Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean’s really not sure who’s more surprised when Sam’s special monster-revealing spell actually comes off, and reveals that the supernatural thing haunting this particular tacky Elvis-themed wedding chapel and causing one hundred percent of the foolish drunken couples who get hitched here to live happily ever after together (well, not one has gotten a divorce in the last three years, anyhow, which is seriously fucking below the average for these places. And, you know, the entire continental United States) is none other than Castiel.

Who is naked.

And frowning.

But otherwise looks exactly the same despite the years that have passed.

“Dude,” Dean hears himself say—instead of, you know, something sensible like congrats that you’re alive, or by the way, have you given up your plans to be God?—“you’re naked. And hung. Wowsa.”

“Dean!” Sam scolds, and accordingly gets the side-eye. “Hello, Cas. Glad you’re still alive. Are you still, you know, godlike and everything?”

Castiel hangs his head over his naked chest. “Heaven was not pleased with my presumption. I was overthrown, and promptly demoted.”

“Demoted,” Dean repeats. “Demoted?” The stuff Cas got up to even before he chowed down on the entire population of Purgatory? Kinda sounds less like a demoting offence than, well, a smiting offence. Not that anyone has ever had much luck with smiting Cas and making it stick. But still, demotion? Isn’t that a bit like a slap on the wrist?

“Indeed,” Cas says mournfully. “I have been demoted to the rank of cherub, third class, with the corresponding powers and duties.”

There’s a pause, and Dean gathers that’s supposed to mean something to him.

“You’re a cupid?” Sam breathes.

Well, that explains the nudity, Dean thinks. But at least he’s not attempting to rock the whole diaper-and-tiny-golden-bow look, right?

“I’m afraid so, Sam. And that is why I must greet you in the prescribed manner, or else my supervisors will be most displeased.”

And then it’s cupid-on-Sam hugging. Naked-cupid-on-Sam hugging.

At least it doesn’t look as rough, or last as long, as the hugs from that cupid they met a few years back, Dean thinks sourly, as he waits for his turn.

When it comes, he’s struck by how familiar Castiel smells, despite the fact that he can’t recall ever noticing that Castiel even has a smell.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas murmurs. “I’ve missed you.” He seems distinctly disinclined to let go. “We should talk.”

“Uh, first can you whammy up some clothes or something?”

Cas steps back a short way, looking regretful. “I have insufficient Grace.” He visibly perks up a bit. “However, if you would focus for a moment on your loving fraternal bond, I can draw upon that.” Dean just stares, but apparently Sam, the enormous goody-two-shoes, gets it and does it, because Cas reaches out and a thin tendril of something bright arches between them before disappearing into Castiel’s chest. “Thank you, Sam.” He closes his eyes, appears to be concentrating.

“Wait, you sucked up some of his love?”

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Cas says absently. “Love is not a limited commodity. Not in humans.”

When he opens his eyes, he is once more wearing his familiar old trench-coat. And not, as far as Dean can see, a single stitch more. When they help themselves to a couple of the white sparkly benches—Dean really can’t bring himself to call them pews—the coat gapes rather alarmingly around Cas’s bare, hairy legs. “You only made the coat.”

“There was no need to show off.”

Dean coughs. “You look like a flasher. More than usual, I mean.”

Sam elbows him in the ribs for that. “So, Cas, why are you haunting an Elvis chapel?”

Castiel looks suddenly pensive, and leans towards them as if to ensure he’s not overheard. “Cherub assignments often require us to engender love, affection, and sexual longing between individuals who dislike each other, or who never otherwise would have met. I find that… disagreeable. My superiors have instead allowed me to choose my own targets, provided I do not pursue any other cupid’s targets. This place—” he looks around without apparent distaste “—furnishes the steady stream of adult human couples I require to meet my quota, all of whom already profess the desire to remain together in love all their lives. I merely grant them their wish.”

“Uh, Cas? Are you at all familiar with the, uh, reputation of these places?”

Cas blinks at him. “I understand that it is common for couples to marry on a whim, perhaps while intoxicated, during short visits to this city for the purpose of losing large sums of money on games of chance, and that many later have their matrimonial bonds severed. Nevertheless, they stand in places like this and tell my Father of their desire to be always together. I believe that if anyone may be said to be ‘asking’ for a cupid’s intervention, it is them.”

“Well,” Sam says, “that’s one way of looking at it. So you don’t much like being a cupid, then?”

Castiel sighs hugely and slumps a little. “I find the work much more pleasant than the training. Four Heavenly cycles spent in cherub college learning to love love. Studying the symbology of courtship in three hundred cultures. Analysing the romantic ballads of Barry Manilow and Sir Paul McCartney. Practicing our archery in case the traditional methods of influencing the human heart ever enjoy a resurgence of popularity. Composing meticulously metrical sonnet sequences on the subject of how much we love love. It was an extremely frustrating experience, though my fellow students seemed to find it very satisfying.”

“Did you pass?” Dean can’t help but ask. The evil look Cas gives him is fucking priceless.

“So, uh,” Sam says, “you’re actually not an evil monster haunting this chapel, and we don’t need to kill you. Right?”

“You could kidnap me and force me to become your hunting companion,” Cas says hopefully. “But I fear my superiors would, eventually, track me down. Their punishments are… most creative.”

“Couldn’t you just carve anti-angel-radar runes into your ribs or something?”

Cas shakes his head mournfully. “I have so little Grace that my wings regularly fail and I am obliged to use public transport. Which is not easy while maintaining invisibility. It is most awkward when people sit on me. Perhaps in a hundred years I shall rise to the rank of cherub, second class, and be capable of such a feat, but until then—”

“Am I missing something here?” Dean demands. “Can’t we just get the runes tattooed on your ass?”

Castiel blinks at him. Then Dean has an angel in his lap, hugging him half to death. “I love you,” Cas is saying, “and I love Sam, and I loved Balthazar and Rachel and even Gabriel. But I don’t love love! I’ll never love love! How can you love love? It doesn’t make sense!”

“Wow,” Sam mutters, while Cas continues to mumble emphatically into Dean’s chest about how much he doesn’t love love, “do you think he was just too smart to be a cupid and they had to do something about that?” He mimes whacking Cas over the head with something. Dean’s hard pressed not to laugh.

Cas looks weirdly normal once they’ve bundled him into the spare set of Dean’s clothes that lives in the Impala. Until he puts the coat back on over blue jeans and a black tee. Then he just looks weird.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Sam says, even as he’s asking his phone to recommend reputable tattoo parlours in the area. “The hex bags’ll probably hold a while. You know, so you can take your time drawing out the design you need.”

“I love your thoughtfulness, Sam. But in this case it is unnecessary. Let’s go.”

So they pile into the car, and for once all three of them actually have to open the doors. Dean drives, Sam gives directions, and Cas stares. It’s pleasantly nostalgic.

The tattoo place looks clean enough.

Castiel asks for and receives a sheet of paper. He looks dubiously at the box of coloured pencils also supplied before simply tapping the paper and making his desired design appear. It reminds Dean of that x-ray of his ribs he once saw, only more intricate, somehow. He supposes if you are an angel, you might have to modify the wording so you don’t end up unable to locate yourself or something.

The tattooist is an overweight dude in awesome faux-croc boots that are just slightly gayer than Dean can get away with. He has, of course, miles of tattooed skin on display, and a huge crinkly grin that makes you want to like him.

“Hello,” Castiel says. “Is that your partner Gerald?” He points to a particular tattoo.

The crinkly grin turns mushy. “You’ve met?”

“He loves you a great deal,” Cas says. “You are the husband of his heart, and he would marry you today if the law allowed it.”

Crinkly Guy doesn’t know what to say to that, and just gestures Cas vaguely in the direction of his work space. “So where are we inking you today?”

Cas hands him the paper. “I believe my back would be the most appropriate site.”

“You should lie down on your front, then, if that’s comfortable.”

Cas nods, already stripping off his coat and the shirt beneath.

He waves Cas’s paper. “I’ll like to do this freehand, if you’ll trust me for that. Otherwise, you’ll need to wait a couple minutes while I run this through the machine to make the stencil.”

“I have seen examples of your work, and am satisfied with your skill. Please proceed.”

“You got it.” He frowns for a moment at the design, then looks suddenly calm and resolved. “You two just gonna stand there?” Crinkly asks, as he’s sorting out gloves and other supplies.

“We can go, if you’d prefer,” Sam says.

“It’s fine. Lots of guys need moral support. Just pull up some chairs, and keep out of my way.”

Dean salutes, and they move smoothly to obey.

“Brings back memories,” Sam observes, as they’re watching the guy arranging his inks in the order he’ll need them.

“Yeah, you were such a freaking baby about the needle.”

“Was not.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“I love it when you express such brotherly affection,” Castiel sighs.

Cas’s runes end up looking oddly like wings, Dean notices, towards the end of the procedure. Which is right about when Crinkly warns Cas to hold still, because he’s suddenly tense.

“Cas? Something wrong?”

“My supervisor is here,” comes the unhappy reply.

“Hex bags must be past their use-by date,” Sam observes. “Damn.”

“May I take a break? Perhaps you would like to go and contact Gerald over the telephone to remind him how much you love him?”

Crinkly’s smile this time is sappy. “I believe I will. Don’t go too far, okay?”

But Castiel only sits up, turns to face Sam and Dean. He’s wincing a little. His gaze passes over them, towards a dark space between two equipment trolleys. “Show yourself,” he growls.

And a naked cherub appears. A familiar naked cherub. “You are in such trouble!” he cries gleefully, wagging a finger at them each in turn. “Oh, you!” Then there is hugging. Nearly fatal hugging, in Dean’s case at least.

Cas gets hugged last. It looks extremely painful, with all that clutching at his bleeding back and hopping up and down in excitement. “You’ve been so very naughty, Brother!” Castiel’s boss cries. It’s an amazingly joyful, enthusiastic scolding, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s not the only one who has no fucking clue what to make of it. “We’re gonna have to take you back up to Heaven so one of the powerful Brothers can scrub all that naughty naughty magic off your back!”

“That is not my preference. I wish to have the design completed.”

“I’m not sure you realise, but that would make it very difficult for us to do your annual performance reviews and so forth. No, I’m afraid that anti-location runes are completely unacceptable to management. And why aren’t you in uniform? There may have to be disciplinary action. And re-education. And you’ll have to start attending our regular romantic comedy screenings again—it’s Meg Ryan again this week! Don’t you just love her?”

Castiel groans.

“He quits,” Dean says loudly.

The cherub turns to face him. “Quits?” he repeats uncertainly.

“Quits. We’ll get the tattoo finished, and then you guys up there will never need to worry about Castiel again. We’ll keep him out of trouble.”

The cherub frowns, and then a bright, dopey smile takes over his whole face. He nods several times, apparently to himself. “I see,” he says sagely. He bounces on his toes, and the sight of his jiggling penis is almost more than Dean can deal with. “You love him! Oh, it’s been so long since there was an angel/human mating! What a wonderful day!” He clasps his hands together over his heart. “Oh, I must tell the others, they’ll be so happy! Isn’t love grand?” And he disappears with a faint pop.

“Quick,” Sam says, “call the tattooist back before he changes what passes for his mind.”

It’s weird, being on the road with Castiel. For one thing, he keeps saying he loves things. Spring. The car. A mother duck leading a procession of tiny ducklings. The way diner food makes Dean happy. The grey suit and sickly green tie they found him in a thrift store. Apples. Candy. Stars.

He doesn't say he loves Dean again, but the way he crawls into bed with him that first night, rests his arm across Dean's ribcage and stares at him until a sleepy Dean tells him to stop it kinda says as much.

“Seriously, guys?” Sam complains from the next bed. “While I’m right here?”

“Put that dirty mind away,” Dean scolds. “We aren’t fucking.”

“Indeed, Sam. We are merely sharing a bed at this time.”

“Technicality,” Sam mutters, before, by the sound of it, putting his head under the pillow.

“That made no sense to me,” Castiel says, in a breathy hum that seems to be his best attempt at a whisper. “Is he angry?”

“No, he’s a dick.”

“Oh. Would you like to be ‘fucking’?”

“Let’s discuss that when we’re alone, huh?” And preferably when you’ve got your damn marbles back. “Right now it’s time to sleep, or convincingly fake it.”

“Yes, Dean. Good night, Dean.” And he kisses Dean’s ear, a loud, smacking kiss that can probably be heard for miles.

He does the bed-sharing thing the next night too, and the next. After that, they stop bothering asking for a room with a third bed.

Occasionally they lose track of Castiel during the research phase of a hunt, because among all the people in the town he’s seen a waitress and a cop (or a dentist and a homeless man, or a religious pamphleteer and a street performer) that his cupid college training assures him would be a perfect couple with just a little help. Sometimes he lets himself back into their motel room, greets them, then un-invisibles himself to reveal that he is once again wearing the official cupid uniform, and has to be reminded to go back and fetch his clothes and shoes from wherever he randomly left them when his Heavenly brainwashing took over.

Dean isn’t sure, but he thinks Castiel is getting gradually more powerful, as if he’s thriving on being around people who actually give a damn about his scrawny angel ass. He definitely seems to be getting his smarts back, now that he’s doing work that actually requires some mental effort. He’s become pretty much Sam’s ideal research companion, endlessly patient and willing to read whatever boring shit you put in front of him if it’s for the case.

“How would I know if I was experiencing sexual desire for someone?” Dean hears Cas ask, just as he’s about to let himself back into their room with his sack of groceries. So he stands there, listening through the door, wondering idly if it’s true that eavesdroppers never hear what they want to.

Sam’s response, when it comes, is just so incredibly, so patiently, Sam. “There’s a number of signs. The most obvious would be, uh, getting an erection—” there’s a pause, and Dean imagines him gesturing vaguely at Castiel’s lap “—when you look at or think about that person. Which you’d probably be doing a lot. Your pulse might pick up, too, your palms might get sweaty, you might flush and get nervous. And you’ll start getting all these thoughts about wanting to touch and kiss and pleasure this person. Or people. You can be attracted to more than one person at a time.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, like he’s surprised it’s that simple. “Thank you, Sam.”

“No problem. Just don’t tell Dean we had this little chat, he’ll only—”

“There is no need to tell him, Sam. He is listening at the door.”

“Shit.”

“Would that help?”

“No, I mean—”

Dean lets himself in. Castiel is grinning like the Cheshire fucking Cat.

“Hello, Dean. Did you buy more Jif peanut butter? It’s thicker and richer than the Skippy, and I find it most agreeable.”

You find it majorly addictive, you mean. Dean fishes in the grocery bag, finds the jar, tosses it at Cas who catches it easily one-handed. “Just—use a spoon or something this time, okay?”

“Yes, Dean.” Damn, those puppy-dog eyes should be illegal. You know, if you’re a six-foot-tall man, or a reasonable imitation of one, and not an actual puppy.

“I, uh, I think I’m gonna go get started on that ritual. Cas has the details. You two can join me when you’re done talking or… whatever.”

Sam’s grabbed up his jacket, is holding his hand out for the car keys. Dean frowns a little, hands them over.

“Be kind to my baby.”

“Aren’t I always?” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “There’s condoms in the nightstand if you need them. Be safe.” And with that, he slaps Dean’s arm, winks horribly, and skips out of the room. Whistling.

“He’s very well-adjusted, considering his background,” Castiel observes. He’s conjured up the smokey white outline of a spoon, the long delicate kind you use for gelato at a fancy restaurant, and is gradually rendering it solid. These things take him actual time now, with his limited Grace. “I wonder if he’s on the list to be set up with his ideal mate? Of course, none of my former comrades would be able to locate—”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean growls. “Sammy can make his own choices. They’re stupid choices, mostly, but he deserves to make ‘em all on his own.”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Well, we’re allowed to offer help and advice. But that’s as far as it goes, okay? No magical influence. No cherubs with love darts. No skullduggery. And no invisible Cas lurking naked in the bushes.”

“Yes, Dean. Would you like some—”

“No, but I’ll have a beer.”

So they sit on Sam’s bed (Dean’s not having peanut butter stains on his, thanks) and enjoy their treats, and Dean tries not to screw up his nose at the distinctive odour of peanut butter filling the room.

“I think we should mate,” Cas says matter-of-factly, and Dean chokes on his mouthful of beer. Cas helps himself to another spoonful of brown goo, making sure to lick the spoon clean when he’s done. “I’ve been considering the matter for some time. Obviously there are… complications. But I believe we can overcome them, together. Also, I believe my penis would like to have sex with you. My training included detailed theoretical study of various manners in which this may be accomplished, to aid us in our task of identifying and encouraging potentially harmonious couples. The mutual oral-genital method appeared particularly delightful.”

Dean counts out thirty seconds before he dares answer. And even then he can’t get his tongue around any kind of meaningful response to an implied offer of angel-69. “You finished with the bombshells? Is it safe to drink again?”

“I love peanut butter,” Cas announces, giving Dean an oddly earnest look.

“Yeah, like that’s news.”

“Like love, it seems to possess the power to make the world a better place.”

For some reason, that’s the straw that breaks the fucking camel’s back. Some final barrier in Dean’s chest collapses and he just can’t resist any longer. He reaches out, deposits his beer bottle on the nightstand. Pats his lap. “Fine. Come here, then.”

Castiel climbs obediently onto Dean’s lap. Dean grasps hold of his green tie and pulls him in.

Their first kiss tastes like peanut butter.

Dean decides he can get used to that.

Sam’s standing by the car, looking out over the water while he waits for the sun to set, and trying not to think about just what his brother and their ex-God, ex-cupid angel buddy are getting up to back at the motel. Innocently minding his own business, in other words. A faint pop of displaced air is all the warning he gets before he’s being hugged, painfully, from behind.

“Greetings, friend!” cries a voice in his ear. “How’s love treating you?”

For answer, Sam coughs until he’s released. Turns to face his visitor, who is actually wearing clothes. Well, he’s wearing heart-emblazoned boxer shorts and a “Kiss me, I’m Irish” t-shirt two sizes too small. But he’s not naked, at any rate.

“I’m good, um, Mister Cupid. How about you?”

“Oh, wonderful, wonderful! Everyone was so pleased with my report about Dean Winchester and Castiel mating, I think it’s what tipped the balance and got me promoted! You are looking at a bona fide cherub, first class!” And he bows low, giving Sam an unfortunately excellent view of his plumber’s crack.

“That’s great. Is this management uniform, then?”

“We’re allowed to choose our own! Don’t you just love my selection?”

Sam forces a smile. “It’s certainly distinctive.”

The cherub claps his hands. “I know!” He offers a high five, which Sam accepts in some bemusement.

“So, how did you find me?”

“Not you. This car.” He fondles the Impala in a way that would make even Dean blush. “Few vehicles are more beloved than this one, my friend. I can sense its good vibrations from halfway across the continent. Though I was actually hoping to meet Mister Dean Winchester and my dear disobedient underling Castiel.” He peers around, as if they might be hiding behind a boulder or small clump of grass somewhere. “Bells are tolling up at cherub central, we can feel that they’ve just sealed their bond at long last, and I wanted to congratul—oh—oh, my—oh, wow—”

Cherub guy’s cheeks turn pink. As Sam watches, his eyes roll up in his head, and he sighs like he’s having a very sedate little orgasm. While leaning heavily against Dean’s car for support. Probably best never to tell Dean that part.

“Spoke too soon,” the cherub breathes, and makes an odd, hiccup-y little giggle. “Now they’ve sealed the deal. Wow.” He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and focuses on Sam with apparent difficulty. “Buckets of love there.”

Sam endeavours to blot this information from his mind forever. He does not need to know the exact time and date at which Dean and his angel consummated their—oh, God, the mental images—

“To think that I would be around to influence an angel/human bonding!” Cherub dude bounces on his toes. “Best millennium ever!”

“So, uh,” Sam says intelligently, and gestures with both hands for good measure. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“Oh, you’re so kind!”

Sam braces just in time. Fortunate, because the hug nearly knocks him off his feet.

“I should find a mate for you, before you disappear off the radar again, you naughty boy.”

Sam attempts very carefully to extract himself from the cherub’s mighty embrace. “Thank you for that lovely thought. But I’d—” rather take my chances on my own “—um, I thought maybe Castiel could help me with that. Sort of a family bonding thing, since he’s kinda my new brother-in-law and all that.”

The cherub lets him go in order to stare as if Sam Winchester is the single sweetest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

By the time Dean and Cas show up—beaming in on angel Grace, as if the sex Sam is totally not thinking about has recharged the ol’ angel batteries or something—Sam’s already done with the ritual, the curse is lifted, the sun’s gone, and the town of Milwaukee, WI, is forever safe from the evil spectre that once haunted it. The Miller Brewery, which Dean took three hours yesterday to tour when he should have been doing his research, is thus preserved for future generations. Also, Castiel’s former boss has safely vanished back into the ether. Sam shoves his iPod back in his pocket and unfolds from the driver’s seat.

“I love sex,” Castiel announces, swaying slightly, just as Sam’s about to ask them whether their chat went okay. “Love it.”

Dean smirks as if everything good about whatever they’ve just been getting up to is entirely down to him.

“Um, that’s great, Cas. Really great.”

Castiel’s head tilts slowly to one side. “There has been a cherub here.”

“Yeah, your boss dropped in. Wanted to thank you for your part in his promotion. He’s wearing clothes now. Says he’s assigning you full-time to my case, because apparently I need the help. So I guess that means officially you’re no longer AWOL from Heaven.”

Cas’s smile is like the sun coming out.

“Oh, and he found me via the car—apparently it’s traceable because Dean’s in love with it, or something.”

Dean shows him his middle finger.

“Would it be acceptable to paint several small runes onto the car, perhaps in a hidden location?”

Dean’s eyebrows go up. Then he opens the car door, hunkers down, shows Cas where their initials are carved inside: D.W, S.W. “Yeah, I think I can deal with you putting some of your handwriting on my baby.”

Welcome to the family, Sam thinks. Stubborn, tight-knit and ornery, that’s the Winchester clan. You’ll fit right in.

“I feel considerable affection for this automobile.”

“Right on. Now shut up, you’re embarrassing Sam.”

“Jerk,” Sam grumbles.

“Bitch.”

“I wish I had not neglected to bring the peanut butter…”