"Who will take your place when you fade?" Death asks once, before Time is invented and the passage of being achieves a whole new, measurable meaning. Of course it’s Death who asks this. It’s a question no one else would dare to voice, least of all in His presence.
[No one else would say 'when' instead of 'if' in that matter-of-fact voice, acknowledging a foregone conclusion the entire world remains blind to. Has been blinded to.]
No one.
His answer is true, as honest as he knows how to be. A fact created eons ago, that remains just as valid now as it has always been, always will be. There’s no reason for lies and dishonesty, not between the two of them. He has willed it so and, as always, His will holds.
[And if the words are easier said, their weight easier shrugged off in the face of the one being He knows doesn’t care — cannot care, and how can He fault Death for becoming the very thing He intended for Death to become? — He is the only one who will ever know.]
When the time comes, they will not need me anymore.
His children. His soldiers. His plants. His creations. They grow, all of them, as He has once willed it to be. They continue to do so, continue to amaze Him, and already He rues the day where they will stop.
A day that will come, inevitable as the entire universe He has built — for He has willed it and so it shall come to pass.
Death laughs, a music without sound, a light extinguished that has never shone. "How? You create them to need you."
Death does not say 'us', for Death is not created to need anything, nor want or feel. It is, perhaps, the cruelest kindness He has ever given one of his creations and as per his nature, Death can neither appreciate nor resent his own existence.
Not forever.
A lie within a truth within a lie within a truth.
[This is, after all, what humanity will be made for. One day, they, all of His creations, will understand this. Embrace it. The humans will be the first, as is in their nature. But inevitably angels and demons alike will follow them on their path, whether they will realize it or not. Inexplicably drawn to the weakest link in the chain of the universe, the fascinatingly fallible, the unapologetically humane. They cannot help it, none of His children will.
All their disgust, their false superiority, their misguided hatred— He has seen it, He has built it and He cannot wait to watch it come to life. Nothingwill have the potential to unite angels and demons, deities and primordial forces like their shared obsession with humanity. And how can He blame them, find fault in their yearning, their fear, when He is the one who has willed it so?
It is in a demon’s nature to envy and desire humans, as it is an angel’s obligation to love and temptation to despise them. The very world is, will be centered on them, spun around them, with Earth — humanity — at its focal point. With Heaven and Hell destined to circle them until the End of All, the pull of gravity as undeniable as it has been at the beginning of Creation.
Humanity will be His last challenge, His warning, His gift, His inevitability, His doom. He can hardly wait.]
"Need and want are two different things," Death comments. There is no judgement made — Death does not judge — but as with every truth spoken aloud, the words hold a weight all by themselves.
[It reads like a warning, addressed to the one in charge of creating the safety instructions in the first place, and, like all circular arguments, it gets lost within its turns without planting the seeds it’s meant to grow.]
They will outgrow me, He says, states, knows. And though He has not yet decided how He will feel about that, He smiles. There is a satisfaction in seeing a play through to the final round, in watching a meticulously prepared plan be set in motion.
Free Will.
His greatest creation. Woven so deeply into the fabric of humanity, the threads won’t ever — will always — be undone. A single irregularity in a flawless equation, designed to derail the algorithm, the program, the entire system.
And one day. One day.
[They will have to, remains unsaid because this, at least, is a choice that has been made by Him for them, all of them. And there is a twisted irony in this mockery of goodwill somewhere, a logical fallacy the fabric of the universe yearns to correct, and it’s not the one you think it will be.]
"Will they?" Death asks without the faintest hint of curiosity in his voice. It is not doubt, for Death does not doubt, and if He wanted He could discern Death’s motivation in a heartbeat, so He doesn’t. That, after all, is the true beauty of His creations. Despite His might, despite His power and His will, their actions, their questions, their thoughts are their own.
Nevertheless if it had been someone, anyone but Death — a being with no care, no true interest in life or creation, a being not meant to become more than the specter it governs over, a being cursed and freed and inevitable — He is having this conversation with—
[You teach the angels to love you, they might have said.
You teach the demons to hate you, they might have reminded.
You teach the humans to worship you, they might have warned.
You give them free will but no choice, they might have condemned.]
Of course, if it had been someone, anyone but Death, this conversation would never have happened at all.
They will, He states, proclaims, wills, and so they shall.
[This is your will, not theirs, Death deliberately doesn’t say. Who will enforce it once you’re gone?
If God is listening, He does not respond.]
*
{Because you see, kiddos, this is what it is, the fundamental truth that the world forgot, the single fact none of you seem to be able to wrap your empty heads around, the one thing it was always gonna come down to: In the Beginning, there was no fate, no destiny. There was only this: God’s Plan and Free Will.
And neither one meant a single thing until others started to believe in them.}
FBI legend Dean Winchester's got it all: supportive friends, snarky colleagues, a boss who has his back and a job he's too good at to get fired. The one thing that would make his life even better would be for things to work out between him and Cas, a hot guy with ridiculous taste in movies that Dean may or may not be falling in love with.
[Actually, the one thing that would make Dean's life a hell of a lot easier would be for Cas to not be Castiel Novak — the infamous Archangels’ alleged arson specialist. But that's a story for another time.]
*
Dean doesn’t mean to notice the guy. He really, really doesn’t.
It’s not that the man isn’t handsome. He’s got dark, windswept hair and bright eyes that are either green or blue — hard to make out the correct shade in the flashing lights — and a very pretty face, from what Dean can see. Not as pretty as Dean’s own, but a very nice second runner-up and anyways, it’s not like Dean’s that picky when it comes to his one-night-stands.
He isn’t.
[Shut up, Meg, nobody asked you.]
[continues under the cut or on AO3]
The thing is, Dean’s not a club person. He hates the dim lights, hates how hot and heavy the air is, the feeling of sweaty bodies pressing against his own. The feeling of strangers’ hands touching him without being able to push them off. Not being able to see a threat coming until it’s too late. And yeah, that includes guns and knifes and other fun stuff. But it also goes for thrown beer bottles and wasted partygoers throwing up over his favorite shoes.
The only reason why Dean Winchester occasionally visits a club out of his own free will is because of the music. Not just any music either because when it comes to his rare night out, Dean’s definitely picky.
[Meg can make fun of him all she likes, she’s got terrible taste anyways. Although Dean’s eighty-seven per cent sure she just keeps on humming the Barbie Girl song to piss him off. Joke’s on her though. Thanks to Neal, Dean has to endure classical music on a regular basis. He’s grateful for any tune with an actual song text — and nope, operas don’t count, what the fuck, Caffrey — no matter how cringe-worthy the lyrics are.
It’s actually Lisa who hates that song the most. She once spend two hours lecturing Meg on the societal evil that is a barbie doll and the patriarchal, misogynistic power structures she reproduces. Unsurprising, this led to Meg preparing an inspiring defense speech for their next quarterly budget review meeting — Barbie’s YouTube videos on mental health issues included — and long story short, Dean’s desk is now home to Barbie, Ken, Kelly and a Barbie-edition of the Frozen sisters, curtesy of Meg’s Secret Santa gifts. Lisa offered to mutilate them, but Dean’s pretty sure her plans would give all of them nightmares, not to mention give their colleagues the wrong impression. They’re supposed to hunt psychopaths, not become them, and playing voodoo with a children’s doll seems like it might be taken the wrong way.
Half the bureau is already convinced their division is criminally insane. And most of them don’t get to sit in on those late-night emergency meetings, where the deadly combination of Neal, Meg, Dean and life-threatening amounts of caffeine comes up with their best ideas.]
When it comes to clubs — or rather to dancing — Dean has very clear preferences. It doesn’t so much matter what type of music it is, so long as it’s loud. Loud enough to almost turn Dean deaf. Oh, and bass-heavy. Can’t forget about that. Dean needs to feel it, every note vibrating through his bones. Needs to feel the beat rippling over his skin until it’s flushed and tingling. Until he can’t hear his own ragged breathing anymore, can barely see anything in the colorful flashes of light. Until the world — too bright, too full, too terrible — has shrunken down to nothing but the music ravaging through his very core and his heart running wild in his chest.
Letting go like that, so completely and absolutely, is one of the biggest highs Dean knows. Better than catching a monster in human skin — because there’s always a bitterness attached to that, the face of the victims you couldn’t save, the underlying fear of being too late yet again, the terrible realization in the survivors eyes that it’s over but now they have to live with it — that taints that joy.
Better than sex even, though Dean wouldn’t admit that out loud. He’s got a fairly good idea what Meg would say to a statement like that and there’s a limit of how many 'Then you’re not doing it right' comments Dean’s willing to endure in a week. Doesn’t change the way he feels though.
The problem with sex is that it involves another person. And don’t get him wrong, Dean likes sex well enough and he likes people even more. But his job makes a steady relationship difficult and with one-night-stands there’s always that uncertainty, the unfamiliarity of your partner. It’s fun and sometimes it’s even fantastic, but Dean can’t let himself go. Not completely. Not the way he does when he dances.
[They don’t train the trust out of you at Quantico. The files of yet another missing child, yet another case going cold, yet another serial rapist that smiles way too kindly do that all on their own.
Not that Dean’s been good with trust even before that, but that’s a different story.]
That’s probably one of the reasons why Dean rarely indulges. Letting go like that, going away even though he’s fully conscious is scary when he allows himself to think about it. And that’s without considering how many people he’s arrested in clubs similar to this one — how many bodies he’s pulled out of backrooms.
With a scowl, Dean pushes that thought down. This is the problem with the job they do: You can’t just leave it at the door when you leave the bureau at 5pm sharp. Okay, 4am sharp, if you want to be precise. Needless to say, their last case was hell.
Bad enough that Jody gave them the rest of the week off to recuperate and get their heads straightened up. So Dean staggered home like a good, little agent, passed out in his bed for twelve hours straight, wolfed down two portions of Mac’n’Cheese and caught up on the new Dr. Sexy episodes he’d missed. None of which managed to settle the itch under his skin. The restlessness. Emily Sanders lifeless body, eyes wide open and face frozen in an expression of horrified terror, even in death.
[At least they found the body this time, the cynical voice in the back of Dean’s head murmurs. At least her parents have closure. Which is true, but it’s a cold, analytical truth that doesn’t actually make it better. And it’s not the worst case Dean has worked, not by a long shot. But burying a fourteen-year-old girl is the kind of thing that doesn’t get any easier to bear with repetition.]
Hence the downtime. And the dancing. It’s that or a psychologist and while the bureau would cover the cost, even recommends trustworthy specialists, Dean really doesn’t plan on opening that can of worms until he can no longer avoid it. Psychological clearances are a bitch to get in their line of work — staying sane takes a lot of fucking effort — and the regular check-ups are already messy enough.
Besides Tessa would just tell him to get his ass off the ratty couch and go dancing. She knows Dean too damn well.
["It’s better than some of the coping mechanisms I’ve seen over the years," she’s told him with a shrug during that first year when they’d still been feeling each other out, trying to settle into a dynamic that worked for the both of them.
And Dean isn’t an idiot and he isn’t blind. He knows Benny drank himself into a coma after that fiasco in Denver. He knows Meg goes through ammunition on the shooting range like crazy when a case hits too close to home. He knows Ash pulls three-nighters working on his digital farm in Stardew Valley because shooter games and battles are too close to reality to him. He knows Neal paints copies of famous paintings when he’s stressed and that he gives most of them to someone on their team after he’s done. Dean’s never asked him what happens with the other ones.
Not our division.
Point is, they’re all a little fucked and they all have their own way of dealing with the shit show that is their day job. Comes with the territory.]
So, one day into his mini-vacation, Dean had given in and asked Charlie for a recommendation. He doesn’t make a habit of coming to the same clubs regularly — the predictability of it makes him itchy. Plus, Charlie’s fantastic taste isn’t limited to women. She knows exactly what Dean’s looking for when he wants to let loose and makes it happen.
[Dean would totally hire her as his PA if he was high-up the ladder enough to require a PA. And if Charlie didn’t enjoy stepping back and forth on the line of legality too much to settle down and for the FBI.]
Because Charlie is awesome and Dean’s best friend, she’s also warned him that the clientele of B5 leans more towards to opposite site of the law. Apparently the owner is friends with someone high in the local criminal food chain though because the the club is considered neutral ground by the two street gangs with the most say in this area. It also has a strict no-drugs policy and zero tolerance for trouble makers.
[From what Charlie has implied, Dean suspects B5 is as squeaky clean as Charlie swears it is because it’s a cover for some much less legal business. He hasn’t asked though. Charlie wouldn’t have recommended anything with even a hint of ties to sex trafficking, and everything else really isn’t Dean’s problem. He’s off the fucking clock.]
B5 also has a DJ who favors Techno a bit too much if you ask Dean, but all in all it delivers everything Charlie promised. The music is turned up loud enough to make conversations impossible, Dean hasn’t noticed a single drug deal before he’s shut his brain off and the room is crowded enough to get lost in the masses, but not so full Dean feels like he can’t fucking breathe.
[Panic attacks in public are no fun. Panic attacks when surrounded by drunk strangers even less so.]
Getting lost is good, easy even. Dean can literally feel the tension seeping out of him and though he knows he probably looks ridiculous, he doesn’t allow for that thought to linger long enough to sour his mood. This is for him, and him alone.
Dean doesn’t know how long he’s on the dance floor, lost to the world around him, completely in the zone. It’s a bit like working on a case, that single minded focus that doesn’t allow for hunger or exhaustion to be more than a footnote in Dean’s mind, but it’s also not because like this, Dean isn’t required to think. He’s blind and deaf to the world and yet he’s a part of it, right in the middle of a crowd and he belongs here, with these strangers, in a way he doesn’t — can’t — once he puts on a suit and flashes his badge.
It’s freedom and running away at once, entwined so closely together it’s impossible to tell the two apart.
Then the DJ switches from that techno shit to something closer to soft rock and even though the music is much more up Dean’s alley, the shift is jarring enough to break through the haze. Dean blinks a couple of times, his body slowing down and coming to a halt, not quite ready to fall into the new rhythm just yet.
With his mind becoming more aware by the second, Dean is acutely aware of the sweat making his clothes stick uncomfortably to his body. Of the welcome ache in his muscles, the way he struggles to catch his breath.
He rolls back his shoulders, stretches his back a bit. It’s a good feeling, a soothing burn. As tempting as it is to fall back into the song though, Dean should probably get something to drink first. Dehydration is no fun and his body is practically screaming at him. Loudly.
With a sigh, Dean pushes his way through the crowd towards the bar. The only part of the room that’s clearly illuminated in cold, blue LED-light. The drama aficionado in Dean definitely appreciates the dramatics, even if he’d personally go for more green. Or violet. Less lightsaber, more devil’s lair.
He’s almost at the bar when Dean catches sight of him for the first time. The guy is leaning against the bar with his back, elbows propped up on the black wood, facing the dance floor. He’s not watching Dean in particular — Dean’s not that egocentric, okay — but their eyes definitely meet for a moment.
And, well, Dean means it when he says he doesn’t mean to notice the guy. He’s not here for that type of distraction tonight. Matter of fact, Dean isn’t usually in the mood for sex this close after a bad case.
But the bartender is hopelessly overwhelmed — Dean’s never seen anyone mess up a Caipirinha three times, come on, it’s not rocket science — meaning that Dean’s got nothing but time, bobbing back and forth on his feet, waiting his turn. And the guy’s literally right there. And still looking at Dean. Staring, actually. Looking sounds way too subtle for what the guy’s doing.
He’s gorgeous, that much Dean can tell even with the bad lighting. Around Dean’s height, angular face, wearing a fitting, white shirt with the top three buttons undone and a smirk on his lips that screams the sort of self-assured confidence Dean considers his number three major weakness. Right after a good burger and crying children. Yeah, there’s no way around it: The guy’s definitely Dean’s type.
And because the bartender is still fumbling his way through a Sex on the Beach that isn’t supposed to contain rum, and the part of Dean that makes good, reasonable decisions is pretty much saved exclusively for work-related choices, Dean sends an equally confident smirk over his shoulder, complete with an inviting wink.
Hey, just because he doesn’t intend to get laid doesn’t mean he’s not going to flirt. There’s no mode of Dean Winchester that doesn’t flirt.
While Dean is distracted by an internal argument with his inner Lisa over whether or not he can differentiate between appropriate and not appropriate situations for his special brand of charm — Lisa doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Neal would one hundred percent agree with Dean on this — the pretty stranger slides up next to him. He moves into Dean’s line of sight before he leans in close enough that Dean can feel his warm breath against his ear and he doesn’t presume and actually touch Dean. Both are two strong points in the guy’s favor.
"Want something to drink?" the guy yells over the music. His voice is surprisingly deep, and okay, that’s plus point number three. Damn it.
Dean hesitates for a moment. Shrugs inwardly. It’s a drink, he won’t owe the guy anything. And besides it might be nice to spend some time with someone who isn’t a work friend or an ex-work friend.
He leans back a little, lets his shoulder brush against the guy’s own as he leans over and yells, "Just a water," over the noise.
Pretty Guy raises his eyebrows.
Dean shrugs, utterly unapologetic. He’s not getting black-out drunk in a club where he doesn’t know anyone and with no back-up close by. And if he’d start drinking now, black-out drunk is the only way this night — or early morning — is going to end.
To Pretty Guy’s credit, he accepts Dean’s non-answer without protest. Simply turns around and waves the bartender over. The poor guy knocks over a glass in his eagerness to respond — Dean’s kinda insulted he hasn’t gathered the same reaction, but he feels bad for the clearly over-worked guy, so he’s not gonna be an ass about it — and a moment later Pretty Guy hands Dean two water bottles.
Definitely earning plus point number four in the process. Dean decides to worry about that later though. He’s too drowning the first bottle without so much as taking a breath in between swallowing. Fuck, he hasn’t realized how thirsty he is.
It’s only after Dean drops the empty bottle down on the bar that he remembers his manners and accepts the second one Pretty Guy hands him with a sheepish smile and a very heartfelt "Thanks". He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pretty sure that he’s spilled more water than can be considered attractive. Not that his shirt isn’t already drenched with sweat, so that’s probably a lost cause.
"I’m Dean," he yells because he’s starting to feel almost human now and should probably act like it.
Pretty Guy grins, looking honest to God delighted and copies Dean’s motion. Rests one hand on Dean’s shoulder, to keep his balance maybe. Shouts what is either Cassidy, Castel or possibly Casper. Not that Dean’s distracted by the warmth of the guy’s hand through the thin fabric of his shirt or anything. Nope. Not at all.
Deciding to take the easy way out, Dean leans very close into the guy’s personal space so he doesn’t have to shout and says, "Very nice to meet you, Cas."
"It’s very nice to meet you too, Dean," Cas drawls back, his throaty voice curling around Dean like a tantalizing cloud of smoke and yeah, okay, this may not be what Dean was looking for, but there’s no harm in opening yourself up to new opportunities.
[It’s got nothing to do with the fact that Cas looks even better from up close than he did from a distance.]
"Wanna dance?" Dean asks because Cas is looking at him with burning eyes and Dean likes what he sees but he hasn’t prepared for this and— he’s not sure he’s ready to face the implications of the tension building between them just yet.
["Don’t be a coward, Dean." Meg snorts in the back of his mind. "You could do with a little harmless fun, stop overthinking this."
"Oh, shut up!" Lisa growls back. "He doesn’t need to have sex if he doesn’t want to and he definitely doesn’t need to feel pressured by you or Blue-Eyes over there."
"Those are some pretty blue eyes though."
"Fuck you, Meg."
"Nah, you’re too high-strung for me."
Sometimes, Dean wishes his subconsciousness wouldn’t do such a great job at impersonating his coworkers.]
Cas’ grin turns rueful. "I can’t dance."
It’s such a stereotypical response that Dean can’t help but roll his eyes. "Sure you can’t," he mutters, though the comment is probably lost in the noise around them.
"Come on," he yells louder, grabs Cas’ hand and pulls him towards the crowd. "I’ll teach you."
Dean’s not so far gone yet that he can’t read the hesitation on Cas’ face. But before he can decide whether he’s pulled a Meg and gone too far, crossed whatever line there is to cross between spontaneous club acquaintances, Cas’ is smiling again, an edge that slides right into teasing territory to it. "Your funeral."
The thought that Emily will have a closed casket burial hovers dangerously close to the surface for a moment and so maybe when Dean throws his head back as he laughs, it’s half because of genuine amusement and half to escape that burning gaze for a second and blink away the stupid tears.
{Now listen up, kiddos, because this is it, honest, the truth and nothing but the truth, unashamed and as clear-cut as freshly broken glass: At the Beginning — not the starting point because no one really knows when a story starts, and people only start caring about that once it’s been set into motion for long enough that no one really knows what the world looked like before anymore, but the conscious Beginning of everything, capital 'B' included — at the Beginning, there was no fate. There was no destiny.
There was only this: God’s Plan and Free Will. An unmovable object and an unstoppable force, and the smart cookies who’ve been paying attention in your physics lessons know what that means.
We’ll get into the whole what-power-is-greater discussion in a moment, but before we do, there’s one thing I need you all to keep in mind: God’s Plan came first.}
Even as he shouts the words, Gabriel knows they are a lie. The rest of heaven may have forgotten the truth, if the murmurs he’s been picking up on the angel antenna are anything to go by, but Gabriel isn’t just any angel. He’s the Archangel Gabriel, Messenger of God, one of the oldest beings in existence.
Heaven may have convinced itself that the Winchester brothers are destiny in persona, that the apocalypse is inevitable [they’d be right] and Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man who begins it, is the only one who can finish it [a-and right again, only that’s a truth that doesn’t hold up to closer inspection any more than monopoly money would in a supermarket, good times—].
But Gabriel has spent the last several thousand years on Earth, mingling among the best and brightest and worst and shoddiest of Daddy’s favorite kids.
He’s seen mothers murdering their own children, grown men and women destroying heart, spirit and soul of their own kind — has witnessed strangers sacrificing themselves so that another may life, watched little boys and girls defend their siblings to the death.
The truth is, for every time Loki finds an irredeemable scumbag to take his frustration out on, he runs into another soul just as dark that manages to surprise him. It’s been centuries, and he still finds himself caught off guard by them. Spur-of-the-moment decisions, unexpected kindness, solidarity that, by all rights and reason, is based on nothing. Humans tumble over these spectacular, foreign concepts with impossible regularity, made all the more astonishing by their utter lack of any real understanding of the world around them. It’s bizarre.
And if Gabriel hasn’t managed to adjust to them yet, after all this time, what hope does the rest of the Host have of making two of humanity’s most stubborn specimen dance to their tune?
That’s a rhetorical question. Or at least it should’ve been. Despite humanity’s wonder — it’s terrible flaws — despite its free will, they are so ridiculously fragile. Breaking them is a matter of moments, if you were to put your heart into it.
[Gabriel was there when Lucifer broke his first human. Father knows, he wishes with all his might he could forget, but he hasn’t. He’s seen them fall long before he’s seen them truly rise.]
All else aside, Sam and Dean Winchester are unforgivingly human and their free will means nothing if Heaven decides it tires of waiting for a catastrophe it can’t escape. That much Gabriel knows, even if the kiddies haven’t realized it yet.
Dean Winchester meets his eyes, hazel brightened by the blinding light of his soul — Father, you really outdid yourself with this Righteous one, didn’t you? — gaze searing and tearing through Gabriel’s grace, words cutting through his bluster like only a fellow bullshitter can.
And Gabriel knows better than to bet on an underdog so ridiculously outclassed there aren’t even comparisons for him to draw up. Knows better than to throw in his lot with humanity in a fight where they aren’t even a side, can’t hope to amount to more than collateral damage. Knows better than to think that Dean Winchester, the Michael’s Sword, the man who held on longer than anyone gave him credit for, could somehow fix this mess his Father’s Plan has led to.
[He still broke in the end.]
If anything, the sight of the Righteous Man, here, now, so close towards the end, should reaffirm Gabriel’s faith in Father’s Plan, the Host, his brothers and sisters, who could never be strangers for all the time that has passed since he last saw any of them. And yet.
This isn’t about some prized fight between your brothers! Or some destiny that can’t be stopped!
Dean Winchester’s soul burns bright enough to hurt and, for a single moment, Gabriel can almost believe.
[Gabriel has lost faith in Heaven a long time ago.]
Cas moving his thumb slowly from the bridge of Dean’s nose through his forehead finally reaching his hairline until he sees the worried lines dissappear and a small smile appear on Dean’s lips.
AU: When everything is said and done apocalypse-wise and the smoke clears, Dean Winchester settles down and opens a bakery to lead the mundane life his brother wanted for him.
Things go exactly as planned which, looking back, really should have tipped Dean off.
Part I
The first time Dean sets his eyes on the tiny wreck of a house that looks like the only thing holding it up are dirt and the only slightly more stable-looking buildings on either side of it, he falls in love.
Well, perhaps not love.
But it’s been four weeks and three days since Dean has watched Sam walk into hell with a straight back and long, confident strides and not come back out again, and seeing this pathetic ruin of a house makes something in his chest flutter.
Dean, the sensible part of his mind says, sounding suspiciously, painfully, like Sam.
Shut up, Dean mutters because you left this is what you wanted, isn’t it how are you gonna stop me when you aren’t even here, damn it and signs the stupid lease.
*
It takes three weeks of hard work until Dean is confident that the roof won’t come down on him the moment the next storm hits and water comes out of every tap and the walls don’t look like there’s something living in them anymore.
Dean doesn’t complain though.
There is no one around to listen to him -- and so he keeps working until he’s too tired to think of that, until his muscles ache and his eyes feel too dry, until he feels ready to pass out on his shitty, threadbare mattress and sleep a solid four hours without interruption.
When he wakes up screaming, there’s a bottle of something or another close at hand, but safe for the really bad nights Dean mostly sticks to beer.
He’s about two weeks in when he decides to paint the walls a bright, ugly-as-fuck lime green that makes him think of Gabriel (after he drove to four different stores searching for the right shade of blue that he definitely didn’t want because it reminded him of Cas’ eyes -- fuck Cas anyways, Dean hasn’t heard a word from him since That Day) because he did not put all this work into his house just to paint it white or beige or one of those other, crappy not-colors.
It’s around that time that Dean realizes he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with this whole thing once it’s done.
A combination of hunger, the terrible realization that eating pie on your own sucks when you don’t have a prissy, little brother judging you from the sidelines, and the startling fact that there is no bakery in this tiny town he some landed himself in make the decision for him.
Or maybe it’s just that Dean wakes up drenched in sweat and with a shout on his lips, eyes barely open because this was the third nightmare that night, and when he stands in the only coffeeshop that morning to order some freaking pie with his extra strong coffee and is told that they don’t have any pie, sorry sir, he tells the universe loudly “Fuck this bullshit, I’m gonna open a bakery.”
In retrospect, he shouldn’t have said that out loud. Thankfully, the college kid behind the counter who’s always obnoxiously chewing on some bubblegum took it with a shrug and a “Good for you.”
And that’s pretty much that.
*
Dean names it “The Bakery” because all his creative energy is spent on picking the color scheme for the interiors. In retrospect, he really shouldn’t have asked the bored but energetic sale’s assistant for help in that regard.
*
His first attempts in his new kitchen -- fixed up out of old shit he fixed, cheap secondhand sales Dean found online and a couple of high-quality utensils make for an interesting picture -- are a disaster.
Turns out just because you like something doesn’t mean you know how to make it yourself.
Dean’s apple pie is delicious though. And really, how big a menu does he need?
*
Three months, two weeks and five days after Sam left for hell, there’s a huge sign posted over the door of The Bakery.
OPEN
Angels, Demons and Hellhounds NOT Welcome
it reads.
Just a crazy idea, basically. Don’t worry, Sam will play a part in this AU, as will Cas and other familiar faces. Thoughts? :)
So I watched Venom on Friday and of course I loved it but I also had this moment of ‘Holy Shit This Could Be Dean And Cas’ when Eddie and V first started talking and now I cannot unsee it
Castiel is the baby of the family and he loves his brothers, he really does, but sometimes he gets a little lonely. Michael and Lucifer are always together, Raphael is usually busy with his studies and Gabriel has his Pagan friends that don’t really want a baby angel around. School’s fine, sure, but most of the humans are a little wary of hanging out with the weird angel kid, and so Castiel is mostly off on his own.
This -- and a mean remark from Meg, one of his classmates -- leads to Castiel summoning a demon so he finally has someone to talk to. Other people always get weird when they talk about demons, so Castiel figures they probably don’t have many playmates either.
Meanwhile Dean is a fairly young demon, only some three hundred years old, and usually the odd one out, mostly because he really hates making deals. He doesn’t have the patience to think up some airtight contract the way Sammy loves to do, and really doesn’t think it’s all that much fun to wrestle souls into submission like Jo so enjoys.
So when this impossibly adorable baby angel ends up summoning him, Dean makes the cutie a deal: Castiel lets Dean out of the summoning circle and in return Dean is gonna be his friend and stay with him.
Castiel is ecstatic. His brothers are decidedly less so.
Prompt: “Okay I know that being in the woods at 2am is a weird thing to be doing but my friend called me and- wait, why are you in the woods at 2am, fuck I’m going to die aren’t I?”
Or: The AU where everything is different, but Dean and Castiel are still Dean and Castiel. Also on AO3.
Looking back on various, questionable life choices, Dean could sort of see why his brother was convinced that he would die before he reached thirty. Of course Sammy had been talking about his eating habits at the time, but that was truly besides the point. Not in the least because the day Dean settled for his brother’s rabbit food instead of a decent burger was not a day worth living as far as he was concerned.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t just cholesterol that could get him killed, not that you would believe it with the way Sammy could go on and on about the matter.
Not only did Dean like to investigate the supernatural as a hobby-slash-part-time-job ever since his mom had made him promise to always cut off the head when in doubt about how to kill something -- and man, the parent-teacher conference that year had been awkward and probably one of the many reasons why his parents’ marriage had inevitably failed -- but he was also friends with some very interesting people. Most of which made Dean look like an overly cautious scaredy-pants, much to Sammy’s eternal exasperation.
Which was why Dean didn’t spend this lovely Saturday night in a bar, playing pool with Jo, like he usually did, and was instead walking through a huge-as-fuck forest with a weak flashlight and a lot of regrets.
[continues under the cut]
‘It’s just a tiny detour, De,’ Charlie had insisted. ‘Please? Pretty, pretty please? I’ll owe you a huge favor!’
Damn Charlie and her stupid puppy eyes. Damn him for being a total sucker for said puppy eyes and unable to say no to her. You’d think growing up with a little brother would have taught him better than this.
Instead Dean was spending his free evening trekking through a fucking forest, in search for Charlie’s stupid dagger. Okay, that wasn’t fair. The dagger was not stupid. It had been a gift from her parents for graduating high school and was her all-time favorite weapon. That being said, not every RPG they took part in gave Charlie the chance to use it, which was why she hadn’t even noticed that she lost the dagger during the play until about an hour after they’d gotten home again.
And because Charlie had a hot date tonight -- well, yesterday night, by now -- that she really didn’t want to stand up and Dean suffered from the aforementioned weakness for puppy eyes, here he was. Back on their playground, searching for the proverbial needle.
It didn’t help that the woods looked a lot less friendly after sunset.
Which was Dean’s excuse for why he screamed shouted in a very hoarse, manly way, when there was suddenly a face in front of him, blinking against the beam of his flashlight.
“Fuck!” Dean stumbled a few steps back on reflex and almost tripped over some unfortunately placed brushwood in the process. “...I mean, hi?” he added once he was sure neither his heart nor his legs would give out on him.
Smooth, real smooth, Winchester.
Then, to make matters worse, his mouth decided that it had enough of listening to his brain’s incessant rambling and decided to severe the connection between them for the time being.
“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have seen a dagger around here somewhere, would you?” Dean heard himself say, much to his horror.
Great. What a fantastic way to not come off as a crazy mass-murderer.
“Shit, that came out wrong,” Dean hurriedly added. “What I meant was-- Okay, I know that being in the woods at 2am is a weird thing to be doing, but my friend called me and--”
‘it turns out she lost her dagger when we were out here earlier today, fighting a great war against the forces of an evil sorceress that may or may not make a mean mojito,’ died on the tip of his tongue because one, Dean always remembers a little too late that most people do not consider RPG the best thing since the Lord of the Rings movies, and two, it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t the only one out here in the woods, in the middle of the night, alone.
Naturally, once more his lips say words before he has the chance to actually think them through.
“--wait, why are you in the woods at 2am...” Dean’s voice slowly trailed off as his gaze slid over the stranger’s handsome face and landed on a familiar dagger in the man’s hand. A danger that Dean knew from experience was sharp enough to cut through skin as long as you weren’t shy about the pressure you had to apply.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
See if he was ever doing his friends a favor again.
“I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Dean said more than asked, even as his muscles tensed and he shifted, placed his feet a little further apart for better balance.
It had been a few months since Dean had trained seriously -- his mom was going to kill him if he made it out of this alive -- but he couldn’t even remember the last time he had fought for real. Certainly not some murderous psychopath in the setting of every slasher movie ever.
He was even blonde and pretty. Life really wasn’t fair.
“Do not be afraid,” the stranger said in a deep, gravely voice. A nice voice, Dean noted absently, then immediately cursed himself for noticing it in the first place. “I mean you no harm.”
Yeah. That was reassuring. Especially when it definitely wasn’t an explanation for why this guy was here or why he was staring at Dean with the bluest eyes he had ever seen without blinking once. Seriously, Dean’s eyes were starting to tear a little.
“Okay,” Dean said anyways because what the hell. “Cool. In that case, I’m just gonna go on my way now, and you do whatever it is you’re doing. It was nice meeting you, buddy.”
Forcefully pressing his lips shut to keep himself from rambling on, Dean took a slow step back. He wasn’t surprised when that made the stranger take another step towards him -- anything else would have been too easy -- but it still felt like a hand closing around his neck, cutting off his airways.
“I apologize, Dean Winchester,” the stranger said. “I did not mean to startle you.”
And fuck, but Dean could feel his heart freeze for a moment there before it suddenly started up a rhythm like it wanted to power his baby’s engine all on its own. This guy knew his name. He’d never seen this man before in his life -- not that he could remember at least, and certainly not for lack of trying -- but clearly he was on a disadvantage here.
This wasn’t just a random coincidence, this was targeted. And the guy had chosen the woods in the middle of the fucking night to approach him. Damn it, he was so dead.
“Startle me?” Dean asked -- and yes, okay, if his voice was embarrassingly high this situation totally justified his reaction -- stiffly.
The stranger frowned. He still hadn’t blinked once as far as Dean could tell. He also still hadn’t looked away from Dean for even a fraction of a second. Creepy did not begin to cover it. And sure as hell neither did startle.
“Yes.” Still that same, deep voice without any further inflection. No threat, anger or rage. Dean was usually good at reading people, guessing their moods, shit like that, but man this guy was something else.
Dean had nothing. Well, actually, Dean had more than enough.
“I simply wished to return this to you.” The stranger held out Charlie’s dagger in his hand.
Dean flinched reflexively, causing the frown lines to deepen. The guy didn’t withdraw his arm though, so Dean slowly reached towards the dagger. He half expected the man to lash out -- because while he might be unable to read any hostile intentions in the guy’s body language he also couldn’t read any non-hostile intentions -- but he didn’t. Dean’s fingers closed around the dagger unhindered and he felt something like relief unknotting the ball of anxiety in his chest when the stranger pulled his hand back.
Naturally their hands brushed because it’s a freaking dagger and the handle wasn’t that big. Dean didn’t even know why he was surprised when something like a shudder ran through him -- like he’d been zapped by static, except not quite as uncomfortable -- and the stranger gasped.
He also still hadn’t stopped staring at Dean.
“Thanks,” Dean muttered anyways, because being uncomfortable as fuck was no reason not to be polite to the guy who could have stabbed you to death with your best friend’s favorite weapon. There were also a lot of reasons to be polite when that guy could still change his mind and decide to attack you.
The guy tilted his head and even though he was not as tall as Dean, Dean felt a hell of a lot smaller under the weight of this guy’s gaze.
“You are very welcome, Dean Winchester.”
Dean thought now might be a good time to make a run for it -- except that would mean turning his back on this guy, who still hadn’t taken a step back or averted his gaze or anything of the sort. Dean shifted uncomfortably.
“Dude!” he finally complained after another minute of enduring the Stare of Something Or Another™ -- Dean really couldn’t read the expression the guy wore at all -- and his nerves were rapidly fraying. “Can you just quit it with the staring?!”
“My apologies,” the stranger said again. “But--”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Dean interrupted impatiently.
“--have an exceptionally bright soul,” the guy finished unperturbed.
“But sorry doesn’t mean much when you don’t adjust your behavior accordingl-- wait, what?” This time Dean is the one who is staring, although his gaze is one of incredulity instead of what he’s suspecting might be fascination on the other guy’s face.
“Your soul,” the guy breathes reverently. “Is brilliant. I have not seen a human blessed with such a pure soul ever before.”
Dean blinked. Once for being called ‘pure’ of all things -- definitely a first and one Sam will probably get a kick out off, the little bitch -- and a second time for the way the guy said ‘human’.
In Dean’s admittedly limited experience, due to having a life, no matter what Charlie might insinuate, the only people likely to stress another’s human status were those...who...weren’t...
Fucking hell, this guy had to be kidding him. That or he was determined to kill Dean via heart attack.
Dean jerked back, only to find out that there was in fact a tree right behind him that he now pressed his back against uncomfortably hard. On the bright side, at least he didn’t fall flat on his ass as he undoubtedly would have done if the tree hadn’t been there.
On the other hand, of course his future killer took another step towards him -- well into Dean’s personal space, might he add -- and stared at him from so close that Dean could feel the exhale of his breath on his face. Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to cover this situation.
His hand was clenched so tightly around Charlie’s dagger that Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if the handle would have his palm print permanently pressed into the metal. But he couldn’t bring himself to lift his arm and actually use it.
Besides, the guy had just handed the knife over, Dean reasoned absently. He wouldn’t have done that if it was able to harm him.
“What the hell are you?” he hissed from behind clenched teeth.
And seriously, the guy still didn’t blink. How Dean hadn’t seen it before he didn’t know, but this thing was not human.
“I am Castiel,” the guy replied calmly because of course he was. “I am an angel of the Lord.”
Dean-- stared. He honestly had nothing to say to that. Except maybe--
“Come again?”
“I am an angel of the Lord,” Castiel -- and seriously, what kind of name is that? -- repeated obediently.
“There’s no such thing as angels,” Dean muttered reflexively, even as his mind is already racing, turning this information over and over, trying to make it fit.
Castiel smiled then, and the sight of it strangely reminded Dean of the way his mom indulged his insistence that vampires were real before they got undeniable proof and it turned out that Dean was right.
“Of course we exist. Although it is true that we have long avoided mingling with humanity when possible. I now suspect that it has been your soul that has been calling us, to dwell so close to a human settlement.”
And what? The more this Castiel talked the less sense he made.
“Yeah,” Dean drawled sarcastically. “I’m sure that’s it. You guys don’t-- I don’t know, eat humans or suck out their souls or anything of the sort, do you?”
Because Dean should probably check. Not that he was too sure what to do if the answer were positive -- how does one go about killing a being that might or might not be an angel? -- but it couldn’t hurt to ask. At least, Dean hoped it wouldn’t.
Castiel drew back a little -- not as much as would be appropriate but it’s a start -- in surprise. “Of course not!” he exclaimed. “Souls are our Father’s greatest gift to humanity, no angel dare to harm such a precious gift.”
His voice became softer towards the end, and when Castiel reached out in a slow but steady motion to oh so gently place his hand on Dean’s chest, Dean was absolutely powerless to stop him. Castiel looked-- utterly entranced. Dean honestly couldn’t think of a better word.
He tried to imagine what his friends would say if they could see him now, hell, what his family would say. An angel being all over him because of his supposedly pure soul. Dean couldn’t even finish that thought without a disbelieving snort.
“Okay,” was what Dean finally settled on. “That’s good to know, I guess. In that case, if you wouldn’t mind, it’s well past bedtime for the humans of us, so if you could just let me--” he made a shooing gesture.
Castiel, perhaps unsurprisingly, did not move an inch. He was also still staring at Dean -- well, his chest, currently -- with an expression that Dean hesitantly named ‘fierce’. Great. If his soul’s apparent purity got him kidnapped into some sort of angel-fairy-woods, Dean would not be held responsible for his actions.
“Could you, uhm, back away a little?” Dean asked, annoyed with himself for how uncertain he sounded. But seriously, what kind of protocol did you fall back on when encountering an angel? The alien first encounter protocol? “Please?”
Apparently, his parents had been right all this time and ‘please’ really was a magic word because it did in fact cause Castiel to back away. A whole inch.
Dean didn’t bother to suppress an eye roll this time. “Dude, seriously, get off me!” he snapped. “I need to get home, okay? I need some sleep and these woods are creeping me the fuck out!”
Castiel frowned at him. “I would not let any harm come to you, Dean Winchester,” he declared with such genuine sincerity that Dean swallowed, unable to dismiss the claim out of hand like he usually would.
“That’s great, pal,” he said instead. “But I still have to go home. I don’t live in these woods, heck, humans don’t live in these woods.”
Maybe that part would get through to the angel who clearly struggled to understand how someone might not spend the rest of the night -- well, early morning at this point -- leaning against a tree and staring into the eyes of an angel.
It was like getting stuck in one of Charlie’s Lord of the Ring fanfics -- although Dean dearly hoped that wasn’t the case, Charlie had a terrible habit of panicking near the end of a story and killing every character off in a gruesome manner -- except those usually involved elves instead of angels.
“I see,” Castiel replied gravely. “Will you let me accompany you then, to ensure your save passage through these,” here, he paused for a moment, “’woods that are creeping you the fuck out’ as I believe you described them?”
And fuck it all, it had only taken Dean a single conversation to make a freaking angel cuss. He was so going to hell.
“Sure.” Dean sighed, both because having someone at his side who hadn’t attempted to kill him so far really did make him feel a little better and because he had the strong suspicion that his agreement factored little into whether the angel would follow him or not.
Besides what harm could a couple more minutes do?
One of these days, Dean really did need to learn that lesson about not tempting fate. But today he was exhausted, had against all odds recovered Charlie’s stupid dagger, lost years of his life no thanks to Castiel, and discovered that apparently angels were real.
And that one of them had a weird obsession with staring at him. And walking so close to Dean, their arms brushed with every step they took.
That last part he should -- and would -- probably worry about. But not before Dean hadn’t gotten a solid nine hours of sleep, two cups of coffee, and recounted the entire incident to Charlie and Jo. Until then, he determinedly put the entire thing out of his mind and focused solely on getting home safely without falling asleep where he stood.
It was only the next morning -- some time after 1pm, to be precise -- when Dean opened his eyes only to come face-to-very-close-face with Castiel who was staring at him with intrigue, that Dean realized that maybe it wouldn’t be quite that simple.
Lucifer, staring down at his first assignment as a fucking guardian angel – because apparently saying ‘I’m sorry for trying to kill off humanity in a fit’ isn’t enough: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
*somewhere else*
Michael: I do not doubt your judgement, father, but I cannot help but wonder… Do you truly believe this will bring Lucifer back to us?
God: yes absolutely that is 100% why I did it *breaks down into another giggle fit while Michael watches on dubiously*
#1
Lucifer, reappearing in the middle of the motel room: You know, I’m getting the feeling that I’m not welcome here
Dean: Great then why don’t you take the hint and leave us alone!
Lucifer: Aww, you’re hurting my feelings, Dean. And, as I’ve been trying to tell you for two weeks now, I am your new– *gets banished by another sigil, curtesy of Sam*
Lucifer: *sighs the mother of all exasperated-with-the-Winchesters-sighs™*
#4
Lucifer: Why are you running around in circles in this cellar? The decor alone is atrocious
Dean: Fuck off, Satan
Sam, panting: Trying to find the damn bones before the ghost– *gets slammed into a wall*
Lucifer: *snaps his fingers*
Dean, staring at the burnt down house: You know you could’ve just told us where the bones are right
#22
Meg, cackling and not looking behind her: Calling your angelic help desk, Deano? Did you really think I wouldn’t be prepared? That one pathetic, little wingboy with a crush on you would be able to stop me?
Lucifer, inside the circle of holy fire: oH bITch yoU dIDN’T
#37
Lucifer: *disintegrates girl that Sam was just about to buy a drink*
Sam: Oh, come on! What was it this time?
Lucifer, shrugging: A qarinah, a type of succubus that originated in Ancient Egypt
Sam:
Sam: You’re serious aren’t you
Lucifer: Don’t take this the wrong way but you have terrible taste in women
Lucifer: It’s always ‘No, Lucifer, you can’t smite the whole FBI for hunting us, what is wrong with you’
Lucifer: ‘No, Lucifer, there’s a perfectly good version of that plan where nobody dies’
Lucifer: ‘No, Lucifer! You are not torturing those guys just because they stole our car, Dean stop encouraging him!’
Lucifer, to a tied-up, trembling demon on a long list of demons that has committed one slight or another against the Winchesters in the past: *sharpens his knife* I’m telling you these people are impossible to protect
Lucifer, staring down at his first assignment as a fucking guardian angel -- because apparently saying ‘I’m sorry for trying to kill off humanity in a fit’ isn’t enough: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
*somewhere else*
Michael: I do not doubt your judgement, father, but I cannot help but wonder... Do you truly believe this will bring Lucifer back to us?
God: yes absolutely that is 100% why I did it *breaks down into another giggle fit while Michael watches on dubiously*
#1
Lucifer, reappearing in the middle of the motel room: You know, I’m getting the feeling that I’m not welcome here
Dean: Great then why don’t you take the hint and leave us alone!
Lucifer: Aww, you’re hurting my feelings, Dean. And, as I’ve been trying to tell you for two weeks now, I am your new-- *gets banished by another sigil, curtesy of Sam*
Lucifer: *sighs the mother of all exasperated-with-the-Winchesters-sighs™*
#4
Lucifer: Why are you running around in circles in this cellar? The decor alone is atrocious
Dean: Fuck off, Satan
Sam, panting: Trying to find the damn bones before the ghost-- *gets slammed into a wall*
Lucifer: *snaps his fingers*
Dean, staring at the burnt down house: You know you could’ve just told us where the bones are right
#22
Meg, cackling and not looking behind her: Calling your angelic help desk, Deano? Did you really think I wouldn’t be prepared? That one pathetic, little wingboy with a crush on you would be able to stop me?
Lucifer, inside the circle of holy fire: oH bITch yoU dIDN’T
#37
Lucifer: *disintegrates girl that Sam was just about to buy a drink*
Sam: Oh, come on! What was it this time?
Lucifer, shrugging: A qarinah, a type of succubus that originated in Ancient Egypt
Sam:
Sam: You’re serious aren’t you
Lucifer: Don’t take this the wrong way but you have terrible taste in women
Next part of the baby we’re the new romantics ‘verse, where Lucifer learns that married life with Dean Winchester is not quite what he imagined it would be:
Lucifer spends a couple of hours considering Castiel’s suggestion, before he finally decides that his little brother really does know Dean Winchester better than any other angel currently alive, and he should probably heed his warning. Really, there is no telling what far-fetched — but somehow against all logic actually working — plan he will come up with once he is bored enough. Lucifer has had some of his best ideas during the centuries spent in his cage.
Besides Hell is his to rule, changing his personal layer to accommodate his bond mate’s needs isn’t that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. It may even earn him some goodwill from his spouse, though that is unlikely. But if it stops dear Cassie from stalking him for a while, Lucifer is going to count it as a win. His bond mate’s little pet sure takes the term 'persistence' to a whole new level. Lucifer can’t decide if that kind of loyalty is admirable or disturbing — oh, who is he kidding, it’s admirable. All the more so because it is disturbing.
The point is, Lucifer reshapes his layer of Hell. Just a bit. Nothing to talk about — and certainly nothing anyone would survive talking about. He ties the changes to the human’s subconsciousness because he doesn’t know and has no desire to find out what his bond mate’s personal preferences are.
And then another mediocre demon screws up one of the simplest tasks imaginable, and Lucifer puts the matter out of his mind.
When he returns to his personal quarters a few days later, the previously cold, empty walls are covered in countless pictures of Michael — or various human versions of Michael at least — and a giant 'When I grow up I’m gonna be just like my big brother!' banner.
Lucifer manages to displace himself in time before he destroys Hell and murders his bond mate. Barely. And if a couple of giant lizard-like creatures die out some million years ago, well, Father’s will does work in mysterious ways.
It starts, like most things involving Gabriel, with a joke. A bad joke, granted. Because he really should’ve known not to involve the Impala and Dean is furious.
That part is important. He’s undoubtedly ranting too. Maybe throwing a couple of death threats in here and there, just to keep things interesting. Gabriel should definitely be paying attention to that part.
He definitely shouldn’t be focused on Dean’s hair that he’s been running his hands through in aggravation. He definitely shouldn’t be fascinated by the way it sticks up in little spikes, just begging to be touched--
Oh, who is Gabriel kidding? ‘Shouldn’t’ has never stopped him before. If anything, it’s an added incentive.
So he does the natural thing, reaches out and gently pets Dean’s hair. It’s a little sticky, but that’s Gabriel’s fault, and he really likes the way it makes Dean’s mouth slam shut with a klick, makes him stare wide-eyed at Gabriel for a moment before he’s suddenly jumping several feet back, snarling a “What the hell, Gabriel?!” that does nothing to cover the lovely light-red blush on his cheeks.
And if that isn’t a promising sight? Gabriel doesn’t know what is.
The Ducifer madness continues. By the way, I’ve finished this verse and though I’m gonna post the entire thing on tumblr bit by bit you can also read it on AO3.
The bonding is a farce. Granted, Lucifer would have drawn a lot more satisfaction from it if Dean hadn’t shown up dressed to the nines like an actual bride, makeup, diadem and veil inclusive. Not that it wasn’t an… interesting picture. But where was the fun in mocking someone who just went all-out to embrace his role rather than agonize about it?
Still. Lucifer will cherish the look of Michael’s bristling feathers for the next century. At the very least.
So yeah, maybe Lucifer was a bit put out by that. And he may have possible pouted. A little. As soon as the whole bonding was over — and thank Father that it didn’t actually involve a mind link or something of the sort. Sure, his grace and Dean’s soul were connected now, but it was more of a symbol than anything else. A symbol Lucifer has to honor, granted, but not killing one little human — and his surprisingly large family, considering all but one of them are dead — was a small price to pay for complete freedom.
The apocalypse may be off the table, but Lucifer had never promised to be anything but himself.
Thus, as soon as the ceremony was over, Lucifer had pretty much stuffed his freshly baked bond mate into his personal layer of hell and— well. Not forgotten about him, exactly, because archangels didn’t forget things, but— gone on his merry way. There had been so many plans to make, vows to circumvent, generals to meet, and measly demons to discipline {kill off} when they inevitably pissed him off.
And hey, it’s not like he handed Dean over to Alistair or anything. Okay, so, Alistair isn’t around anymore, but you know what I mean. Lucifer is an unapologetic asshole, but he made a Vow to protect the human. That is not something he takes lightly.
Which is what Lucifer is forced to explain to an incensed Castiel — Him! Explain himself! To a lower angel no less! — when his pissed little brother eventually tracks him down.
But Castiel’s name is right at the top of Dean’s definitely-do-not-touch-or-I-will-kill-you-fuck-this-bond-you-just-watch-me list, just below dear Sammy himself. So Lucifer is forced to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance and, when that doesn’t help, eradicate the closest demon from his miserable existence, before he sits down and explains the different layers of hell to the little angel that could. Aka that there is no danger to Dean at all on his layer because demons can’t even reach it without Lucifer’s express permission, and that there isn’t even a single weapon Dean could harm himself — or Lucifer, though he doesn’t say that — with, accidentally or otherwise.
Castiel, somewhat unsurprisingly, is unimpressed. Even dares to give Lucifer the Raised Eyebrow of Judgement™ Lucifer honestly thought no being younger than Gabriel could pull off. He really misses the old days, when his pesky brothers were good, little soldiers who were in awe of everything he did and said.
"You are aware that you have left him in a hostile environment with nothing to do and no way to entertain himself, are you not? Because I feel it is my duty to remind you what sort of plans the brothers’ Winchesters come up with when left to their own devices and with no way to entertain themselves," Castiel says with thinly veiled scorn.
The kid really has grown weirdly fond of his Righteous Man if he is willing to call Lucifer out like this. He honestly can’t remember the last angel brazen enough to do that. Or, well, he could, but why should he bother? Lucifer is sure he dealt with them appropriately.
Castiel doesn’t even have the decency to use his brief moment of inattention to his advantage and flee. Nope. He’s still standing there, smack within smiting distance, watching Lucifer expectantly.
Neither angel will ever mention the outcome of the subsequent staring contest to anyone. Castiel because despite his prolonged exposure to the Winchester insanity he does still possess a sense of self-preservation. And Lucifer because there was no staring contest.
