Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean wants it stated for the record that when he told Sam he needed to go out and get laid, this was not what he meant.

“Dude!” he hisses.

“We’re just going to be talking,” Sam says breezily. Which makes Dean’s nose crinkle until it almost ends up in his brain, thank you. “He’s… got some interesting ideas on how to reform the mage consortium.”

Interesting? Interested, more likely. Dean knows that he’s not the big shot mage in the family; he’s a dropout hunter with a GED. But Dean trusts his gut, and when his gut makes him feel like throwing up, he listens. “Sammy,” he insists, “I heard him talking over there about how he’s courting you. That doesn’t sound like ‘just talking’ to me.”

Sam, unfortunately, hasn’t done much listening to Dean’s gut, lately.

Sam rolls his eyes so high they almost end up falling off the back of his head. “Don’t be childish,” he scolds. “You know ‘courting’ is just mage terminology for enticing me to join his corporation.”

Sure, because witches have covens, mages have corporations. But Dean really thinks that Sam, of all people, should know that there’s enticing, and then there’s enticing.

Because Dean’s a simple soul at heart, he says, “There’s enticing and there’s enticing, Sammy-boy.”

“Don’t be a homophobe, Dean,” Sam says with a smirk that makes Dean want to flip the back end of his mage robes right over his—perfectly-combed, tied into a neat little man-bun at the nape of his neck—hair.

Since even he knows that’s not a mature urge, especially at a place where Sam’s jonesing for an actual job, Dean acts like the grown-up big brother that he is: he cheerfully says “Fuck you, straight boy,” instead. Hey, he’ll take the teasing if it keeps him from ever having another heart-to-heart about his sexuality with Sam again. The big-eyed earnestness and all the ‘I’m so proud of you’s were the absolute worst.

(Even though they were… sort of nice. A relief. For a little while. A very short little while.)

Sam snorts. “Hey, I like what I like.” And while Dean’s processing just how annoying it is to have his own words thrown back at him, his brother continues with, “And it’s ‘Sam’ now, not ‘Sammy’.”

(The annoyed crinkle his face makes is much more Sammy.)

Yeah, Sam’s not listening. That doesn’t mean that Dean’s going to stop trying, but it does mean he’s going to have to go about this another way. Which, well. Business as usual.

Dean would ordinarily say that he hates having to change plans in the middle of a mission—except for the fact that he’s really good at it. Which is why he’s still alive, thanks, because having to ‘take things in a different direction’ on a hunting mission isn’t the same thing as having to rework a fiddly spell, or renegotiate a political alliance, the sort of stuff Sam eats up with a spoon. It normally means that things have gone all the way pear-shaped, something is trying to eat his face, and Dean’s rethinking his life choices.

Frankly, Dean will take his sort of negotiation over Sam’s any day of the week.

“Next thing you know, you’re gonna want me to call you Mage Winchester, and then I’m gonna have to wedgie you,” Dean warns, with a shake of his head. But before Sam gets his face screwed up into full-on bitchface, he flashes a grin. “Hey, they gonna feed us at this thing?”

Sam rolls his eyes, but the set of his shoulders relaxes under his dark burgundy mage-robes. He went plain with them: the heavy, hooded robe that falls to his wrists and his knees over a pair of dark slacks and shiny leather shoes. His only accessory is a traditional strip of braided leather cinching the robe in at the waist, his wand crisply angled into it. There are some others here who went for downright ostentatious, with what Dean’s sure is enchanted embroidery around all the edges, and one guy might be wearing actual breeches under his robe (or at least Dean hopes so, because otherwise, MC Hammer is looking for his pants back). With Sam being so tall, the simplicity of his gear means he stands out anyway—and not in a bad way.

But one of the things that’s making Dean’s eyes narrow is that he’s pretty sure all the higher-ups at this shindig got some kind of memo: there are more suits circulating than there are robes, and almost everyone in robes is, like Sam, younger. The CMO of this place, a guy who only goes by the name Lucifer—the one who’s doing the ‘courting’—is in a suit that, Dean thinks, is worth more than Baby.

Maybe this is all normal when it comes to mage corporations, and Dean’s gut is just hungry.

Sure, and minotaurs are just cranky ‘cause they’ve got a bad sense of direction.

Sam answers, brightening, “They had really good food at the first recruitment interview—”

“Sam,” a female voice purrs, sending a sharp spike of alarm up the center of Dean’s back. “You look delicious. I love the robes. Very… John George Hohman. So restrained. Some here are channeling Grigori Rasputin, and you know, it’s just not necessary.”

It looks like Ruby got a very different memo from the one they were sending around to the high muckamucks, because right now, in a blood-red tiny dress and tiny black heels, Ruby’s legs look like they go up to her eyebrows.

Dean is as much a connoisseur of nice legs in short skirts as anyone, but he’s not that easily distracted: it doesn’t escape his notice that Ruby’s dress is the same shade of red as Sam’s formal mage-robes.

Exactly the same color.

“Ruby,” Sam says, with an enthusiasm that Dean does not think fucking Ruby deserves. “You’re here!”

“I got you the invitation to interview, darling, I wouldn’t abandon you to the wolves for the world,” she laughs. When she turns her head to look in his direction, down the line of her shoulder, Dean almost expects her chin to keep going without her shoulders turning, like something that Dean should be hunting.

Which he should. Because Ruby is an actual demon.

“Whoa, whoa, wait, what?” Dean says sharply. “What do you mean, you got him the invitation?”

“Just like I said. Hello, Dean,” she says, grinning with too many teeth and way too much triumph. Dean’s never tried to pretend he liked her any more than she’s ever pretended to like him: they’re honest about their loathing.

“Dean—” Sam starts.

“You didn’t tell me this!”

“Because I knew you’d react this way!” Sam says, the words coming out tight and hard, a flicker of muscle showing at the edge of his clenched jaw. “Just because you and Crowley—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Dean warns, jabbing a finger in Sam’s direction and only refraining from poking him because he’s sure there’s an anti-violence ward over the entire site—standard for fancy parties like this. He’s feeling pretty violent right now. “Don’t you fucking dare. Crowley tried to turn me.”

Ruby scoffs. “Crowley’s not a werewolf or a vampire, don’t be crass. That’s not what that was. He thought you had demon potential, but we all told him it wouldn’t work out. That Dean Winchester thinks he’s too good for the life, anyway.”

Which Dean is, thank you very fucking much; he likes his soul exactly where it is, not stuffed in a jar or flayed into little bitty pieces or offered as a snack to some apocalyptic powerbroker. But with the way she put it, now he can’t say anything without coming off as sounding prejudiced: as of five years ago, being a demon isn’t an exemption for citizenship anymore.

Goddammit. Dean’s no good at these games. Seriously, point him at a rogue wendigo or a vengeful ghost any day of the week.

“Yes, Ruby was the one who… who put in a good word for me,” Sam admits, but he has his gaze fixed on the folds of his robes, smoothing the wrinkles out of the heavy nap. He’s not meeting Dean’s eyes. “She knows Lucifer personally.”

“I used to be his assistant, so when I tell him that someone can be a real asset, he listens,” she coos, petting Sam’s elbow. “And you deserve all the good words, Sam.”

Ruby was the guy’s personal assistant? And this is the guy who’s trying to get Sam to join his fancy-schmancy corporation?! Yeah, it’s definitely not hunger making Dean’s stomach twist now. “Look, Sammy, I really think—"

“Please,” Ruby says, her lips twisting into the soft, creamy smile a cat makes before it bites a mouse’s head off. “It’s ‘Sam.’”

Dean’s never wished so bad that he learned how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Demonic. Except in a place like this, that would probably count as an act of aggression, too (and might leave him spitting blood in public; he knows just enough Demonic to fling a curse in an emergency or summon a crossroad helper if it’s really needed, but some of those consonants are literal murder on the vocal cords).

“Lucifer’s just over there,” Ruby says soothingly, while Dean’s wondering if muttering an exorcism under his breath counts as an act of aggression. “Why don’t we go to the bar, get a drink? That way we can all relax, and you and him can have a real conversation about what you’re looking for, Sam, without so many…” she pauses for just a heartbeat too long, “…rules.” And before Dean can agree with her—for once, because he really, really needs a drink now—“I’m sure Dean can keep himself entertained for just a little while, while the adults are talking.”

Dean almost says something that he knows he won’t regret, not one bit. Hell, he’s almost at the point of not caring whether there’s an anti-aggression charm on the party. Only Sam’s glance keeps him from reaching for the M1911 in his crossdraw holster underneath his arm—Dean’s a legally registered delta-class hunter with a license to carry, even at places like this. When his gun peeks out under the cheap black suit jacket he's wearing, Dean thinks it looks kind of classy, with its engraved pearl handle. But his fingers itch for it so badly that he looks down to watch them curling.

Will it do anything to shoot her? Dean’s loaded down with hunter special, silver bullets with salt and holy water cores, so it’d sting like a whole bitch, but just for a second—she’d just come back swinging. Shit, it’d still be so satisfying, though.

It’s hard, annoying work, but maybe Dean does need to start carving devil’s traps on all his bullets.

But Sam’s giving him that look that he hates the most—not the one where he thinks that Dean’s going to fight him, but the worst one, the one that makes Dean’s very noisy, opinionated gut go quiet and still and sick, sinking like a stone: Sam’s broad shoulders slightly too straight under his plain mage-robes, eyes ducked, corners of his mouth turned down. Don’t embarrass me, Sam is saying, radiating it off the top of his head like Spider Man’s senses in a comic book. Sam hasn’t been psychic since he first learned how to channel his mage-energy, but in this moment, he might as well be. Please don’t embarrass me, Dean.

Then Ruby laughs, her eyes lighting up with a glee that should, Dean thinks, come with ominous background music. “I’ve got an idea.” She gestures expansively across the neat circles of tables, laden down with wine glasses and gold-edged white plates, and more cutlery than Dean’s seen in a diner carousel. “You can keep Lucifer’s little tree topper company! You can be wet blankets together.” Her smirk is red-lipped and vicious. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonely.”

One day Dean’s going to kill her. It’s not a promise, it’s a fact.

He can’t think of anything to say to that that won’t lead to him and Sam being ejected from this party. Ordinarily Dean would consider that a good thing. But the wary look in his little brother’s eyes… fuck. Ah, fuck.

They’ll talk about this when they get out of here. The fact that Dean’s wanting to talk should give Sam a good idea of just how serious he is about this. But for now…

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says grudgingly. “Sure, I can play nice with someone’s girlfriend. Can’t promise she’ll still be interested in him when you guys get back, though.” Does he think he has much to say to some high society mage-wife at a thing like this? No, but Dean’s charm and his smile has gotten him far even if he can’t talk about transactional economics or spellbinding, and it’s not his fault if the lady’s tastes run to rich, sleazy, and successful.

Ruby laughs at that again, high and shrill enough that even Sam looks at her a little strangely. But the joke becomes very clear when she tugs them after her with her hand going all intimate-like into the crook of Sam’s elbow until he’s forced to curl it in front of him to keep from being pulled down by her, Dean trailing behind them like a particularly unwilling caboose.

When she taps Lucifer’s shoulder, all of a sudden, Dean’s comments about Lucifer enticing Sam start to feel far too real. Because the person sitting stiffly in the chair next to Broken Seals Corporation’s CEO has short, dark hair and broad shoulders under a suit jacket that’s too big.

Lucifer’s side piece is a he, and he (also) got the memo about the dress code.

Lucifer surges to his feet, bright-eyed and excited, and greets Sam by kissing him on both cheeks—which, why? As far as Dean knows the guy can’t even claim being European as an excuse—as enthusiastically as if it’s been days since they saw each other, not just when Sam and Dean arrived an hour or so ago.

“So, Sam. Are you ready to become one of my special children?”

Ew. What? If Ruby’s purr raises the hair on the back of Dean’s neck, Lucifer’s—well, what kind of bodily reaction does nails on a chalkboard call up?

Sam’s chuckle is just a little uncomfortable, though, bless him. “I haven’t made any kind of decision yet, sir,” he says, with that deep, shaky earnestness that’s going to get him in so much trouble someday. “But I’d be interested in hearing more about the pilot program you mentioned, for magical rehabilitation of those corrupted by mana overuse. It’s become such an issue, especially with cantrips being so easily available now to the lay public, and the proportion of demon deals—"

Lucifer laughs like Sam said something that was actually funny rather than meaning every word he just said. “Business before pleasure, hmm? You’re such a good soul, Sam Winchester. A model vessel for magical ability! Ruby’s such a treasure, finding a gem like you for us.”

“Mixed metaphor,” the guy sitting next to him mutters, studying the edge of the plate in front of him like it’s some kind of complex spell-design he’s unraveling. He doesn’t get up from the table and introduce himself. Okay, then. Real friendly type.

Lucifer’s eye roll looks remarkably similar to Sam’s—which is something Dean’s never thought he’d say. “Be nice, angel.”

It sounds like a threat rather than an endearment.

“Let’s talk,” Lucifer says, and puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder to pull him away, Ruby tailing them. “You stay right here, pet, no running away,” he says to the guy at the table, and Dean’s skin doesn’t just jump, it crawls and tries to escape out a window.

Sam gives Dean an apologetic glance that Dean doesn’t bother to answer. Nobody else so much as looks at him as they weave their way through the tables, leaving him standing at the edge and looking out over the chandeliers and the white tablecloths and the exuberance of cutlery. It's probably even silver, because at a shindig like this Dean is pretty sure that no werewolves, even the rehabilitated ones, would dare apply.

As they’re walking away, Lucifer’s hand doesn’t stay on Sam’s shoulder. It comes down, and over, until Lucifer’s leading Sam away with a hand on the small of his back.

Uh-huh. Yep.

Dean’s lip curls. He’s not being a homophobe. Dean’s a fucking bisexual with very effective creepdar, and if Sam doesn’t want to read the writing on the wall, well, he can pretend it’s Aramaic until Lucifer’s hand lands on his ass, for all Dean cares. His little brother wants to be a fucking adult? Let him be one, and then throw the first punch at his wannabe-boss’s sexual harassment suit.

But none of that helps the fact that Lucifer is groping at Sam and everyone’s watching it happen, all while Lucifer’s date is sitting stock-still at the table in front of Dean, hands folded together at the edge of the table, staring blankly at nothing at all.

None of what’s going on now is actually Dean’s fault. He should just go, and not get involved—no matter what Ruby said. Maybe because of what Ruby said. Dean’s a grade-A asshole, he knows he is, but it’s none of his business.

But even though he didn’t have anything to do with how this nonsense went down, he feels kind of bad for the dude. No one, man or woman or space alien or whatever, deserves to be humiliated like that. The guy is still looking straight ahead, into the middle space, like maybe he can will himself through the walls if he tries hard enough. (Mages can’t teleport. More’s the pity; now that’d be useful.)

Hell, if Dean had seen this situation happen to a girl at a bar, would he have gone over and sat with her, waggled his eyebrows and given her his best smile even if he had no intentions of taking her home? Yeah, he would’ve. What difference does this make that it’s a fancy corporate party? Humiliation tastes just as bitter when it’s wrapped up in red wine rather than beer. Maybe worse.

Dean scrubs a hand at the back of his neck, but it just ends up rubbing the collar of his suit jacket. Shit, he hates the monkey suits. “I’m sorry, uh, about that,” he stumbles out. “And your, uh… partner? Lucifer. I swear, Sam really doesn’t mean anything by it—he’s straight, he just—he’s really just in this for the whole business deal.”

The man turns towards him, as if surprised Dean’s still standing there, and his eyes widen just a hint. “My… oh. No, no,” he says. He sits up in his chair, and his voice slants lower, almost into a growl; the sound of it tingles down Dean’s spine, and all of a sudden this trodden-down dude has eyes that almost flash electricity, they’re so blue. “No,” he repeats firmly. “I’m not worried about that at all. Lucifer can do whatever he wants. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

Yeah, Dean’s heard that song before. Hell, he’s probably even sang it before. “Trouble in paradise?” he asks with a hint of sympathy, despite the fact that not two seconds ago he’s pretty sure he was determined to not get involved. But, he reasons, it doesn’t hurt to get some dirt on Lucifer. Dean’s solved more cases through gossip over beers at local watering holes than crouched over library microfiche stacks.

The guy’s laugh is low, grumbly, and short; there isn’t much to it that sounds like humor. “That would depend on what you mean by paradise,” he answers. “I was tricked into partnering with Lucifer. That does not make me his… his partner.” Then he blinks, wrinkling the tip of his nose. The expression is totally incongruous with the scowl and the pouty arc of his mouth, and it’d be cute if he weren’t so… so… okay, it’s still cute. “I realize that statement may not make sense, but nevertheless, it’s true.”

Oh-kay. There’s a whole airplane’s worth of baggage in that statement that Dean just does not have the bandwidth to try to unload, so he’s just… not gonna. “Yeah, uh, okay. I… sorry to bother you, man,” he says awkwardly, and starts trying to back away, turning sideways like he can make himself a smaller target. Maybe he can go load up on whiskey at the other end of the bar and eavesdrop on the whole ‘courting’ business. Yeah, that’s starting to seem like a better and better idea—he’s sure that’s an open bar.

“You’re Dean Winchester,” the guy says, like a roll of thunder. It’s not a question, and Dean pauses, turning his body back towards him.

“I, uh… yeah. Yeah, I am,” Dean answers, surprised. “Do I…” The man has his chin tilted up, now, proud. He’s got gorgeous high cheekbones. Surprisingly, either he hasn’t brushed his hair or there have been fingers running through it, since there’s a small tuft of it sticking straight up. Dean really wants to lick his thumb and slick it down.

(Okay, what? Yeah, not now, Winchester. No spit-smoothing out the goddamned mage in a suit, what the hell.)

“I don’t know you, do I?” he concludes—though, reluctantly. Dean is very sure he’d remember eyes that blue. He’s always had a thing for a pair of pretty eyes. “Oh. Yeah, of course, right.” He laughs, a little embarrassed. “Guess you might’ve figured out that I’m Sam Winchester’s brother.” He nods in the direction of the long bar toward the edge of the hall.

Of course. Because everyone’s heard of Sammy—the prodigy mage. He and Sam don’t look alike, but they came in together.

That’s what it’s been like since Sam’s power woke up and said hello back when he was a chubby twelve-year-old; that’s why Dean ended up dropping out of school when he was sixteen, and started working to make it all happen. Sam needed one of those specialized private mage schools, and Dad wasn’t going to be the one to take care of it.

Dean’s as null as the sole of a shoe, but Sam’s always been the special one, and someone had to make sure he got what he needed for it. Dad was afraid of what he’d become, but Dean never was. How could he be? It’s Sammy.

“Oh. Is that who that is?” the guy says absently, not even glancing in Sam’s direction at the end of the bar, and Dean blinks harder. “I’ve heard of him, I suppose, but he and I haven’t been introduced.”

“Oh,” Dean says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. Not least because he knows nothing about manners, but the fact that Lucifer and Ruby basically dumped Dean in this guy’s lap and didn’t bother to introduce Sam to him? That seems rude even by his standards. “That’s, uh, yeah. That’s Sam. He’s a big deal.”

It’s not that Dean’s not proud. Fuck, Sam made it all the way here—he’s the kind of mage that the most exclusive mage-corps in the United States are drooling over. He gets featured in magazines, and now and again even gets recognized when they’re at some fancy restaurant (though not at the dive bars that Dean drags them to. Someone’s gotta keep Sam humble and Dean can still consistently kick his ass at pool). Fuck, Dean is proud—he’s so proud, even if it means there are skeezes like Lucifer sniffing around these days.

Dean doesn’t know why now, of all moments, is when that aches just a little in the pit of his stomach. Because of course it’s all about Sam. Always has been. And in a place like this? Shit, no one’s gonna see Dean. That’s the point.

But Lucifer’s date—not husband; he’s not wearing a ring, and it’s not that Dean was checking—is still sitting, still looking up at Dean’s face like turning at that angle isn’t uncomfortable. “Yes, he’s considered the most promising of the candidates for recruitment here today. And you’re Dean, the hunter,” he says. “I recognized your…” He flicks his fingers in the direction of Dean’s hip.

Dean doesn’t know why he reaches his own hand there, to check what in the world the guy’s talking about. He gets kind of flustered around handsome guys sometimes—girls are easy, girls are sweet, but guys make him sweat. Both in the good way and the bad way, and there’s no getting around the fact that this guy is a serious A , with those eyes, a fine line to his jaw that’s made for a tongue, and lips that are made to deliver.

Dean’s palm brushes against the familiar, skin-warm pearl-cool of his gun, and he remembers he's carrying. Because of course he is, he always is. Fuck, what’s wrong with him? “Oh! Oh, yeah. Yeah, I… y’know.” He chuckles weakly and thumbs the butt of his M1911. “Locked and loaded. Gotta protect my little brother’s virtue somehow, right?”

What the hell is Dean even saying? He can’t even pretend that was smooth.

And he should sure as hell not worry about being smooth around some other guy’s date, what the fuck. No matter how intensely the guy is staring at him.

“I really hope you’re not planning to use that,” the guy says seriously. “If you’re planning to shoot Lucifer, you’re going to need something much more effective than… what is it you’re carrying—silver, salt and holy water? That would just irritate him. He has extremely good wards.”

“I don’t, uh, that’s not, I—uh, yeah, actually…” Dean trails off before he can even say he was kidding. Because what is even happening here? The whole thing about ‘not my partner if I was tricked into it’ was weird, but are they really talking about shooting Lucifer? “How’d you know, man?”

“The odor. The combination of holy water and silver is very astringent,” the guy answers seriously. Dean blinks. “Would you like to sit down?” he invites, gesturing at the now-empty seat beside him. Well, not exactly empty: there’s a beige men’s trench coat draped over the back. Lucifer’s, then—what, too good for a coat check? But there’s no wine poured and the plates are empty. “I don’t think they’re going to be back for a while, and looking up at you to speak is giving me a crack in my neck.” He frowns. “No. That’s not right. A crick?”

“Um, sure, I guess,” Dean says. Because what else is he supposed to say? Standing and staring down at him like this is pretty weird. If Lucifer’s gonna ditch his date, hell yeah Dean’s going to sit in his seat. He yanks out the chair and settles in, tucking his knees under the table.

It’s actually comfortable—which he didn’t expect, at a place like this—and Dean only bumps his knee against the table leg once, setting everything to jittering. “Shit, I—” he reaches out to steady a wine glass before it topples.

“Don’t worry about it,” the guy says, one hand steadying the water glass before he turns his whole body in Dean’s direction, leaving one of his knees resting close enough to Dean’s that he can almost feel the warmth of it. “Hello, Dean,” he says, in that soft, low, raspy voice. “I’m Castiel.”

And, well. Dean knows that name. Everyone knows that name.

“Oh,” Dean blurts, his eyes going wide. “Holy shit, man. Wait. You’re… really?”

“Yes. Really.” Castiel—fucking Castiel—blinks at him, and cocks his head. “Did I say something worth an expletive?”

“No. I mean… yeah, I…” Dean says weakly. “I just, uh, I’ve heard of you.” He didn’t know Castiel was romantically involved with fucking Lucifer. Dean has a vague enough knowledge of mage corporations and mage-politics—fortunately, that shit doesn’t affect his day-to-day much—but he sure as hell doesn’t pay much attention to the gossip sheets that some people treat as a religion.

Castiel tilts a frown at him. “You have? Why?”

Why? Jesus. Castiel and the kind of things he handles is one of the big reasons Sam’s even looking at Broken Seals Corporation. Dean glances up jerkily at his brother, but Sam’s still occupied at the bar. Why the hell wouldn’t Lucifer introduce him to this guy, though? There’s something fishy here, and Dean doesn’t know what. “The, um, aren’t you the guy who takes care of those really tough cases? The demon deal ones, the big-ass, world-ending, apocalypse type shit.”

“Ah. Yes,” Castiel says simply.

None of that explains why Dean, in his infinite grace, lets “Y’know, I thought you’d be taller,” slip out. He bites down on his lower lip before he adds, “and better dressed’. Even Ruby’s shoes, those black talon-heels with the red soles, were something that Dean recognized—to say nothing of Lucifer’s bespoke suit.

Castiel? Castiel’s suit jacket is too big for him, his tie is crooked, and Dean would put money on it being made of polyester, not silk.

Then again, Lucifer’s coat, still draped carelessly over the back of Dean’s chair, is a beige blocky trench that wouldn’t have gotten lost in the 80s, so what does Dean know about fashion?

The crown jewel in the Broken Seals Corporation’s stable of professional mages blinks at Dean, electric-blue eyes narrowing. “I’m a very adequate height. Above average. I’ve never had any complaints about it,” he says disapprovingly.

“Uh, yeah, of course, I… of course,” Dean babbles. Then clears his throat. Jesus fucking Christ. Thank God Sammy isn’t paying any attention to Dean. Thank God Bobby is nowhere near. Dean can hear his godfather cackling without so much as a smidge of sympathy from across the entire damned city.

Shit, okay, Dean needs to just pull his bullshit together. Ruby totally did this on purpose—though if she’s trying to sabotage Sam by making his big brother look like an ass in front of one of the city’s most famous mages, well, she’s doing a bang-up job of that, too.

Castiel is still staring down his nose at Dean like he’s somehow grown six inches taller. It’s almost intimidating. Huh.

“I, just, y’know,” Dean murmurs, licking his lips. “Really, uh, that thing you did with the Uriel mage-storm was pretty badass.” Because the kind of caster who can draw up a set of sigils that stopped a magically-induced hurricane before it ate Wisconsin? Yeah, badass is one way to put it. “And that Leviathan spell that got miscast and started poisoning the water supply.”

Castiel blinks at him, his ire settling, then shuffles in his seat, his shoulders dipping again into peacefulness. “I see. Thank you,” he says simply. “That’s how I know of you, too, you know. The tough cases.”

“Huh? Me?” Dean blurts, surprised. He doesn’t truck with demon deals and dimensional tears and shit like that— he’s small peas. Especially now that demons can be legal citizens and all. Dean only gets to stab the ones that go rogue. (He’s got sort of mixed feelings about Crowley, but he really, really hopes Ruby goes rogue.) “Nah. You must be thinking of Sam. You got the wrong Winchester, buddy.”

“I’m very sure I don’t,” Castiel says, frowning and cocking his head to the side. When he frowns, his eyes squint a little, like he’s trying to peer right into Dean’s brain. “You are the one who spearheaded the efforts to shut down the Styne family, aren’t you?”

“I mean… yeah, I, uh, I guess,” Dean says uncomfortably. He’s made a name for himself in the hunter community, but how the hell does fucking Castiel know about that? He’s hot shit. This is a guy who finds the loopholes in thousand-page demon contracts and bypasses weather systems. What’s one—admittedly, very corrupt—family of witchy murderers to someone like him? “Didn’t do it on my own, though, it was a whole… y’know.” He shifts in his seat. “It was a team effort.” That was one of those cases that Dean would have taken even if there hadn’t been a registered bounty out for it. In the end, Sam helped, all off the books, and he even managed to get Rowena on their side without an exorbitant mark-up of her normal fees. The Stynes still put Charlie in the hospital in the doing, and Dean’s not at all sorry they’re dead.

“They were horrible, and their practices needed to be shut down. I would have liked to help,” Castiel says with a sigh, studying his fingers where they’re folded together. Dean stands by his earlier verbal diarrhea, even if it was rude: Castiel looks smaller when he’s sitting with his shoulders hunched together like that. But his hands, sitting on the white tablecloth, are big, with heavy knuckles, blunt fingers. “I asked if I could, but it was ‘not in line with current workflow.’”

That leaves Dean blinking even faster, and not just because of the dorky air quotes that Castiel tossed up there. A mage wanting to help with the kind of stuff that Dean does? Like, out in the field? Okay, that’s a hell of a sentiment. Mages make pacts and policy. They don’t do the dirty work. If they were down to get their hands into the mud and the blood, they’d have probably become witches instead. “That’s, uh… that’s very kind of you,” Dean says, and means it. “But, y’know, you do a whole lot already.”

Castiel’s mouth moves in a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “For the corporation,” he answers. “For things that we are… hired for. Government work. Contracts. It is, at the end of the day, meant to be a profitable entity.” His nose scrunches just slightly. “I wish I could do more.”

There’s enough wistfulness in it—and, shit, Dean knows the sound of wistfulness better than he likes—that Dean finds himself asking quietly, “So, uh… why don’t you?”

Castiel says, “I can’t.”

Just like that. A hard, stone-drop finality, the edge of his jaw going fast and firm. The soft curve of his lips whitens where they press together.

It’s a startlingly heavy conversation for someone whose last name Dean doesn’t even know. (Does he have a last name? Considering that his boyfriend doesn’t, that would make them a hell of a pair.) But before he can fumble around for something else to talk about—or, hell, make his escape, because Dean knows the smell of what he just stepped in, and he’s not interested in pissing off Lucifer’s boyfriend even if Luci and the guy are weirdly on the rocks—a server swoops up behind them.

“Sir, are you ready for dinner?” he inquires. (He doesn’t even glance at Dean. Figures.)

“Would you like dinner, Dean?” Castiel says, turning his head to look at him as if Dean’s opinion even matters. “It’s being catered by…” his eyebrows tilt together just slightly, and his head bops just a little bit to the side.  “Well, I don’t remember.”

“Mxyil, sir,” the server says, the corners of his mouth telling a whole story about how Castiel here shouldn’t have forgotten something like that. At least Dean isn’t the only one stepping in it tonight.

“Gesundheit,” Dean says, grinning, because he just can’t help himself. “Or that backwards guy from Superman—which is it?”

The server and Castiel look at him like he’s from another planet.

But Castiel’s mouth is the only one that quirks up at the corners. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says pleasantly, “But I’m sure it’ll be very fancy.”

He says it like he really doesn’t give a shit one way or another, though, and Dean’s not sure why that relaxes his back, considering that their server is now looking at both of them like one of them dropped trou and is about to poop on his shoes. Maybe ‘cause Dean’s used to fancy people looking at him like that.

“Sure, I could eat,” Dean says carefully, and he lets his legs relax from where he was already gearing up to slip away from the table. He glances up. Most of the other people in the room are settling around tables too, but Sam, Lucifer and Ruby are still tied up in each other at the bar. Sam throws back his head and laughs, his hands flying. Dean looks away as Ruby puts her hand on his shoulder. “You, uh, sure you want me to stay?”

It hasn’t slipped his notice that this table’s a four-top. Not five. And he’s willing to bet that if someone was going to be shuttled off to the maiden aunt table, it wasn’t gonna be Ruby.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Castiel says, blinking. To Dean’s surprise, a small smile tickles further up the corners of his mouth. “You’re already more interesting company than I’ve had in years. Certainly the kindest.”

Dean snorts. “If that’s true, then buddy, you need better friends.” And probably better taste in men, come to think, but Dean’s not going to tell him that.

“Mages don’t make friends, Dean. They make ‘deals’,” Castiel snorts.

With the air quotes again. Well, holy shit. Dean rubs his mouth to hide his smile. (Okay, what can he say? He knows that mages are people as much as anything else: even Sammy can be as big a nerd as ever nerded. Dean just didn’t expect one of the most powerful mages in the Western hemisphere to be dorky and cute.)

“Well, have it your way, then. You gonna be pissed if I order a beer to go with dinner?” he asks curiously. From the flicker of their server’s expression and the little grunt he lets out, Dean knows that someone’s going to be judging him, but what the hell. He put on the monkey suit, he’s dancing the dance and walking the walk, but he’s gonna drink what he likes. “’Cause lemme tell you, I ain’t fancy, and I never got the taste for rotten grape juice.”

“I don’t have an opinion on what kind of alcohol you take with dinner,” Castiel answers placidly. “I’ll try some, too. But it takes a lot to get me drunk.”

The options that they’re given by the now sour-faced server aren’t anything that Dean recognizes. But, what the heck, he’ll drink a beer that calls itself Daisy Cutter. Dean chuckles as the guy stalks away, his shoulders stiff under his suit jacket. “Are we gonna wanna be drunk by the end of tonight?” he teases. He even halfway means it.

“We should take it under advisement,” Castiel says, with an intense seriousness of his mouth but a furrow of humor between his blue, blue eyes. “This is a terrible party, and drunkenness could only improve it. But I think you’re probably the only one here who would be safe for me to be drunk around.” He tilts his chin in the direction of the bar, but his eyes don’t leave Dean’s. “Perhaps your brother. He does seem like a nice man.”

“He is a nice man, though I’ll deny it if you tell him I said that,” Dean answers, then shakes his head, laughing. “He’s going to lose his shit when he meets you, though. You’re, like, his hero.”

“I’m no one’s hero,” Castiel says, very seriously. “I admire you, Dean. You have a very storied career as a hunter, and you do it without occult abilities. What I do comes at very little personal risk.”

“Other than, y’know, burnout,” Dean points out wryly. Using so much magic and spellpower that it burns out not just the mage’s magic, but their brain and possibly their soul seems like a pretty fucking big ‘personal risk’ to Dean. “Or demons twisting the terms of a deal.”

Compared to that, Dean doesn’t know what’s all that ‘storied’ about getting his ass knocked around.

“I’m not at much risk for burnout,” Castiel points out, serene as all fuck. “I’m extremely powerful. And demons are afraid of me.”

It’s probably even true, given the guy’s reputation, but damn. “Pretty sure of yourself, huh?” Dean asks, sinking back in his chair with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. But he’s grinning. What? He likes a little confidence, a little swagger, and seeing it coming out of this scruffy, fluffy, blue-eyed dude in a bad suit? He’s kinda into it.

Except he shouldn’t be. Really, what the fuck is Dean doing?

But before he has to redirect, their snooty server is back with their drinks, and their plates. (And glasses for the beer, because of course this is the kind of place where they can’t drink from the bottle. Dean has to give him this: he waited tables and served bar to make ends meet before Sam graduated high school, and he knows how hard it is to balance that many things all at once and make it look graceful. Because he’s not completely an ass, he doesn’t ask if he can just drink from the bottle anyway.)

The sweet, familiar glug of beer going into glasses—frosted with cold, because, again, that kind of place—makes him smile, watching the golden flow being tipped out of the bottles and the thick foamy head building against the chilled sides. Oh, yeah, that’s the stuff. He doesn’t even mind that of course Castiel gets his drink poured out before Dean does.

It distracts him for long enough that he almost doesn’t notice what else is in front of him.

Until he does.

“What… is it?” Dean asks, confused, staring down at his plate. They took the gold-ringed plate away—empty—and replaced it with another, bigger one. There’re two or three long strips of rabbit food on it, but they’re all burnt at the edges like they fell into a fire and someone just remembered to pull them out. A sunny yellow sphere sits on top of the pile. On the right side perch four creamy white circles, each with a tiny square of bread smaller than Dean’s pinky fingernail in the middle. On the left, surrounded by clear yellow gumdrops, a sad flop of something brown is curled into a… is that a tiny rosebud?

Is it food? It looks like something that should be hanging up on the wall of an art exhibit. Maybe. For sure, there’s way too much plate going on, a big moon of pure white porcelain dotted with a few craters.

“Your salad course,” their server says. “Deconstructed Caesar salad.”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes. He holds out a hand before the guy escapes. “You’re gonna have to give us more than that, man.”

“Scorched heirloom lettuce, lemon gelée, Parmesan aioli, peppered croutons, Araucana egg, and milk-soaked Agostino Recca,” the server answers in a flat voice, face pinching. And with that, he turns and swans off with a sniff. As if he didn’t just rattle off a completely impenetrable list of what sounded a bit like Italian.

“Hmm,” Castiel says, which, yeah, that’s about right.

“You said it, man,” Dean agrees. He pokes the yellow ball with the tip of his fork warily, and watches it ooze all over the limp, scorched greenery.

“I believe that’s a raw egg yolk,” Castiel says helpfully, and lifts the brown strip at the edge of his plate, unwinding it from its coil. “And this is a…” he bends in and sniffs it delicately. “An anchovy.” He studies the thing dangling from his fork with a suspicious squint.

“Oh, God,” Dean says, horrified. “Are they trying to poison us?”

“Anchovies historically used to be considered an aphrodisiac, you know,” Castiel informs him, glancing up. “Or, at least, when eaten raw.”

Okay, that breaks through Dean’s paralyzed horror at the fact that the salad in front of him is an edible art deco, laughter sneaking out between his teeth. “Dude. What?”

“Maybe that’s the purpose they’re on the plate, here,” Castiel continues, letting the unrecognizable fish droop back onto the plate in a sad brown fold. “Like… like oysters.”

“I’m not a fan of those either,” Dean admits. And he sure doesn’t need to eat something that looks like it should be coming out of a body. “I don’t need any help on the aphrodisiac front, and I sure as hell don’t need it from anchovies.”

Okay, why the hell did he just say that.

“No, I imagine you don’t,” Castiel answers without looking up, prodding at one of the little bright yellow gumdrops before lifting it up and putting it on the very tip of his tongue, like a kid swallowing a pill. Okay, his tongue is… long. “You seem very virile… oh.” He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “That’s unpleasantly acidic. It must be the lemon gelée.”

Dean drowns his response to all that in a big gulp of beer.

Then pauses, the cold, frosted glass still lifted to his lips. “Oh. Huh.”

Castiel blinks at him. “What is it?”

The beer, because one thing has to go right tonight, is really fucking delicious: it’s not sweet or heavy or acidic. It tastes clean and bright, grassy and fruity in just the right way, like eating a tangerine in a field on a summer day. “S’good,” Dean mumbles, and takes another, smaller sip.

Castiel nods and mimics him, lifting his beer glass with both hands to bring it towards him. He sniffs it first: figures that he’s one of those. But he drinks with what looks like very real pleasure, licking his lips after. “Yes. The esters are very pleasant,” Castiel says thoughtfully.

Dean gets distracted from asking what the hell an ester is—it sounds like something out of Final Fantasy, and he’s sure that’s not right—because Castiel’s got a smear of foam lingering on the tip of his nose. After an awkward series of gestures and a few, “Uh, man, you got… no, to the right—no, what? You don’t have anything on your ear, how would you even…?” Dean just reaches out with his thumb and wipes it off for him.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, as seriously as if Dean banished a ghost for him.

“No problem, Cas.” Okay, so, very powerful, a little weird, and a bit hopeless. Dean can’t help but smile helplessly. Sammy’s not going to believe this.

“Cas,” Castiel says, thoughtfully. And before Dean can panic about maybe being spelled into a toad (yes, he knows mages don’t do that, that’s witches, but that doesn’t mean they can’t) he smiles back—tiny and shy. “Is that a nickname? I’ve never had a nickname.”

Dean doesn’t mention the fact that Lucifer called him ‘pet’. “Yeah, uh, I guess.”

“I like it,” Castiel—Cas—says, and applies himself to another big gulp of his beer.

Okay, so Dean sort of likes this guy.

(Neither of them like the ‘salad’, if it can even be called that.)

By about the… sixth? Seventh? course, Dean realizes that what’s going on here is either the most elaborate joke in the history of parties, or everyone else is brainwashed and severely fucked. Because everyone around them seems to be enjoying their food, and Dean’s looked around more than once: it’s not like someone’s punishing them in particular, everyone’s getting the same thing that they are.

Which is… not food.

It’s paper-thin wafers of what turn out to be pressed fish, the plate streaked with several smears in a couple of colors. It’s the tiniest little fronds of ‘fiddleheads’ (Dean thinks it sounds like something that he should be hunting; Cas agrees, but he tells him that they’re baby ferns. Why is anyone eating a fern?) sprinkled with pepper and vinegar and giant crystals of salt, arranged in a complicated and tasteless mandala.

There’s one course—if someone can call it a course—that’s entirely composed of foam.

“This reminds me of the spume that’s created when an undersea volcano erupts,” Cas informs Dean thoughtfully.

“Yeah, okay, if you say so,” Dean answers, grinning. “I was thinkin’ what comes up after you’re so hung over there ain’t nothin’ to throw up anymore.”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “I like mine better,” he announces.

And there’s no reasonable explanation for why it’s taking long stretches of time between when these offerings arrive, because eating them takes, like, seconds, even when Dean can make himself choke them down. He’s pretty sure everyone else must have eaten before they got here, or else the kitchen’s trying to drive them away by pure attrition.

So Dean has no explanation—none whatsoever—for why the hell he’s having so much fun.

“So, wait, you’re tellin’ me…” he chortles, putting his forehead down onto his palm (and his elbow onto the table, but what the hell, Cas doesn’t seem to care that Dean has no manners). “You didn’t know how to use a cellphone? You thought there was a real voice telling you you were running out of minutes?”

“It’s not my fault! It was right after I arrived, and the technology was new to me. We don’t have them in… in…” Castiel’s mouth moves without words for a moment, and his mouth goes tight in a way that makes the laughter drain out of Dean’s mouth. “Where… where I come from,” he finishes, looking tired, the shadows under his eyes deepening.

Dean doesn’t actually know where Castiel came from—he really doesn’t follow the gossip that closely—but he knows bad news bears when he hears it. “Hey, uh… sorry. Didn’t mean to… it was just funny,” Dean finishes lamely. He can just imagine it, too—calling the guy’s cellphone, and hearing something like, “This is Castiel’s voicemail. Make your voice… a mail.”

Not that he is going to be calling his cellphone, but, well.

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel answers. He shakes his head sharply enough it makes Dean’s neck pop to think about it, “I just can’t talk about it.”

“I hear that,” Dean says with a sigh. He’s not even sure why he’s saying it—sure as hell Castiel, of all people, doesn’t need any affirmation from a line grunt who makes a living off monster bounties—but he says, “Look, man, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

And not just because Sam pretty literally abandoned him to get trashed with his boss-to-be and his boss-to-be’s whatever-she-is. Cas knows more random shit than Dean has ever heard of—which is amazing. He’s also a little sarcastic, a lot bitchy, and funny.

Castiel glances up and blinks at him like no one’s ever said that. Which seems fucking impossible, since the guy stops natural disasters, but, well.

Whatever Dean might say to stick his foot even further into his mouth is staved off by tiny bowls being put in front of them. It looks like about a tablespoon of something green, sitting in a pool of… is that smoke? Well, it’s cold. Oh, dry ice.

“Shiso granita,” the server intones.

Like he’s been doing for most of the night, Dean glances at Castiel.

“It’s a Japanese herb,” Castiel says. “I believe…” he bends over and sniffs at his little cup again, which really does seem to be a thing that he does. “It’s been ground up and frozen into ice.”

“Wow, dessert before the main course?” Dean asks, shaking his head and patting the tiny mound of frozen green shit with the back of an equally tiny spoon. “This fancy food thing is weird as crap.”

The server’s eyebrows wrinkle disapprovingly at him. “You’ve had your main course, sir.”

Dean looks up so quickly that his neck creaks. His stomach growls in protest. That can’t be right. Yeah, he’s having a good time, but he’s still starving. “Whoa, wait, what?” he blurts.

“I believe it was the one with the two sauces. And the droplets made out of beef extract?” Castiel informs him. The server nods, mouth in a tight line like he’s about to challenge Dean to pistols at dawn—until Castiel turns that focused, azure attention onto him. “The kine weren’t free-range Kobe, as you claimed, though,” he says, his blue eyes narrowing to slits. All of a sudden, when he sits up a little straighter, he looks bigger again—and it might just be Dean’s imagination that the lights on their table’s centerpiece flickers hard once. “The extract was from factory-bred cows who have lived quite restricted lives. So either you were misled, or you were misleading us.”

Yep. Again with the bitchy.

Their snotty server apparently has no idea what to say to that, because he flees without another word, his face pale.

Cas, glaring after him, takes a sulky spoonful of the green herby frozen thing in front of him and sticks it fiercely into his mouth. Then his entire face screws up. “This,” he pronounces, now glaring at the bowl like he’s going to light it on fire, “might be the most awful molecules I’ve ever had.” He looks around accusingly. “I need more beer.”

Dean keeps it together for about… two seconds.

But in the end, he laughs so hard he has to put his head down on the table. “Holy shit, man. You are awesome,” he wheezes into the white, unstained tablecloth—because they haven’t been given enough food the whole damned night to stain it. “Oh my God. Never change, Cas.”

When he finally lifts his head again, Cas still looks confused, with that crinkle between his eyebrows that Dean’s gotten very familiar with over the course of the night. But the confusion is being colored by a tiny smile curling at the corners of his lips, too. “At least the company is excellent, even if the molecules are disgusting,” Castiel says ruefully. “But I would much rather have gotten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“Hell, yeah. Amen,” Dean says fervently—then wrinkles his nose back. “Except I’m pretty damned sure they would have found some way to, I dunno, deconstruct it.”

“Oh,” Castiel agrees sadly. “You’re right.”

Dean has no idea why, looking at the mournful little pout of those full lips, he says, “You know what? Let’s get out of here. Let me take you for burgers, man. There’s this place right on the Embarcadero—Red’s Java House.” He kisses the tips of his fingers enthusiastically. “Right at the waterside. Hey, it’s just like me—doesn’t look like much, nothing fancy to distract the tongue, but damn, it's a good time.”

And if it’s got a pretty damned romantic view of the bridge, especially when it’s got all the lights going, well.

But all the joy and all the liveliness and all the life drains out of Castiel’s expression at Dean’s words. His gaze clings onto Dean’s, the way it has for most of the night, but only for a moment longer before his eyes droop, shaded by thick dark lashes.

It’s not flirty. It’s not anything, because all of a sudden, Cas doesn’t have an expression on anymore.

“I’d like… I’d want that. I’d love to. But… but I can’t,” he says, flat and stark, looking down at the bowl of awful frozen herb ice. “I can’t.”

And that’s when Dean’s brain comes back online with a reboot as painful as the long-ago sound of a modem connecting. That’s when he remembers who he is. That’s when he remembers who Castiel is.

This isn’t a date—even though it really feels like it. This isn’t commiseration over the worst restaurant choice ever because they chose to come to it together.

Fuck, Castiel isn’t just a powerful celebrity mage—he’s someone else’s guy.

Dean’s stomach plunges so deep and so sharply he’s on his feet before he even cogs onto the nausea. He almost knocks his chair backwards, he flings it back so hard, and only Cas’s hand jerking out to catch it—he’s also proved he has surprisingly good reflexes, for a scribbler—keeps it from ending up on the floor. The thin brown coat draped over the back—Dean assumed it was Lucifer’s, because he’s pretty sure Ruby would never be caught dead in something that could be called beige—wobbles once before it goes sagging sadly to the ground.

Dean doesn’t know why Lucifer left his coat draped over the back of his chair, but he’s sure it’s expensive as shit, and wow, he’s sure determined to mess things up now.

“Oh. Uh, crap. Yeah.” Dean really can’t do anything right today, can he? He scoops the coat back up. “So, uh, is Lucifer gonna put out a hit on me?” He pats the cloth hurriedly down, but it doesn’t look like any stains or dirt got anywhere. Not that that means much of anything—Dean frowns as he holds it out, looking at the boxy, wrinkly drape of it. “I mean, it’s already ugly as shit,” he concludes. “I guess a little dirt probably wouldn’t hurt it, but Luci seems like the kind who’d care.”

“N-“ Castiel starts, but then trails off. “No,” he says, but his eyes are fixed on the coat in Dean’s hand—as vividly and as intently as he’s been looking at Dean the whole night. “It’s… that’s… that’s mine. It’s very precious to me.”

Wow. Dean really couldn’t fuck this up any harder, could he?

“Oh. Uh, yeah…” he blurts. “Oh. I mean, I bet it’s… warm? Here, yeah, you should have it back, then.” He drapes it hurriedly over the back of Castiel’s chair, giving it two firm pats for good measure. “Real cozy, yup.”

The guy just stares at him, all wide blue eyes and an earnestness that tucks deep, sticky fingers into Dean’s soul, like they’re never going to let go. There’s no answer. Because of course there’s no answer. Dean’s own awkwardness punches him in the nose. What the fuck is he doing?

“Anyway, I, um, I’ll… I’m gonna get myself another beer.” Or something stronger. “D’you want a drink? I’m—" He staggers back from the table and almost trips on his way off.

“Yes,” Castiel answers vaguely, still staring at Dean like he’s staring into his soul. “A… a coffee? I’d like that. I like coffee. Even if it tastes mostly like melanoidins.”

O-kay then.

But when Dean gets back to the table with two coffees in tiny little cups in his hands—because Dean has realized he probably should not be drinking any more alcohol, and he definitely pissed someone off by storming up to the back to ask for the coffees, though of course they only had espresso—Castiel is gone.

Sam’s one big ball of sunshine and tipsy glitter when Dean gathers him up, not long after. Yeah, Sam’s gonna get offered the corporation mage job for sure. And the numbers on the sign-on bonus make Dean’s head spin. Holy fuck, that’s a lot of money.

Sam doesn’t seem to notice that Dean barely says one word before he drops his brother home.

*_*_*_*

Dean’s still hung over when there’s a polite—and very insistent—tapping on the front door the next morning. So that’s Dean’s only excuse for showing up at the door wearing nothing but plaid pajama pants and a fluffy, ugly grey robe that he ‘liberated’ from a haunted hotel that they cleared a few years ago.

“Garth, you coulda just left the package, geez, you know no one in the area’s gonna steal—” he starts to grouch at Garth, his hunter supply delivery guy. Why Garth always knocks when Dean’s got an honest-to-god doorbell—

It’s not Garth.

 “Wha—” Dean blurts, staring wide-eyed at fucking Castiel. Standing on his porch.

What in the name of—

He’s wearing the ugly brown coat, but under it, his shoulders are straight and thrown back, his chin held high and proud. Standing, he looks taller than he did the night before—he’s probably just an inch or two shorter than Dean, if even that. But there’s something…

It’s not the way the sunlight sparks off his dark hair, giving it highlights of brown, or the way he’s got more color in his cheeks and his lips than the fluorescents gave him the night before. It’s not the way the morning sky frames the line of his jaw, where he’s got just the perfect scrape of scruff. He’s smiling, soft and pink, creases lingering around the corners of his eyes, and his eyes are so, so, so much bluer than Dean’s memory gave them credit for—deep enough to drown in.

Or it’s not just any of those things.

He looks really good, Dean’s morning woodie cheerfully concludes. Even if he seems to be wearing the exact same suit.

Dean tells his libido to shut the fuck up and pulls his robe closed tighter.

“Hi?” he says, bewildered. The guy booked it last night away from Dean’s awkwardness, and Dean can’t even blame him, but how does Castiel know where he lives? “Uh—"

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answers, and, whoa. His voice is even deeper and rougher than Dean remembered, too—raspy enough to run fingers up and down Dean’s spine. “This is for you,” he says shyly, and proffers something in Dean’s direction.

Dean looks down at the jet-black feather in Cas’s hand. Except the more he looks at it, the more it’s obvious that it’s not black any more than an oil spill is black; it’s deeper and darker than that, shifting through shades like the ocean at midnight.

It’s… pretty. Okay, Dean has no idea why Cas is offering him a feather, but it is pretty.

“Um…” He doesn’t even know why his fingers automatically drift towards it, like he wants to take it. What the hell’s he going to do with a feather? But when his fingers are almost close enough to touch, there’s a delicate zing that’s as much a feeling as a sound, a visible tiny spark jumping from the tip of his finger to the feather—like static electricity.

He watches in shock as the color changes at the very tip, where that spark met. The black shimmers and catches the light—like glitter; a hint of pink or rose spreads through the darkness, maybe even a little blue?

Dean yanks his hand back hard. He knows more about magic than he likes, and that, that’s not just a feather.

“You returned my wings to me, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says in a soft, slow murmur, holding the feather further out, almost pushing it towards Dean’s hand. “I thought… I thought you might like a… a token of my favor? That’s what humans call it, isn’t it? Or, or would you prefer something else?” He blinks, looking hopeful.

Dean blinks back, his brain pulled away from the tiny little sparks of rainbows dripping off where the sun strokes gently over the feather. “A… what?”

And did Castiel say ‘humans’? What the—

“My coat is not just a coat,” Castiel says seriously, “and when you returned it to my chair—when you returned it to me—you freed me.”

Dean’s mouth drops open. He knew something was hinky. He knew it, but… “Lucifer. Fucking Lucifer had you geased?” he hisses. Dean might not know much about mage politics, but he’s taken down witches for less. Taking control of a person’s will is dark, dark magic, and really fucking illegal. It must have been tied to the coat, yeah, because command spells like that always have to be tied to an object: they’re evil enough that tying them to a person makes them go mad.

“I was… young, and willful,” Castiel sighs, his lips tightening. “I thought I knew best, and… well. He tricked me, and then it was too late.” He bobs his chin once. “But now I owe you my freedom. I thought… I thought I could be a hunter, until my debt is repaid? You could teach me.”

Dean blinks. “Huh?”

Castiel actually rolls his eyes, like Dean’s the one making no sense. “I’m bound to you until you release me, or until I pay my debt.” He offers the feather again, insistently.

“Oh, shit,” Dean whispers, his throat tightening sharply. “Shit, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” Mages and their rules are really fucking weird. Sam always warns him about it. They take things like debts and bindings and crap like that seriously—which, considering that so much of their magic is all about contracts, makes sense. “How do I… goddammit. You don’t owe me shit,” Dean says a little hopelessly. If this badass at one of the biggest mage-corporations in California can’t find a loophole in this, what the hell is one hunter supposed to do? “Can I just… say I release you? Uh, If I take the feather, does that undo you being, um, bound to me?”

To Dean’s surprise, though, the hopeful lift of Castiel’s eyebrows doesn’t rise further—it droops. His eyebrows tilt together, and it’s not the same as the confused, adorable little squint he was pointing at Dean last night. “You… don’t want me to be,” he says softly, the dark gravel of his voice going softer and softer until it’s footprints at midnight. His shoulders sag. “Oh.”

“Well, no, that’s not…” Shit, now Dean’s hurt his feelings. He doesn’t even know how he did, but he can see the glimpse of it in the way the line of his jaw has gone rigid. “I just, uh…”

But he trails off, because Dean does not claim to understand mage politics, but he sure as shit doesn’t want someone magically bound to him in any way, shape or form. Nope. So that part is true.

“I understand,” Castiel rumbles softly, taking a step back from the door. The hand holding the feather sags along with his posture. It falls to his side and into the shadow. The delicate sprays of rainbows coming off the tip of it fade into dull, matte grey. “Of course. It was a pleasure, regardless.”

And then, with a flap like laundry on the line, he’s—gone.

Just… gone, leaving Dean gaping.

Because mages can’t fucking teleport.

They can’t, right?

The feather doesn’t go with him. It drifts lazily through the air from hip level, rocking back and forth, before it comes to settle on the weather-worn slats of Dean’s porch.

Dean stares warily down at it before bending to pick it up, twirling it between his fingers by the stem. It’s huge, as long as his forearm, and warm—warmer than the day outside when he runs his fingertips carefully along its length. But other than that? It’s just a big, soft feather. It’s just shiny black again. Anything that looked like glitter or rainbows has gone right out of it.

Okay, what just happened?

Is it too early in the day to get drunk again?

*_*_*_*

Dean’s seriously still considering giving his coffee a hint of Irish flair when Sam comes barging through the door, not an hour later.

“Dean,” he says urgently, slamming both hands on the table and almost upsetting Dean’s overcooked scrambled eggs (he got a little too distracted while he was stirring the pan, okay?) “Oh my God. You were right, you were right.”

Dean is a big brother, and he can count the times he’s heard Sam willingly say that on one hand. But still, he cheerfully chirps, “Well yeah, of course I am.” Pause. “Since I’m always right, you’re going have to tell me what I was right about, though.”

“Broken Seals Corporation. Lucifer. Oh my God, Dean.”

Okay, that makes all of Dean’s hunter instincts sit up and pull out their pistols. “Okay, what did that fucker do to you?” he hisses, his fingers already itching for a weapon. Fuck that mage-ward business. Dean is a badass hunter, and if he can’t figure out a way to break Lucifer’s fancy-schmancy wards, well, then, he’ll hire Rowena to curse the asshole even if it cost him his soul to do it.

Sam stares at him as if Dean threatened him with full-fat pork bacon. “What?” he asks curiously. “He didn’t do anything to me. What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” Dean demands.

“Castiel,” Sam says, and Dean relaxes—if only a little.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees gruffly. “Yeah, I heard ‘bout some of that. That was real bullshit, and you know what? Pretty sure Luci-boy’s gonna go to Hell for it.” Actually, that’s not the worst idea in the world. Crowley does owe Dean a favor or two still…

“Oh, for sure,” Sam answers. “But he’s going to have to deal with this world, first: binding an eldritch being unwillingly is pretty much against any law that any mage can think of, and no lawyer is gonna get Lucifer out of that.” He shakes his head and makes a disgusted noise. “A tennin! No wonder Castiel was so powerful! I can’t believe I almost joined the corporation! I bought into the whole schtick. Do you think Ruby knew?”

For the second time today, Dean’s brain grinds to a halt. “What?”

“Keep up, Dean,” Sam says impatiently. “They’re trying to cover it up, but some kind of, of, spell went out to all the registered mages in California this morning. Woke us all up. Directly from Gabriel—Gabriel, can you believe it? He hasn’t been heard from in centuries! Because Castiel’s a tennin!” And when Dean just keeps staring, Sam scoffs. “Don’t pretend you don’t know the lore as well as I do. Probably better, in some ways.”

Tennin, tennin… it sounds vaguely familiar. Dean screws his forehead up, but the only thing that’s coming to mind is an illustrated drawing in one of Bobby’s books.

A delicate painting of a hot woman, naked, stretching up towards the sky. There are ribbons around her fingers, and draping in a rainbow of colors from her back…

Wait.

“You mean… he wasn’t a, a mage under some kind of bullshit binding contract? He’s an angel?” Dean squeaks.

Sam rolls his eyes and sinks into one of Dean’s kitchen chairs with a loud huff. “Dean! That’s not a politically correct term,” he mutters. “There are so many religious implications in that, and—”

“I don’t give a shit how politically correct it is, and you don’t get to make that noise: if he ain’t Icarus or Daedelus, a dude with wings and magical powers kind of falls under that definition.” Dean frowns. “What the fuck? I had dinner with the guy!” Sam’s giving him big eyes—wait, did Sam not know that?—so Dean hurries on with, “I sure as hell didn’t see any wings…”

He trails off. Cas had a feather in his hand this morning. He was offering Dean a feather.

Sam’s jaw goes tight and locked. “Lucifer took them,” he growls.

“Like, cut them off his back?!” Jesus, this is taking a turn that’s dark even for Dean, and he’s a hunter. He uses his own blood and dried eye of newt and pieces of malachite that sometimes look suspiciously like a dildo, pretty much on a weekly basis.

“Don’t be macabre,” Sam huffs. “That’s not how it works. He probably tricked him into taking them down—fuck. Dean, you were right, you were so right about Broken Seals.”

“Shit. Yeah,” Dean says quietly.

It occurs to him that he should be doing the big brother happy jig, considering that Sam actually admitted that Dean was right about the Broken Seals Corporation.

He doesn’t much feel like dancing, though.

“I can’t believe I bought into it. All of it, all of their talk about freedom, and all this time, they were—God!” Sam groans. “I bet the corporation gets disbanded. And Castiel… well. He’s free now, and I’m glad. He must be so much happier!” His fists clench in front of him. “I hope he is, anyway.”

“Yeah, of course he is,” Dean answers firmly. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

That seems to reassure Sam.

But what sticks with Dean is the fact that Castiel showed up at his doorway, making noises about becoming a hunter. Why would he even… and what was all that about being bound to Dean, about being geased? (Wait, did he even say he was geased? Now Dean can’t remember. Or was that something that Dean said?)

What haunts him is the deep dip of Cas’s shoulders when he shuffled back from Dean’s doorway, and the way he sure as hell didn’t look happy.

It sticks with him through lunch; both he and Sam are quiet, though Dean polishes off his food and Sam tries to sneak some lettuce he brought onto Dean’s plate (Dean still doesn’t eat it; he’s not that far gone). It sticks with him through dinner. It sticks with him until a few days later, when Dean reaches for peanut butter in his cupboard to make himself a sandwich to snack on, and he finds himself remembering, “I would much rather have gotten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Such a small fucking thing. Such a simple thing.

For creature that as far as Dean can tell from a cursory glance at the hunter sourcebooks he keeps at home, might as well be an actual angel: the books basically put tennin in the same category as High Sidhe, Russian firebirds, and duende: not much information, mostly “Extremely Dangerous, Go For Backup Or Run Away.”

So the next day, Dean straps on his big boy boots and goes to talk to Bobby. Because he’s not completely stupid, he goes with a six-pack of Margiekugel and a four-pack of the fancy Daisy Cutter beer he and Cas were drinking. Had to go to a specialty liquor store to get it, go figure, because it’s only made in Chicago, and shit, each bottle cost as much as the six-pack he’s hauling in his other hand. But what the hell, why not.

The memory of a suspicious little squint, Cas’s lips pursed very carefully around the edge of the frosted glass as he took his first deliberate sip, and then the pleased upward tilt of his eyebrows, makes him smile anyway.

“Well, you’re either here to whine about your brother, or ‘cause you need help, which is it?” Bobby says in greeting, before the door’s even all the way open.

“Can’t I be here to bask in your sunny personality?”

“You see a sunny personality anywhere, chuckles?” Bobby demands, but he wheels his chair grudgingly back from the doorway. He’s just spun around to head towards the table, both the beers balanced in his lap, when he demands, “So what’re you really here for then?”

Dean takes a deep breath and follows him in. ‘Cause Bobby’s not just his godfather, he’s the head of the hunter information network, and there ain’t no one who knows more about things that people ought to be running the hell away from than Bobby Singer. “What can you tell me ‘bout tennin?”

Bobby pauses, holding a bottle opener like an exclamation point over the cap of one of the Margiekugels. “Huh? You mean the angel-boys?” he asks suspiciously.

Dean stabs a triumphant finger towards him. “See?! That’s what I said, and Sam said I was being, I dunno, not PC.”

“When’ve I ever given a shit ‘bout that?” Bobby answers dryly.

Point. “Wait, are they all, uh, boys? Male?”

Bobby fixes him with a look that suggests Dean was dropped on his head. (Though since Bobby had charge of a lot of their childhood once John decided he was done with them and bugged out, Dean would like to point out that that would mean that Bobby might’ve been the one doing the dropping.)

But he wheels over to the kitchen table, thumping his beer bottle upon it. He doesn’t offer Dean any. “You need to hit the books, boy. Who knows what form they take when they ain’t on this world? For all we know, they’ve got three heads and no genitals.” Bobby frowns. “Why’re you even askin’ ‘bout eldritch ones? This is ‘cause of that whole thing with the corporation that Sam had a hard-on for, right? Yeah, I heard about that.” Bobby shakes his head. “Bad juju, that kinda shit. Wonder how he won free? Ain’t easy, once someone’s got their hagoromo.”

“Their…?” Dean prompts.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Their wings, ya idjit. We call ‘em ‘tennin’ ‘cause their whole deal resembles an old Japanese legend, but they ain’t Japanese any more than most vampires are Transylvanian. It just means ‘sky person’. Don’t think anyone’s ever gotten the chance to ask them their opinion on it.” He sounds a little wistful—like he’d’ve liked to ask a bunch of questions of the tennin, ‘cause Bobby puts Sam’s nerdiness to shame sometimes. “I guess their wings mostly look like, I dunno, a cloak made of feathers when they’re down on Earth. But if someone takes ‘em, takes the cloak away, they’re stuck here with all the rest of us mudbuddies.”

Dean blinks. “Seriously? Like, uh, a selkie?”

“I guess. But they’ve gotta obey whoever’s got their coat, and they can’t, like, steal it back. It has to be given back to them.”

Eldritch shit sometimes makes no sense. “Seriously? Why?”

But he thinks of Castiel’s tight smile as he sat there, not rising the whole rest of the night, up until Dean put his coat back onto his chair. He thinks of Lucifer smirking as he said, “You stay right here, pet,” and patted Cas on the head. Like a dog.

(God, what Dean would do to go back in time and shoot that smug, smarmy asshole in the forehead, non-aggression charm be damned.)

Bobby shrugs. “How the hell would I know? Why do genies have to grant wishes? Why can’t you say ‘thank you’ to a Sidhe? But you can’t, and sure as hell they’ll come collect on the favor you owe them. Folk that live half in the spirit world like that, they ain’t all the way flesh and blood—will and intent ain’t just ideas to ‘em, it’s what they are. Y’know. It’s why most of ‘em can’t lie for shit, either.” He shakes his head slowly. “Glad the guy got his wings back, though. Holding ‘im like that, against his will, well. That is just askin’ for divine karma and, I dunno, smiting.” He sucks thoughtfully on his teeth. “Wonder what happened? Since we are all pretty fucking sure that no CEO would’ve freed him.”

Dean fights the urge to shuffle his feet. He loses the urge to rub at the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, uh… it didn’t…” he starts, and then trails off. But Bobby’s looking at him now, in that way he stared when Dean was caught making out under the bleachers with a guy when he was in hunter training, and Dean’s no more immune to it all these years later than he was then. “It wasn’t… I mean, it wasn’t a fancy fucking cloak of feathers, it just looked like an ugly brown trench coat!” he blurts helplessly.

Bobby stares at Dean for so long that Dean really wants to turn around and see if there are scorch marks on the wall behind him. You know, from where Bobby drilled a hole in him with his laser eyeballs.

Finally, Bobby drawls, “You’d better tell me the whole thing from the beginning, boy.”

So Dean does. He doesn’t leave anything out.

(Okay, maybe a few things. Bobby doesn’t need to know how blue Cas’s eyes were, or the little wrinkle that appeared between his forehead when he seemed confused—which was a lot. How sassy he was; how shy and careful he seemed to smile, or the way his broad shoulders went sad and small when Dean kicked him out… well, those things aren’t relevant.)

By the time Dean finally lapses into silence, there’s more than one beer bottle empty in front of them, and Bobby is rubbing his beard back and forth. He pulls off his trucker hat and scratches the overgrown wiriness underneath it, then pulls it back on. Finally, he busts out with a pithy, “Well, now, you are an idjit, ain’t you? And you call yourself a hunter. Fuck, son, guess I didn’t teach you nothin’. How’s it you aren’t dead yet?”

Yeah. Real helpful, Bobby.

“I thought he was a mage, Bobby! Like, sure, extra-powerful or something, but just spelled or cursed or accidentally bound to me or some shit, not…” And Dean’s just tipsy enough that he makes little flappy wing motions with his hands behind his shoulders before he catches himself.

Bobby, to his credit, doesn’t laugh at him—much. “Yeah… Alright, fair,” he answers grudgingly, scratching his beard. “Guess everyone thought that ‘bout him. Well, you dodged a silver bullet, and no mistake.” He shakes his head. “Nothing good comes from messing with higher powers like that, and if Lucifer thinks he’s not gonna get what’s coming to him for what he did, well, he’s fooling himself. You and me, we’re simpler folk.”

He’s right. He’s right, of course. Dean’s a blunt, deadly instrument. He’s not a scalpel, not a wand, not an intricately tailored spell—he’s a gun. And he’s a great hunter, and a fuck-up at pretty much everything else. If everything had been aboveboard at that stupid party, he’s pretty sure he’d have borked Sam’s chances of getting hired by that particular mage consortium.

Hell, he freed an elder being from captivity by fucking accident, ‘cause he knocked his coat off his chair and then had a teeny weeny awkward panic and threw it back at him.

But…

“What?” Bobby demands.

“Nothin’,” Dean answers sullenly. It was a dumb idea anyway. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t have come. He knows more now than he did, and what does that get him?

“Dean.”

“He, uh… Castiel seemed like a nice guy.” Kind of goofy and quirky for all that he was quiet. Lonely, maybe, but Dean’s not telling Bobby that.

(Lonely in a way that maybe Dean recognizes a little too well, and he’s sure as shit not telling Bobby that.)

“And what, exactly, are you expecting me to do with that expert insight into tennin nature?” Bobby demands.

“I, uh… I dunno,” he answers helplessly. “Nothing, I… I guess. Just sayin’.”

“Well, don’t matter anyway,” Bobby says firmly. “He’s gone, right? They wing back off to their dimension or something to do God-only-knows-what when they’re not bound. And it ain’t like you know his true Name or got a piece of his hagoromo to summon him back down with, even if you wanted to have a chit-chat, so you’re best off just forgetting ‘bout all this and just…”

He pauses at whatever flicker of expression must cross Dean’s face.

“What?”

Dean knows better than to ignore that tone. “He, uh… he gave me a feather.”

“He gave you a feather.”

“Um, yeah.”

This time, Bobby rubbing at his jaw lasts for long enough that Dean’s surprised he hasn’t rubbed half of his beard off. “Like, an actual feather.”

“Jesus, Bobby, how often do I gotta say ‘yes’?”

“I don’t know, Dean, as many times as it takes to confirm that an immortal, otherworldly being gave you a piece of himself that could theoretically be used to bind him back to Earth,” Bobby snaps.

“Oh,” Dean manages, because he’s an eloquent sonofabitch. Then, “What? Shit.” Why the hell would Cas…?

“Yeah, that sounds ‘bout right. You still got it, right?” Bobby asks. This time, there’s genuine concern in his voice. “You didn’t do something stupid like trade it for spell components or toss it in the trash?”

“Jesus, no. Yeah, I kept it.” And it might be Dean’s imagination or a weird fade out of dreams that he woke up in the middle of the night and saw the feather glowing, where he had it resting on top of his bureau… but it’s also very possible that it was not his imagination. (Really, Dean’s an old-time hunter, he knows better than to think he’s ‘just imagining’ things.)

Bobby grunts again, then shrugs. “Well, then.”

“That’s it? ‘Well, then?’”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Bobby asks irritably. “Ain’t like you’re planning to use it to, I dunno, summon or bind him or any such nonsense.” He doesn’t give Dean any chance to respond before he continues with, “Well, guess you got yourself a real cool souvenir of a good deed.” He shakes his head slowly, lips quirked under his beard. “Freeing an angel from an evil megacorp or some shit like that. Who’d’ve thunk. Anyway, I’m proud of you.”

There’s a peculiar kind of sarcasm that Bobby has, where he’s so sarcastic that it goes all the way around and ends up sounding sincere.

So, of course, Dean does not tell him what insanity just came to mind.

*_*_*_*

Dean’s had a lot of really dumb ideas in his life. He’s been drunk for quite a few of them. He’s not at all drunk for this one. Somehow, that makes it worse.

So as he’s sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed with an immortal being’s body part resting on his palms, he knows he ain’t got any excuse for what he’s about to do. But it’s not like he’s summoning Cas or any such. Dean knows how to draw a summoning circle, and he knows how to bind what comes through a portal. This isn’t any of that. This is just…

“Uh…” he tells the feather, running his fingertip up the soft, fluffy tip of it. It’s not at all stiff, not like a bird feather—it’s really soft. “Hi.”

It’s possible he could feel more stupid. But that would take work.

“So, um, Castiel,” he says into his empty bedroom, haltingly. “I’m not, uh, summoning you. Okay? I’m not. You’re not being compelled. I just, y’know.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m just… I’m really sorry humanity treated you so shitty. I really am, man. You seem like a good guy.” He doesn’t say, ‘maybe we could be friends or something,’ because Dean’s not twelve. “Maybe you could just… let me know you’re doing okay, sometime? If you’ve got a moment. Yeah. Uh… amen, I guess.”

He waits.

Nothing happens.

Because of course nothing happens.

Dean grunts and plops it back down on his nightstand, feeling stupid as he throws himself backwards onto the unmade bed. Christ, what’s his life coming to that he’s sitting here and talking to a feather?

That night, he dreams of eyes as big as his fists, and spinning circles of fire, dripping a rainbow of wings—six, eight—ten—he loses count.

He’s not scared, though. It’s kind of beautiful, actually. Should be fucking terrifying, but… beautiful.

Weird.

*_*_*_*

The next morning, Garth is banging on his door again, but this time, Dean’s already prepared for him and awake and dressed, the tools he keeps at home spread out on the coffee table. He’s got a shipment of lamb’s blood coming in—there was a report of djinns down by Sacramento, so he’s going to get himself and his crew set up, but that stuff needs to go down into the fridge in the basement like pronto. It smells really bad if it’s left to stand.

“Hey, Garth,” he starts, as he swings open the door to the insistent tapping.

Once again: it isn’t Garth.

“Who is Garth?” Castiel asks, his head tilted to the side.

“Oh,” Dean manages. “Uh, my… he supplies most of the hunters in Cali with our… holy shit, you’re here.”

He takes a moment to take the guy in, knowing what he knows now. Dean’s met high fae and demigods—even a phoenix, once. They all have something about them that makes them look different, feel different, Dean’s instincts ramping up like electricity up the back of his neck. And maybe Castiel has that, too, a little—that idea that there’s something bigger and badder about him than the tax accountant look he’s got going on.

But he’s also got a curious purse to his mouth, a suspicious squint, and a shallow dimple in the  middle of his chin. And his hair is still doing that thing where it’s fluffed up on just one side in the most adorable cowlick.

“Yes, that much is obvious,” Castiel says, a little grouchily. He doesn’t shuffle in place the way a human would, but the edge of his trench coat ripples in a wind. Except… there isn’t a wind. “I heard your prayer,” he finishes, warily.

“It wasn’t…” Dean starts to protest, and trails off. Who the hell is he to say it wasn’t? “Hey, uh… hey.”

Wow. Brilliant spark of a conversationalist, that’s Dean.

“Hello,” Castiel says. “You asked me to tell you that I am doing okay. I am. Is that… is that all?” The end of Castiel’s coat ripples again, harder, like any second now it’s going to flap. Since Castiel actually disappeared the last time, Dean wouldn’t put it past him.

“No, I…” Dean gathers his thoughts around him, and, ‘cause he’s just never been good at putting together anything that doesn’t involve a battle plan and a bullet count, lets them out in a disorganized spill anyway. “Why’d you even come here last time, man? You had to know that I freed you by accident. You didn’t owe me any kind of, of, debt.”

But Castiel is frowning at him now, stormclouds of it gathered around his eyebrows. “I… was aware it was an accident, yes,” he says warily. “But I know your reputation. I know what you do. If you had known my predicament, would you have worked to freed me? If it pitted you against Lucifer, his corporation—would you still? Even as puny as you are?”

Dean stares. “Well, yeah! Shit, yeah, of course, that crap is evil,” he says, frowning. “It’s just…” and he trails off, because he’s not actually sure where he’s going with that. “Dude, did you just call me ‘puny’?”

“Yes,” Cas tells him, smiling a tiny smile that’s just through the corners of his eyes, and doesn’t explain. “Dean, you were good to me not knowing who or what I was. You were wonderful company after, and didn’t try to take advantage. And so. Thank you.”

“But what was that about becoming a hunter and all, then?”

At that, the edge of Castiel’s trench coat doesn’t just ripple, it wiggles. Cas looks down at it, frowning, and toys with the edge between his fingers, pulling it tighter around him. “I don’t… I don’t fit in with my kind,” he says softly. “I enjoy being on Earth. I enjoy… doing. Helping. It’s how Lucifer trapped me—he convinced me I would be able to.”

“You did, man,” Dean says quietly. “You were famous for it.”

“It wasn’t enough. I was used as much for profit as for… I was used,” Castiel says, and the low thrum of his frustration—yeah, Dean gets that, he gets it. “I thought… if I was bound to you, I could still stay. You might… welcome the assistance. I have many abilities that might be helpful to a hunter. I wouldn’t mind being beholden to you. But you said you didn’t want me, not as a hunter and not at all, and—”

“No! No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, not the wanting you part, the hunter part, and…” and there’s goes Dean’s mouth again. He takes a deep breath. “No, man. I thought you were saying you were stuck with me, ‘cause of some spell or something.” He shakes his head. “Look, if you wanna stay on and see what the hunting life’s like, then hell, yeah. Stay. Not bound or any such bullshit, just, y’know. Here, not…” He twirls a finger in the direction of the sky. But then he frowns. “Wait, how would that even work?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, simply. “We’d be making it up as we go.”

“Yeah? Story of my life,” Dean answers wryly—and it gets a little flicker of a smile out of the corners of Castiel’s lips. “Hey, what… do your, uh, people call yourselves, by the way?”

“We have our own language. But our term for ourselves translates to ‘angels,’ I believe,” Castiel answers, with a small crinkle in his forehead.

Castiel doesn’t comment on Dean going “Hah! Suck it, Sammy!” and jabbing a triumphant fist towards the ceiling. But the wider smile he’s wearing is as pleased as it is puzzled.

It’s the warmth in his eyes that knocks something a little free in Dean’s chest—the same thing that led him to invite Cas out for burgers that night, probably. “Can I, uh. If we’re gonna hash out some details, do you wanna go get some coffee?” he asks. “Do you even like coffee?” he continues, before Cas has a chance to answer.

“I do,” Cas answers shyly, bobbing his chin. “I developed a taste for it.”

“Like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” Dean teases. It’s meant to be coy, but he finds that he actually is interested in the answer. Look, food’s a serious business for him.

“Yes. I enjoy those very much. I haven’t had one in a long time, though,” Castiel answers hopefully, tilting his head.

Dean revises his plans in a hurry. “Well, you wanna come in, then?” he offers. “I mean, they prob’ly wouldn’t have that kind of thing in a coffee shop. But I can make coffee, and toast up a mean sandwich. I, uh, I even have some frozen croissants, maybe that’d… yeah? Kind of a little special…”

Dean stops his babbling by biting down hard enough on his lower lip that the shock of pain almost makes him flinch. What the fuck, is he really offering a goddamned angel a croissant sandwich?

Look, he’s not always this awkward. Really, he’s not!

It’s just that Dean doesn’t normally invite people into his home. He’d rather not, most of the time: his house, small and crappy as it is, is his place, and the only ones who get to step foot through the door are people he considers family. If he’s gonna flirt, it’ll be out on the town. If he’s gonna fuck, he wants to be able to get dressed and walk out the door afterwards if he feels like it.

But he thinks of a glowing feather on his nightstand, because it felt like something that shouldn’t be sitting all the way across the room all on its lonesome, and the sarcastic wrinkle of a pointy nose in a snooty-ass party. He thinks of the way Cas looked at him so soft and slow and full of curiosity and wonder, even before Dean accidentally gave him back his freedom, and the way he smiled crookedly when he said, “You’re already more interesting company than I’ve had in years. Certainly the kindest.”

Dean’s sure as shit not used to being considered kind.

Castiel’s eyes have brightened, his shoulders going straight and high, chin lifting. There’s the faintest edge around his pupils that isn’t just blue, it’s blue and bright and luminous, and Dean doesn’t even think that’s just the unreasonably pretty color of them this time. Looking at him now, if Dean unfocuses his eyes, he thinks he can see what he’d look like with wings—great dark ones, rising over his shoulders maybe; he’s pretty damned sure they wouldn’t match the weird khaki-dun color of his coat…

“I, uh, probably shouldn’t offer to take your coat, though, huh?” Dean says, with absolutely fucking impeccable timing.

Castiel stares at him, eyes blue blazes, mouth clamping into a sharp, censorious line.

Oh, fuck. It’s a bad joke. It’s a horrible, tasteless joke, holy shit, even for Dean. He knows it the moment it’s out, fueled by what might be nerves and jitters, and now he’s going to get his insensitive hunter ass smote by an eternal eldritch being. (Smitten? Smited?)

But then, Castiel laughs.

He laughs low and gruff and small, like he’s not used to the sound or sensation—but he closes his eyes into it like he’s really feeling it, and the rumble of it smooths out into soft chuckles like Baby coming to a stop in the driveway.

Like he’s not used to laughing, but maybe, maybe, he’s learning to like it.

“Probably not,” he agrees softly, with a tick of a residual smile creasing the corners of his closed eyes. One peeks back open, framed by thick, dark lashes.  “But then, I already know you would give it back if you did. You’re a beautiful human, Dean Winchester.”

Dean gets called ‘pretty’ and ‘handsome’ all the damned time. There’s no earthly reason why he should blush at that. None at all.

“And you are very fetching when you blush,” Castiel adds happily, opening both eyes. He reaches out a finger to lightly let it rest against Dean’s cheek, petting back and forth like it isn’t an incredibly intimate touch. “It makes your spots look like red dwarf stars.”

Yeah, that’s doing absolutely fucking nothing for the blushing.

Neither does the gentle weight of Cas’s hand resting on the small of Dean’s back as they come in through the doorway, casual as all fuck, like he’s leading Dean in rather than the other way around. In fact, Castiel hovering at his back as he’s cooking almost leads to Dean burning the toasted croissant sandwiches he’s trying to put together.

The way Cas licks peanut butter and grape jelly—grape is his favorite kind, apparently—off his own fingers doesn’t help, either—one at a time, the tip of a long tongue skirting over each fingertip before—holy fuck—venturing between each of his fingers to gather up croissant crumbs with a satisfied, throaty noise that is pretty damned close to a moan.

Or the way Castiel watches Dean make their after-sandwich coffee from too close. Like, way too close. Like, when Dean turns away from the coffeemaker he finds Castiel standing up, and aaaaall the way up in his personal space with his nose about six inches from Dean’s lips. (His gaze dropping to Dean’s mouth when Dean opens it to say… something… doesn’t help, either.)

Dean swallows. Gulps, really. “Um, uh…” he mumbles. “Cas, you just… uh…” He swallows. “I ain’t Lucifer, man. You don’t have to… you don’t have to service me or whatever.”

Castiel’s eyes snap wide, and he rears back from him so quickly that his coat whips Dean’s legs. “What are you saying?! I was not, and have never been, Lucifer’s sexual partner.” His full mouth curls in a snarl. “I would sooner have copulated with a cactus.”

Dean chokes at that visual. “Oh. I, uh, that’s… good?”

“No, it sounds rather terrible,” Castiel retorts, frowning. Then he cocks his head. “Though I suppose if you like that sort of thing, I can—”

“What? No!” Dean blurts. Castiel sure as hell sounds like he’s talking about sex stuff. With Dean. “Wait. Do angels—can they even—okay, what?”

“If you’re referring to sexual congress, we can. Some do. Your soul is glorious—very attractive,” Castiel says, very earnestly. “But I like the way you lick your lips a great deal, too. I was watching you eat, all night.” He gives Dean that considering tilt of his head. “I’d like to put my fingers in your mouth,” he adds, matter-of-factly.

Uh.

Wow.

Dean ends up not saying anything at all to that. Or at least, nothing that counts as real words.

But Cas seems to understand him pretty well, anyway.

And if, that night, Dean wakes up and finds something warm and luminous lying across his body that sure as shit doesn’t feel like his scratchy, much-washed comforter, heavy and incredibly soft and smelling of electricity, well… he sleepily pulls it towards himself.

Okay, and the heavy, comfortable body sprawled halfway across his chest along with it.

Castiel sighs against his collarbone and snuggles closer, tucking the softly glowing coat closer around them both.

~fin~