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In Front of the Fireplace That Wasn't There Five Minutes Ago
“I’ve seen scarier.” The Hunter lightly pocketed his hands.
“Pretty scary yourself, Dean, aren’t you?” Anthony folded his arms, giving the air that he wasn’t effected.
Dean took the challenge to move forward. He eased up to the fireplace and peered into it.
“Depends.”
Anthony turned and considered him. Fallen Angels were Demons that twisted-human-soul Demons got their names from, like parents who name all their children after them. More importantly, Fallen Angels were still able to see a being’s true face. Azra must have been too damn polite to let on to the darkness he saw in Dean, because he glowed with charred iron, eyeless and blotchy. Yet, his body was still his own.
“Did you hear about the apocalypse?”
“Apocalypse? Which one?”
“What, don’t read the newspapers?” Anthony smirked.
Dean huffed. “Hunters don’t write very well.”
“Would’ve thought the Men of Letters…”
“Fuck the Men of Letters.”
Pause.
“Cowboys all the way, then.”
“Hah. Yeah, guess so.” For reasons unexplained to Anthony, Dean’s eyes glittered.
“Right. There was an Apocalypse here, few years ago. A village called Tadfield. Azra and I barely got away from trying to stop it.”
Dean was listening, sizing the Demon up again. If he was telling the truth, this wasn’t the first supernatural being that didn’t like how things were run. Apparently, everyone in the house was on the same page, even though he was still fighting the blind urge to do battle. But if he could see straight, he’d be okay.
“Home offices were furious. But we convinced them to keep their distance. We moved here to find some quiet, but…” Anthony’s inhale told him all he needed to know.
“Still haunts you, huh?”
He seemed knowing. A little too much, really. The Infernal Times painted Dean Winchester and his brother Samuel to be ruthless, if not chaotic. Trained from birth by an equally ruthless father. Set up to be major players in the first apocalyptic event since The Flood, and they just said ‘no’ and made it to the other side. Anthony counted his stars and never wanted to cross the pond, especially in the years that followed.
But Dean was right on the money.
“You’ve gotta fight for what you want, right?” Anthony glanced to the archway that lead to the kitchen. He could hear Azra murmuring, dishes clinking softly.
The Hunter was looking in the same direction. “Damn right… S’funny. There was a time, when.. I just never thought that.. Y’know.”
Bless it all to Heaven.
“Dean Winchester,” Anthony held out his hand to shake, which Dean did, hesitantly. “Fancy a drink? A proper one.” A head tilt towards the kitchen, where the sounds of Azra telling some fascinating story wafted from. He hadn’t heard his partner this gratified in some time. He didn’t know exactly how he felt, but it calmed and excited him all at once.
Dean blinked, but got the meaning and released his hand. “Oh hell yes.”
If the reflection of fire on his glasses with that grin that was just a bit too wide, and teeth a bit too sharp, gave Dean any cause to worry, the Hunter didn’t show it.
While Anthony considered their drink choices, Dean went to finally hang up his jacket.
After figuring out which hook to hang it on, he remembered the gun he packed into the back of his jeans. Hoping nobody saw it, he tried to casually relocate it to a jacket pocket and checked the rest of him just to make sure he wasn’t going to be obvious. His Angel Blade still hung around his wrist— Dean never removed it, even on off days. He turned around to silence, and three otherworldly beings stared at him.
“What?” A defensive shrug.
Anthony doubled over laughing at the counter, much to Azra’s visible chagrin.
“Common angel,” he straightened up, “Is this whole event not ridiculously hilarious?” Then he briefly raised Dean’s glass of whiskey, and set it on the counter before him.
Dean came up easily to the island. He picked up his glass while Anthony poured himself a scotch.
Azra turned, sighing, saying “Don’t be a donut, dear.”
“Wh—” he said.
“Don’t be a what?” Asked Cassiel.
“A donut, apparently,” said Dean, taking a swig.
“Oh,” Azra was delighted to explain, “It was something Adam called a rather rude vendor last week. He said it only meant ‘silly’, but I think he was being kind about it.”
“I see.” Cass seemed too interested for Dean’s comfort.
Anthony drank as well. “Leave it the Antichrist to explain modern lingo to an Angel.”
Dean was looking at him, perplexed.
“Life’s strange, Winchester.”
“Cass, did you know about an Antichrist here?”
The Angel became slightly uncomfortable. “I heard a rumor, some years ago. We were.. swamped with Demons, and Naomi controlling me, plus dealing with the Angel Tablet… It wasn’t a good time to pursue the matter.”
“Oh dear,” said Azra. “That sounds dreadful.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Nobody liked Naomi, Cass. Bitch got what she deserved.” Dean tried to help.
Azra was still curious, but didn’t push it. He’d read Anthony’s newspaper, which never missed a chance to tell its audience how terrible they were at existing. It also chronicled various supernatural exploits—and jeered at them— throughout its publication. It wasn’t a pleasant lens to view the world from, but you could still pick out the facts. Not that those were pleasant, either. In any case, he wouldn’t be surprised if Dean had something to do with her death. He was in fact still armed with an Angel’s blade, and they didn’t simply give those out at parties, did they?
“Thank you for sticking up for me, Dean.”
Dean put down his drink and stepped decidedly over to his angel.
“Hey,” he reached out to Cass’ shoulder, “Everything, all the stuff we’ve been through, it’s in the past. We’re okay now.”
Cass resisted the urge to tell him that time wasn’t linear. Instead, he asked, “Will we be?”
Immediately, Dean kissed him. Just enough to make a point. “Don’t talk like that. Of course we’ll be okay. It’s you, and me, and Sam, and Mom. Besides, who do you think you married?” His smile lighted galaxies.
Anthony stood transfixed, a million thoughts running him through.
“Wait, your mother? Didn’t she— I mean— she’s gotta at least be in her sixties, s’all I’m saying.”
Cass deadpanned, “She returned from the dead. Amara— it’s a complex existence.”
The Demon tried to calculate how exactly The Darkness could factor into the equation, but suddenly didn’t want to think about it. Dean happily returned to his standing place at the island, and raised his glass.
“Life’s strange, man.”
“Bloody right it is. Cheers.”
Both Angels breathed a sigh of relief.
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