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spn_springflingTitle: Conservative Neighborhood
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not sure, but I think there's an angel in the garden. It has wings."
"Right. Except there is no such things as angels. It's probably an overgrown pigeon. You drunk?"
"A pigeon in a trench coat?"
"Look at it the other way around, Sammy: an angel in a trench coat? I don't think so. You've probably breathed in some of those dusty mummy-shit you're playing with."
Sam snorts. "I'll have you know that the item you are referring to is a recent copy of fragments believed to be early Christian papyri. Got them from Bobby Singer at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature. They are said to—" Sam frowns. "I read the text aloud. It might have been... wait... yeah." Sam drifts off for a few seconds, going over the translation in his head. The papyrus he'd been reading might or might not have been a prayer of some kind.
"So? You think the angel-pigeon is waiting for you to read a good-night-story to it?" Dean teases, clearly not prone to believe Sam at all.
Sam looks out the window again. There is still a winged guy in a trench coat lying on the lawn. If it's a pigeon, it is an immensely overgrown and badly dressed pigeon. Sam feels a little worried. It's not very common to have angels lying in the front garden. The neighbors are going to complain. It's a conservative neighborhood.
"The text was in Enochian, said to be the language of angels. I think I accidentally summoned it," he tells Dean.
"You accidentally summoned a creature that doesn't exist? Well done." Dean grins and walks over to the window. He looks out at the lawn. "It's not a pigeon." His grin fades. "What do we do with it?"
"We could call the police. Or an ambulance. Maybe it's been hurt?" Angels mean trouble, clearly. Their next-door neighbor, Mrs Hanson, is probably not taking free-roaming angels lying down. She complained for months when the Uptons down the street bought a puppy.
"Yeah, let's do that. Not that they'd think we're crazy or anything."
Sam looks at the lawn again. The angel is gone. "Maybe we had a shared hallucination?"
Dean nods and leans in to kiss Sam on the mouth. "Gas leak?"
There's a knock on the door.
"Or not."
They look at each other. Sam wonders what people usually do when they are visited by angels. Hopefully, the angel isn't here to do what angels did last time angels visited Earth, because then this angel sure is barking up the wrong tree. Sam's middle name is not Mary.
Dean nods. "Let me." He shakes his head as if he still doesn't believe what's happening, not surprisingly. It's not something you hear every day, that a celestial body knocks on your door.
*
The angel turns out to be alive and very, very grumpy.
"Sam, Dean." The creature strides into their house, tie loose trench coat flapping around him, almost more disturbing than the huge black wings that barely fit in their small hall. "I need your help," the angel announces, turning around so fast that a vase, a wall lamp and the tall pile of various books that lives on the stairs to the upper floor all meet an early demise. It does confirm, however, that the angel is an angel; the broken stuff is restored with no visible effort from the winged man.
"Okay," Dean says, unflappable. "Why? How do you know our names?" Leave it to Dean to interview the angel as if it is one of his repair shop customers: Does the motor run properly? How does the carburetor sound? Problems with the gearbox?
"I'm an angel. I know everything."
Sam sends Dean that look that means 'I told you so.' "A real—"
"I'm not done, Sam." The angel stares at him. It's disconcerting.
"Sorry." Not entirely familiar with the ins and outs of polite conversations with angels, Sam decides to shut up.
"I know everything except how to get back into Heaven."
"Oh." Sam again.
"So you want us to help shove you back in?" Dean asks, not caring about the angel's potentially sensitive personal situation. "Did they lock you out, or what?"
"I cannot go back." The angel looks even more dour and grumpy now. "I have to stay here. I wish to seek asylum."
"What do you mean, you have to stay here? You can't just burst into people's ho—" Dean shuts his mouth so hard his teeth rattle. "You're really an angel?"
The angel looks very tired. "Yes. An angel of the Lord. Formerly of the Lord, to be precise."
"I'll make up the guest bedroom," Sam says. "You'll have to sleep with your wings out. It's a queen."
"I don't sleep," the angel informs him. "I appreciate the sentiment. I like resting quietly, however. Thank you, Sam."
Sam leaves the angel to Dean and goes to find a comforter and some clean linen. He supposes that angels are used to fluffy clouds and divine springs. He makes sure that their angel gets the best of their pillows. Somehow it's also safer and less disturbing to stick to menial tasks. That way he doesn't have to think too hard about how he summoned an angel out of the blue. Or wherever it came from. The implications are just too vast, too big. They could let the Vatican take over. Although the discussion about whether God exists has been cut short by the appearance of one of his angels.
*
Their angel's name is Castiel. He informs them about that particular fact between tasting Dean's beer and Sam's organic salad. Castiel likes salad. Dean has taken the party to the kitchen. The kitchen island is filled with various dishes, all of which Dean has pulled from the fridge.
"I shall need nourishment," Castiel says and pokes at the end of a bottle of mayo. It spurts a spiral of mayonnaise onto the table. Some of it lands on top a bowl of strawberries.
"Don't eat that," Sam says and reaches for Castiel's hand. Castiel pulls it away as if it has been burned.
"Sorry." Again, Sam regrets that no one has cared making courses on how to socialize with angels, not that there is anyone who can be blamed for that, seeing that angels don't exist. Apart from Castiel, obviously. "Mayo and strawberries don't taste that good. Try whipped cream. With the strawberries."
Castiel tries the strawberries — with cream and without, and with mayo, despite all advice against it. He drinks some of Dean's beer to get rid of the taste. He murmurs something about molecules.
Dean presses on, showing Castiel how to ruin his palate with burgers and fries. Sam retreats to his study, getting his phone and the folder where he stores the copies of the papyri he's been translating. He pulls out the most recent page. He still feels somewhat numb, as if the events are too overwhelming to comprehend in one go. So, they have an angel in their house; an angel who doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and somehow Sam simply accepts it. It's a bit like they've known Castiel forever. It simply feels as if their small house is Castiel's too. Home.
Staring at the papyrus, phone in one hand, Sam punches Bobby Singer's number. Singer is a legend, one of the best research librarians there is, and a genius translator too. If anyone can help him with the interpretation, it's Bobby. Hell, Bobby probably translated the text already, done writing the article about it, and has accepted to lecture on it in ten different places.
Winchester?" Bobby's on the line.
"Bobby, what can you tell me about the Tel Kabri papyrus?"
"Excuse me?"
"The Tell al-Qahweh document. It's marked 3178435—TaQ"
"I don't have anything like that, boy. Where did you get it?"
"You gave it to me at the conference at the Society of Biblic—"
"No I didn't. What does it say?"
"It's some kind of prayer, I believe."
"Well, that's nice. You believe. What. Does. It. Say. Boy?"
"Erm... " Sam stares at the papyrus, slightly confused. "Zacar od zamran; Odo cicle qaa; zorge, lap zirdo noco mad, that is come and show... and reveal your, erm, creation, I guess. Hoath Iaida. Vaumd El. No, wait. Oh." Sam stares at the last word. "The last one is not Vaum El. It's Casti El."
Fuck. He really did summon an angel.
"Your translation sucks," Bobby growls. "It's Move and Show yourself; Open the mysteries of your creation; be friendly unto me, for I am the servant of the same God as you, the true worshiper of the highest. Casti El — that's it?"
"Yeah. Telocvovim Casti El, arphe teloah, Casti El, telocvovim! Izizop caosgi!"
"I guarantee you I have seen nothing like it. More?"
"Yeah. I think it is Castiel, descend from death. Fall and become of the... Caosgi? That's Earth-something?"
"Casti El the fallen. From the highest being, become of the Earth. Seems to me like it is a ritual to call this Casti El guy to Earth. You're sure it was in the folder I gave you? I mean, we have seen demon summons, spirit summons, summon summons. But an angel summon? It'd not have been -El if it hadn't been an angel. Don't think it's a prayer; it's a binding spell. This is groundbreaking."
Yeah. It is. Not as groundbreaking as having said summoned and resurrected angel eating burgers and drinking beer at the kitchen table with Dean. And according to Bobby, being bound to it. Earth, not the kitchen table.
"It was in the folder, that's all I know."
Bobby says goodbye, and Sam sits for a while wondering what to do. He gets up and walks into the kitchen. Castiel and Dean have moved onto Ben & Jerry's. Ben & Jerry's and a thorough examination of Castiel's wings. Castiel is holding on to a tub of Boston Cream Pie while Dean is looking under the hood, so to speak. Castiel doesn't look as if he minds. At all.
"It was a binding spell, Bobby said," Sam says. Both Dean and Castiel stare at him as if they are caught doing something they shouldn't be doing.
"What does that mean, exactly?" Dean asks, looking from Castiel to Sam and back. "Do we have to give him back?"
"I'm right here, Dean," Castiel growls, his voice deep and rough and dark.
Dean squirms a little at Castiel's sudden turn from docile and grumpy to assertive. "You sure you'd like to stay with us?"
Sam is sort of in favor of keeping Castiel. He feels strangely possessive, but he has to ask. "If you wanna get back into Heaven—"
"No." Castiel clearly knows what he wants.
"It's my fault. I was the one who read the summon aloud. I didn't know what it could do." Sam feels guilty, even though he didn't mean to summon anyone, least of all a celestial being.
"I will always be an angel, but you bound me to Earth. My powers will fade. Not entirely, but they will fade." A smile flickers across Castiel's face. His eyes sparkle as if he knows something Sam doesn't. Which he obviously does, what with the angel-powers and all.
"So you're sure you're not going back upstairs?" Dean asks again, for good measure.
"That would defy the entire plan. I didn't make those papy—" Castiel shuts his mouth. His wings jitter as if he is suddenly distressed. "I—"
Sam gasps, and a Dean makes a choking sound. "You did what?"
"You faked the prayer-thing that Sam..." Dean's mouth hangs open for a second. "You sly dog! You wanted this? Us? Why?" Dean is staring at Castiel who is staring back, both of them too close, too caught up in each other. Sam is suddenly, inexplicably, envious that Castiel's intense attention is directed at Dean.
Angels are able to blush. Sam finds it adorable.
"I saw your souls," Castiel finally says, turning to Sam. "Heaven is very... rigid and we are soldiers, destined to obey. I was tempted by the brightness and the purity of your souls. I have watched you for a long time. There is nothing in Heaven that can compare." Castiel suddenly looks very formal. "Sam, Dean, I want to enter into a bond with you."
Dean laughs but doesn't step away from Castiel. Maybe he feels like Sam does, that Castiel belongs here, with them. "It almost sounds as if you're in love with us," he says teasingly, staring from Sam to Castiel when he realizes what he just said. Maybe his ability to think is severely damaged every time he looks into Castiel's eyes.
Castiel says nothing. He sends Sam a look, and Sam laughs. Yeah, it's love all right.
"With Sam too, right? You actually fell for us? Like, really fell?"
"I flew." Castiel says. "If I had fallen, I would have been crushed."
"Falling. It's a human way of saying that you are interested... romantically." Sam wonders how an angel can know everything and still be slightly clueless. It's endearing.
"Oh. Yes. I fell for you," Castiel agrees, almost proudly. "They killed me for trying to get to Earth. Sam called me back from the void." Castiel's hand has found its way into Sam's. It's warm and strong and Sam thinks he feels strangely whole, as if Castiel has been needed for Dean and he to be complete.
"Didn't work too well for them, did it?" Dean growls. "They better not try again. You're our angel now. Right, Sam? We want him to stay?"
Sam nods. Castiel is their angel.
*
It has been an eventful day, Sam thinks when they go to bed. There is an angel in their bedroom. It is not very common to have angels in one's bedroom. There is no talk about the guest bedroom at all. How it's going to work out, Sam doesn't know, but he's looking forward to find out. It's not very common to have a relationship with an angel, either. Or with one's brother, for that matter.
Sam doesn't think it's going to be a problem, though. They can hide. Two brothers and their friend living together don't raise that many eyebrows. They can still hide; they have done so for years. When they fall in love with Castiel — because somehow Sam knows they will — things aren't going to change much. They'll still pretend, and people will pretend they don't notice that they are more than brothers.
It's worse with the wings, Castiel's wings. They have to find a explanation to those, or people are going to complain.
It is a conservative neighborhood after all.
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Cas/Dean
Rating: PG
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm not sure, but I think there's an angel in the garden. It has wings."
"Right. Except there is no such things as angels. It's probably an overgrown pigeon. You drunk?"
"A pigeon in a trench coat?"
"Look at it the other way around, Sammy: an angel in a trench coat? I don't think so. You've probably breathed in some of those dusty mummy-shit you're playing with."
Sam snorts. "I'll have you know that the item you are referring to is a recent copy of fragments believed to be early Christian papyri. Got them from Bobby Singer at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature. They are said to—" Sam frowns. "I read the text aloud. It might have been... wait... yeah." Sam drifts off for a few seconds, going over the translation in his head. The papyrus he'd been reading might or might not have been a prayer of some kind.
"So? You think the angel-pigeon is waiting for you to read a good-night-story to it?" Dean teases, clearly not prone to believe Sam at all.
Sam looks out the window again. There is still a winged guy in a trench coat lying on the lawn. If it's a pigeon, it is an immensely overgrown and badly dressed pigeon. Sam feels a little worried. It's not very common to have angels lying in the front garden. The neighbors are going to complain. It's a conservative neighborhood.
"The text was in Enochian, said to be the language of angels. I think I accidentally summoned it," he tells Dean.
"You accidentally summoned a creature that doesn't exist? Well done." Dean grins and walks over to the window. He looks out at the lawn. "It's not a pigeon." His grin fades. "What do we do with it?"
"We could call the police. Or an ambulance. Maybe it's been hurt?" Angels mean trouble, clearly. Their next-door neighbor, Mrs Hanson, is probably not taking free-roaming angels lying down. She complained for months when the Uptons down the street bought a puppy.
"Yeah, let's do that. Not that they'd think we're crazy or anything."
Sam looks at the lawn again. The angel is gone. "Maybe we had a shared hallucination?"
Dean nods and leans in to kiss Sam on the mouth. "Gas leak?"
There's a knock on the door.
"Or not."
They look at each other. Sam wonders what people usually do when they are visited by angels. Hopefully, the angel isn't here to do what angels did last time angels visited Earth, because then this angel sure is barking up the wrong tree. Sam's middle name is not Mary.
Dean nods. "Let me." He shakes his head as if he still doesn't believe what's happening, not surprisingly. It's not something you hear every day, that a celestial body knocks on your door.
The angel turns out to be alive and very, very grumpy.
"Sam, Dean." The creature strides into their house, tie loose trench coat flapping around him, almost more disturbing than the huge black wings that barely fit in their small hall. "I need your help," the angel announces, turning around so fast that a vase, a wall lamp and the tall pile of various books that lives on the stairs to the upper floor all meet an early demise. It does confirm, however, that the angel is an angel; the broken stuff is restored with no visible effort from the winged man.
"Okay," Dean says, unflappable. "Why? How do you know our names?" Leave it to Dean to interview the angel as if it is one of his repair shop customers: Does the motor run properly? How does the carburetor sound? Problems with the gearbox?
"I'm an angel. I know everything."
Sam sends Dean that look that means 'I told you so.' "A real—"
"I'm not done, Sam." The angel stares at him. It's disconcerting.
"Sorry." Not entirely familiar with the ins and outs of polite conversations with angels, Sam decides to shut up.
"I know everything except how to get back into Heaven."
"Oh." Sam again.
"So you want us to help shove you back in?" Dean asks, not caring about the angel's potentially sensitive personal situation. "Did they lock you out, or what?"
"I cannot go back." The angel looks even more dour and grumpy now. "I have to stay here. I wish to seek asylum."
"What do you mean, you have to stay here? You can't just burst into people's ho—" Dean shuts his mouth so hard his teeth rattle. "You're really an angel?"
The angel looks very tired. "Yes. An angel of the Lord. Formerly of the Lord, to be precise."
"I'll make up the guest bedroom," Sam says. "You'll have to sleep with your wings out. It's a queen."
"I don't sleep," the angel informs him. "I appreciate the sentiment. I like resting quietly, however. Thank you, Sam."
Sam leaves the angel to Dean and goes to find a comforter and some clean linen. He supposes that angels are used to fluffy clouds and divine springs. He makes sure that their angel gets the best of their pillows. Somehow it's also safer and less disturbing to stick to menial tasks. That way he doesn't have to think too hard about how he summoned an angel out of the blue. Or wherever it came from. The implications are just too vast, too big. They could let the Vatican take over. Although the discussion about whether God exists has been cut short by the appearance of one of his angels.
Their angel's name is Castiel. He informs them about that particular fact between tasting Dean's beer and Sam's organic salad. Castiel likes salad. Dean has taken the party to the kitchen. The kitchen island is filled with various dishes, all of which Dean has pulled from the fridge.
"I shall need nourishment," Castiel says and pokes at the end of a bottle of mayo. It spurts a spiral of mayonnaise onto the table. Some of it lands on top a bowl of strawberries.
"Don't eat that," Sam says and reaches for Castiel's hand. Castiel pulls it away as if it has been burned.
"Sorry." Again, Sam regrets that no one has cared making courses on how to socialize with angels, not that there is anyone who can be blamed for that, seeing that angels don't exist. Apart from Castiel, obviously. "Mayo and strawberries don't taste that good. Try whipped cream. With the strawberries."
Castiel tries the strawberries — with cream and without, and with mayo, despite all advice against it. He drinks some of Dean's beer to get rid of the taste. He murmurs something about molecules.
Dean presses on, showing Castiel how to ruin his palate with burgers and fries. Sam retreats to his study, getting his phone and the folder where he stores the copies of the papyri he's been translating. He pulls out the most recent page. He still feels somewhat numb, as if the events are too overwhelming to comprehend in one go. So, they have an angel in their house; an angel who doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and somehow Sam simply accepts it. It's a bit like they've known Castiel forever. It simply feels as if their small house is Castiel's too. Home.
Staring at the papyrus, phone in one hand, Sam punches Bobby Singer's number. Singer is a legend, one of the best research librarians there is, and a genius translator too. If anyone can help him with the interpretation, it's Bobby. Hell, Bobby probably translated the text already, done writing the article about it, and has accepted to lecture on it in ten different places.
Winchester?" Bobby's on the line.
"Bobby, what can you tell me about the Tel Kabri papyrus?"
"Excuse me?"
"The Tell al-Qahweh document. It's marked 3178435—TaQ"
"I don't have anything like that, boy. Where did you get it?"
"You gave it to me at the conference at the Society of Biblic—"
"No I didn't. What does it say?"
"It's some kind of prayer, I believe."
"Well, that's nice. You believe. What. Does. It. Say. Boy?"
"Erm... " Sam stares at the papyrus, slightly confused. "Zacar od zamran; Odo cicle qaa; zorge, lap zirdo noco mad, that is come and show... and reveal your, erm, creation, I guess. Hoath Iaida. Vaumd El. No, wait. Oh." Sam stares at the last word. "The last one is not Vaum El. It's Casti El."
Fuck. He really did summon an angel.
"Your translation sucks," Bobby growls. "It's Move and Show yourself; Open the mysteries of your creation; be friendly unto me, for I am the servant of the same God as you, the true worshiper of the highest. Casti El — that's it?"
"Yeah. Telocvovim Casti El, arphe teloah, Casti El, telocvovim! Izizop caosgi!"
"I guarantee you I have seen nothing like it. More?"
"Yeah. I think it is Castiel, descend from death. Fall and become of the... Caosgi? That's Earth-something?"
"Casti El the fallen. From the highest being, become of the Earth. Seems to me like it is a ritual to call this Casti El guy to Earth. You're sure it was in the folder I gave you? I mean, we have seen demon summons, spirit summons, summon summons. But an angel summon? It'd not have been -El if it hadn't been an angel. Don't think it's a prayer; it's a binding spell. This is groundbreaking."
Yeah. It is. Not as groundbreaking as having said summoned and resurrected angel eating burgers and drinking beer at the kitchen table with Dean. And according to Bobby, being bound to it. Earth, not the kitchen table.
"It was in the folder, that's all I know."
Bobby says goodbye, and Sam sits for a while wondering what to do. He gets up and walks into the kitchen. Castiel and Dean have moved onto Ben & Jerry's. Ben & Jerry's and a thorough examination of Castiel's wings. Castiel is holding on to a tub of Boston Cream Pie while Dean is looking under the hood, so to speak. Castiel doesn't look as if he minds. At all.
"It was a binding spell, Bobby said," Sam says. Both Dean and Castiel stare at him as if they are caught doing something they shouldn't be doing.
"What does that mean, exactly?" Dean asks, looking from Castiel to Sam and back. "Do we have to give him back?"
"I'm right here, Dean," Castiel growls, his voice deep and rough and dark.
Dean squirms a little at Castiel's sudden turn from docile and grumpy to assertive. "You sure you'd like to stay with us?"
Sam is sort of in favor of keeping Castiel. He feels strangely possessive, but he has to ask. "If you wanna get back into Heaven—"
"No." Castiel clearly knows what he wants.
"It's my fault. I was the one who read the summon aloud. I didn't know what it could do." Sam feels guilty, even though he didn't mean to summon anyone, least of all a celestial being.
"I will always be an angel, but you bound me to Earth. My powers will fade. Not entirely, but they will fade." A smile flickers across Castiel's face. His eyes sparkle as if he knows something Sam doesn't. Which he obviously does, what with the angel-powers and all.
"So you're sure you're not going back upstairs?" Dean asks again, for good measure.
"That would defy the entire plan. I didn't make those papy—" Castiel shuts his mouth. His wings jitter as if he is suddenly distressed. "I—"
Sam gasps, and a Dean makes a choking sound. "You did what?"
"You faked the prayer-thing that Sam..." Dean's mouth hangs open for a second. "You sly dog! You wanted this? Us? Why?" Dean is staring at Castiel who is staring back, both of them too close, too caught up in each other. Sam is suddenly, inexplicably, envious that Castiel's intense attention is directed at Dean.
Angels are able to blush. Sam finds it adorable.
"I saw your souls," Castiel finally says, turning to Sam. "Heaven is very... rigid and we are soldiers, destined to obey. I was tempted by the brightness and the purity of your souls. I have watched you for a long time. There is nothing in Heaven that can compare." Castiel suddenly looks very formal. "Sam, Dean, I want to enter into a bond with you."
Dean laughs but doesn't step away from Castiel. Maybe he feels like Sam does, that Castiel belongs here, with them. "It almost sounds as if you're in love with us," he says teasingly, staring from Sam to Castiel when he realizes what he just said. Maybe his ability to think is severely damaged every time he looks into Castiel's eyes.
Castiel says nothing. He sends Sam a look, and Sam laughs. Yeah, it's love all right.
"With Sam too, right? You actually fell for us? Like, really fell?"
"I flew." Castiel says. "If I had fallen, I would have been crushed."
"Falling. It's a human way of saying that you are interested... romantically." Sam wonders how an angel can know everything and still be slightly clueless. It's endearing.
"Oh. Yes. I fell for you," Castiel agrees, almost proudly. "They killed me for trying to get to Earth. Sam called me back from the void." Castiel's hand has found its way into Sam's. It's warm and strong and Sam thinks he feels strangely whole, as if Castiel has been needed for Dean and he to be complete.
"Didn't work too well for them, did it?" Dean growls. "They better not try again. You're our angel now. Right, Sam? We want him to stay?"
Sam nods. Castiel is their angel.
It has been an eventful day, Sam thinks when they go to bed. There is an angel in their bedroom. It is not very common to have angels in one's bedroom. There is no talk about the guest bedroom at all. How it's going to work out, Sam doesn't know, but he's looking forward to find out. It's not very common to have a relationship with an angel, either. Or with one's brother, for that matter.
Sam doesn't think it's going to be a problem, though. They can hide. Two brothers and their friend living together don't raise that many eyebrows. They can still hide; they have done so for years. When they fall in love with Castiel — because somehow Sam knows they will — things aren't going to change much. They'll still pretend, and people will pretend they don't notice that they are more than brothers.
It's worse with the wings, Castiel's wings. They have to find a explanation to those, or people are going to complain.
It is a conservative neighborhood after all.
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