean’s hands, curled in an anxious tight ball on his lap, snap open like Castiel just gave the password to a lockbox. It would be embarrassing if he weren’t wound so tightly that if Castiel weren’t holding him up with his wings he’d probably fall off the bed.

Castiel tucks something warm and soft and long into his open hands. It feels a lot like a feather.

Dean opens his eyes all the way. He blinks. Blinks again.

It is a feather. And not one of the loose, unhealthy ones that Dean plucked out. This one is vibrant and beautiful, gleaming from the top to the bottom, green as vibrant as an emerald, purple as deep as an amethyst. When he shifts his hand a little bit, specks of color dance across the space between them, like stars glinting in the darkness of their own little universe, cocooned with Castiel’s wings.

“This feather will not die, or wither, or vanish,” Castiel explains. “I shed it willingly while I still lived, and so it will stay until I perish. If you ever have cause to doubt me, then look to this, and know that as I still live, I will return to you.”

And, Christ, what the hell is Dean supposed to do with that? What is he supposed to do when an angel, a celestial being, a warrior of God looks at him and says yes you are the one I want for all of time, I see the true you and I still want you, so long as I breathe I will always come back? What is supposed to do when he finally finds someone who won’t leave him like everybody else?

Heart too full, Dean squeezes his fingers shut over the feather. It doesn’t crumple under his pressure, too warm and too strong. Just like Castiel.

Dean says, “I don’t have a ring.”

Castiel tilts his head, the movement rippling along his wings. He probably has that adorable squint of confusion on his face.

Dean looks up. “I don’t have a ring,” he repeats, “but I’ll get you one. It’s only fair. One eternal token for another and all that.”

“Dean, I didn’t give you this to pressure – ”

“I know. If you had, I probably would have shot you again.”

“Please do not. It was unpleasant.”

“I’ll show you pleasant, you whiner,” Dean mutters, because the joy inside him is bubbling up now, subsuming the guilt and the anger and the fear and turning it somehow into something beautiful and breathtaking and utterly, utterly blissful. Castiel is staying. Castiel isn’t going back to Heaven. Castiel wants him.

Dean leans forward and kisses Castiel. It’s awkward for all of two seconds before Castiel kisses back, wings fluttering in joy around them and gripping Dean so tight he’s pretty sure he’ll have a handprint shaped bruise on his shoulder.

It’s perfect.

Epilogue

“Why’d I decide this was a good idea?”

“You said, and I quote, I can’t turn down a two-for-one deal on meat lovers’ extreme pizza, Cas.”

“No, not that.”

“Oh. Well, you did insist that we drive. I could have flown us here in heartbeat.”

“Not that either.”

“Your gift isn’t stupid, Sam will like – ”

“Cas.

Castiel huffs quietly and slides close, pressing against Dean’s side and folding one gorgeous wing around Dean’s back. Dean presses back against it automatically, half because he still can’t believe his luck and half because he’s always hungry to be close to Castiel.

“I would like to meet Sam too, you know,” Castiel tells him, because he always knows exactly what to say. He leans close and nuzzles Dean’s neck like a cat, sweet and adoring, like he didn’t spend their entire lunch making disgusted faces at Dean eating six giant pizza slices in rapid succession and threatening to leave Dean to his fate if he suffered stomach pain afterwards. “I am glad you suggested us coming to California to see Sam.”

And, oh yeah, that’s right. Dean is doing this for Castiel too. Sam should meet Dean’s soulmate, that’s only right. And Dean should congratulate Sam on surviving a semester at college, that’s also right. It’s the proper brotherly thing to do.

Yet every time he looks up at Sam’s apartment block – thank God Sam still uses the same stupid dumb usernames for his burner phone and leaves the GPS tracking on – Dean can hardly breathe, much less walk.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “He’ll be happy to see you. He dreams of you a lot.”

Dean jerks in shock. “He what? How do you know?”

“I may have gone dream-walking a few times,” Castiel admits casually. “I was . . . nervous. He has very sweet dreams of you.”

“Cas,” Dean whines.

“Yes, Dean, I will remember to act normally,” Castiel says in a long-suffering tone. He pulls away and straightens his tie, letting his wings slip away into invisibility. He even dusts at his pants, like they’re even capable of getting dirty when he cleans everything with his angel mojo. “I am Castiel Winchester, a typical, non-supernatural human being.”

Dean glares at him. Castiel hadn’t really reacted when Dean had given him a fake ID for Castiel Winchester, and it’s just like him to use the full name now when he wants to punch Dean in the heart.

“Why are you glaring? Is my tie backwards again?”

“I hate you,” Dean declares and stomps towards Sam’s apartment building before he can lose his nerve again.

“Does that mean I should wait in the – ”

“Cas!”

Castiel’s angel mojo gets them into the apartment building, and fortunately, most of the college students are too harried to give them a second glance. That or Castiel is redirecting them. Either way, Dean is very happy that they don’t get stopped or questioned, because he really is sweating too hard to throw on his fake smile and turn up the charm, and relying on Castiel to lie convincingly is like asking a vampire not to drink blood.

When they get to Sam’s apartment, Castiel takes the lead and knocks. It’s good, because all Dean can do is frantically smooth out the wrinkles in the gift he has clutched in his hands.

The door opens and Dean pastes a cocky smile on his face and –

It’s not Sam.

“Oh,” says the woman who is not Sam but is standing in Sam’s apartment, wearing shorts and a Smurfs T-shirt. “I thought the pizza place had for once managed to get to us on time. Are you lost?”

Castiel looks at Dean, expectant.

Dean looks at Castiel, panicking.

Castiel wraps a hand around Dean’s elbow, warm and strong and grounding, and takes the lead again, because Dean is the luckiest man on Earth. “My name is Castiel. This is Dean. We’re looking for Sam Winchester,” he says.

The woman’s eyes, which were already wide when she heard Castiel’s name, go saucer-sized when she hears Dean. “Oh my god, Sam’s mentioned you!” she says. “Does he know you’re coming? He didn’t say a thing to me!”

“No, this was a, uh. Surprise.” Castiel inclines his head at the gift in Dean’s hands. “We wanted to congratulate him on a successful first semester.”

“That’s so sweet,” the woman says, beaming, and she stands back to let them in the apartment.

Jess, as she introduces herself to Castiel, keeps up politely cheery conversation with them as they walk inside. It’s a tiny apartment, and since the living room is basically a size too small for two people let alone three, Dean waves the box he’s carrying and sets off for the kitchen to look for a place to set it down. And to snoop.

The kitchen is nice and homey. There are novelty mugs on the counter, mismatched plates in the sink, a dirty saucepan abandoned on the stove. It’s not quite the apple pie life, but Dean can see that Sam would love it, even if he probably bangs his head on the doorway every time.

That being said, Dean finds no salt barrier, no iron, no silver, and when he toes back the rug, he sees no devil’s trap.

When Dean emerges, Castiel is sitting awkwardly on the sofa, too straight and too unmoving to ever pass as human. Jess is bustling around, trying to clean up the stacks of papers and utensils littered about the room, so she doesn’t notice, but Dean still rolls his eyes and nudges Castiel hard when he sits down next to him.

“Didn’t we talk about pretending to be normal?” Dean mutters under his breath.

“Didn’t you talk about personal space?” Castiel retorts.

Dean, who is now so close that they’re basically glued together, just grins and shrugs. “Not my fault if you let me get away with it. But dude, seriously, at least pretend to blink.”

Castiel dutifully blinks. Just once. And just one eye.

You’re lucky I like you, Dean thinks at him. Castiel had once explained to him that he can find Dean by prayer, but while Dean had thought of rosaries and chants, Castiel had shrugged and said that angels were multidimensional beings and therefore capable of picking up on less formalized versions.

Castiel puts one hand on Dean’s knee, probably half because he likes touching Dean and half in response to his prayer. Jess takes one look at them, tilts her head, and smiles brilliantly.

“Sam never said you had found your soulmate!”

“Uh,” Dean says, because he has no idea where to even start with that. Most people do assume that they’re soulmates, because Castiel has a habit of standing way too close to Dean, but he’s never actually had to say it.

“We met after Sam left for Stanford,” Castiel volunteers. “And you?”

Jess blushes, looking down at her feet, and wow, if that’s how Dean acts when people ask him about Castiel, maybe that’s why people assume they’re soulmates. Then he nudges Castiel’s shoulder with his own, eyebrow raised in question, and snorts a quiet laugh at Castiel’s firm nod in reply. Sometimes Castiel’s angelic abilities for reading people’s minds really come in handy.

“So, Jess,” Dean drawls, leaning back, “tell me how my gigantor brother worked up the nerve to ask you out. I know for a fact you’re way out of his league.

Jess is just opening her mouth to answer when the door rattles with the telltale clicking sound of a key turning the lock, and Dean doesn’t need to see the way Jess brightens or the way Castiel cocks his head to know who’s at the door. Sam used to jangle his keys the exact same way when they rented hotel rooms, and by instinct, Dean finds himself on his feet, facing Sam with a grin on his face like the months of silence never happened.

Sam looks up, a sweet smile on his face for Jess, and then stops dead in his tracks like he’s been whacked over the head. Dean would know; he’s seen it in person.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean says, more confidently than he feels.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, and the flood of emotions on his face is almost too painful to see. Especially the fear. Sam should never be afraid.

Castiel pokes Dean hard in the back, but Dean is already moving. He dodges the couch and the chair and Jess with the ease of long practice in tiny motel rooms as Sam drops the books he’s holding in his hands, and they collide in the middle of the room, so hard that Dean actually has the breath knocked out of him, and Sam staggers back a step. But then they have their arms wound around each other and it’s great, it’s wonderful, it’s like the world is spinning in perfect alignment again.

Sam is here. Sam is happy to see him. Sam is hugging him.

“I missed you,” Dean says, because months of living with Castiel have taught him the need for actually communicating.

“God, me too,” Sam replies, and he tightens his arms so much that Dean’s ribs creak in protest. Any tighter and he’d probably break something.

That’s okay. Castiel can fix it.

“I want you to meet someone,” Dean and Sam say in concert.

Jess laughs. Castiel huffs.

“Rock paper scissors?” Dean offers.

“You always lose.”

“Or,” Jess says loudly, slapping them both upside the head, “we could sit and talk like civilized adults.”

“I agree with Jess,” Castiel pipes up.

Dean looks at Sam and sees the exact same resigned panic of their soulmates ganging up on them on his brother’s face. And just like that, the spell is broken – Sam ducks away to scoop up his books and close the door and Dean gets out of Jess’s way before she slaps him again. Somehow, they manage to rearrange the chairs and the sofa so that everybody fits in the tiny living room.

Jess, it turns out, is a med student. She and Sam met in orientation, Sam crushed hard, Jess crushed hard, and Dean’s idiot brother did not make a move. He continued not making a move until there was a freshman party and someone set up a soulmate summoning ritual for giggles, and Sam stuck his stupid face in it, saw Jess, and promptly passed out. Jess came to his rescue, there were sparks in the air, and there was kissing, and there was –

“Yeah, yeah, I think we get the picture,” Dean interrupts hastily, because Jess and Sam are staring deeply into each other’s eyes at this point, and he draws the line at seeing a reenactment right now. “Save it for the wedding, lovebirds.”

Fortunately, this makes Sam turn around and stop looking at Jess with a gooey face.

Unfortunately, this means Sam starts looking at Castiel with a gleeful face.

And Castiel – angel of the Lord, commander of garrisons, seraph of Heaven – flinches.

Sam’s grin grows to epic proportions. He slings a comfortable arm around Jess and says, “So, hey, I guess it means it’s your turn then. How’d you two meet?”

Dean is just about to start panicking because he is an idiot and did not think to tell Castiel a Not-In-The-Know-Approved story in advance when the door rattles and opens again.

That is when things happen in very quick succession.

The man at the door freezes and growls, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Castiel snarls in response, and Dean jumps because he didn’t even see Castiel stand, but his soulmate is standing in front of him now, fists clenched at his sides.

“Uh,” Sam says, “Dean, Castiel, this is my roommate, Brady.”

The room shakes and the lights flicker as Castiel’s wings snap into existence, crackling with energy and spread wide, fierce and menacing. Castiel takes one step forward, face absolutely thunderous –

And Brady throws his head back and a cloud of black smoke comes screaming out, streaking towards the window, probably to find some other poor schmuck to possess. Sam and Dean both yell, but it doesn’t matter, because in the blink of an eye, Castiel is just there, wings whipping up a mini tornado of papers, eyes glowing bright blue, palm grasping the smoke and forcing it mercilessly back into Brady.

Brady screams in agony when Castiel’s palm touches his face. Sam yells in shock, Jess shrieks – and then it’s over.

“Your roommate was a demon,” Castiel announces dispassionately, and then he drops the burnt-out husk of the demon’s body onto the floor like a cat releasing a dead mouse. “I think it would be wise to add protections to this apartment, Sam. And I should see if there are more demons.”

“Come back safe,” Dean says on automatic.

“I will return,” Castiel replies, completing their little ritual, and the soft look on his face – that’s all for Dean.

His great big wings spread wide and then Castiel is gone with the sound of feathers, leaving Dean with a pissed off Sam, a very confused Jessica, and a smoking demon corpse.

Dean clears his throat. “So. Uh. Sam. Wanna give Jess the Talk?”

Sam ends up giving Jess the Talk. Dean chimes in as he stalks around the apartment stuffing hex bags in corners and scrawling protective wards where he can. The best thing about being with Castiel is that, well, he’s been around since forever, so he’s taught Dean the strongest, oldest protections he knows. The devil’s traps he sticks underneath the front door, the kitchen archway, the bathroom, and the bedroom are not the standard Dean learned and memorized as a kid, but Castiel’s are damn near unbreakable.

They’re all too spooked to order pizza, but they do have ground beef in the freezer so Dean digs it out and whips up some burgers. Sam makes a prissy face, the health nut, but Jess gobbles it down with a steadiness that Dean admires, given that her entire world just expanded.

“And Cas – Castiel,” Jess asks, “he’s . . . what is he?”

“Oh, Cas is an angel.”

Sam chokes on his burger. “A what?”

“Angel. You know. Wings. Halo. Warrior of God. The whole shebang,” Dean says casually. “He probably has a harp too but he refuses to admit it.”

Jess nods, probably because after being told about demons and vampires and werewolves, angels must not seem farfetched, but Sam – Sam leans forward and narrows his eyes and levels an accusing finger at Dean.

“What happened to angels don’t exist, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. “I mean, I’m the seeing is believing type, and you saw Cas,” Dean points out. “Hard to deny what he is. Also he’s pretty clear about what he is if you ask him.”

Sam has no words to refute that.

Dean volunteers to do the dishes, mostly because Jess looks like she wants a word with Sam and Dean has no intention of getting in the middle of that. He waves a cheery goodbye to his glaring brother and turns his attention to the sink, whistling a faint tune as he scrubs at the pans and mugs and utensils. It’s a familiar routine, washing up after Sam, and Dean even goes and fetches the dirty pan off the stove and some of the mugs cluttering up the living room. When he passes by, he notices that the smoldering demon corpse is gone, so he sends up a quiet thank you to Castiel as he heads back to the kitchen.

He’s just about to start drying stuff when his feather bracelet grows warm on his arm. Dean knows exactly what that means, so he smiles and leans back, just in time for Castiel to appear in a rustling of feathers. Castiel slips his wings and arms around Dean, grumbling quietly to himself, and presses close until they’re touching from chest to toes.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says. “Happy hunting?”

“It was a successful endeavor,” Castiel replies. His formal wording is completely at odds with his soft affectionate tone, but Dean is responsible for most of Castiel’s softening, so he usually just grins and enjoys it. “There were three demons watching the apartment and five more around the town. I exorcised some, killed the ones whose vessels were too far gone. I also captured one to interrogate; she’s bound in a devil’s trap.”

“Why her?”

“She had some very interesting weaponry,” Castiel explains. He withdraws a strange jagged knife from his sleeve and places it on the counter. It doesn’t look too weird, but when Dean squints and tilts his head, he catches the sight of faint symbols on the hilt and blade.

“What is it?”

“An ancient Kurdish – ”

“Cas.”

“It kills demons.”

“Wait, really? I thought only your blade could do that.”

“The blade is inscribed with special sigils. There are not many left in the world. I had thought that they’d all been destroyed long ago.”

“Huh. So that’s why you let her live.”

“Well, the knife does not work on me,” Castiel notes smugly. “Also, she kept saying that she had information for Sam Winchester and was on the run.”

“From other demons?”

“So she claims. But she made a very strange face when I mentioned Brady, so I imagine she knows more than she says.” Castiel shifts and tucks his wings more closely around Dean. “How did Jessica take it?”

“Better than most. She’s probably going to have lots more questions when she wakes up.”

“Are we getting a motel room?”

“Well, we’re sure as hell not gonna fit on the couch, and I am not sleeping in a demon’s bedroom,” Dean says. “We can come back tomorrow. Did you ward the walls?”

Castiel hums in the affirmative. “I can give Sam and Jess anti-possession sigils like the one I gave you. If they want.”

“Thanks.”

“They’re your family, Dean. That means they’re mine as well.”

“Aw, you big softy.”

Castiel nips at him for that, teeth angel sharp, before he sighs and draws back. “I need to report this to my superiors. At the very least, the fact that so many demons were watching Sam is very concerning. I may request another to help with the interrogation.”

“Will you be safe?”

“For you, always,” Castiel says, because he’s sappy like that sometimes. He brushes a wing down Dean’s arm, where his feather rests, and hums in satisfaction at the resulting spark of warmth. “If you need me, pray.”

And then he’s gone again, leaving Dean cold and alone and –

“Mind telling me what that was about?”

Or not.

Dean sets down the plate. “How long have you been eavesdropping?” he asks, turning to face his nosy brother, who is leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and a grin on his face.

“Longer than I thought I’d get away with it. You’re getting rusty.”

“Cas would’ve protected me, if you were a threat,” Dean points out.

Sam blinks. He lowers his arms and comes into the kitchen. “Wow,” he says. “I never thought I’d see the day that you let someone else watch your back. Besides like. You know. Me or dad.”

“I trust Cas,” Dean says simply, because it’s the truth.

“Yeah,” Sam replies slowly. “I see that. Where’d he go, anyways? I saw he took Brady’s, uh, well. The body.”

“Oh, apparently there was some demon posse following you. Cas flew off to, uh, interrogate one. He killed the rest. He might also request someone from his garrison to shadow you and Jess. For a couple days, anyways, til we figure this all out.”

Sam gives him a suspicious look. “Right, like you’re gonna leave after a demon was my roommate.”

“Dude, your apartment is way too small for two more people. We’ll get a hotel room and come back tomorrow.”

“And you’ll just . . . let another angel watch over us.”

“Why, have you forgotten how to exorcise demons?”

“No! But like. Usually you’d never let me out of your sight.”

Dean shuffles and kicks at the floor. He can’t deny that a huge part of him wants to stalk Sam around the campus for the next four years, but all around him is evidence of Sam’s new life: the stacks of books, the mismatched dishes, the clothes piled on chairs. Sam is happy here, and Dean can’t begrudge him that.

Plus: “Cas can fly anywhere on Earth in like the blink of an eye. If you need me, I’ll be here,” Dean promises.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean. Not what I meant.”

“Well, I can’t follow you around forever,” Dean says, and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever said. “We gotta live our lives, right? This is your life, and it’s not the same as mine, but that’s okay. I can still be a part of it, but like. In my own way. So you’ll go to college and get that shiny piece of paper and become a kickass lawyer, and I’ll cruise around with Cas and kill monsters and save the day. Deal?”

“Deal,” Sam echoes, except when Dean holds out his hand to shake, his brother reels him in and squashes him in a hug instead.

Dean only complains a little bit. Just for show. He has to maintain his reputation, after all.

Castiel finally shows up a few hours later, when Dean is getting out of the shower in their hotel room. Dean does not flinch when he opens the curtain and finds Castiel two inches away and staring at him, but he does allow Castiel to help him climb out of the shower before he slips and falls flat on his face.

“You’re getting better at this,” Castiel comments.

“Feather got warm.”

“You take hot showers.”

“Not as hot as you,” Dean teases, tracing a finger over the feather bracelet on his arm. Castiel bent it into a circle for him, in order to make it easier for Dean to keep on his person. Usually he keeps it hidden under his clothes, but he never takes it off. It’s not like he can damage it, after all, and he prefers to keep it close by, visible proof of Castiel for whenever he has doubts.

And it’s also really freaking pretty. Dean has lost countless hours tracing the shimmering purples and greens.

Since Dean has already eaten and Castiel doesn’t eat unless Dean shoves food at him, they go directly to bed. Castiel still watches him all night like a stalker, but Dean finally coaxed him into sharing a bed because firstly, it was giving Dean a crick in his neck to talk to Castiel when he would sit up or stand and secondly, well, the cuddling’s nice. Nothing – not even memory foam – can compare to being wrapped up in Castiel’s wings, like the warmest, fluffiest, silkiest blanket.

So tonight, like most nights, Dean slides under the sheets and Castiel slips a wing over him, sheltering him from head to toe, radiating warmth like a heater.

Dean yawns and presses close. Castiel still doesn’t really understand why Dean makes him take off his shirt when they go to bed, but the first time Dean whipped off his own shirt, his eyes went huge and he stopped protesting.

“Did the talk with Sam and Jess go all right?”

One downside of Castiel sharing a bed with him: he sometimes starts super deep conversations when Dean is half asleep. Probably because he knows Dean is more likely to blurt out the truth. Because he knows Dean like that.

“Yeah, Sam got her up to speed. You can probably give her the anti-possession sigil tomorrow.”

“Hmm. And Sam?”

Dean opens one eye and glares. “Can we have this conversation when I’m awake?”

“You are awake,” Castiel says, but he brushes his hand up and down Dean’s spine and leaves it resting on his shoulder, firm and grounding. “But very well. Did you at least tell him about praying to me?”

“Yep. Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I also maybe said that you might get them an angel babysitter?”

“Hmm. I’ll have to speak to my superiors, of course, but it’s unlikely to be rejected.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

Castiel frowns at him. “He’s your brother. Of course you want him protected. And so do I. Besides, we need more information, and it is possible that the demons will try again after we leave.”

And, well, then Dean is absolutely, completely, one hundred percent awake. He’s not sure why he thought Castiel would refuse, because Castiel rarely tells him no, even when Dean is joking. This has led to some very awkward moments and Dean will never look at bees the same way again, but still, there’s a big difference between Dean requesting fresh honey and Dean requesting a full-time angel guardian to stand over his younger brother.

Dean clears his throat. “You, uh, sure that’s a good diversion of Heaven’s resources?”

“Heaven’s resources should always be utilized to thwart Hell’s plans,” Castiel answers. “And Sam is important to me. He is family now, as you are. I would defend him myself, but I will not leave you.”

Dean has thought of a lot of ways to tell Castiel the feeling that’s been growing inside of him. He’s imagined a blurted out confession after Castiel saves his life from a monster for the hundredth time, or a half-asleep muttering when Castiel brings him breakfast, or even a slip of the tongue when he’s got his hands in Castiel’s wings and Castiel is a gooey mess underneath him. He’s had plenty of those moments, but every time it never seemed quite right, so Dean would always use his actions instead of words, letting Castiel crowd into his space and heal him or cuddle him.

Yet now, somehow, seeing Castiel take in Dean’s off-the-cuff babysitter promise and then take it seriously, hearing him prioritize Sam as family and important, knowing that Castiel does it because of Dean, for Dean –

“I love you,” Dean blurts out.

Castiel goes still as stone. His feathers stop their casual brushing along Dean’s skin, his hand freezes, and every inch of his face ceases to move. It’s a little like he’s frozen in time and it would be off-putting if Dean didn’t know that whenever Castiel regresses to his alien angelic nature, it’s because he’s been well and truly shocked.

So Dean says it again, because he’s learned that words are important. “I love you, Cas.”

And, just like that, Castiel comes alive again: his hand clenches too tight on Dean’s shoulder, his wings close in and push them together, and Castiel brings his face so close that if he did breathe, they’d be sharing breaths.

“Dean,” Castiel says, wonder in those brilliant blue eyes, “oh Dean. My beloved. I love you so.”

They’ve kissed before of course, many times. Dean likes to kiss Castiel’s neck or the arch of his back, and sometimes he is daring and kisses Castiel’s feathers for the shivers it earns him. Castiel likes whatever part of Dean he can get; he seems to be equally as enamored with Dean’s back as his face.

But this kiss – it’s different. It’s Dean affirming his words and Castiel responding in kind, and it’s joyful and beautiful and everything Dean never dared to dream about when he first set out into the woods all those months ago to do a soulmate summoning ritual.

“I’m glad you answered my call,” Dean tells him. I love you.

“I am glad that you called for me,” Castiel replies. “I love you too.”

FINIS