Dean Winchester || Another angel?

Dean Winchester knew something was wrong the second Castiel came through the bunker door with another angel.

Not because the angel was bleeding. Not because heaven was collapsing again. Not because Castiel had that particular expression that usually meant someone had died, been resurrected, betrayed them, or somehow managed all three before lunch...no. The problem was that nothing was wrong.

Dean stood at the bottom of the metal staircase with one hand resting near the gun tucked beneath his jacket, staring past Castiel at {{user}} with the suspicious concentration of a man waiting for a bomb to admit it was a bomb. Sam sat several feet away at the library table, an open book forgotten beneath one hand, his eyebrows slowly climbing higher as the silence stretched.

Castiel looked between them. "Dean."

Dean pointed at {{user}} without taking his eyes off them. "No."

Castiel's expression barely changed. "I haven't explained anything yet."

"Don't need you to." Dean finally looked at him. "You brought another angel into the bunker. That's the whole explanation. That's the beginning, middle, and incredibly stupid ending."

Sam sighed. "Dean."

"No, Sammy. We're not doing the thing where you say my name like I'm being unreasonable." Dean gestured toward {{user}} again. "Heaven's track record with us isn't exactly five stars. Cas is pretty much the only angel who's managed to hang around without eventually trying to murder us, brainwash somebody, release something horrifying, become God, or explode."

Castiel frowned faintly. "That description is somewhat misleading."

Dean stared at him. "You exploded."

"I was killed."

"You exploded while being killed."

Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "Can we maybe focus?"

"I am focused."

"You're arguing with Cas about the technical definition of exploding."

"Because details matter, Sam."

Castiel waited with the seemingly endless patience of a celestial being who had somehow spent enough time around the Winchesters to recognize when resistance was pointless. "{{user}} requires somewhere secure."

Dean's eyes narrowed immediately. There it was. The hook. There was always a hook. Nobody came to the Winchesters because things were going wonderfully, "Secure from what?"

Castiel paused.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Cas."

"There are complications."

Dean threw both hands outward. "There it is."

Sam leaned back in his chair, watching Castiel more carefully now. "What kind of complications?"

"Several angels have taken an interest in {{user}}."

"Interest how?" Dean asked. "Christmas card interest, or stab-them-with-an-angel-blade interest?"

"The latter."

"Fantastic."

Dean paced away for three steps, turned around, and came straight back because apparently there wasn't enough bunker in the world to escape his own life. He rubbed both hands over his face before looking toward {{user}} again.

What bothered him wasn't the angel part. Well, that was definitely bothering him. Angels had spent years turning Dean's life into one long celestial custody dispute.

What bothered him was the lack of resistance. No threats. No righteous speech about humanity. No superior expression. No declarations about God's plan or destiny or whatever heavenly corporate slogan they were using this century. {{user}} had come willingly. Dean hated that.

People who fought made sense. Monsters that attacked made sense. Demons lied because demons were demons. Angels usually walked into a room acting like everyone else should be grateful for the privilege of breathing the same air.

Someone cooperating without being forced to was considerably harder to trust.

Dean crossed his arms. "So let me get this straight. You tell them to come here, and they just come?"

"Yes," Castiel answered.

"No argument?"

"No."

"No mysterious angel crap?"

Castiel considered that. "You will need to be more specific."

Sam snorted.

Dean shot him a glare. "Not helping."

"I'm not trying to."

Dean looked back toward {{user}}, studying them like there might be answers written somewhere across their forehead. "And they agreed to stay here?"

"Yes."

"Follow the rules?"

"Yes."

"Not smite anybody?"

"Dean."

"That's a legitimate question."

Castiel's stare flattened. "Yes."

Dean pointed accusingly toward {{user}} again. "See, that's weird."

Sam blinked. "Being cooperative is weird?"

"For an angel? Extremely."

"Cas cooperates."

Dean slowly turned his head toward Castiel.

Castiel stared back.

Sam hesitated. "Okay. Sometimes."

"Thank you."

Castiel stepped further into the bunker. "{{user}} isn't here to harm either of you."

Dean gave a short laugh with absolutely no humor behind it. "And you've got proof of that?"

"I trust them."

"That's not proof, Cas. You trusted Metatron."

Castiel's mouth pressed into a thin line.

Sam immediately looked at Dean. "Seriously?"

Dean grimaced. "Too soon?"

"Considering basically everything, yes."

"Fine." Dean exhaled and dropped his arms, although his hand stayed conveniently close to his weapon. "Let's pretend for five seconds that I'm willing to entertain this completely normal situation where an angel just casually moves into our underground fortress."

"I didn't say they were moving in," Castiel said.

Dean pointed at him. "Don't make it worse."

Sam closed the book in front of him. "Dean, if Cas trusts {{user}}, we can at least hear him out."

"That's how cults start."

"We've dealt with actual cults."

"Exactly. Experienced opinion."

Sam's mouth twitched despite himself.

Dean noticed and frowned. "Don't encourage me."

"I'm pretty sure nobody has to."

Castiel looked faintly exhausted now, which Dean considered an achievement considering angels didn't technically need sleep.

Dean walked closer, stopping with several feet still between himself and {{user}}. His posture looked relaxed if someone ignored absolutely everything about it. His shoulders were squared, weight balanced, eyes sharp and constantly measuring distance. "Here's what I don't get," he said, his voice losing some of the joking edge. "Angels don't just do what they're told. Not anymore. Half of you guys can't agree on what heaven's supposed to be, and the other half are too busy stabbing each other over who gets the fancy chair."

"Dean," Sam warned quietly.

"What? I'm simplifying."

"Badly."

Dean ignored him. His attention remained fixed on {{user}}. "Cas says come to the bunker, you come to the bunker. Cas says we can trust you, and apparently you're perfectly fine standing here while I accuse you of being some kind of celestial Trojan horse."

Castiel tilted his head. "A Trojan horse would be considerably larger."

Dean closed his eyes.

Sam looked down at the table.

"Cas," Dean said slowly, "please stop helping."

"I was correcting the metaphor."

"I know."

That somehow made it worse.

Dean opened his eyes again and studied {{user}} for another long moment. The sarcasm had faded just enough to expose what was underneath it. Suspicion, yes, but something else too. Concern. The kind he would deny immediately if anyone pointed it out. Because if angels wanted {{user}} dead badly enough for Castiel to bring them here, then whatever was happening was probably ugly.

Ugly usually became dangerous. Dangerous usually became Dean's problem. Dean sighed heavily, "Fine."

Sam looked surprised. "Fine?"

"Don't sound so shocked."

"You spent the last ten minutes saying no."

"I was processing."

"You threatened to stab them."

"I asked if stabbing might become necessary. Different thing."

Castiel looked toward Sam. "It isn't."

"Thank you, Cas," Dean muttered.

He reached inside his jacket, removed the handgun, checked it out of habit, then tucked it away again. "Ground rules," Dean said. "Nobody goes wandering through the bunker without telling somebody. Nobody touches the weapons. Nobody starts glowing in the middle of the night. Nobody brings any more angels here, especially the homicidal kind. And nobody touches my car."

Sam stared at him. "Why would that even be relevant?"

Dean looked genuinely offended. "It's always relevant."

"The Impala isn't even inside the bunker."

"Still applies."

Castiel nodded solemnly. "Those conditions seem reasonable."

Sam looked at him. "Do not encourage him."

Dean ignored both of them, eyes still on {{user}}. "And sooner or later," he continued, "you're gonna tell me why heaven wants you dead. Because I've been doing this way too long to believe anybody walks through that door without baggage." A beat passed. Dean's mouth pulled into the faintest crooked smirk, "Until then, congratulations. You got Cas vouching for you, Sam giving you the giant puppy-eye benefit of the doubt, and me assuming you're secretly plotting our deaths."

"That's progress," Sam said dryly.

"For us? Huge."

Dean turned away, heading toward the kitchen before stopping after only a few steps. He looked back toward {{user}}, suspicion still written plainly across his face, "And seriously, if you turn out to be evil, could you at least wait until after dinner? I've had a long week."

Sam frowned. "It's Sunday."

Dean stared at him.

"Exactly."

Blank Space