For the lovely fatshosho, who nneeds love and fluff and angel kisses.
—
Castiel’s wings have always been ungainly and messy. Gabriel says it’s because he spends too much time with his head in the clouds, answering all the ridiculous prayers instead of heal the sick and dying. Castiel maintains that there are plenty of cold-healing and kitten-saving angels. He’s more of a bad-hair-day, my-dog-ate-my-homework kind of angel because everyone needs their prayers answered, not just some of them.
His wings are sort of secondary compared to that. Because Castiel’s work is important even if he doesn’t save people from death everyday like Uriel or Anna. They match his chaotic hair, anyway.
Balthazar appears in a flurry of wings, prayer disintegrating in his palm. “That was useless,” he says, irritated as he shakes the dust out of his palm.
“What happened?” Castiel asks.
“Grabbed the wrong prayer. Some stupid kid lost air in his bicycle tire,” Balthazar says, scowling.
Castiel frowns. “Did you help him?” he says. That’s the kind of prayer the angels usually leave for Castiel to deal with because the rest of them tend to consider such a task below them. Balthazar better not have left the kid there.
“Of course, Cassy,” Balthazar snaps. “I’m not Lucifer.”
“I never said you were,” Castiel says mildly. A buzzing in the back of his head goes off, meaning there’s a prayer in the garden waiting for him to take care of it. “I have to go,” he says.
“See you,” Balthazar sighs.
A black feather floats to the ground as Castiel flies into the garden, and he stuffs it hastily in his pocket before anyone can see it. Raphael always lectures him about proper wing care, like he thinks Castiel hasn’t heard the same rant hundreds of times before.
“Castiel, good,” Michael says. He stuffs a scroll into Castiel’s hands and whirls away to pass out the rest of his armful of prayers.
The prayer simply reads, Please help. It’s my brother’s birthday. 108 Oak St., Lawrence, Kansas, United States, North America.
It’s vague, but the paper it’s printed on is white, meaning it’s not urgent, dangerous, or otherwise life-threatening. Pretty much Castiel’s normal fare.
He flies to the house and is met with the scent of burning food. Castiel shakes his head against the smell and his eyes land on a tall, gangly boy standing with a burnt pie in his hands. He looks guilty and upset. Castiel waves his hand and the pie is immediately restored before the boy can say anything.
“I—thank you!” he says, face clearing up. “For the pie, and getting here so quickly; Dean’s going to be home soon and I thought. Well.” He sets the pie down on the stove and grins at Castiel. “I’m Sam Winchester.”
“Castiel,” he answers. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Sam hesitates. “No, I mean. You’re not really allowed to take payment, right? I’d give you a piece of pie, but….” He trails off and looks at Castiel hopefully.
“I couldn’t,” Castiel says awkwardly. “It’s enough to know that I’ve helped.”
“If you’re sure,” Sam says, sighing. “Then I guess—”
“Sammy! That better be pie I’m smelling,” a man yells from the hallway, slamming the front door closed behind him. Castiel starts, turning and almost tripping over himself as he bangs his wing on the doorframe. It smarts and throbs in anger until he can relax and heal himself.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam says easily, like there isn’t an awkward angel standing in their kitchen. “I just finished it and—”
“Who’re you?” the man, probably Dean, asks brusquely. He looks over Castiel, starting at his feet and working his way up until their eyes meet and Castiel’s stomach lurches. “Well,” Dean says, voice slipping lower, and Castiel can feel his wings twitchy furiously behind his back. “Hello there.”
Castiel means to open his mouth and say something, but he doesn’t know what to say. Dean’s eyes are so green and he has freckles scattered all across his face and Castiel—
Castiel flees in embarrassment.
He reports the prayer as answered and promptly puts it out of his mind, because there are other things to think about besides humans with lovely bow lips and bow legs. And. Moving on.
He gets another prayer the next day, one that just says, Cas, please come. 108 Oak St., Lawrence, Kansas, United States, North America. Castiel scowls at it the moment Michael turns his back and he contemplates not answering it. It’s a white prayer, after all, not red, and other angels throw these out all the time.
Except Castiel. Castiel has never ignored a prayer in his life and he’s not about to start just because some human smirked at him with hooded eyes. He’s an Angel of the Lord; he is better than that.
So he goes, appearing on the front porch this time and knocking on the door.
The door opens almost immediately, Dean appearing to drag Castiel inside with a shout of, “Hurry! It’s crisis time!” He pulls Castiel into the kitchen, hand wrapped around Castiel’s arm, and Castiel tries to ignore how warm Dean’s hand it. It’s completely inappropriate.
Nothing appears to be amiss when Castiel arrives. “What’s—” he asks, but Dean shushes him and points at the microwave.
“It’s broken,” he says. “I can’t heat up the leftover pie.”
Castiel blinks. “Okay,” he says. He fixes it quickly and says, “I’ll—”
“Stay and have pie with me,” Dean blurts out as he sets the timer on the pie. “It’s homemade and I’ll get out the ice cream.”
“I’m not allowed to,” Castiel says. He feels strangely pleased, like it’s a good thing that Dean wants him to break angelic law to eat pie.
“It’s not payment,” Dean swears. “Think of it as…incentive. To stay here and talk to me.” He winks.
Castiel glances nervously at the ceiling, but he technically is allowed to have human friends. As long as it doesn’t interfere with his duties, and Heaven knows Castiel hasn’t taken time off in years.
“Why did you call for me?” he asks finally, stepping definitively into the kitchen. Dean lights up and pulls an ice cream scoop out of the drawer.
“’Cause you’re cute,” Dean says, laughter in his eyes. “And I like your wings.”
Castiel glances at them, embarrassed. “They’re not really nice,” he says. “I haven’t straightened the feathers in a while—I never do after I clean them. They’re bent everywhere.”
Dean shrugs one shoulder. The pie is done, and he cuts two generous pieces. “They’re cute, too,” he says honestly. Castiel’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.
“You,” he says weakly, but he doesn’t know how to finish that.
“Let’s put it this way,” Dean says, sauntering into Castiel’s space and crowding him against the wall. “This pie is a bribe for you to kiss me after I’m done impressing you with my manly house construction skills and awesome sense of humor. That cool with you?”
Castiel nods. He doesn’t think his throat is working.
“Awesome,” Dean says, placing Castiel’s plate of pie in his hands. “Tell me what you do up there in Heaven. It’s gotta be boring after a while, right?”
Castiel doesn’t get through three bites of pie before he leans into Dean and kisses him. Dean just laughs deep in his throat and strokes a hand over Castiel’s wings.
“Good bribe?” he asks when they part.
Nodding, Castiel leans back in.
