Chapter Text
Dean wakes up and blinks, the pre-dawn greyness filtering in through the skylight he installed last week with the help of Sarah. He stretches and groans, fingers fumbling blindly across the mattress in search of Cas’ warm body for a few seconds until he remembers that it’s Saturday, and Cas is teaching a class.
Dean sighs heavily and blinks at the ceiling, not sure if he’s prepared to get up just yet. Making a decision, he swings his legs out of bed and slides them into a pair of slippers—gift from Cas at the last Christmas party—without letting them hit the cold wooden floor. He stands, bending until his back makes a satisfying popping sound, and shuffles into the hallway.
There’s an angel in the hall, and he’s pretty sure her name is Theliel. She glances up at Dean and waves, and he tries not to glare at her. It’s not his fault he’s got perpetual grumpy-early-morning syndrome.
“Good morning,” he says, leaning heavily against the wall and running a hand through his hair.
“Morning,” Theliel says. A thin smile graces the corners of her mouth. “The anniversary is tonight. Are you excited?”
Dean nods, but on the inside he’s suddenly a little less happy about being awake. Tomorrow is the third anniversary of the founding of the Winchester House For Wayward Angels, which means a party and extra people and mingling. God, the mingling.
“You don’t seem very excited,” Theliel muses. “Is it because you’ll be expected to interact with more than a dozen people at a time?”
Dean laughs, nodding. “You know me. I hate trying to make small talk.”
“I understand that,” Theliel says. She hums a few bars of a Beatles song and walks away, gracefully twirling along with the notes. Dean watches her go with a fond look on his face before turning and shuffling in the other direction, making a beeline for the kitchen and coffee.
Sam is at the table, deep in conversation with an angel named Cabriel, staring intently as Cabriel explains something unexplainable. Dean rolls his eyes when he hears the words “string theory,” heading directly for the pot of coffee that’s still warm enough for consumption.
“Morning, Sammy,” Dean yawns, rummaging through the cupboards in search of a clean mug. With nearly a hundred residents, clean dishes that are actual useful are rare, except on Sundays, which are cleaning days. And since it’s currently Saturday, Dean has to settle for a wine glass.
“Why are you up so early?” Sam asks by way of greeting.
Dean taps a fingernail on the side of his wine glass of coffee, leaning against the counter and watching Cabriel puzzle over the newspaper. “I don’t actually know.”
“Well, you look hell,” Sam says tonelessly. Dean almost spits out his coffee in indignation, glaring at his brother over the brim of his wine glass. “Kidding. Although you probably know what looking like hell is like, don’t you?”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean groans. “Your humor isn’t funny.”
Sam looks affronted. “The angels laugh,” he says childishly.
“The angels don’t actually know what funny is,” Dean teases, ignoring the look of confusion he gets from Cabriel. “They laugh at almost anything.”
“Shut up,” Sam grumbles, stealing Cabriel’s newspaper. Cabriel doesn’t protest, simply allowing Sam to slide the paper across the table and fold it, searching for the crossword. “Hand me a pen.”
Dean tosses his brother a pen and leaves him to his crossword, carrying the wine glass carefully so as to not spill it on their clean carpets. He blinks blearily at the wall murals in the various hallways—new artwork is common, seeing as most of the angels are artistic in at least one way. There’s one in the Art Hallway that he’s never seen before, and he stops to inspect it. This one must have sprung up sometime in the night, because it certainly wasn’t there yesterday. The formerly blank expanse of white wall is now covered in thick gold brushstrokes, punctuated by thinner yellow ones, swirling and twining to create a star that almost appears to be actually shining. Dean reaches a hand up to touch the white center of the star, but stops short. The paint is still wet.
“Do you like it?” a timid voice asks. Dean turns to see who spoke. It’s a short man, staring at Dean with open blue eyes, white apron painted bright yellow and a brush still clutched in one hand. Standing next to him is a tall, willowy girl no more than twenty, equally paint-coated.
“It’s beautiful,” Dean answers earnestly, and the man grins from ear to ear. Dean doesn’t know either of these angels; they must be new. He holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Dean.”
The woman shakes it. Her grip is strong and firm, completely unlike her thin, fragile frame would suggest. She lets go and tucks a lock of white-blond hair behind an ear, smiling at him softly. “I’m Israfil, but you may call me Ezra if that’s too difficult to pronounce.”
“And I’m Gamiel,” the man says, straightening the crooked green tie that doesn’t match his dark blue shirt at all. “We got here last week. We haven’t had much time to meet anyone new.”
“I run the place,” Dean says self-consciously. He hates explaining his position to the newer angels. They tend to be a little weepy and thankful. He thinks it might be because they’ve been living on the streets for almost three years, not knowing how to assimilate properly into society.
“We know. Castiel told us,” Israfil says around a smile. She laughs, just a little chime of a laugh, and grabs Gamiel by the hand, leading him off down the hall. Dean shakes his head and watches them disappear around a corner, headed in the general direction of the art supply closet.
He then continues on his way, trying to navigate the labyrinth of hallways and corridors to get the one of the rooms Cas might be teaching in. He prides himself on the ease with which he can typically use the tunnel system, but he almost never heads into the Art Hallways and Music Hallways. He tends to spend more time in the shooting range or the living quarters, teaching confused angels to hunt or playing mother hen.
Dean glances into every room he passes that has its door open, hoping for a glimpse of his favorite angel. He actually passes the right room, and Cas calls his name to get him to turn around. “Dean! In here!”
Dean grins and tries not to look too embarrassed as he enters the full room. There are four couches, each with two angels on it. Cas is sitting on top of a desk at the front of the room, genuinely happy smile plastered on his handsome face. He waves at Dean.
“Good morning. Is that a wine glass of coffee?” Cas asks, tilting his head to the side in the way that all the angels seem inclined to do.
“Yeah,” Dean admits, looking sheepishly down at his empty glass. “Um, tomorrow is cleaning day. There weren’t any more mugs. I had to work with what I had.”
Cas graces him with one of his biggest smiles, hopping down from the desk and taking the glass from Dean. “You’re a dork,” he says lovingly.
“You’re a bitch,” Dean mutters.
“Assbutt,” Cas tosses back, and then turns to face his siblings. He pulls on his teacher voice, speaking louder than strictly necessary and gesturing. “This is Dean, which I hope you all know. What you all might not know is that Dean is one of three human beings who have been to hell and lived to tell the tale. Hopefully I can get him to answer a few questions for us.”
“What the hell kind of class you teaching, babe?” Dean asks out of the corner of his mouth.
“Theology,” Cas replies in the same fashion, and then he’s back to teaching. “Tell us what your last memory of hell is, Dean. Please.”
Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Eventually the truth straps on a parachute and jumps out. “White light. Blinding white light.”
Cas smiles again, but this time it’s a soft one, gentle and sappy and sweet. “Me.”
Dean nearly collapses right then and there. He’d never thought of it that way. “Yeah.”
“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says briskly, and ushers Dean out the door. He stops to give Dean a quick kiss on the temple and a warm smile and then he’s gone, back to teaching his freaky theology class that makes zero sense, and Dean is left to try and think of what he’s going to do at the Anniversary Party tonight.
XXXXX
The Anniversary Party is everything Dean thought it would be, and more. Some hunters show up, those who had a hand in preventing the world’s end. Garth and Kevin and Charlie are there, standing awkwardly in the corner alternately drinking and gaping at the angels.
The poor angels have no idea what to do. Some of them, the ones that have been at the Winchester House for a long time, laugh and joke and carry on like proper partiers. The newer ones stand along the walls and watch with huge, frightened eyes. The rest just stand about and talk quietly while the band plays classical music. (It’s an angel band. Dean doesn’t think he could get them to play something fun if he tried.)
Crowley is there, having emerged from his room—where he spends most of his time, reading and gossiping with Sam—obviously making fun of the angels behind their backs. He stands next to Sam, who is leaning down to hear, occasionally pointing or laughing. Sam frowns a lot, but sometimes he grins.
Dean and Cas stand together, though not really. Cas is laughing and telling stories with Sarah and Vel, and Dean is locked in his own head, trying to figure out how he’s going to get out of giving a speech. It doesn’t take long to realize that he can’t, so he resigns himself to trying to write a speech.
“Dean, get on the stage,” Cas orders, voice all serious, and Dean can feel cardiac arrest coming on. He’s not ready for this. Cas gives him a little push and then he’s on the stage, staring out at a hundred or so faces of all shapes, sizes, and colors, with nothing to say.
“Um,” he says.
“Hey,” he says.
“Uh,” he says.
He clears his throat and decides to hell with it. “So, three years ago you guys fell out of the sky. Let me tell you, that was one of the worst nights of my life. I nearly died, and a lot of people actually did. But you guys survived, so… kudos.”
This is the literal worst speech that has ever been uttered before an audience. Dean pushes on, trying to ignore the confused and trying-not-to-laugh look on Cas’ face. “I remember, when we first started collecting angels. The first few, I almost killed with my car. Sarah, Vel, Tempast, I’d like to apologize for that.
“But, uh, we’re all here. And I like how it is now. With our hunters out in the field, there’s barely any monster activity. Abaddon is ruling happily in hell and as far as I know, she doesn’t want to kill us, so we don’t have to worry about demons. We have it pretty good.
“I don’t actually know what this speech was supposed to be about. But I’d like to say, um, that I’m glad we have each other. I have Sam and Cas and all of you, even if takes me a month to learn your name. So thanks. For being a family, to all of us. The Winchester House wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
Dean flees the stage as quickly as he can, face beet red and knees shaky. He’s never been good at public speaking. Actually, he’s never been good at speaking, unless very drunk or very angry, neither of which apply.
“Nice speech,” Crowley taunts when Dean reaches his circle of friends. He chooses to ignore the comment and casually flip Crowley off behind his back so that Sam doesn’t see and disapprove.
“It actually wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” Sam allows, shrugging.
“It was great,” Cas says with a grin, pulling Dean into his arms and hugging him tight enough to make his back pop. Dean laughs and squirms, making a show of trying to get Cas off. Cas giggles, honestly giggles, and only holds tighter. He whispers in Dean’s ear, “Thank you for all of this.”
“No problem, babe,” Dean murmurs, stopping his struggles and allowing Cas to hold him. “I love you.”
“And I you,” Cas replies, and kisses him.