I keep starting these and then never finishing them.
Anyway, break from the Hell AU to take a stab at a Heaven AU. Thing. That is quite half-assed.
Also, why does the majority of the Destiel fanbase insist on writing in present tense?
Let Me Be Your…
Castiel and Dean were in the same garrison and they were best friends, had been since God only knew how long (and he probably did). They were low ranking angels, young and inexperienced, sometimes bullied by the higher ranking ones. They were always left to clean the armory, to clean the dishes, clean up after everyone else along with the other lower rankers Samuel, Anna, and Adam.
"This is lame." Dean spat one day, angrily throwing down the rag he had been using to polish a heavy set of garrison armor, "We've been doing this same stupid job for centuries. How are we supposed to earn our wings if we never get the chance to prove ourselves!"
All lower ranking angels came into existence without wings and only a small power of Grace at their fingertips. To earn their wings, they had to be called by the head of all garrisons, Michael, and deemed worthy. Whatever that meant. The whole shebang was rather mysterious and no one was really sure what dictated that an angel should be allowed to rank up at all. Michael had the power to give wings but there were all sorts of rumors that he never actually chose the angels who earned them; the favorite theory was that he spoke to Joshua who spoke to God and God was the one who picked but again, just rumors.
"No one really proves anything, Dean." Sam said with the barest hint of exasperation in his voice as he rubbed at a breastplate, "We just kind of…go."
"Llllaaammmmeee." Dean repeated, tucking his hands behind his back and leaning back against the wall.
"Get back to work!" Anna snapped, "Or you're going to get us all in trouble!"
Dean ignored her and let out a loud yawn as if to prove that he didn't care either way.
"Please get back to work, Dean." Castiel said smoothly from his spot beside the other angel. His blue eyes hadn't left the bracers he was fixing but Dean sat up anyway, swiped up his cloth, and started polishing again.
Adam looked to Sam and Anna who both just shook their heads in disbelief. Dean was borderline disobedient, the most rebellious angel anyone had seen since Lucifer fell though he wasn't anywhere near that level of evil. Oh, he listened to the higher ranking angels and he got out of the way when Raphael or Michael was on the prowl like any good low ranker, but he always did it was a grain of salt, a condescending smirk, a sarcastic remark. Castiel was the only one he listened to without snark, retort, or rebellion. One word from the dark haired angel and Dean obeyed without question.
And in an almost eerie way, Castiel did the same for Dean in a way he never did for his higher ups. Castiel was the perfect soldier; he always obeyed, he never talked back, he never questioned, and he followed orders to the letter. In that sense, he was almost Dean's opposite. However, whereas Dean went about his orders with as much rebellious snark as he could muster, Castiel went about his with a cold, dispassionate edge. He listened, he obeyed, but he didn't like to. He always had the air that he could be doing something else, something much more enjoyable, something that was far more important. The only time he didn't seem like that was when he was doing something for Dean.
Castiel and Dean. The two oddest angels anyone had ever seen.
A few more hours of grudging cleaning went by. Occasionally talk would float up and a short conversation would be had. But mostly there was quiet. Even Dean grew tired of his own griping and fell silent.
Then, without warning, the armory door opened and Raphael strode in, great golden wings folded against his back. Immediately, the low rankers leapt to their feet and saluted (Castiel looking over Raphael's shoulder and Dean with a slight smirk on his lips).
"Castiel." Raphael's voice was a distant rumble of thunder, "Come with me."
The quiet that fell over the room was heavier and colder than the quiet from before. Dean glanced at Castiel but the blue-eyed angel only blinked and lowered his arm. As he moved towards Raphael, he brushed Dean's shoulder. And then, just like that, he was gone. The door closed with a sharp snap. No one moved for a long moment and then, as if caught in slow motion, the low rankers all knelt down and went back to their tasks.
Except for Dean. He looked at the armor he was still supposed to polishing and then to the half mended bracers on the floor. Without a word, he stalked out the door and did not look back. No one tried to stop him.
It was nearly a month before anyone saw Castiel again.
Dean was lounging in the fluffy clouds of the Outer Reaches, right on Heavens borders where blue and white mingle into a silver sea that washes down into the human realm as all of God's love and grace. It was basically Heaven's version of a beach and Dean had taken to sulking there, missing his best friend like an aching hole in his heart.
He was stirring up a small puff of cloud, twisting it into a spiral with his finger, his bare feet getting washed by the silver waves as he lay stretched out on his back. When he heard footsteps approaching, he looked around lazily only to bolt to his feet with a happy cry.
"Cas! Where have you been! I thought you'd gotten into trouble! What did Raphael wa—!"
But Dean, who had been running towards his friend with his arms outstretched, froze, arms swinging back to his sides, a strange expression on his face.
Protruding from Castiel's back in a graceful, folded arch, catching the diamond light of the silver sea, was a pair of perfect white wings that gleamed with a hard edge of gorgeous silver. Castiel saw the look on Dean's face and stopped walking, brow furrowing slightly.
"Dean?"
"You…got your wings." Dean muttered and realized he was jealous. Undeniably, burningly jealous.
"Yes." Castiel said simply.
Neither of them moved and then Dean asked,
"Why?"
"I'm not…sure." The hesitant response made Dean's jealousy flare.
"Yes you do." He growled, hands curling into fists at his sides, "It's because they think you're better than me."
"Dean—."
"What, you think you're better than me too?"
"No, I didn't—."
"It's not fair!"
"Dean!"
Castiel was suddenly on top of him, pinning him to the cloud-beach, wings spread wide overhead, his face inches away from Dean's, "I did not ask for this, it was simply given to me. I don't want you to be jealous. I don't want you to stop being my friend. You are not a low ranker to me, Dean, you are my equal."
Dean scowled but he could feel his anger slowly drifting away with Castiel's close proximity, "But you've got wings."
"So? That does not change my feelings towards you."
"F-feelings?"
Castiel hauled Dean into his arms and those wings curled around them surrounding them both in a curtain of white-silver and refracting streaks of light. Dean swallowed, his green eyes inches away from Castiel's impossibly blue ones.
"Mine." Castiel said and pressed a hand against Dean's shoulder. There was a flare of light, a white hot pain that was somehow a good kind of pain, and Dean was suddenly aware of Castiel in a way he never had been. He could feel Castiel's Grace inside him, a cool pool of logic and wisdom and power and loyalty and love.
Love for Dean.
"Castiel…" Dean breathed and then, without either of them being aware, they were rolling across the beach, wrapped in feathers and arms and kisses. Lips were locked together, fingers tangled in hair and wings, legs trapped against one another, Grace beating against soul and it was such a glorious feeling that neither of them cared who saw. They splashed into the surf at the edge of the silver sea and Catiel's wings suddenly flared out, sending a cascade of diamonds into the air and Dean fell for him all over again.
They spent the rest of the day together on the beach.
The next day, Dean was called to see Michael.
When he returned, he had a pair of silver wings that were lanced with streaks of burnished bronze and shone like precious gems.
He and Castiel accomplished very little after they discovered what sort of things they could do with their wings.
