Dean rolled his neck slowly, feeling the tight muscles stretch in the late morning light. His coffee in one hand and a donut in the other, he made his way into his living room. Sitting down heavily on the couch, he turned on his TV for the morning news. A commercial was playing of an elderly man in a wheelchair who was talking to the camera.
"Life has gotten a bit harder recently. The truth is, I just can't do the things I need to anymore. My children were concerned for my well-being. So they got me my very own angel."
Dean snorted as the next few shots were of the man being fed, cared for, and helped by an attractive young angel. The elderly man smiled at the angel thankfully and then said to the camera, "You can have an easier life, too! With your very own-"
Dean changed the channel. He wasn't one for the whole "angel" thing. Something about it just rubbed him the wrong way. An entire population of creatures that just need work to survive? That made no sense to Dean. But the advertising for it was everywhere. Sure enough, as he flicked the next channel another commercial played.
"Hi! I'm Dick Roman, CEO of Angels Inc. Some people have been concerned for the health and safety of our angels. But I assure you, the angels only need one thing to live a happy and healthy life. Your work!"
Dean changed the channel again.
"Hey, Dad, can I go to Jackson's party tonight?" A young girl in skimpy clothes asked.
The dad looked her up and down, "Dressed like that?"
"Don't worry, Dad, I'm taking our angel with us!" The girl said cheerfully, dragging a slightly confused looking angel towards the door. Dean almost felt sorry for the creature. It clearly wasn't sure what it should be doing.
The dad smiled, "Oh! Then, go have fun, darling. And, Samandriel!"
The angel turned to look at him, relief washing over his expression as he waited orders.
"Keep her safe."
Dean turned off the TV.
Call him old-fashioned, but Dean was the only one he knew that didn't have an angel. Hell, even his little brother, Sam, had one. Dean had to listen as Sam talked about how great he was; he practically singed his angel's praise,
"Oh, Dean, he's so considerate!"
"He's smart too, learns from what I tell him and does things without having to be reminded!"
"I have never been so relaxed before, it's all because of Gabe!"
Dean still didn't like it. The whole thing just seemed too, well, creepy. And besides, he didn't need anyone to wipe his ass for him. He was a capable, grown man who could take care of himself.
Part of taking care of himself meant that he had work to get ready for. So he drowned his opinions of the world's newest and most popular pet in coffee and set out to take a shower.
Dean has two jobs. One as a waiter at a high-end fancy restaurant. He has to wear a suit when he waits these people. It's ridiculous. And the other is working at a dirty little bar with his brother. He could survive perfectly fine on just working as a waiter; the restaurant throws money at him to flirt with old millionaires. But he liked working at the bar. The customers were far more enjoyable than the snobby rich people that flocked to Le Paradis du Ciel. Seriously. If your restaurant's name has to be in French to sound interesting, you're trying too hard.
Sadly, he wasn't working at the bar today. No, instead he gets to spend a wondrously awful nine hours serving people who were born into their money.
He didn't expect it to go well.
The creepy thing about angels, is how they act when they aren't given a task. Dean started his shift welcomed to the sight of thirty or so angels, scattered around the large dining area, standing stone-still. None of them were so much as blinking. The things stood directly behind their owner's chair and just froze until they were needed. It creeped the ever-loving fuck outta Dean. And it made waiting tables a hell of a lot harder.
Dean had to duck under large wings and step around unmovable bodies, having no idea if he was about to run into someone doing the same thing. Jo had crashed into Ash because they were both trying to skitter around an immovable mountain of feathers. It was easier when there was only one or two angels around. But now people brought them everywhere, and it was damn-near impossible for Dean to do his job.
Getting frustrated, Dean side-stepped around one angel, just to run into another. He spilt a tray-full of expensive wine down the angel's white Roman toga-y thing. Dean has only ever seen the angels all wear the same thing. These long, flowing white dresses that make them look more, well, angelic. Crowley, the manager, was there in an instant. Hissing at Dean furiously.
"Are you kidding me, Winchester!? This is the ambassador of Dubai's angel!"
Of course it is.
Crowley turned to the man, completely polite and apologetic, "I am extremely sorry for my employee's incompetence. I will make it up to you in every way possible."
Dean was on the floor, picking up the broken glass and wiping up the spilt wine. The ambassador snorted when he looked down at Dean. "At least he knows his place."
Crowley laughed far too loudly to be genuine, and he said, "That's a good one, sir. I am, once again, terribly sorry for his mistake."
The ambassador pulled Crowley closer, "It is no trouble. But, if I may, my angel would never make such a foolish error."
"I'm sure, sir." Crowley glanced at the angel, that didn't even seem to be upset about the large, ugly stain on its dress. It didn't move except to flick it's gaze down briefly to observe Dean on his knees. "It looks top-of-the-line."
"The best money can buy." The ambassador agreed. "Michael."
The angel turned, almost robotically, towards its owner. It tilted its head, awaiting a task.
"Fix this boy's mistake." It didn't matter that Dean was standing now and that the mess was cleaned up. The angel took one look at him and his cold eyes flashed blue for just a moment.
Getting frustrated, Dean side-stepped around one angel - and paused. He glanced down at the tray of wine in his arm, unspilled. Michael stood, not even breathing, as Dean looked him up and down. His white robes were just that, white.
"What's the delay, Winchester?" Crowley hissed in his ear, "That's the ambassador of Dubai you've got waiting!"
"Sorry, sir." Dean mumbled as he carefully stepped around Michael and placed the glasses of wine on the table. After he made sure everything was alright, he stepped away to his next table. But for a second, he thought he saw Michael wink.
Throughout the night, Dean couldn't help but overhear Crowley talking to the ambassador. The two were becoming quite chummy, it seemed.
"I was just thinking, Mr. Crowley, my angel could do a far better job waiting tables than your employees could." The ambassador said, waving his hands dismissively.
Crowley raised an eyebrow, "Is that so?"
"Of course! No mess, no waiting. And-" The embassador smiled up at him, "No paychecks!"
Dean could tell that peaked Crowley's interest. He often complained about how much he had to pay Dean and the others. It probably shouldn't've been a surprise when Crowley told all the waiters - twelve in total - the news the following weekend.
"You're all fired!" Crowley announced cheerfully.
"You've got to be kidding me." One girl yelled. "I've been working here for years!"
"And it's no surprise you haven't tried to move up in the world any." Crowley replied dryly. "Now, you'll all be replaced by my own personal angels. I've already made the order and they'll be shipped in by the morning. Goodbye."
The man started to walk away, leaving the former waiters to complain together. Dean chased after him, grabbing his arm. "Crowley, you can't be serious."
"As cancer." Crowley replied, turning to look at Dean, "Look, Squirrel, I know we've had our fun, but it's time for an upgrade. What's better than the perfect workers that don't need to be paid?"
Dean couldn't really argue with that, but he was sure going to try, "But, what are we supposed to do?"
"Find a new job. Work the corner of a dirty street. File bankruptcy. I don't care." Crowley said, "Besides, don't you have that family business, with your brother?"
The bar, named John's Pub, was their father's. He gave it to Sam shortly before he passed away, while Dean got a classic car that their father adored. Sam couldn't sell it, almost didn't want to, and it really wasn't enough to keep them afloat. Aside from old truckers and family friends, it doesn't really get much business.
So when Dean walked in to find Gabriel, Sam's angel, behind the bar, he wasn't exactly excited.
"Sam!" Dean yelled. He didn't feel bad about it, considering that the place was empty. Sam came around from the back, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Hey, Dean!" Sam smiled. "Why aren't you at home? Didn't your shift just end?"
"Yeah, I got fired. What's he doing here?" Dean pointed towards the angel that was watching the brothers. He perked up when Sam looked at him, almost like a puppy.
"Gabe's helping." His brother shrugged. Those two words made the angel practically glow with warmth. Maybe the things really were meant to survive on just labor and praise?
Dean jumped up on the bar, swinging his legs, "This place doesn't need help. You don't have to bring your pet to work with you."
Sam frowns, "Yeah, but I want to. Gabe can man the register while I cook and serve. And what if I have to step out for a sec and someone comes in? And it's not like he costs any money."
Dean's blood boiled, his cheeks turned red with anger, "Yeah, I know, that's why I lost my job."
The younger Winchester blinked in surprise, "Really?"
"Yes, really. Angels stole my job." Dean glared at Gabe, who only blinked in reply. Dean swung his legs around and leaped behind the bar, searching for some good scotch. He swatted at the angel's wings, so he could see his options. Gabe looked to Sam for orders, but was ignored.
"That's not really the angels' fault, Dean. That's Crowley's." Sam hesitated, then added, "And I thought you didn't like that job, anyway."
He got a bitchface from behind a bottle as Dean continued his search. Eventually, he found what he wanted, standing up. "Yeah, well, paid the bills better than this shack ever will."
Sam sighed as Dean pushed past him, "I'll start takin' more shifts tomorrow. Just, make sure that isn't here when I'm on the clock."
Gabriel shrunk back at the tone that was directed towards him. His wings curled against him and he looked over to Sam frantically. Dean ignored the disapproving look he got from Sam, and pushed out the door and into the night. The bar wasn't far from Dean's apartment. He started drinking before his foot was even out the door. The booze burned his throat on the way down, and warmed his insides. He was slightly buzzed when he passed an alleyway.
There was a scratching noise as something scrambled into the shadows. Dean stopped and peered into the dark, wondering if it was a rat or a hobo. He was about to shrug and keep walking, when he heard a whimpering noise. There were sirens in the distance, but since he lived in the big city, that wasn't much of an oddity. Dean stumbled out of the way as a horde of cop cars raced past him; lights flashing. The alley whimpered again.
Dean fumbled with his phone until the flashlight setting turned on. He took a step into the alley, looking for a hurt dog or, worse, child. When his light found bloody feathers on the floor, he sincerely hoped to God it was a pigeon having a bad day.
Instead of an angry bird, he found a naked man with fear in his eyes. His lip was busted and his shoulder had a nasty gash in it. Dean's eyes trailed over the shoulder to the large, dark wings that were curled around him protectively.
Dean didn't like angels. But he wasn't an asshole. He almost called Sam, but putting the phone to his ear made the angel thrash around and that only aggravated his wounds more.
"Okay, okay." Dean said, slowly setting his phone down, face down, so the flashlight could shoot up like a Batman signal. He carefully stepped forward, lowering himself to be eye level with the angel on the ground.
The creature stared at him with such intense anxiety that Dean felt bad for what he was about to do. "I'm going to help you."
At the 'h' word, the angel simultaneously perked up and scrunched away. Dean held up his liquor, taking a small sip before pouring a gracious amount on the angel's shoulder. It screeched flapping its wings frantically and pushing Dean away with his hands and feet. Dean sat back, carefully setting his scotch down. That shit's expensive. No party fouls tonight.
The angel was gripping his shoulder, his fingers becoming bloody with how tightly he was clutching it. Dean huffed at him; "Do you want it to become infected? Just heal it, then! I thought angels could do that!"
The creature looked down, ashamed, and Dean looked around for a moment, before making a brash decision. "Alright. Come on. You'll get eaten by rats out here. You're coming with me."
Large blue eyes widened even more as he glanced up to Dean. He appeared uneasy, but finally rose to his feet unsteadily. Dean, still crouching, felt heat rise to his cheeks. "You gotta get some fucking clothes on though."
The angel looked down at his body and shuddered heavily. Within a blink, there was a white robe around the creature's lean frame. Dean stood up and picked up his phone and booze. "Don't tell Sam about this."
He led the angel to his home, quick to duck into his apartment before his neighbors could see him with an angel. Dean started towards his bathroom, that's where he kept his first aid kit.
"Sit down." He called after himself. When he returned to the living room, the angel was sitting on the floor, on his knees, head bowed. Dean scowled, "I meant on the couch."
The angel's head whipped up, looking confused for just a second, before he scrambled to the couch. He sat uneasily, his feathers ruffled beyond compare. Dean sighed and sat down next to the creature.
He opened his first aid kit and got out some gauze and bandages. Turning to the angel's bad shoulder, he said, "Alright, let me see this thing."
The angel dissipated the top of his robe, leaving just a weird skirt. Dean ignored that to evaluate the shoulder. He lowered his hands in surprise. The shoulder was perfectly fine. Just a small scar leftover. Briefly, Dean wondered how drunk he really was.
Looking up at the angel, he noticed that the creature was mildly pleased with itself. "Did you just heal yourself?"
The angel shook its head.
"So, what, you weren't hurt to begin with?" Dean growled.
The angel shook its head again, more frantically.
"So how did it heal?" Dean asked, raising a single eyebrow.
The angel looked around for a second, before picking up a fork that Dean left on his coffee table. Dean watched as the angel very clearly held it up to himself. And then stab the utensil into the meat of his thigh. Dean shouted, jumping forward.
"Stop that!" He demanded, reaching for the fork.
The creature immediately dropped the fork and pushed back the fabric of his skirt. The wound was there, bleeding slightly. Dean muttered to himself about suicidal idiotic animalistic angels. Then, the fucker, picked up the fork again.
"Put that down!" Dean snapped. The angel very clearly lowered it. And then gestured to his wound again. Dean dragged his eyes down to the creature's thigh. The wound was healing before his very eyes. He blinked rapidly, thoughts racing. "Following orders… heals you?"
The angel nodded enthusiastically.
"So me telling you to sit down…" Dean said, more to himself than to the creature.
The angel nodded again, smiling shyly.
Dean scoffed, "Great, well, it's been nice knowing you." He stood up and wondered where he put that bottle of scotch. "You can leave now. Go back to your owner."
The angel hesitated, clearly torn between following the order and staying. His puppy dog eyes turned to Dean, his lip finding its way between his teeth.
"What?" Dean asked, not liking the look in its eye.
The creature put a hand to its neck, looking up at Dean pleadingly.
"I don't…" Dean blinked, confused, "What are you trying to say?"
He watched as the angel looked around the room and then pointed to the tv remote. Dean huffed and nodded. The creature fumbled with it for a moment before turning on the tv. Predictably, an angel commercial was playing. The creature jumped up and pointed at the angel on the screen.
Dean still was getting it. He looked between the creature by the couch and the one on his tv. The angel paused and then moved right up to the tv screen. When there was a close up of the actor angel's face, the creature flicked his wrist and the tv froze. Then, he turned to Dean and pointed directly at the angel on the screen's neck.
"What, his collar?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.
The creature nodded excitedly. Then, turning off the tv, he lowered himself to the floor and pressed a hand to his neck, pouting his lip out.
"You're not owned." Dean realized. "You're a stray. I didn't even know there were stray angels."
The creature looked down at the ground, settling its hand in its lap. It closed its blue eyes and there was a slight pop noise. Dean looked over to the coffee table between them and there, sitting innocently, was a red leather collar.
Dean looked at the creature, who was staring at the floor, waiting for Dean to make a decision.
"Oh, hell no." Dean said. "I'm not- I don't do this angel thing."
The angel started to visibly shake in its place. His wings were twice their normal size; feathers standing on end. Dean took a step back, his insides torn. Finally, he blamed his choice on the booze he had earlier.
"Fine. Whatever." Dean muttered.
The angel looked up at him, tears in his eyes. Dean picked up the collar, it was thick with many rungs in it. He'd seen people walking around with their angels on leashes. The thought brought bile to the back of his throat. The angel was watching him carefully, his mouth slightly agape. Dean stepped forward, kneeling down so he could lace the collar around the creature's neck. The angel frowned down, seemingly confused as to why its new master made its collar so loose. Meanwhile, Dean leaned back and looked at the golden label hanging at the center of the collar. Cursive letters shined back at him.
"Castiel?" Dean asked. The creature sat up straighter, ready for an order. "That's your name?"
The angel nodded.
Dean sighed long, and low. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering just how stupid he had to be to let an angel, the thing that made him more or less jobless, into his home.
"Well, Castiel, do you know where I put my liquor? Because I'm gonna need some more of if I'm going to figure out what to do with you." Dean said, running a hand through his hair.
Castiel perked up, flashing away in a millisecond. He returned with a tall glass of scotch for Dean. Dean took it from him, slowly raising it to his lips, slightly suspicious.
Castiel practically beamed with warmth when Dean gave him a very begrudging, "Thanks."
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