Author's Notes:This is the second of two chapters of material that I'd originally cut from between chapters 19 and 20, but later decided to put back because I'm writing new chapters like this has happened. There's also quite a bit of back story and random details about the world that are only important if you have a keen eye for plot holes.
The first boot landed with a satisfying squelch in the Mekong, just shy of the roots of a massive cypress tree. The gray strands of lichen hanging from the branches swayed lazily from the impact.
"I do not understand the point of this exercise," came the flat, gruff voice that Dean had since categorized as the angel's 'humans baffle me with their continued tomfoolery' tone.
"They're ugly-ass boots. And when you have ugly-ass boots, you don't resell them to some poor shmuck with blinders for eyes. You make sure they never see the light of day again. Basic human decency. And since I'm pretty sure these things are at least 50% plastic, we can't just light them on fire. So, ugly-ass boots, meet convenient swamp. Here." Dean shoved the remaining shoe at the angel, using his other hand to grab for the flashlight handles. The angel stared at the boot like he'd never seen footwear before, but did eventually trade the flashlights in for the shoe.
"Just throw it as hard as you can. I know it's your first time and all, so it's okay if it doesn't go that far. There's a certain finesse to it, the wind-up, the release." Dean stopped when he noticed the epic bitch-face the angel was giving him. He would have thought it a patent copy of Sammy's if the two of them had actually interacted for more than an hour. And it was utterly hilarious paired with the ginger way the guy was holding the boot with both hands, like he was carrying a tray of crystalware. Even his wings screamed 'unimpressed,' feathers slightly fluffed, like they were pouting. Cas was practically prim as he took the boot heel firmly in one hand. Not the technique that Dean would go for, but hey, first timers had to learn somehow. His arm drew back and then in one flourishing sweep of his wings and body, the boot went sailing across the water, knocking an unsuspecting egret off its perch at the top of one lanky tree.
Dean couldn't even hear the plop when it finally hit water.
Dead silence filled the air, broken only by the undignified squawking of some gull. And when he turned to his side, the angel looked damned smug.
"Hell's whore," Dean choked out before he was laughing so hard his sides hurt. "Okay, I am never betting against you. Damn, Cas. If this whole fugitive from the law thing doesn't work out, we need to get you a gig in pro-ball."
"That would be unfair. Angels are naturally stronger than humans," Cas said sternly, though Dean could see the edge of a blush creeping over his cheeks.
"Man, if you guys didn't have to spend all day chasing around demons, it would be a song to see you guys play some ball. Or like, sword-fighting. Or synchronized aerial ballet." The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. "Don't tell Sam I suggested that. Synchronized aerial bull-fighting. Football. Gymnast- fuck no. Not gymnastics."
"Of course, Dean," Cas said seriously. "You do not admire the skill and physical prowess exhibited by dancers and gymnasts." But, there was a tick in the angel's cheek and his wings were pulled in low and tight around his shoulders and Dean could just tell that the guy was laughing at him.
"Dick," Dean muttered and stomped away, entirely without direction because they were in the middle of a swamp and Cas was his ticket out of there.
He almost didn't hear the returned, "Butt."
And who knew angels were so childish? "Really, Cas? That the best you got?" Dean taunted, lightly and damn if the thoughtful look on the angel didn't seem completely out of place and completely expected at the same time.
"Cara de culo," the angel finally settled on.
"And what's that mean?"
"I believe the english translation would be 'ass face.'"
"Damnit Cas," Dean cackled, slinging an arm over the angel's shoulder. "You really suck at this."
"Comparing your face to a posterior is considered very insulting," the angel muttered.
"Right, ass face," Dean joked.
"I believe we've achieved the goal of this detour?" Cas said flatly, pissy and scowling.
"Yea, yea. Hold on a sec." Dean grabbed the sharpie he swiped from the cup by the register in the thrift shop and started drawing on the faces of the two flashlights. When he was done with the first one, he handed it over to the angel who inspected the design with his head cocked to one side.
"This is a very accurate demon trap," he commented gravely.
"Yea well, it better be if we're going to be going after demons."
"You came up with this on your own?" Cas asked with enough surprise in his voice that Dean would be insulted if the angel didn't sound equally impressed.
"Yea. They were a good idea when Dad was hunting demons without angelic back-up. Couldn't just call in a guardian to take care of the black-eyed bastards, so a portable trap came in handy. Just gotta shine it on the closest surface. You can even use a tree trunk or the side of a mountain if you're close enough."
Dean finished with the second flashlight and turned it towards a large rock jutting out of the ground a few feet away. The backlit trap traced a perfect pentagram, complete with demon wards, on the flat surface.
"We'll split up. Cover more ground that way. Don't know if my stomach can handle an entire day flying angel express anyways."
"We are not splitting up," came the expected retort.
"Look, drop me off in New Orleans. There was a lot of demon activity there back in the days after the flood. Might be some residual. An angel with wings like yours shows up, won't be long before someone recognizes you. Me? I haven't shaved in a week and I just look like any other guy. I can poke around, see if anything might be up."
The angel seemed to try to be trying to suck his wings back into his body, like if he tried hard enough he could pass as human, and his face was utterly miserable. "But, what if-"
"You can feel that right? Through the blood bond? Adrenaline spikes or something?" Dean argued quickly. He couldn't let the arguments get traction. "I doubt I'd run into any angels, and if some demons gets lured out by the dumbass sniffing around by himself, all the better. Anything else, I can handle myself."
Castiel's eyes filled out round and hard, and in them Dean could see the white house in Thailand, surrounded by sunflowers, the prettiest prison he's ever had the displeasure of staying in.
"I got this," Dean said firmly and the image melted away when the angel glanced down, just for a moment. When he looked back up, his eyes only held the blue of his irises.
"I will return once every twenty minutes to ensure your safety."
"Dude, I'm not a child. Not going to walk into a pool and drown. Two hours."
"One hour," Castiel countered and Dean's haggled enough for food and clothes and bullets to know that was the best he was going to get.
"Fine."
He still feels a little like he's won something important, even if it was just an argument with a stubborn mule of an angel. The satisfaction lasted right until he stumbled across the kitsunes. Asking around the homeless population, he found out that a few hookers had gone missing over the past week. No one who would be missed and not enough to be noticed by anyone with authority.
Castiel checked in with him just as he finished questioning a guy with more gaps than teeth who kept calling him "Mickey." Neither of them had much to report, so the angel had flapped away with shifty eyes and so much hesitancy that Dean felt insulted.
He'd been hunting since he was eleven, a good ten years before the angel, and while power counted for something, experience did for much more. His partner was his gut and he was going to trust it to keep him alive. Or at least that's what he thought until he stumbled across the nest. And since when did kitsunes have family units? There's mommy monster, daddy monster, and two little adorable baby monsters, all of them salivating to tear out his pituitary gland. Well, one adorable baby monster. The other one was already slumped in the corner with Dean's knife stuck through its heart.
And though it's been years since they've hunted together, his first thought is when the fuck Sam is going to get here because as awesome as he is, he's not taking out four kitsunes while pinned to a table. But when the table leg went through baby number two's chest, a pair of gunmetal wings rise over it's head. The angel was pissed, but that worked for him. Nerdy little Bruce Banner had hulked out, taking out the other two fox bastards at a speed that Bobby would have been proud of back in his prime. The dad toppled over, slitted eyes staring sightlessly up at Dean from right beside him before the entire table started to topple over on its three remaining legs.
Dean hit the ground with a jarring clatter that knocked the air out of his lungs, but the new angle gave him enough leverage to pry his hands loose from the impromptu shackles. By the time all of his limbs were free, Castiel was dropping the table leg in the lavender garbage can. Because the brain-eating monsters have a matching set of purple kitchen utensils to hack up their victims. Peachy.
"Hey, Cas," Dean grinned, surprised a little that his voice was so steady since his knees were still getting with that particular program.
"Dean," Cas said, not at all friendly.
"So, uh, how's the search going? Cuz it's not that great on my end. Thought I had a pretty solid lead, but turns out, hey! Kitsunes!" he rambled. His wrists were still sore, probably going to have some nasty blisters, and no way in hell he was asking Cas to fix that at the moment. Not when the angel was still staring at Dean like he'd been caught pissing on sanctified ground.
"Dean, this was not the arrangement. You should not be tracking down other hunts."
"I wasn't! I swear! I seriously thought it was going to be a demon down this rabbit hole!" Dean protested. And yea, maybe there were some claw marks that probably weren't from a demon, but Castiel didn't need to know that. Not like it was a crime to take out a few monsters that happened to be on his way.
Except apparently lying to a guy that could literally see into his soul wasn't the easiest thing.
"Dean," Cas said again, like a warning. He was going to develop some sort of complex with his name. "You should not place yourself in unnecessarily dangerous situations. If you are hurt more than my abilities can heal, you will have to go to a hospital, and they will report your whereabouts, and we will both be caught and imprisoned. And who knows how many untold consequences after that?"
And that stung. "Well then I guess I'll just have to go die in a ditch where they'll never find my body," he snapped, and it broke through some wire in the angel because his face morphed into wide-eyed horror.
"I did not mean that. I just," the angel took a deep breath. "You do not care enough about your own safety, Dean." His wings curl inward, the pinions meeting each other near the angel's knees, feathers strangely soft under the yellowing light. It made the angel look smaller, partially engulfed in a gray cocoon.
"I can take care of myself," Dean said again, though it sounded more like reassurance than rebuke, even to his own ears. "And I'm fine, aren't I?" He forced a cocky grin. "Ten fingers, ten toes. Adorable face." That got the angel to give him a customary glare and Dean smiled for real this time. "Only thing that's wrong with me is an empty stomach."
"Of course," the angel agreed after a moment, biting his lip. "I should have remembered. What would you like to consume?"
"Man, you just strip the joy from a good meal, don't you? We seriously gotta find you something you like and maybe you'll stop talking about it like I'm going to feed Altoids to seagulls."
The angel's entire expression just shut down, going from kind of apologetic to completely blank. Even his wings went to ceremonial positioning, held at strict thirty degree angles to give the impression of height without aggression. And it was basically the opposite of what Dean was trying to accomplish.
"You got a thing for seagulls?" he tried.
"No, it's..." the angel stuttered.
"Well, spit it out," Dean waved his hand.
"You used to share your food with me, trying to find something I would enjoy."
"Yea?" Dean smiled. He was awesome even as a little kid. "Anything hit the mark?"
"No," the angel sighed and shook out his feathers. The things looked like they should make swishing or crinkling noises, but they were completely silent as they cut through the air. And sometimes, if Dean looked close enough, he could catch sight of a blue underside to some of them. "Dean?" the angel said and the hunter realized he hadn't said anything in awhile.
"Oh well, what um," he fished, trying to catch the strands of the broken conversation. "What kind of stuff did you try?"
"Your diet seemed to consist primarily of confections and fruit," the angel said with faint disapproval, frown line appearing between his brows.
"That's 'cause I only gave you the good stuff. I'd be kind of a shitty friend if I tried to feed your peas or cauliflower."
Cas' head shot up. "You remember?"
"No," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. "But, if you came with me now to get food, I'd probably start you off on pie and milkshakes, not salads and veggie burgers."
The angel smiled, just a short quirk of the corner of his mouth and a slight crinkle of his nose, but Dean was getting fast enough to catch these things. It was almost a competition for him now, try to read the angel better than the angel could read him, even out the field a little.
"I do not particularly enjoy pie or milkshakes," Castiel admitted.
"This," Dean said as he gestured between the two of them, "isn't going to work out if you don't like pie."
"Perhaps," the angel hummed, "Or I could give any pie that I receive to you."
And that sounded like the best idea he'd heard in awhile. "You know what kind of pie you should try?" he asked with a grin.
"No," the angel answered promptly.
"Rhetorical question, Cas."
From his expression, the angel didn't seem to think that mattered.
"Anyways. There's this diner in Florida, run by this lady named Liz. Best peach pie on the entire east coast, if not the country." Dean was salivating just from thinking of it, even though it'd been years since he'd been within a hundred miles of the state.
"Would you like to go there?"
"Sorry Cas, but I'm not walking around barefoot you're kind of out of shoes to trade." Dean glanced pointedly down at the angel's feet, socks caked in a layer of mud.
"Ah, of course," the angel nodded and Dean was almost disappointed. But then his guardian reached into one of the big pockets on his coat and drew out something beautiful, green, and papery.
"Cas," Dean hissed. "Where the hell did you get that?" He took the money and shoved it back into the angel's coat. They were standing in an empty alleyway, mostly blocked from the street by a mountain of black plastic trash bags, but it was the shadier part of the city and seeing the money made Dean a bit nervous.
"There was a man..."
"You robbed someone?" Even saying it sounded ridiculous.
"No! Of course not. I paused on a street corner to check some symbols that had been painted on a wall."
"What happened to not being seen?" Dean snapped. The angel was going on and on about Dean being in danger but didn't seem to care about someone recognizing his big flappy wings.
"It was past midnight. The area was deserted," the angel huffed.
"Then how'd you get the money?"
"There was a man..."
"Yea, you said that part already," Dean growled, prodding the angel in the wing. "Where's the rest of that sentence?"
"He gave me two hundred dollars."
And that was an evasion if Dean had ever heard one. "Just like that? Random guy comes up to you in the middle of the night and hands you two hundred bucks? 'Cause I know some really awesome people, and even they wouldn't just hand me that kind of cash."
"I believe," the angel swallowed, eyes a little wide and panicked, "that he mistook me for a... a companion."
"A comp- oh this is too good, Cas. The guy thought you were a hooker?" Dean snorted, muffling his laughter in his hand.
"I do not know how," the angel muttered, shifting uneasily, toes scrunching inside his mud-caked socks. "My wings may not be as... as colorful as some of my brethren but they are the standard size."
"Wow, so this is not a conversation I thought I'd ever be having," Dean snickered, placing a hand on the angel's shoulder to steady himself. "Different people like different things, and some like a little, you know," he waved vaguely at the expanse of feathers behind the guy's back. "So there are people who cater to those tastes."
A little too vague. The angel frowned at looked over his shoulder and up the fire escape that clung to the wall.
"No, I mean. Wings. Fake wings." Dean cleared his throat and waited for Cas to catch on. The instant he did, his lips formed a perfect 'oh' and his eyes widened to match. A blush rose faster than the Red Sea before the slaves of Egypt. If Cas wasn't a virgin, Dean would eat his shoes.
"I see," the angel said, struggling to sound distant and unconcerned. "It is a fetish."
"Don't call it that," Dean snipped, making a face. It wasn't really a fetish. Fetishes were strange and kinky, but liking wings wasn't like that. People didn't go out looking for birds to fuck. It was really just angels who looked practically human. So it was pretty normal compared to all the terrifying things on the internet.
"Well since you stole this john's hooker-cash, I guess we need to amend society's wrongs and spend it on something wholesome and delicious. Like pie," Dean grinned, tearing them off the tracks that were going nowhere good fast.
They dropped out of the sky on the roof of an office building a block away from the restaurant and Dean went and got the food himself. He hoped the angel wouldn't get lured into a life of hooking and drugs before he got back. Castiel had given him an extra-squinty glare at the sentiment, the ingrate.
Dean ended up buying nearly everything on the menu, even the rabbit fare.
The food ends up covering most of their corner of a rooftop in Jersey, between the vents and the row of solar panels bolted to the edge that provide a sort of screen between them and the street below. There's burgers made of beef, buffalo, turkey, and black beans. Chicken made into strips, soup, deep fried, grilled, and baked. Sweet potato fries, wedge fries, onion rings, cole slaw, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob for the sides. Cobb salad, because that was what Sam always got, so at least one person liked that stuff. And then there's Dean's pride and joy. Five different kinds of pie. The last time Castiel had pie was almost twenty years ago. Maybe he'd finally come to his senses.
The angel looked overwhelmed, sitting stiffly, wings held carefully over his head to keep the feathers from trailing through their dinner as he tried to stare at everything at the same time. If food made him look so uncomfortable, Dean could just imagine his face when someone tried to pay him for sex. How anyone could mistake Cas for a rentboy was beyond him. Sure, the guy was attractive, but he also exuded this aura of awkwardness that would have labelled him a nerd the moment he walked into a high school cafeteria.
"Just pick something. If you don't like it, move on," Dean suggested, picking up one of the burger he'd gotten himself. The smell of fried pork and grilled beef filled him with a sense of home, of family. He may or may not have moaned as he took his first bite.
"What is that?"
Dean opened his eyes to see the angel leaning forward over his knees, peering at the golden bun in his hands. Couldn't really blame the guy.
"'Acon sheebugger-" he chewed out around his mouthful of greasy goodness. He picked a silver package from the piles of food and tossed it to the angel. "Try it."
The first time Dean ever saw the angel completely relaxed was when the angel took his first bite of bacon cheeseburger.