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More towns oughta have their own morgues. It should be a staple—gas station, school, morgue. City planners should hire her. She’d add some quality (at least three-star) motels in there, too.
At the moment, Dean’s busy driving an hour back from two towns over just to look at some dead bodies. The mortician questioned her identity, not ‘cause of her age or her fake ID, but because she looks like a dyke. He didn't say that, of course, but she's been alive long enough to figure it out pretty quick. Her suit is itchy and sticks to her chest, the back road has too many damn curves, and her headlights are worth fuck-all this deep in the country. So she’s in a bad mood. When is she not?
“Do not be afraid.”
“Holy shit!” She swerves and barely misses the other lane. The other car honks at her, and she brakes hard onto the shoulder, slamming into park and fumbling for her gun.
A woman with dark—frankly ratty hair—blue eyes, a suit, and a full trenchcoat sits in her passenger seat across the bench. She glances at the gun in Dean’s hands like it means nothing. “Go ahead. You can shoot me.”
She does. Three times in the heart. Nothing.
“Would you like to try the rock salt?”
She scrambles for the shotgun resting between them, clicks off the safety, and fires. It affects her more than it does the woman-shaped thing across from her; recoiling into the car door and hitting her elbow with a sharp hiss.
Nothing but a look of amusement. Dean, for one, doesn’t find it very fucking funny. On a last ditch resort, she grabs the holy water.
“What are you?” she demands.
“I’m an angel of the Lord,” she (it?) says. She plucks the bottle out of Dean’s hand, unscrews the top, and tosses it back like a shot. Dean watches her throat bob.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be— real. But Dean Winchester, faced with danger, has never taken it as a threat; it’s more like a practical joke. She snorts. “Sure. Right. Okay. So tell me your name, angel.”
“Which one would you like?” she asks, tilting her head. “Hebrew? Arabic? Latin? I am as old as the Earth, Dean Winchester. Names would be more accurate.”
“And what would an angel want with me?”
“You’re a hunter,” she says, as if it explains anything. “I’m here to assist.”
“Well, where here the hell have you been the past hundred monsters, huh? Hell, the last millennium?”
“Busy,” she says, with a shrug. “I— we —are not here to perch on your shoulder. You were capable of handling those. This…”
“What is it?” Dean asks, suddenly focused, on the edge of her seat. Excited. “Yellow Eyes?”
“Not quite.”
“But a demon.”
“Yes,” she sighs. “Now drive. Time is of the essence.”
The drive is awkward, to put it simply. Dean feels about ready to jump out of her skin. The angel sits perfectly still even through the curves, like she’s bolted to the seat. She stares out the window the entire time, watching the scenery go by. Once, she speaks, saying, “You can turn your music on. Rock music will not offend me, you know.” So Dean jams the play button, and they listen to Zeppelin in total silence.
The only thing more awkward is probably showing an angel her crappy motel.
She steps in after Dean politely, hands hanging at her sides like she forgot she has them. She looks around, face unchanging. Then Dean steps in front of her to start rifling through newspaper clippings, and her eyes become laser focused on her.
“There’s been all these—thunderstorms, lightning strikes, fog, and I thought, alright. We’re in the west. Sure. But then the cattle deaths, and the—the murders that the killers can’t explain, claim they don’t remember, and I had a feeling it was a demon. And I mean, I know exorcisms, been practicing them since I could read. But I’ve never actually…”
“You have never encountered one.”
She feels almost embarrassed, ducking her head down. “Yeah.”
“Dean,” the angel says, her brow furrowing as she steps closer, her hand coming up to tilt Dean’s chin towards her. “Do not worry. This is what I am here for. I can help you take care of the demon.”
Dean’s pulse is thrumming so loud she has to force herself to pay attention. She takes a deep breath and hopes the angel doesn’t notice. She’s starting to think she would’ve preferred one of the terrifying ones—rings of eyes, floating around, deafening voice. An angel shouldn’t be able to touch her like this. She’s not—pure. Holy. Worthy. “Yeah, alright,” she breathes. “Just tell me how we kill it.”
The angel removes her hand (thank God) (please come back) and flicks her wrist. A silver, triangular blade falls from her sleeve to her hand. “We fight wars against demons,” she says, like it’s the most mundane thing on earth. “This will kill it.”
Dean marvels at it, even as she tries to calm her expression. “Can I—”
“Yes,” she says, placing it gently into Dean’s hands. “Careful.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Dean says, holding it up to her face to look at it. She glances at the angel. “Can it—”
“Yes. Though I wouldn’t if I were you. I have much faster reflexes and experience that you can’t begin to conceptualize.”
Dean frowns at her. “Can you— are you reading my mind?”
“Yes.”
“What number—”
“82.”
“Fuck,” Dean swears. “Dude, stay out of my head.”
She smiles softly. Dean tries her best not to think about it, to stuff her thoughts down deep, and focuses again on the blade. Silver, shiny, long. “Wait,” she says. “If you have this—if you can kill demons, why the hell come to me?”
Suddenly, the angel looks guilty—averts her eyes. “What?” Dean says.
“I am not… I should not really… be here.”
“What?”
“I apologize,” she says. “It is rare that I encounter hunters. And you already knew about the demon—have encountered a demon, so I suppose it won’t be of much consequence. Though you will not remember any of this, afterward.”
“Hold it,” Dean says, point the blade at the angel’s neck. “You’re not erasing my damn memories. Stay out of my head.”
“You are not meant—”
“Yeah, and who the fuck would I tell, exactly?” Dean asks, raising her eyebrows as if it’s obvious. “You know my name, you obviously know who I am. So you should know my whole family either died or left me, and I don’t tend to make friends much. So let me keep it. Let me remember you.”
Dean swears that the angel’s eyes sparkle; a ghost of a smile passing over her face. “As you wish.”
“Okay,” Dean says, handing back the blade and running a hand over her face. “Okay. I gotta get my four hours. I don’t know if you wanna—”
“I do not sleep,” she says. “Rest, Dean Winchester. I’ll watch over you.”
Dean makes a face. “Dude. I hope I don’t have to tell you how creepy that is.”
She tilts her head like she really doesn’t know.
“Okay,” Dean sighs. “Fine. Alright. At least tell me your name— a name, so a total stranger isn’t watching me sleep.”
“Castiel.”
So it turns out waking up mid-snore to electric blue eyes inches from your face is just about as terrifying as you’d expect. “Fuck!” Dean yells, reaching for her gun under her pillow before she realizes who it is. “Jesus Christ. Warn a guy.”
Castiel pulls back. Apparently she found the cuck chair to sit on. Great. “You were making noise in your sleep. I was curious.”
“Yeah, it’s called snoring,” Dean says. “What, you never seen a human sleep before?”
“No,” she says. “And it was more than that.”
“More than—what—” Experimentally, she shifts her hips against the bed. Oh. Great. “Fucking A,” she swears, pulling the blanket over herself. Waking up from a wet dream in front of an angel! Great start to the day.
“Alright, just—just find something to do while I get my ass in the shower. Make coffee or something.”
Castiel nods as if this is an important order, and stands to walk towards the kitchenette.
The water pressure sucks and the water is either scalding hot or freezing cold, not that it matters. Dean washes her hair and gives herself a perfunctory scrub, deciding that jerking off with an angel on the other side of the wall would probably be one of her worst ideas. So she grits her teeth, shuts the water off, and hopes that Castiel didn’t read her mind while she was sleeping.
Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, hair still sticking wet against her neck, she comes out to find Castiel staring at the coffee machine like it just kicked her puppy. “It appears burnt.”
“How the hell do you burn coffee?”
Castiel turns to her, and the intensity of her stare is almost too much to bare. “I do not get time to play with electronic appliances. I was fascinated.”
“You’re weird is what you are,” Dean says, walking over to the counter and hip-checking her out of the way. “Now move. I’m gonna need some joe if you expect me to be on demon-killing duty.”
Castiel nods solemnly, watching her pour the pot and grinds out to start fresh. Jesus, could she get any more intense? Dean feels hot and feverish just from this.
“Look, why don’t you sit down and watch some cable, huh? Explore the wonders of the worst trash TV the twenty-first century has to offer. I gotta do some research.”
Castiel tilts her head. “You don’t need research. You have me. I can answer any questions that you might have.”
“Yeah, thanks for that, but I gotta wrap my head around this before you start talking in some kinda janked-up celestial metaphors,” Dean says. She points to the bed. “Go watch some Big Brother. I can’t focus with you all up in my space.”
Castiel continues to watch her, as if waiting for further instruction. Dean turns to raise her eyebrows at her, and Castiel goes. She sighs in relief, turning back to the coffee pot.
This is going to be a really long day.
Two hours later and her head is pounding.
She slumps back in her chair, running a hand over her face. She really didn’t want to do this in front of an angel . Dean’s never been embarrassed about it before, but underneath Castiel’s watchful gaze, she feels pathetic, weak. But, well.
The body wants what the body wants.
She stands and grabs her jacket, turning to Castiel, whose eyes look like they’re about to burn a hole through the TV from the intensity of her stare. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” she says. “Just gonna step outside real quick.”
Castiel turns to look at her quizzically. “For what?”
Dean groans, turning her head away. “Just—five minutes, alright? Try not to get bored by the commercials.” She shuts the door before an interrogation can begin and leans against the motel, pulling out her pack and lighting a cigarette. She inhales, tilts her head up to rinky-dinky motel roof, and closes her eyes.
Jesus Christ. No, okay, not that one. Fuck. That’s it. She’s supposed to take out a demon today, and since waking up, she’s had a wet spot in her pants, drank shitty coffee, and stared at a computer until the words started blurring together—not a great start.
She doesn’t know how to feel about Castiel. The whole angel in her motel room thing hasn’t really set in. But she’s not—scary. Intimidating, sure. Weird, definitely. Hot? Time to stop thinking about that before she gets her brain picked.
Don’t fuck an angel, Dean. You’ve ruined enough things as is.
The motel door opens, and she jumps, turning to look at Castiel. Fuck, fuck, and fuck again.
“What are you doing?”
She grimaces and turns her gaze away. “What’s it look like?”
“It looks like you are risking your life for no discernable reason.”
“It’s a damn smoke, not a gun to my head,” Dean scoffs, moving to take another drag before a hand wraps around her wrist. She looks at Castiel, frowning.
“You are under my care, Dean Winchester. You are not to harm yourself. I am going to heal you, now.”
“Let me— mph,” is as far as she gets before lips press against hers, then there’s a full-body intensity like straight stardust inside of her veins. She doesn't even get a chance to react, much less kiss back, before Castiel is pulling back and taking the cigarette from her fingers.
“What the—was that for?”
“I healed you,” she says, as if that explains any of what just happened. Dean feels so electrified she could explode.
“You couldn't just—God, I don't know, hand to my forehead or something?”
“Your mouth goes to your throat goes to your lungs. My grace travels faster that way.” Castiel drops the cigarette, crushes it under the toe of her dress shoe, and walks back inside as if none of this meant anything to her.
Dean stares at the sky to wonder if God has any answers. He does not. She curses and stomps off to her car.
She’s about fifteen minutes down the road when Castiel appears again.
“Fuck!” she says, swerving to narrowly avoid yet another vehicle. “Stop doing that!”
“Where are you going?”
“Don't know yet. Nowhere. Just needed a fucking minute.”
“There is a demon on the loose, Dean. We are losing valuable time.”
“Yeah, and when are you gonna tell me what the fuck we’re gonna do about that, huh, Qaspiel? Kasfiya? Cassiel?” When Castiel looks at her, surprised, she snorts. “Yeah, I did my fucking research. Guardian of Heaven, angel of death over young men. So what, am I gonna die? When the fuck are you gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Stop the car.”
“No, don't tell me what to do—”
“Stop the car, or I will.”
Dean feels something in the air, and does as she’s told, pulling on to a lone shoulder next to a rolling cornfield.
“You have nerve,” Castiel says. “You are stubborn, strong. But you cannot walk away from this.”
“You gonna tell me why not, or just keep talking in cryptics? Tell me why you need me here. Tell me why you can't just do this yourself.”
Castiel sighs and looks out the window, a frown creasing her face. “Angel warding.”
“Angel warding?”
“Yes.”
“So I’m your bait.”
“No.”
“So what, then?” Dean demands. She’s getting real tired of this back and forth, this no answers until necessary shit. “‘Cause if you’re an angel of death—”
“You will not die today,” Castiel says firmly. “I am a guardian. A soldier. But we are a team.”
“Show a girl one episode of Big Brother, and she starts talking about truces.”
“This is not a truce. This is a promise. I watched over you. I will, and am, continuing to do so. Do not be afraid, Dean. I will not lead you astray.”
“Yeah, well what if I’m leading you astray, huh?” Dean throws her hands up, as much as she can without hitting the car roof. “I’m not pure, Cas. Far fucking from it. I’m not— holy, or good, or strong of will or whatever. So pick someone else.”
Castiel shakes her head. “We are bonded.”
“Bonded?”
Castiel presses her lips together in a thin line, and Dean’s starting to wish the whole mind-reading shtick went two ways. “I kissed you.”
“You—” Dean squeezes her eyes shut and runs a hand over her face. This cannot be fucking happening. “So you admit that wasn't just some healing bullshit.”
“I apologize,” Castiel says, “if that was not what you wanted. I’m sorry. I thought I sensed your longing.”
“My—” Can she even speak in full sentences anymore? Every thought she has is plucked neatly out of her brain. “Did you—”
“Your dream, and every thought related since this morning.”
“I told you to stay out of my head.”
“You think very loudly.”
Dean groans and rests her forehead against the steering wheel. This day couldn't get any fucking worse.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Just read my mind already.”
“It’s not that simple,” Castiel sighs. “Sometimes you think in words and sentences, yes. But the mind is abstract, Dean. I can feel your feelings, but I cannot discern their meaning that easily.”
Dean turns her head to peek at Castiel. “You first. Tit for tat.”
Castiel frowns and looks back at the window. “You are special,” she says, slow and deliberate, like it’s taking everything in her to speak calmly. “And I should not give in to you so easily. But I’m finding it incredibly difficult.”
“Nice,” Dean says. “You know, giving in to me and what I want, that's just called being a people pleaser. You don't actually like me.”
Castiel turns her head back sharply, pinning Dean under the weight of her gaze. “I do.”
“So I corrupted—”
“I was corrupted long before you, Dean. Do not give yourself credit for how I was made.”
Dean sighs and flops back against her seat, reaching into her jacket pocket. Castiel grabs her wrist. “No. You don’t need it.”
Dean scoffs. “Just ‘cause you heal my lungs or whatever doesn’t mean you heal my addiction gene, sweetheart.”
Castiel shakes her head. “Tat.”
“What?”
“Tit for tat. I gave you a tit.” Dean clamps down on a grin. “Your turn. Don’t think about it. Just tell me.”
“You’re hot,” is what Dean comes up with. Then, she groans. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“It was honest.”
“You want me honest? Shit, I don’t think I’ve been honest with a girl since—” Dean screws up her face. “Uh, ever, actually.”
“Lucky for you, I am not a girl, Dean. I am a celestial being older than your human concept of gender.”
As serious as Castiel sounds, Dean cracks a smile. “Honest,” Castiel presses.
“Fine. I feel…” She blows out a breath. “Protected. I don’t know. Safe? Fuck. You’re hot and make me feel safe, and I don’t think you mean to be funny, but you are and I don’t… Fuck, I’ve known you less than 24 hours, and you didn’t even want me to remember this, and I just… fuck. I want you.” It’s a guilty, pathetic admission, and Dean can't bear to look at Castiel while she says it.
Castiel squeezes her wrist, and Dean finally turns to face her, embarrassment telling her to run out of the car and never look back. “I make you feel precious,” she says. “You are.”
“I—” Dean says, and then realizes she doesn’t have words for this. This feeling in her chest, this precious idea, this… any of it. But to hell with speaking. She’s done enough of it. Instead, she leans forwards and kisses Castiel.
Dean’s really gotta ask her one of these days where she learned how to kiss with such passion. Kiss ‘till Dean’s half-afraid her nose is gonna break. The hand on Dean’s wrist goes to her face, the other to her hair, and she feels like she’s on fire, even without the grace.
Dean pulls back to heave breath into her lungs, and rests her forehead against Castiel’s. “What now?” she asks.
“Now we go kill a demon.”
It’s a shriveled, abandoned farmhouse, though Dean wouldn’t look twice at it, what with how rural the country is. Vines creep up the side, and it’s cold, much colder than it was back at the motel. She starts walking, and turns around when she realizes Castiel isn’t following.
“What?” she asks.
“Warding.”
Dean squints at the house. “I don’t see anything.”
“You can’t,” Castiel says. “It’s ancient magic. Enochian. You won’t see it until I get closer, activate it, as it were.”
Dean frowns. She’s really starting to wonder if she is just bait. “So, what are we gonna do?”
“You’re going to scratch it out,” Castiel says. She unsheathes her blade and tosses it to Dean, and it’s a miracle she catches it without stabbing herself. “You need to be very careful. The demon will have sensed us by now. Be quick, scratch out two or three, and I’ll be right behind you.”
“This is a horrible plan,” Dean says.
“You will be safe, Dean. I will be there. Besides,” she says, tilting her head to the side, an amused smile creeping onto her face. “You know how to run, don’t you?”
Dean, despite herself, cracks a grin. “Some guardian you are,” she teases.
“Go, Dean. Do not turn back. Have faith.”
Well, what can she say to that? She goes, blade grasped tightly in her hand. Castiel follows a few feet behind, stopping abruptly like she just hit a wall, and the house lights up in glowing script.
“Found the warding,” Dean mutters, and keeps on keeping on.
It’s daunting, knowing you’re walking straight into the lion’s den, but Dean’s been doing it her whole life. She ran away from a fire once, and now she only runs towards them.
The sigils— Enochian, Castiel said—are glowing red, so they’re pretty easy targets. She just has to get there.
Eyes on the prize, Winchester. Eyes on the prize.
She wants to look back, but Castiel had said have faith, so she doesn't. Dean marches right up to that house and digs the tip of the blade against the sigil, scratching a line in it. It’s hard to tell if anything changes, but she knows warding. She has to trust it worked.
“Hunter,” says something behind her. She lifts her chin and ignores it, searching for the next warding, and marching towards it.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” The demon is somewhere, but she can't see it. It’s gotta be in a human body, definitely, but the voice is like an echo all around her.
All she can think is, Yellow Eyes, though she knows it isn't him. Not just ‘cause he’s definitely changed bodies since then, not just ‘cause Castiel said it wasn't him, but ‘cause she thinks she'd be able to spot him anywhere; feel it in her bones. It isn't him.
“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritis,” she chants under her breath, and she hears a laugh echo around her, cruel and sharp.
“She’s got jokes!”
The next warding she can see is on the second story, and she grits her teeth. Fucking demons. She spots a trashcan, pulls it over to the porch, and holds the handle of the blade between her teeth to climb up onto the rotting roof.
“I admire you, hunter.” The demon is close by. No, scratch that—it’s sitting in the goddamn window, swinging its feet back and forth like it's having a grand old time. It's taken a middle-aged woman, though its eyes glow red, and she tries not to think that she’s who Dean’s gonna be killing. She musters up her strength, takes the blade back in her hand, and walks towards the demon like they're meeting for Sunday brunch.
“Nice toy,” it says, eyeing the blade, grinning madly.
“Nice meat suit,”
“It is, isn't it?” She watches Dean go to the ward. “Oh, I wouldn't if I were you.”
“Good thing I’m not an evil son of a bitch then, huh?”
“Hey,” the demon says, holding its hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t blame a girl for her career path. Your little angel, though? Wouldn't trust her.”
“Uh-huh. Hey, you give good advice, you wanna help me decide which college to put my kids in?”
The demon is beside her in a flash, and Dean almost falls off the roof from surprise. It points across the way and grabs Dean’s face to make her look. “There’s your mighty warrior. Watching. You’re in my claws, ready to be shredded, and she’s just standing there. I’m just sayin’, kid. Sending a human in as bait? You really think that's righteous? You really think God’s lookin’ out for you?”
She can hardly see Castiel’s face from here, but when they lock eyes, she swears that she can still feel grace coursing through her veins. Cas is looking out for her, she’s never been more sure of anything else. Dean sets her jaw. “God doesn’t give a fuck about me,” she says. “And definitely doesn’t give a fuck about you.”
She scratches the ward. The demon lunges for her, wild, and Dean is falling, falling, falling, until she's not.
“I have you,” the angel says in her ear, and she doesn't get a chance to get a word in before Castiel is back up on the roof. The demon is screeching so loud she has to cover her ears, and then there’s a burst of smoke; the demon exiting its body.
“Shut your eyes!” Castiel yells, and Dean barely registers that the order is for her in time to shield her face with her arm. Behind her eyelids, something glows bright, and she doesn’t dare look until she hears the slash of metal, a screech, and then silence.
“Dean.” Castiel is there, in front of her, gently lowering her arm from her face. “It’s okay. It’s done. The demon is dead.”
“What happened?” she asks, incredulous.
“It escaped its vessel,” Castiel explains. “I had to flee mine to attack it. My true form would more than blind you. Your eyes would be burnt out of your skull.”
Her first thought is prove it, her second is hot, so she opts for her third: “It’s dead?”
“Yes.”
Dean expresses her gratitude the best way she knows how: she grabs Castiel by her lapels and hauls her in for a kiss.
Castiel runs her fingers through Dean’s hair, and she’s being gentler than Dean, like she’s trying not to break her. Dean doesn’t care; she wants all of her, doesn’t want to pretend she doesn’t. She’s never been revered like this, and when she pulls away, she holds Castiel close.
“Thank you for trusting me,” Castiel murmurs. “For putting your faith in me.”
“No one else I’d put it in,” Dean says. “Who was that?”
“Demons, angels… we aren’t like you imagine. It would be like if I pointed to someone on the street and asked you to name them. There are countless of us. That one was low on the hierarchy. Not serving much purpose.”
“Is—”
“Yellow Eyes is an important demon, yes,” Castiel says, cutting her off before she can even ask. “But I cannot help you with him, I’m sorry. Too much interference.”
Dean nods, understanding. She thinks her dad would kill her if she got to Yellow Eyes without him, anyway. “What about you? They got enough workers to spare you?”
Castiel pulls back to look at her with a sad smile, and she reaches her hands to cradle Dean’s face. “I’m afraid not,” she says. “Not at the moment. But I will be back for you, Dean Winchester. This isn’t the last you’ll see of me. I fear I’m too enthralled by you.”
Dean shrugs, musters up a smile for her. “‘S okay. I’ll keep busy. You got time for burgers, at least?”
Years from now, Dean Winchester will wake up in a box with no recollection of the first time she was saved. But for now, her angel kisses her, and she can't imagine anything mattering more.