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Dean is getting antsy again. Sammy needs to damn well hurry up and finish flirt...questioning the cute brunette with the clipboard. All Dean wants is to get the info on the most valuable artifacts in this exhibition and who has loaned them to the museum. Then they can add one or two items to their hit list. Money doesn’t grow on trees, and finding the right antiquities or pieces of art to, uh, sell is important.
Dean glances over at Sam and the woman. They’re deep in conversation, not paying attention to anyone else in the room.
It’s a pity that the gallery has been smart enough to put the smaller items behind glass. Dean’s seen a few places be arrogant enough to leave statues or vases and shit out that shouldn’t have been. Him and Sammy lifting them had been an act of public service—and you won’t convince Dean otherwise.
Instead of looking for what he can get a five-finger discount on, Dean wanders the exhibition making guesses about which pieces will end up on their list.
“Rescued from Perdition.”
“What?” Dean says, spinning around to face the gruff voice that came from behind him.
“The name of the painting,” the man in the black suit says. “It is supposed to depict the Angel of Thursday rescuing the Righteous Man from Hell.”
“Okay.” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets.
The man cocks his head to one side.
Dean’s used to people looking. It’s okay, so long as they only touch the merchandise when he says they can.
“You’re familiar.”
Dean sighs and then says, “Not like I ain’t heard that one before.”
No way is he going to admit to the pricking sensation at the back of his neck that he’d initially written off as a reaction to the man’s whiskey-over-rocks voice.
“No. It’s not a—Oh, I guess it might sound like a pick-up line. It is the truth. I’m Castiel Milton, by the way.”
Castiel holds out his hand for Dean to shake.
“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, clasping Castiel’s hand. “Definitely not met you before, I’d remember the name.”
Castiel gives a small, one-shouldered shrug and then returns to studying the painting.
“It really is quite captivating isn’t it?”
Dean gives him a non-committal grunt. A knot forming in the pit of his stomach nudges him to examine the picture properly. He steps closer.
“I believe there was a myth that inspired this painting. Let me see if I can find it.”
Dean isn’t one for all that ancient story crap, but if he gets to listen to Castiel talk more, he’ll put up with hearing about it.
“Yes, here it is. The story goes something along the lines of the Righteous Man was the one who would both start and end the Apocalypse. When he gave his life to save his younger brother and his soul was sent to Hell, Heaven commanded the Angel of Thursday to rescue him. The human was from a special lineage, one capable of housing an Archangel’s essence.”
Dean scoffs. He almost doubles over at the stab of pain he feels in his gut when he leans into his usual skepticism. Aren’t angels the stuff of weird new-age hippy people or fat little babies sitting on clouds with harps?
Castiel continues, saying, “The pair were supposed to have fallen in love and forged a profound bond.”
Castiel stops. He reaches towards the painting, his fingers hovering over the delicate brushwork of the celestial being’s feathers.
Dean squints at the features of both figures in the painting. He shivers. It’s that feeling people describe as someone stepping on your grave.
“Does it say anything else?” Dean’s voice is softer, and the volume is lower than before.
Sue him! He’s a big old romantic at heart. As long as Sammy never finds out, it’s all good.
Castiel tears his eyes away from the image, coming to rest on Dean’s face.
Dean swallows audibly, suddenly sweating under Castiel’s gaze.
“Yes.” Castiel looks down at his phone.
It is only a heartbeat before he lifts his eyes again. He can’t possibly have read anything in that time.
“The belief is that the angel fell to be with the Righteous Man. Doomed to live an immortal life on earth, the angel painted this and other canvases of the man he’d rebelled against Heaven for. The site...” Castiel trails off as his voice becomes thicker, heavy with an emotion Dean can’t pinpoint.
“Go on.”
Dean is weirdly invested in knowing how the story ends. He lies to himself and says it’s because the painting is probably a target. It's true—stuff with legends attached makes more dollars for him and Sammy. Dean knows he’s bullshitting himself.
“Well, it says that the paintings have been lost to time, and this is the only known image of either of them.”
“Oh.”
Castiel’s hand is still so close to Rescued from Perdition that Dean looks around them to see if anyone is about to come over and yell at him. It shouldn’t matter to Dean if the guy gets grief or not—and yet it does. Dean feels as if it matters greatly.
Dean glances from the image of the Angel of Thursday to Castiel and back again. Before he can think about it, he’s asking a ridiculous question.
“Did the Angel of Thursday have a name?”
Castiel closes the distance between them.
Dean wants to joke about personal space or how he got lucky the last time someone looked at him like that. He can’t—his voice won’t work.
“Indeed, he does, Dean Winchester. The Angel of Thursday, Shield of God, Angel of Solitude and Tears was called Castiel.”