Chapter Text
These days, an average day in the bunker isn’t necessarily a good one.
It’s at least still a day without demon marks, and death.
That’s the ultimate indicator.
It’s a day where Dean can make himself a bowl of cereal at midnight and feel he’s earned it. His hands are steady as he pours the skim milk (he ran out of the good stuff, so he’s gotta snub some of Sam’s gross shit) into the Kellogs. They give a loud, dry crackle, which makes him nearly miss the telltale swoosh of an angel entering the room. He’s barely had time to face the noise.
“Hello, Dean.”
There’s a tightness to the angel’s voice.
“Cas. Hey, man,” Dean voices, caught off guard.
He’s in pajama bottoms, no top, and a loosely strung together robe, unlike Cas who is dressed primly. As usual. Well, not usual. Up until recently, he’s been in hoodies and Gas Station vests.
Cas is unbothered by his drowsy disarray as he ever is, strutting into the room with a heavy air of equitable exhaustion and frustration. “I thought my brothers and sisters were better than this,” he hisses, like he just came off a particularly personal one-on-one with another angel. Dean has enough experience seeing him after those that it’s not hard to piece together. “If they just—”
“Whoa buddy,” Dean interrupts. “You’re coming in hot, and I’m like, half-asleep.”
Castiel catches himself, and where he once might’ve pressed on regardless, with whatever news he’s come here with, he instead nods and says, “I apologize. Sleep is a taxing endeavor, as I’ve recently learned.”
Dean snorts as a means of acknowledgement, stirring his cereal around as he considers if he even wants it at all. He does, he thinks. But now Cas is here and it’s complicated.
Why does Cas always make everything feel so complicated?
“Bet you don’t miss blacking out for eight or so hours a night, huh?”
“I miss dreaming,” Cas answers solemnly. “I miss the feeling of being rested.”
“I haven’t felt rested in a long time.”
“I could put you to sleep tonight, if you want.” It’s such a confusingly vague statement, Dean can’t help but whip his head up and meet Castiel’s piercing eyes with what must look like those of a deer in headlights, because Cas says, “Got my grace back, remember? I can touch your forehead and put you into a sound sleep that will have you feeling fully restored come morning.”
“Right.” Dean frowns. “Not the kind of rest I mean.”
There’s a furrow in Cas’ brow. It’s a good thing he can still confound him, right?
There’s that familiar stuffed-up pause of silence between them that always makes Dean’s throat feel full of wool, so much he can barely manage a softly croaked out, “Why are you here, Cas?”
Now that he’s explained why he had to kick Castiel out as a human, it’s been easier to see him, albeit not simple in any respect. He can scarcely look the man in the eyes, and he knows Castiel must still feel a level of resentment towards him even now, even if he doesn’t show it. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s out and about, hunting down angels, trying to protect Heaven. He’s got his own mission and he’s ready to go to war and here Dean stands, a visible mountain of mistakes.
And yet, Cas is here.
Again.
“I suppose for the same reason. Even angels need a break, Dean.”
That’s new.
“I don’t recall you ever needing a break when Raphael was head honcho,” Dean recalls, not as an accusation, but because he remembers a different man then. Someone harder, someone stronger. Someone Castiel likely blames Dean for being sheared down to a weaker, more naive version.
Not that he thinks Cas is weak and naive. He actually doesn’t.
He’s a stronger, wiser, better man than Dean could ever dream of being.
“I wasn’t as close to humanity then. If my time as a human has taught me anything, it’s taught me that it’s important to maintain a clear head.”
Cas fully enters the kitchen, looking around. He has a right to. Dean never had a right to kick him out. It occurs to him, he should tell him that.
“What’s mine is yours, man. I mean it. Even Sam’s shitty skim milk.”
Castiel smiles and shakes his head.
“The molecules of food don’t…hit the spot the way they would if I were still human,” Castiel informs. “No need to worry, I don’t require a bed of any kind either. Just a place to…think?”
“Well, yeah, the bunker’s huge, man. Sam parks himself up with a book in the weirdest corners. You might have to ask him where the best haunts are, cause with me, it’s my old girl the kitch’.”
“I will not bother you in the ‘kitch’ then,” Castiel offers. “Perhaps the library.”
“You—it’s not a bother, Cas. I’m glad to see you. Glad we can, y’know, be around each other again.” He chokes on his own spit because what in the world is coming out of his mouth right now? He sets his bowl down hard. “Just—you don’t have to—you get what I’m saying right?”
Cas blinks.
“Would you like company?”
God, he’s always so fucking direct.
“It’s, like, midnight.”
It’s not an answer to Castiel’s question and they both know it.
“That’s…true.”
They stare at each other, and Dean’s fingers tap repeatedly on the countertop.
“You wouldn’t be bothering me. If you wanna sit here. Is what I’m saying. Y’know.”
“Alright, Dean.” Castiel stands there awkwardly before sitting on one of the barstools. “Thank you.”
Dean makes a face at that. Nothing to ‘thank’ after all.
However, he’s filled with an odd type of contentment that helps him scarf down his cereal and actually enjoy it. Castiel doesn’t say another word until he’s finished, obviously lost in his own head. Dean wants to ask but he was being honest when he said he was half-asleep. He’d like to be able to help his best friend with whatever’s dwelling in his head when he’s sharp to the world.
It’s a comfortable silence, now.
“I do gotta hit the sack, though,” Dean says once he’s washed his dish. “You good?”
Cas nods.
Dean watches him in the dim light.
“Will you—” Be here in the morning is unspoken. There is an answer he wants to hear, but he’s already preparing himself for the one that will fill his belly with tortuously slow twists and turns.
“I am not needed elsewhere for a couple days,” Castiel tells him. “Is that alright?”
“What?” Dean blinks. “Of course it’s alright, why wouldn’t it be?”
Of course, he’s putting his foot in his mouth and realizes it just as he does it. Castiel lets out a shaky sigh, gracefully allowing himself to breathe and regain a muted temper before he says,
“I have not had an open invitation to the bunker, perhaps, ever. Forgive me for asking for clarification, but I felt it was…needed. And the polite thing to do as a guest.”
That’s much nicer than Dean knows he deserves.
And much less presumptuous than Cas should be acting.
This is my fault.
“Sorry, I thought I, um, explained all that.” He waves his hand in a weak gesture. “Y’know. Why I couldn’t let you stay.” It feels like every word is stuck in one of those ancient penny pressers.
It’s taking immense effort to get everything out.
Cas opens his mouth and says something very quickly, muffled and not thought out before he snaps his mouth shut. It sounds something like “But you didn’t—” or along those lines.
He’s accosted with shame when he realizes what Cas was about to say.
You never apologized.
Dean closes his eyes, wanting the Earth to swallow him up. This is racking up to be one of his most humiliating moments in life and he can’t even fix it. Cas gives him an out; he always does.
“I will stay, Dean. If you’re sure.”
No question, no further discomfort. Just—the answer Dean wanted without the labor of earning it. The shame is still present but relief fills Dean from head to toe. A couple days Cas had mentioned. That is a generous window of time. Time they haven’t had together in a long while.
“See ya in the morning, Cas.”
“Sleep well, Dean.”
He won’t, and he refuses to ever make that Cas’ problem.
In the morning, the lights aren’t working.
As well as the rest of the bunker’s electricity.
Which Dean finds abnormal since Sam is enjoying a steaming piece of jammed toast when he strolls into the kitchen. Cas is sitting in the same barstool he left him in; did he really not move?
“Dude, is the toaster randomly working?”
“No, but, hey, watch this.”
Castiel sighs as a slice of bread is placed in his palm. He toasts it in an instant, almost to the point of blackening it. Dean blinks down at it, impressed.
“It’s not an exact science,” Cas explains, handing it to Dean who nearly drops it from it being searing hot. He hot-potatoes it over onto a plate as Cas adds grumpily, “Or a party trick.”
“We would’ve starved to death otherwise, dude,” Sam insists with his puppy-dog eyes.
Those never work on Cas.
“You have an assorted variety of canned goods at your disposal.”
“You weren’t human long enough if you think either of us would be willing to eat a cold can of beans in the morning, regardless of starvation,” Dean grunts, spreading butter on his toast. “Sam, when you’re done, can you go outside and check the breaker?”
“Already did. I’m gonna check the one in the dungeon though, even though last time I checked, it didn’t seem to be connected to anything but the basement lighting grid,” his brother replies.
Weird.
And weirdly, they haven’t had electricity problems since they first found the bunker.
“Hey Cas,” Dean says with a smug grin. “No shot you could go jumper-cable mode on the place?”
“That’s not how my powers work, Dean.”
“He’s more likely the reason the lights are busted,” Sam teases.
“I didn’t cross dimensions last night, nor did my true form bare itself to this celestial plane,” Castiel defends himself, making a case to both of them when neither of them need to hear it.
Sam sighs and Dean smiles secretly to himself.
“I could call an electrician. Try to say we’re an archive?”
“That seems…risky,” Sam points out, “but unavoidable.”
“An electrician is unlikely to report your suspicious possessions,” Cas adds helpfully.
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean responds with a wry smirk.
Sam wipes his mouth with a napkin and puts his plate in the sink, obviously set off on his mission to go check the other breaker box. Dean has lived in much worse conditions, so this isn’t the end of the world, and Cas is here so how bad can it really get? It’s still an average day for the Winchesters so long as death and mayhem of a heavenly order don’t encroach out of the blue.
Dean eats in silence for a while, and Cas watches.
Dean finally meets his eyes, mustering a gentle expression.
“You stay here all night?”
“I wandered,” Cas explains, which makes Dean feel slightly better for some reason. “Then I found your brother this morning. He was upset because his vanity mirror light was not working.”
Dean nearly chokes on his toast.
“Oh, he is never hearing the end of that one.”
Cas squints, confused though not asking for clarification.
Dean is considering asking Cas for a second piece of slightly too-burnt angelic toast when Sam is bounding like a spooked gazelle back through to the kitchen with a wary half-frown on his face.
“Well, looks like we’re gonna have to call that electrician.”
Dean grumbles but nods, brainstorming. There’s a little black book somewhere with reputable local places the Men of Letters frequented. Nothing they’ve ever needed to look through until now.
There’s a first for everything.
The black book is covered in dust in the basement and Dean has to use a flashlight to find it. Castiel and Sam are upstairs making the place as presentable as it can possibly be for someone who is neither a hunter or hunter-aligned. Dean isn’t sure how they’ll explain the dungeon either way, so he’s not too worried about spiffing up the place. He’ll have to stumble over a piss-poor explanation one way or the other. He might as well get the guy in and out as fast as possible.
There are about three company names under the sticky noted tab ‘Electrics’.
None of them have any descriptions, nothing but a phone number and address.
Maybe Dean’s been craving Italian food lately but he goes with ‘Cielo & Sons Electric’ and dials them up. A man with a youthful, smooth voice answers the phone, “Dee speaking for Cielo Electric.” Dean explains that they’re a government-run archive just ten miles out from Cane street where their company’s based and they’d be doing them a solid if they could come today.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, pal, what’s the name?”
“Mr. Uh—”
Dean thinks fast about whichever credit cards he’s been using lately and grumbles to himself. “Swallows,” he mutters, cursing Charlie under his breath. “David, uh. Swallows.”
Luckily, this man will likely never cross paths with him again and the embarrassment will be all but a distant memory after this evening. There’s a pause over the line, no doubt because of the name, which Dean can’t help, it’s what the damn card he uses for big payment says the name is.
Then Dee is saying, with a lilt of humor in his tone, “Fortunately, it’s been a slow day, Mr. Swallows. I can be right over there, if you’re ready for me. How big is the place, you said?”
“God, I wish I had a good answer for ya, but it’s got hundreds of rooms and I’m new here. A couple floors, got a kitchen and a gym, for y’know, the—our many, uh, employees. It’s an, um, y’know. Archive! For…History.” All archives are technically historical, Dean beats himself up. This is why generally Sammy is the better Winchester to deal with off-the-cuff calls like this.
“Right. Just trying to see if I should bring the big van.”
“Probably best.”
The guy should really be asking how old the damn place is. That might be the kicker.
“I’ll be there very soon, then.”
The mysterious ‘Dee’ hangs up so Dean heads back upstairs to see how Cas and Sam are faring.
Cas is helping Sam tape one of his Van Halen posters over a particularly gory looking sigil on the war room’s wall. “Hey man, not the Halen, c’mon,” Dean grumbles, wincing as he watches them ply it with scotch tape, Sam spreading his greasy toast-ridden fingers all over it to smooth it out.
Cas sighs at their half-assed efforts.
“I don’t believe any of this will be enough to sway the electrician’s suspicions.”
“So, we say we’re an archive for medieval history and the occult, necromancy, all that stuff. It’s not technically wrong, in some respects,” Sam argues mildly. “Well, I think that does it.” “Sounds young and immature anyway, I doubt he’ll be thinking too hard about all this. We’ll just try to keep him out of the dungeon,” Dean mutters. “But he might need to look at that breaker.”
“I’m telling you man,” Sam insists. “That’s not connected to anything, if it ever was.”
“Cas, you don’t wanna skedaddle before this guy gets here?” Dean asks, feeling a pang of regret at the instant look of rejection on his face. “I just mean, hide out in the library or something. Not that I don’t think you can hold your own when you have to act undercover, but you kinda can’t.”
“Can so,” Cas retorts with a squint.
“Oh who taught you that one?” grumbles Dean with a flare of affection in his chest. “Smartass.”
“Listen, if Cas has at least somewhat succeeded in emulating sarcasm, I think he’s good to greet this guy. We’re all overthinking this and he’ll be in and out in no time,” Sam placates them.
“At least take the damn trench coat off, Cas. You look like a fucking journalist, not a government employee.” Castiel rolls his eyes, though he sheds it all but instantly. He’s not wearing a tie right now, so it’s just the tailored black suit and a white button down. He looks good, professional.
Dean’s throat suddenly feels scratchy.
He scraps his nails over the back of his neck and nods.
“Yeah. Better. Sammy, go get out of your damn PJs.”
“You first.”
“Fine. Meet you both back upstairs pronto.”
They reconvene, dressed professionally with hair brushed and faces washed where needed, outside. Just by the entrance of the bunker. This ‘Dee’ character is taking his sweet ass time.
“It’s a lovely day out,” Castiel announces, directly combating Dean’s sour mood.
“It’d be a lovelier day if my ice cream wasn’t actively melting in the freezer.”
“Worse comes to worse, we have all those candles in the basement,” Sam offers.
“Yeah,” Dean remarks, “I was really worried about our Yankee Candle collection.”
“I hear someone coming,” Cas tells them.
Sure enough, a large salmon-colored van comes rolling through the brush to where they’re standing, parking evenly in front of a fallen log. A strikingly handsome man with dirty blonde hair slides out of the car with a charming grin plastered to his face. He’s got a well-tailored brown leather bomber jacket of sorts slung over him, not much unlike one of Dean’s old favorites he lost a few hundred motel stops ago. The bracelets and necklace the guy is wearing compliment his masculine attire somehow, and his tight washed out jeans, despite maybe appearing feminine on anyone else. Sam and Dean are obviously awestruck, as it is rather uncommon especially around these parts to see someone with such a symmetrical Hollywood face, let alone ripped to the nth degree and unafraid to show it off. The shirt underneath the jacket is almost obscenely unbuttoned, and by that, Dean would say damn-near-entirely. The company logo is stitched into the pocket of the shirt, flashing from under the jacket with every hip sway in his saunter as he approaches them. As he gets closer, it becomes apparent the jeans are much tighter than they should be for comfort. Though boy do they accentuate…everything.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you would all be waiting outside, I would’ve really booted it,” the man says apologetically, voice just as velvety as it sounded on the phone. Jesus Christ.
How did a dreamboat like this end up in the electrician business?
Apparently, the Winchester brothers are still processing the sight before them because Castiel is the only one unaffected, who steps forward to shake the man’s hand and introduce himself.
“Hello, I’m Cast—”
“Cas!” Dean boots back up instantly, interrupting his best friend before he can name drop the most angel-sounding name in history. “His name is just Cas. Uh, I’m who you talked to on the phone. David,” he says pointedly to Cas to make sure he remembers. “This is my brother Sam.”
“Hiya David, Sam.” The man hasn’t looked away from Cas, his smile spreading. “I always introduce myself as Dee over the phone, but I’m Dante. One of the many, many Cielo sons.”
“It’s nice to work with your brothers,” Sam pipes up, gentile.
“Is Cas short for something?” Dante leads with that charming grin, and Dean curses under his breath because Cas doesn’t even experience a beat of hesitation before he’s exposing his identity.
“Castiel.”
Dante nods, clearly pleased by this.
“That’s a beautiful name. I can’t imagine not using it in its full form, if you don’t mind.” Dean frowns, exchanging a glance with Sam who is shrugging at him. Cas offers a polite nod.
“Well then, Castiel. Lead the way to whatever the problem is.”
Cas looks to Dean who rolls his eyes.
He supposes if this guy thinks Cas is in charge, it’s whatever. He doesn’t seem to have enough brains to gauge that Castiel is a weird fucking name, and is of the obvious supernatural variety.
“Sure, uh,” Cas voices, a bit flustered, which is rare. “Follow me.”
“Gladly.” Dante does, barely offering Sam and Dean a second glance. It’s maybe the first time Dean hasn’t been the one assumed in charge, at least, for a long time. Sometimes Sam is the one assumed to be the leader of the pack, so to speak, because he’s taller. But usually, it’s Dean.
There was a sheer dominance to Cas when they first met, and that’s been absent for a long time, though Dean is under no illusion that Cas hasn’t been an ancient winged creature who can break glass with his voice. Maybe Dante caught a whiff of all of that somehow, which is annoying for some reason.
There’s something else going on here, something he can’t pinpoint.
It’s getting on his nerves.
“We were waiting outside because finding the entrance is a bitch,” Dean explains, opening the front door for them. “Blame the government, not us,” he quips dryly with lack of enthusiasm.
Dante nods and says, “But I’m sure it prevents a good amount of break-ins.”
“You have no idea,” Sam murmurs, following them all inside.
Dante has no commentary about his surroundings all the way through the war room and to the breaker. The one that normally powers the lights and electrical devices in their day to day life. Dean has only ever needed to shimmy the kitchen switch once or twice in the early days of their residence. Sam has to discreetly grab Dean’s arm so he doesn’t lead the charge to the problem. Cas takes the lead in his stead, and they stand a few feet back. Dean isn’t thrilled about it. He’s tapping his foot impatiently and thinking about all the ways the day could go wrong from here.
Not that Cas can’t handle it—well, maybe he can’t.
“This is what controls…” Cas looks at Sam and Dean helplessly as Dante takes a look at the breaker with his flashlight. “Everything. I think. Sorry, I don’t know much about…uh, this.”
“You’re booksmart in other ways, huh?” Dante smiles gently at him and slings the compliment at him with almost practiced ease, beginning to flip around the switches on the breaker which makes Dean roll his eyes. As if they haven’t done this all already. “What do you guys archive?”
Cas’ eyes go buggy, turning to the brothers, and Dean sighs.
Sheesh, it’s been a while, but he’s really bad at this.
“Medeival history, necromancy, studies of theology” Sam supplies. “Sounds eccentric but it's pretty boring. Helps grad kids who’d rather be using wikipedia punch out their dissertations.”
“I thought about minoring in history. There’s just so much of it,” Dante chuckles, frowning at their breaker. “I haven’t seen a tie breaker in a long time on one of these. It implies there’s more than one power source in your place. Uh, is there another breaker you guys know about here?”
Dean’s heart drops. He supposed avoiding it would look more suspicious.
“Yeah, but you can’t judge the basement.”
“There’s a lot of,” Sam clears his throat. “Um, artifacts.”
Dante cocks a brow and his face spreads attractively in a suggestive grin, turning to Cas.
“You guys have an unseemly sex dungeon or something?” Dante winks and Sam tries to hide a laugh behind a palm, gesturing for them all to follow him down the hall (he’s already off at a brisk pace). Dean bristles at this exchange (reminded too much of the way he used to weaponize the same grin at cops, clerks, you name it) and misses the way Castiel’s face scrunches up, confused. About to have one of his historical angel-of-the-lord moments of misunderstanding.
“It is a dungeon, but not used for sex, no. As far as I’m aware.”
Usually, that sort of comment would raise major suspicions but Dante just laughs. Like Cas is the funniest guy in the world, and y’know what, he’s pretty funny, except Dante’s really putting on a show where it’s not necessary. Dean doesn’t get it. Why he’s acting so ‘showpony’ with Castiel.
It’s disingenuous. Dean would know.
He knows the showpony routine by heart.
It used to help when he looked as spry, when he dressed a little sluttier.
“Well, don’t tempt me to change your opinion on that.” When Dante winks again, only at Cas, and swiftly passes Dean to follow Sam down the hall and towards the dungeon. It sinks in at that moment.
The guy is coming on to Cas, hard.
And, holy shit, Cas is finally noticing.
At the same time it’s sinking in for Dean.
What a mess.
There’s an honest to god blush on Cas’ cheeks as well as that small, secret smile he makes sometimes when he’s pleased about something and wants to contain himself yet can figure out how.
Dean stands there, open-mouthed, staring into space for so long, unable to figure out what to say, or if he wants to say anything, that the moment passes and Cas is long gone, following after the group. Dean follows too, dragging his feet, completely rattled and feeling uncomfortable in his own skin.
Mostly, because he’s not sure why he’s reacting like this.
Maybe it’s startling that out here, where he didn’t expect such brazen homosexuality, a man is coming onto another man he just met? Or maybe it’s because he’s never seen Cas get flirted with by a guy, and he doesn’t even know if that’s something Cas would ever want to receive or if it would matter. He thinks he knows the answer. He thinks a billion years old angel would never care about something as frivolous and new age as gender and this is definitely an option he’s considering. As readily as he’d considered sleeping with that reaper back….how long ago was that? That Cas lost his fucking virginity after thousands (fuck, millions) of years of not getting any? Not long at all, of course he’d be eager to jump back on the horse. Grace or no grace. Right? Why does that continue to stir such a strange feeling inside him, almost boiling?
Cas is a handsome guy, and Dante is objectively handsome. It makes sense.
So, what?
The guy is going to fix their problem and be gone by evening anyway. Castiel has work that needs to be done in Heaven and will leave soon enough too. It’s a non-issue, not that it was ever an issue, but it’s not. An issue. At all.
Dante strolls by the ancient architecture of their basement, rooms with ‘artifacts’ that could put them in hot water, without so much as a grimace. He’s marching onwards after his brother to the problem at hand. Dean wishes, with an almost angry envy, he could have such a selective focus.
Such blindness about what’s in front of him.
Standing further back from Dante and Cas, at a deliberate distance by Sam’s side, it doesn’t stop him from leaning as close as he can to whisper, “You think this guy might be gay, Sammy?”
Sam makes a face like he just said shooting kittens is fun and then kicks him hard in the shin. Dean has to bite his tongue not to curse out loud, ignoring the stink-eye Cas shoots him for making a ruckus back there. “The hell, man?” Sam demands under his breath. “That ain’t cool.”
“It was just an observation,” Dean croaks. “Christ.”
Another look from Cas. He rolls his eyes.
“Oh wow, this is old school,” Dante announces, too wrapped up in the breaker in their dungeon to overhear their immaturity. “It’s got all the wiring tucked into a unit behind it. I’m going to dismantle it but don’t worry, I won’t break anything.” He does as he says he will, revealing nothing but wall behind a plated steel segment of the box Dean didn’t know could be removed.
On the wall, a sigil is painted. To a layman, it may look like nothing. The rest of them have enough experience to know what a sigil is when they see one, even if they don’t recognize what type it is. Sam perks up, Cas opens his mouth, and Dean is the first to blurt out, “Don’t tou—”
Except, the protest happens simultaneously as Dante places his palm flat against the drawn symbol, and so the whole room goes as white as a star explosion. Last thing Dean thinks he can see is Cas leaping towards Dante, fingers reaching toward his temple, then Dean blacks out.
He stirs awake to the familiar scent of the living room.
Musty books and Sam’s regular wipe-downs of almond scented wood cleaner.
Sam is next to him on the couch, awake yet bleary. Like he just woke up too. With a perfunctory sweep of the room, Dean sees Castiel kneeling beside Dante who is out cold, sprawled over one of the sofa chairs by the books. Cas has a hand draped over his forehead, brows cinched together.
“Is he okay?” Dean rasps, throat sounding raw.
He ignores the odd feeling in his gut flaring up at the sight of Cas doting on this stranger, and the way Cas doesn’t even bother looking over at him when he hears Dean is awake.
“He’ll be fine. He’s not as accustomed to celestial energies as you two are, so I knocked him out before the spell did.” Cas takes the man’s hand and looks at his palm curiously. Dean frowns. Spell?
“Holy shit, guys,” Sam says. “The lights are on.”
Yeah, that would’ve been the normal thing to first notice.
Dean looks around and sure enough, the lamps are emanating a calm, gold glow. In the distance, a clock ticks rhythmically.
“Did the sigil have something to do with the power outage?” Dean questions, staring hard at a spot by the bookshelf where a broken lamp flickers as per usual. It’s soothing in its own way.
Castiel nods and drops Dante’s hand.
“I haven’t seen those symbols in a long time. They’re angelic in nature, but they haven’t been used since before Christ. I find it…abnormal they would be here, drawn on the bunker walls.”
“Well these Men of Letters knew a lot of little tricks,” says Dean.
“Was it possible this place was powered—is maybe still powered—by some supernatural force? Or celestial force,” Sam posits.
“Yes it’s possible, but that level of power is generally unseen in these times. Nothing modern humans would know of.” Castiel sighs. “What I’m trying to convey is, I’m not sure if the spells and rituals of those times interact well with the parameters of today’s…cosmic landscape.”
“I’m not quite grasping it, but I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.” Dean stands up and wobbles for a mere second before he regains balance, and a sense of rightness in his head. It feels like he got hit over the back of the head with a baseball bat yet it’s certainly not the worst spell to knock him out. “Come on, we better get young Frank Grillo out of here before he puts two and two together.” He waits a beat while Sam and Cas glower. “C’mon Cas, can’t you wake him?”
Cas hesitates.
“Yes, but I think it would be less startling for him if he were to rouse on his own.” Cas places a hand softly on their electrician’s forehead again, like he’s known the guy for years. “I can sense his dreams waning. He will be conscious soon.”
Dean twitches. “Never stopped you from waking me up.” He swallows hard, because he knows it sounds petulant. “Or Sammy,” he adds uselessly. Castiel doesn’t seem affected by his outburst.
“Give him a few minutes,” Cas suggests, firmer, whispering something in Enochian under his breath. Dante squirms gently, leaning into Cas’ touch like he trusts it. Dean scoffs abrasively.
He turns around and marches out of the room.
Fine, whatever.
The guy can wake up and Cas and Sam can serve him tea and chat about their day to day lives and the guy will catch a glimpse of the excessive salt supply in their cabinets and ask too many questions and they’ll be risking their cover to a flighty local who likely drinks beer for breakfast.
Not that Dean doesn’t, but still.
Fresh air is what he needs.
Stomping off towards the war room, he roils around inside his own head to the point that he doesn’t notice right away that when he swings open the bunker’s front door, he isn’t greeted with the usual path up to the surface. He’s greeted with…the bunker. A vertigo inducing view of the war room, its familiar glow and the strategy table beneath the stairs. He steps outside again and right back into the bunker. It takes Dean a disorienting minute, clutching the railing that connects with the stairs to even realize something is wrong. He swallows hard and opens the door again.
He exits and ends up right back in the same spot.
“Oh fuck me,” Dean mutters, rushing down the stairs noisily and off to the other, more hidden exit of the bunker. It’s the same situation. He exits the place only to enter in the same instant, right back where he started. This is the opposite of good. This is royally fucked with a capital F.
He rushes back to the living room, stunned to find Dante awake, and still holding Cas’ hand. Cas has remained on his knees next to the sofa chair, eyeing the guy like a dutiful watchdog. It makes Dean forget for a second what he came in here to say, and now he doesn’t even know what to say.
“Sam, we need to talk.”
“Uh, De—David, we were just offering Dante a ride home.” Sam inclines his head, sensing that Dean is rattled because of something, and trying to implore him without words to get it together. The thing is, if none of them can leave, Dante can’t fucking go anywhere. And this is all moot.
I was David fucking Swallows for nothing.
“That’s the thing. I needed to talk with you about, uh. The cars. Are broken.” Good one, Winchester. He hates himself. Closing his eyes, he helplessly adds, “All of them. I think.”
Sam gapes at him.
Castiel squints, and deadpan repeats what he just said, “All of the cars are broken.”
“Yep.”
“They were fine this morning.”
Not helping, Cas.
“Sam. I need to talk with you. Right now.” Dean inches towards the hallway, desperation lining every movement he’s making. So much so, Sam concedes damn near instantly and smiles awkwardly at the group in parting. Castiel finally stands to follow and Dean waves him away.
“No, uh, continue whatever it is you’re doing.” Cas stares, baffled, and Dean can’t find it within himself to care. “Sorry ‘bout this whole thing Dante, ‘m sure Cas can get you water or something.”
“It’s the casualties of this line of work, it’s no problem ” Dante replies with a hearty chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t say I remember ever getting fried this bad though.”
Dean nods with a shrill laugh, tugging Sam firmly into the hall.
They shut the door and Dean rambles out, “We’re stuck inside the bunker, there’s no way out.”
“Wait, slow down. What do you mean there’s no way out?”
“What the hell do you think I mean, Sammy?”
“You tried all the exits?”
“Yes of course! I take one step out then it’s like I’m stepping right back into the bunker. I have no fucking clue what the sigil he touched was, but it trapped us here!” Dean exclaims.
“Cas would’ve mentioned it if it were some…trapping spell, right?”
“Maybe he didn’t know,” Dean argues. “I mean, he said it’s super old, yeah? Hasn’t seen it in centuries.”
Sam considers this.
“I’m gonna have to hit the books, see what I can scrounge up.”
Dean gulps.
“So, we’re just stuck trying to stall this guy and keep him here until we solve this problem?”
Sam levels him with an impatient look.
“Or we can tell him the truth, Dean. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have a friend nearby, someone who could help with the electricity if we have another issue. I doubt we’re going to get out of this one without telling him the truth. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Let this guy in on all the secrets of angels and demons and the whole kit and kaboodle? No fucking way. That would—it would open the door for the guy to just come back. Be in their lives.
“Friend?” Perhaps Dean laid on the disdain in that word a bit too heavy. “We just met the guy.”
“Yeah, I mean. He seems nice enough.”
Why is Sam being so chill about this?
“We’re not going to be friends with him,” Dean barks. There are no friends in this line of business (until there are, but that’s besides the point). “And we’re not going to blow our cover.”
Sam crosses his arms.
“You’re not usually this intense about this stuff. Not anymore. Is there something going on?”
Dean sputters.
“The guy looks like an idiot, I just—”
“We barely know him. He seems competent enough.”
“Yeah, competent at dick sucking maybe.” Dean winces at his own comment, because holy shit where the hell did that come from. He vividly imagines Charlie ripping him a new one and closes his eyes, ashamed. He doesn’t need to take it back because Sam’s brows are shooting towards is hairline and he’s uttering,
“Whoa.”
“That wasn’t cool. I get it. Whatever. Y’know. Whatever floats his boat. Is fine. Obviously.”
“That’s—this is off topic in a way I can’t even properly emphasize right now,” Sam points out, shaking his head like he’s a dog trying to dry itself off. He drops his own side of the argument for now. “I’m going to hit the books, can you get them away from the library for the time being?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Dean opens the door only to find Cas and Dante—missing.
There’s more than one way to enter the living room, the other door leading towards the war room. He turns to Sam who seems to have the same idea and looks exhausted by the prospect.
They run off after the two of them and it’s too late.
Dante’s got one hand on the front door, and one clasping Castiel’s shoulder—something startlingly beyond comradery—as he turns. Dean opens his mouth to shout something, and then—
The door opens; Dante exits only to reenter.
He stumbles, caught off guard by the railing in front of him. Cas catches him, of course, fingers stapling over his biceps. Dean’s tongue swells and he can’t seem to utter any single thing after all.
It’s too late.
“Uh. I guess it’s about time we explain to you what’s going on,” Sam calls up to them with an apologetic smile. Dante is wide-eyed, gaze bouncing back and forth between all three of them.
Dean wants to crawl in a hole and die. Instead, he sits down at the strategy table, gazing at the glowing map in front of him. His eyes fix themselves around Boise Idaho, thereabouts.
“What is this place really?” Dante murmurs, barely audible from down here.
There are metallic noises, footsteps.
They’re both descending to meet Sam on ground level.
“A sanctuary, for hunters,” Castiel informs him bluntly, a sheepish levity to his voice. He’s always hated lying. This must be a relief. “Of monsters and creatures of celestial power.”
“Cas, can you fly out of here?” Sam questions. “Before I look into all this?”
Dante is nodding when he comes into Dean’s view, staring into the middle distance. He’s wrapping his head around all of this. Next to him, Cas closes his eyes. It takes a few seconds of concentration.
He can’t. His wings, for lack of a better phrase, are clipped.
“Nope. He’s gone Happy Feet again,” Dean mumbles, not needing him to explain.
“What exactly…are you doing? Are you…are you not human?” Dante asks, gentle like he’s coaxing a confession out of him. Like he doesn’t mind if Cas is. Dean frowns at that, ruminating.
Cas tilts his head, and answers, “I’m an angel of the lord.”
Dante chokes on air.
“Oh is that all,” he cracks deliriously, though he doesn’t seem to be pulling back from Cas who looks like he wants to touch him again. What the fuck. They’re both being so obvious. Dante even smirks. He seems to remember himself and turns to Sam and Dean. “Are you also angels?”
“God no,” Dean manages, telling himself internally to calm down before he gets nasty. “Just Cas, here. And he’s kind of a rebel of Heaven so don’t dwell too hard on the ‘of the lord’ crap.”
“Makes sense,” Dante says, turning to Cas. “Do they all come this gorgeous?”
Cas ducks his head, stumbling over his words.
It’s rare to truly fluster Cas like that.
The guy gets pussy once and he becomes the village bicycle. Dean’s eyes widen at his own impulse thought, white knuckling the edge of the table to make sure these stay just thoughts.
Cas nibbles at his lip and eventually says,
“Um, I guess, uh, depends on your preferences.”
Dante flashes that smoldering grin again. Cas bites his lip harder.
Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling because they don’t have time for this grade school flirting, regardless of his thoughts on the matter.
“Listen, we obviously set off some spell that’s keeping us trapped here,” Dean announces to the room grumpily. “So we need to get on this right now, and figure out how the hell to reverse it.”
“I really thought I’d touched an open wire,” Dante admits, rubbing the back of his neck again. “So we’re really…trapped here?”
“Yeah, dipshit. You been paying attention?” Dean snaps, only just holding back the or are you too busy trying to get your dick wet?
He feels Sam tense up next to him.
Oddly, Cas almost instantly chastises him.
“Dean.”
“What? Looks like it’s this joker’s fault we’re stuck in some spacial mind-fuck for the next hell-knows-how-long. I’m not allowed to be pissed off?” Dean kicks a chair and makes a hasty decision to march down the hall to find the axe they used to store in the dungeon’s rack of weapons. He ignores the quick apology Dante tries to toss into the room before he does so.
He doesn’t need to hear his apology.
He shouldn’t have to be living with this stranger for the foreseeable future.
He wants out.
Dante is trying hard to keep his cool, and it’s commendable, really. If Dean were in a better mood, maybe he’d even try to toss a consoling word his way but he doesn’t have time for that.
And Sam is obviously wracking his own memory bank for any potential solution.
When he comes back, Cas and Dante are closer to each other. Dante is whispering questions to him and Castiel is responding gently, being the consoling force Dante needs someone to be.
That pisses Dean off even more.
“You could not have known, but you may have touched a symbol that put us in a hermetically sealed field perimetering this underground bunker,” Castiel explains. “Likely left by a collective of retired monster hunters called the Men of Letters, though any reason why they would leave a spell to trap someone within these walls is escaping me. Perhaps it’s a failsafe of some sort.”
“Maybe I’m losing it, or maybe I fried my whole system back there and I’m dead, but you’re saying…whatever I touched back there is related to witchcraft or supernatural…something.”
“Or something,” Dean grunts, wielding an axe. “Obviously.”
Dante ducks out of the way, stepping closer to Cas.
It takes a few seconds to haul the thing up the stairs.
Dean slams the axe into the front door, rears it back and aims again only to find—the door has miraculously repaired itself. “Damn it,” he shouts, tossing the axe into it again to let off steam.
The door repairs itself the second he blinks.
“Oh my God.” Dante’s voice is small, full of wonder as everything finally, fucking finally, seems to cement itself into his reality. “I’d heard rumors.”
Sam looks up at that.
“Rumors?”
“My family’s owned our company for years. Used to help some interesting characters back in the day. The stories were passed down a few generations, and I didn’t think it was more than an urban legend, but every Cielo knows about the family that lived around here, who practiced magic.”
“We don’t so much practice magic as fight it,” Sam offers with a wince. Dean gives him a look and he argues, “What? This guy is going to be stuck with us, he might as well know all the details. He might be able to help too.” Dean highly doubts that, ignoring how Sam turns back to Dante with a hopeful smile. “We’re monster hunters. That’s not David, that’s Dean. I’m Sam.”
“Yeah, nobody is fucking named David Swallows,” Dean grunts.
Dante laughs at that, “Yeah I had to try real hard not to laugh at that one over the phone.”
“Should’ve raised your suspicions.” Dean isn’t sure if that comes off as judgemental as it feels coming out of his mouth, though it doesn’t matter. Dante has moved on, of course, to his object of affection.
“Tell me your pretty name is at least real,” Dante says to Cas with an abnormal amount of flirtation for a guy that’s just been faced with multiple impossibilities. Cas blinks at him twice.
“Yes. It’s real.”
“He has wings” Dean explains, dropping his axe to the floor. It lands with a startling clatter. “Normally, he’d be able to take off, teleport to timbuktu, but this force seems to go beyond just being an invisible lockbox.”
“I still…have access to the rest of my grace,” Cas explains. “I don’t understand it. It’s as if something is willing me not to fly outside specified bounds, though I know I’m capable.”
“So you can fly indoors?” Sam questions.
Castiel disappears for a blip of a second, making Dante jump.
Then, he appears and nods.
“Yes, so it seems.”
“You’re taking this well,” Dean points out. “That’s a little weird, man.”
“Well, I’ve always believed in God.” Dante laughs humorlessly. “The rest of it, well, I guess I should’ve expected there’d be more than Heaven if there was a Heaven at all.”
“God is a dick.” Dean grabs a beer from the mini fridge they keep in the war room. He tosses one at Dante too, and the guy at least offers a grateful smile. “Welcome to reality.”
“Well, that sucks.” Dante shrugs, taking that momentous news strangely well too. “I’d be happy to help. As much as I can. But I don’t have many talents.”
“Hey, listen, if you can read books, that’s all the help I need. We kind of are sort of an archive, got hundreds of books I need to sort through to figure this one out,” Sam offers, appeasing Dante.
“So you recognized the symbol,” Dean says pointedly to Cas. “But you didn’t realize it was a trap-symbol?”
“They might’ve added details to it, to enhance it. The Men of Letters might not have known what kind of power they’d rigged the bunker with. I doubt they would’ve trapped themselves purposefully,” Castiel supplies, rubbing his chin in thought. “Hopefully I can get a good look at it again, if the seal isn’t destroyed.”
“Or maybe it’s some kind of protection spell?” Sam suggests. “Maybe no one can get in.”
“Can we contact anyone?” Dante pokes around for his flip phone. “Should I try?”
“Fine, just don’t mention the specifics,” Dean grumbles.
“My lips are sealed.”
None of the numbers on Dante’s phone ring through.
As if they’re all dead lines.
Castiel attempts to pray to the brothers and sisters he trusts as Sam and Dean scroll through their own phones. All of it is a bust, of course, although it disheartens Dean to a further extent.
He feels like a caged animal right now.
“Do you all live here, then?” Dante questions. “Like, is there…food?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Don’t worry. We have enough food to last years. And beds galore. We can totally set you up with one of the empty rooms.”
A startled laugh escapes their electrician.
“Well, I hope it doesn’t take that long.”
“We’re in this together,” Castiel informs him, a reassuring hand finding its way to his shoulder. Dean tries not to think about how fast he turns his head from the sight. “You are not alone.”
“Where’s your room at?” Dante asks with a flirty lilt, and a curve of his lips.
Dean’s chest constricts and Sam tenses up again.
“Erm.” Cas stands there for an embarrassing second. “I don’t sleep.”
“Oh,” Dante voices, almost disappointed. “Ever?”
“Sometimes. I like to, I just don’t need to, but I did when I was human. I was human a few weeks back.”
Dante blinks a few times, trying to wrap his head around this.
“And you weren’t staying here?”
Dean’s gaze flits over to Cas who is glancing over at him in the same instance, instinctively. Their nervous energies seem to intermingle and short each other out. It grows increasingly awkward as the silence drones on; any answer would be bad.
“There were, um, reasons,” Sam offers unhelpfully. “He could—can—now, obviously. Right, Dean?”
Dean doesn’t speak, only because he feels humiliation like fire on his skin.
Cas seems to take it as rejection.
“It’s alright, Dean—”
“Of course, yes,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “Cas, obviously, yes.”
Cas doesn’t look convinced, and Dante is giving him a weird look.
He has no place to fucking judge him.
“To be clear,” Cas says cautiously, and when did Dean ever give him this complex of needing to act cautious around him? “You are allowing me to take a room?”
“The hell are you wording it like that for?” Dean blurts out.
I’m your best friend.
“I don’t want to presume.”
“I told you what’s mine is yours, what is there to misunderstand about that?” Dean remarks, storming off to the opposite corner of the room. The one time he communicates and Cas opens his mouth and makes him sound like the worst person alive. Vaguely he hears Sam tell them he can show them where they can post up for the night before they hit the books, and then, there’s quiet. Not so much as a goodbye from anyone. He understands. He’s acting like a child.
Defending himself has never felt so embarrassing.
Just existing and trying to go about the day is a struggle.
Eventually just Sam returns, and he rubs a knot of tension from Dean’s shoulder.
“Hey man,” he murmurs. “You wanna help with the research today or you wanna hang back for a bit? We can handle it without you for a while. I know you’re on edge today for some reason.”
“It’s my fault, Sammy. I don’t know what’s going on with me.”
There’s a few beats of silence.
Maybe Sam knows.
He doesn’t say anything.
“I love yah, Dean.”
Dean reaches back and pats Sam’s hand on his shoulder, hard and assuring.
“I know, bitch.”
Sam snorts, and waltzes off.
Dean is alone again.