This is adorable, thank you so much @soloarcana !
It inspired me in turn, so for anyone who has read Russian to the Altar and would like a little extra snippet, here you go. It’s alluded to in the fic already, but just for funsies, I wrote a tiny extra scene that would have occurred between chapters seven and eight.
Obviously, there are Russian to the Altar spoilers below the break!
Gabriel was one of Dean’s best friends. It had been a strange realization, once upon a time—the dude was fucking annoying, honestly, and occasionally Dean wondered if it was truly friendship or something more like Stockholm Syndrome. But there was no denying it now, after several years of working together, being forced to trust each other and confide in each other because there was simply no room for anything else when your livelihoods were so entwined: Dean and Gabriel were friends. The irritating, moody, bratty little dude with a bit of a superiority complex and an unhealthy sugar addiction was almost as dear to him as Charlie was.
For some reason, it bugged the shit out of Sam. Dean had never known why, never worked out if there was some kinda history there that he didn’t know about, and he’d never asked. Just on the off-chance that the answer might be super horrifying. But there was something that hung between Gabriel and Sam that made Dean keep them apart, more often than not. His bachelor party, of course, was one of the few occasions where the two of them had to play nice, for Dean’s sake.
So, Dean had enjoyed it. It was so, so rare that he got to have all the people he loved in one place. Sam, Gabriel, Charlie...Castiel. Obviously Castiel, because he was the groom. He’d wormed his way into Dean’s heart even more thoroughly than Gabriel had. Fucking Novaks.
Normally, Gabriel’s over-the-top party planning would have been a huge source of irritation for Dean. At heart, he was a “quiet beer and a movie” kinda guy, or a “couple of shots at the strip club” guy if he was feeling antsy. A full night of parading through club after club, dancing and shrieking and getting lost in pulsing lights...yeah, not so much his thing. Dean found that he couldn’t be annoyed tonight, though.
Staggering through the front door of his little townhouse with Castiel’s warm weight leaning tipsily into his side, Dean had no regrets at all.
Given the amount that he’d drunk, Castiel still seemed astonishingly sober. A little more affectionate than usual, perhaps, but Dean had no complaints about that. He wouldn’t say anything about how Castiel looked, either; parted lips that screamed “fuck me” and hair that looked like he already had, a twinkle in his eyes and a flush high on his cheeks.
“That was a surprisingly nice evening,” Castiel said. He didn’t slur, but somehow the more he drank the stronger his accent became.
Dean was weak for it. Oh, worse than weak. That voice made him want to crawl on his knees, to plead, to tear up and beg.
He successfully pushed down the feelings, slamming the townhouse door behind them. In the distance, he heard the cough of Jess’ minivan engine restarting as she pulled away to drop off the next sloppy partygoer on her list. She was a damn saint, that one. Dean would never let Sam hear the end of it if he screwed that one up.
“Yeah, Dean answered Castiel once they were inside. “I’ve not got a ton of bachelor parties to compare it to, I’ll admit, but no one organizes a night out quite like your brother does.”
“He is singularly talented at debauchery,” Castiel noted solemnly. “Though more likable the more I get to know him, I think.”
“I guess you didn’t spend all that much time together growing up, huh?” Dean said, leaning on the wall to ease off his boots. Not that he was drunk, of course. The wall was just moving a little.
Castiel turned, leaning on the banister at the bottom of the stairs to watch as Dean fought with his laces. The twin plastic penises that protruded from his hair bobbed comically as he looked down at Dean’s hands. “No, not too much. I love him, of course, he is my brother. But he is, uh…”
Dean looked up as Castiel trailed off, smirking as he watched Castiel’s brow furrow. “Word issues, Mister Shakespeare?”
“Razdrazhayushchiy,” Castiel said feebly.
Castiel flapped a hand in annoyance before turning toward the stairs. “I am going to change,” he said, the steps creaking as made his way heavily up them. “I will be back.”
“Go to sleep, Dmitri,” Dean mumbled, grinning down at his footwear as he finally managed to kick them off.
Some vague Russian sounds from above indicated that Castiel would not, in fact, be going straight to sleep.
Dean managed to schlep his way into the kitchen and set the coffee maker, something that he knew he’d appreciate in the morning, before he heard the stairs creaking once more.
Castiel reappeared in the hallway in a pair of his usual soft sweatpants and a simple t-shirt...and still wearing the tacky “Groom” sash—which had migrated from Dean to him somewhere between the second and third clubs they’d been to—and his cheap, bobbly peens.
Dean stifled a laugh. “Did you—did you put them back on after you changed?” he choked out.
Castiel looked at him blankly.
“Nevermind,” Dean said, biting his lower lip. “Forget I said anything.”
“Go sit,” Castiel grumbled, opening the cabinet where the glasses were kept.
Dean opened his mouth to protest that he was fine, he—
The couch felt mighty good after a long night on his feet. Dean let out a woozy sigh, leaning back into the old, soft cushions. He was definitely too old for this shit.
It seemed to be only seconds later when the seat dipped down next to him. Rolling his head to the side, Dean cracked open his eyes.
In the soft lamplight, sleepy-eyed and flushed, Castiel was breathtaking. Dean was well aware that there was a dopey smile on his face as he looked up at him, but really there was fuck all he could do about it.
“Here,” Castiel said, holding out a glass of water. “Drink it down.”
“I’m fine, really,” Dean began, pushing on the cushions with his elbows to get himself upright. “I mean, I drank a lot, but—”
“Come along, moj mal’chik. Be good.”
Maybe it was the weird, smooth vodka with the fucking grass in it, or the many odd-looking purple shots that Gabriel had produced, but Dean couldn’t help but think everything would be good—more than good—if only this was real.
“Okay, Cas,” he said softly, parting his lips.
Castiel didn’t even expect him to hold it, cradling the back of Dean’s head with one hand as he guided the cup. Dean watched him lazily, warm and drunk, sipping the water obediently. When his hand slipped away, cup empty, Dean had to bite back a whine.
“These too.” Castiel opened his palm to reveal a couple of the extra-strength ibuprofen that lived in the kitchen cabinets. “You might not feel like you need them now, but I think you will appreciate having taken them when you wake up.”
Dean reached for them, ignoring the electric buzz when his fingers touched Castiel’s palm. “Thanks, buddy,” he said.
Castiel smiled, something faint and quiet, then pulled his feet up onto the couch. “You’re welcome,” he said, far more solemn than the situation warranted.
“Tired?” Dean asked. “Or do you wanna watch a movie or something before we head to bed?”
“You should take your coat off, first of all.” Castiel smirked, tugging at Dean’s sleeve. “But yes, after that a movie would be nice.”
Oh. Whoops. Dean looked down at his still-covered arms. “Huh. Okay. I’ll go put this away, you pick a movie?”
Hauling himself awkwardly up off the couch, Dean shuffled back out to the hallway, wondering what the hell had been in those purple things that Gabriel had produced from somewhere. He didn’t often get this messy.
Upon returning to the living room, Dean was surprised to see that the TV was still off—until he turned to look at the couch, anyway.
Castiel was sprawled out with his head on the arm of the chair, one leg kicked up across the back cushions. His pink lips were parted a little, a rumbling snore catching in his throat.
Dean tiptoed over to the couch, keeping quiet—or at least as quiet as his drunken feet would let him be—and looked down at Castiel, smiling softly. It was so like Castiel to want to look after Dean even when he was dead on his feet himself.
With one hand resting on his stomach, Castiel looked far too peaceful to wake up. Dean thought about trying to lift him, but dismissed it. The couch was fine. Instead, Dean tugged the blanket off the back of the armchair near the window and unfolded it, fanning it lightly over Castiel. He pulled it up gently, tucking it around his chest.
“There we go, buddy,” he whispered. Cautiously, Dean reached out one hand and smoothed a tuft of Castiel’s hair down, allowing his thumb to trail slowly over Castiel’s brow.
Dean’s back cracked as he rose back to his feet and moved to the door, ready to head to bed himself. He paused to look back over his shoulder and drink in a little more of Castiel.
Yeah, so maybe this whole bachelor party thing, this whole marriage, was entirely fake. But Dean felt lucky anyway.
On the couch, Castiel snored, his plastic peens wobbling in the breeze from the ceiling fan.
