Chapter Text
Sam Winchester sauntered towards the library, holding a mug of strong, freshly brewed coffee in one hand, filling the corridor of the Men of Letters bunker with its aroma. He was walking down the stairs from the kitchen to the sacred repository of knowledge, his favorite laptop clutched to his side with his other hand. Having taken a shower after a morning run along the quiet streets of morning Lebanon, the younger Winchester intended to sit down at one of the massive oak tables and look for a new case for himself and Dean, while his brother was probably still snoring peacefully, watching the not-so-decent morning dreams.
But just as Sam set the items on the smooth, polished surface, there was a sharp thud from under the next table, and the muffled voice of the senior hunter.
— Son of a bitch! — he hissed through his clenched teeth.
With a quick glance at the nearest rack of collectible weapons, Sam grinned with relief as he tossed his damp hair back from his forehead, walked around the table, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched as the brave hunter Dean Winchester crawled out from under an antique piece of furniture and rubbed the back of his hurt head.
— Good morning, Sammy, — Dean greeted his brother cheerfully. Perhaps a little too cheerfully for such an early hour, and for a man who crawls under a table in the morning wearing old, sooty welding goggles, which Sam mentioned with a puzzled grimace:
— Good morning to you, too, Dean. What are you doing, going to steampunk early in the morning?
— Erm... Well, I couldn't sleep, went to the garage to see Baby... found these glasses, decided to try them on... — Dean started to explain, sounding not very confidently. He pushed the glasses on his forehead and smiled even wider, thrusting his hands in his jeans pockets.
— Yeah, that's exactly what I thought, — Sam stepped closer and brushed the dust off his brother's shoulder. — You often get up early and go to the library looking fresh as a daisy. And crawl under tables. Though the latter happens not so rarely, — taking a step back, Sam gave him a critical look and added: — Now tell me what's really going on.
Realizing that resistance was futile, Dean automatically, though perhaps as a hidden counterattack, picked up the coffee mug from the table, ignoring Sam's indignant look, quickly gulped half of it, and decided to show his cards.
— You know, Sam, the thing is... Do you remember when we celebrated your birthday the other day? — he pushed his goggles up on his head, flattening the top of his light brown hair, and looked Sam in the eye with a serious expression. — Well, we climbed out on the roof of the bunker with beer and pizza, basked in the sun, chatted there about different things — and it was cool, right?
— Yes, Dean, how can I forget that? By the way, thank you very much for giving me that collection of documentaries about serial killers, I really appreciate it, — Sam smiled on the way back for another cup of coffee and motioned his brother to come along. — It's not a big deal that more than half of it is pure malarky…
— Oh, you meanie! — Dean pretended to be offended, emptying the last drops of coffee into his mouth as they reached the kitchen. — Pour me some more, be a good boy.
The remaining coffee, to Sam's delight, was just enough for two mugs, and the brothers sat down opposite each other at the table with round wooden seats.
— Don't get distracted, Dean, — Sam reminded him of the real subject of their conversation. — So what about my birthday and your crawling on the floor?
— Oh, well... Remember the three of us, we and Cas, were talking about birthdays?" I be like like, "Cas, when is your birthday?" And he started to say something about the years, that it didn't matter, in short, he was overmodest, as he often does…
— Yeah, yeah, — Sam smiled, his face unreadable, and said in a deep voice, imitating the angel: — Considering the huge difference in the life span of angels and humans, and given the many different systems of chronology, I would say that…
***
— ...my birthday doesn't matter a bit compared to the scale of the Universe.
Castiel raised his azure eyes to the blue may sky of the same color, watching the snow-white clouds drift across it. They were as fluffy and light as the cotton candy he'd tasted on the Fourth of July last year, when he and the Winchesters had stopped by the amusement park on their way back from another hunt which was not too tiring. He had almost forgotten the question that Dean had asked, just enjoying the warm spring breeze and the company of his best friends, with whom he sat leaning against the water tank on the roof of the Men of Letters bunker and sipping beer from a steaming brown bottle — more for the company of the brothers, because to feel even a hint of intoxication, he would probably have to drink a small tank of that bitterish drink. Dean, who had by this time become quite cheerful, heartily put his hand on Cas' shoulder, bringing the angel back to reality.
— Come on, Cas, that's not fair! Look, it's Sammy's birthday, and we're celebrating so well, everyone's in a festive mood... Right, Sammy?
— That's right, Dean, it's been a long time since the three of us had such a good rest. — Sam took a sip of beer from his bottle and pulled his jacket tighter around him. — It's just windy here, but I like it. And thank you for the great gift!
— I like it here, too, Dean, — Castiel said, and saluted the younger Winchester with his bottle. — Happy birthday, Sam!
The three of them clinked their bottles together and took another sip.
— Well, - Dean continued his thought, - if we all like it, then we must celebrate your birthday, Cas! Or else such a great holiday is lost! Yeah, and you will get presents — isn't it a good thing? — the hunter asked.
Castiel smiled reservedly and looked down at his bent knees.
— I... Dean, I really never thought about my date of birth, it's hard to calculate it based on human concepts, — he contemplated for a moment, tilting his head to his right shoulder where Dean's hand rested, and bending his eyebrows. — You can say it was autumn then…
— Not much, — Dean said, disappointed. Okay, let's say. I'm going to take my phone and tap the calendar — whatever date I get to, it's going to be it. Oops, I didn't take my phone upstairs... Okay then, I'll tap later.
— You can tap mine, — Sam said, taking his phone and holding it out to Dean in front of the confused Cas.
— No, not your phone, — Dean said, waving his hands in protest. — I haven't drunk enough to figure out how to use it!
Sam shrugged and put the device back in his pocket.
— What would you like to get as a birthday present, Cas? — he asked. — There's no way to escape this, it's people's tradition to give presents to the birthday boy.
— Exactly! Sammy, you stole my line — that's me who wanted to ask that. Or do you want a surprise, Cas? That's more interesting, isn't it, Sam?
— No doubt! — Sam pursed his lips jokingly, remembering his present and how proud and pleased Dean looked when he handed it to his brother.
Confused Castiel, caught between two drunken Winchesters, like between Scylla and Charybdis, had no choice but to capitulate.
— I would prefer surprise, — he muttered, hastily pouring the remaining beer from the bottle into his mouth to hide his flushed cheeks…
***
— ...Is that the matter? — Sam asked, puzzled, and grinned. — Then why do you need these dusty goggles? You're not going to give them to Cas, are you?
— If you make fun of me, I'll give them to you! — Dean removed the goggles that were held on to his head by a coarsened leather strap and placed them in front of him. — Look, Sam, this isn't just a retro accessory. Damn, that's a helluva tongue twister. So, the lenses of these goggles are annealed by holy fire — remember the ones we used to see the hellhounds?
— A hellhound sucks as a present, too! — Sam exclaimed, nearly spilling his coffee.
— Wait, Sammy, don't interrupt. You can see not only hellish creatures that are invisible to the human eye, but... well, a knowledgeable person told me that you can see the wings of an angel through them. Not the true form — it burns out one's eyes, you know, but, as Cas said... another layer of reality where their wings exist... something like that.
Sam listened to his brother, his mouth open in surprise, and even forgot to ask what was next when he paused to take a sip of coffee. Still talking and looking serious, as if in a confession, Dean summed it up:
— I'm looking for something that can't be seen without... — And he nodded at his goggles. His green eyes didn't blink as he stared at the puzzled Sam. — Sammy, I need an archangel's feather.
***
Lily Sunder drained a glass of the most expensive whiskey and, after a brief pause, carefully but emphatically tapped it on the bar.
— Well, thank you, Dean. But what makes you think I'm going to help you? Didn't I make it clear last time?
She tossed her red curls and looked stubbornly at the Winchester, who was sitting next to her, with a dark, fluffy-lashed right eye, while the left was hidden by the familiar black patch.
— I'm betting on my own irresistibility and tenacity, it almost always works,— Dean said with a charming smile. — Bartender, please! — he held up two Victoria fingers to the long-haired bartender, and two more whiskies appeared in front of the strange couple.
— The key word is "almost", — Lily replied sarcastically, looking absently at the liquor shelves and still taking her glass. — Even if I could give Castiel his wings back, I wouldn't do it.
— But you forgave him that time, didn't you? — Dean frowned, sensing her resistance, but continued this hard conversation with the uncooperative sorceress. — You are the only person I know who knows angels' magic, so who should I ask to but you?
— Okay, Dean Winchester, — Lily said, turning her entire body on the high bar stool and leaning closer, her gaze drilling into his. Her low voice clearly aquired some steel notes. — First of all. Yes, I forgave him, but that means I changed my mind about killing him, not that I want to help him. Second — she leaned back a little, swinging one slim leg in slinky trousers over the other and raising the glass to her scarlet mouth, and her voice softened a little. — I just don't know how to do it, Dean. There is no such spell in my arsenal.
The sorceress took another sip and turned away again, resting her elbows on the bar.
— No spell... dammit, — Dean muttered through his gritted teeth, and leaned against the counter as well. — But you might create it? You're a smart woman with a lot of experience in angels' magic! I'm not alluding to your age, of course...
— Dean, — Lily said, taking the hunter firmly by his forearm with her slender fingers, — I've already told you, and this is my final answer. No. I can't help you.
Dean dropped his head to his chest and exhaled sharply, trying to accept the failure. Frustration and anger clenched tight in his chest, crushing the last remnants of hope, and he did not immediately notice that the willful sorceress was in no hurry to leave. He looked up as she finished her drink, holding her glass in one graceful hand and holding up the finger of her other hand, telling Dean not to interfere. Setting the glass on the counter, she picked up her purse, took out an expensive gilt pen and a small, elegant notebook, and wrote a few numbers.
— I am old and all that, but I know what a phone is. I hope you do, too, — she said, now a little coquettishly, as she stood up and handed Dean the sheet of paper she had just torn from her notebook. — You were wrong not only in who you should ask, but also in thinking that I was the only person who was familiar with angels' magic.
In disbelief, Dean reached out and carefully took the small piece of paper, as if afraid it would crumble to dust at his touch.
— Call and say hi from me. I think they'll help you.
Turning her back, the sorceress had already taken a couple of steps when the Winchester said softly:
— Thank You, Lily…
* * *
— So this man needs an archangel's feather in exchange for a spell? — Sam asked, when Dean gave him a rough outline of what he had achieved when he finally called on that phone number.
— No, Sammy, you got it wrong. A feather is needed as an ingredient of the spell, and he agreed to help for free. Rather, they are two of them, and one of them is... mmm... not human.
The flood of information was pouring at Sam so fast that it was hard for him to make sense of it. In addition, he could barely keep up with his older brother, who put on those strange goggles again and went in search of an archangel's feather, for which, apparently, he was going to turn the entire bunker upside down.
— We've had two archangels in our hideout, — Dean commented enthusiastically, scanning the space available to the eye, pushing furniture aside and peering into less accessible corners along the way. — Why don't we start by looking here, because there's a good chance, — he grunted as he pushed back the sofa in the living room, — that there's something here, — and then he was on all fours checking the floor under the chair, — lying around…
— Dean, wait! — said his brother, who had just caught up with him. — Can you slow down for a minute?
— Wanna help? I will be happy if you join me! Just smoke one more pair of goggles.
— Dean, why don't you sit down and wait a few minutes, okay? I really want to help Cas to get his wings back, too, so just stop and breathe. I'll be right back.
Dean sat down on the old-fashioned embroidered sofa and took off his goggles again, wiping the sweat from his hot forehead. It was his turn to be puzzled. A few minutes later, Sam did return, carrying an oblong wooden box. It seemed to Dean he saw one in the bunker's storage room. Sam sat down next to him and warnedr:
— No unnecessary questions, okay?
— Is there a catch? — Dean asked doubtfully.
— No, it's alright. You'll understand. Give me those stupid goggles.
Putting on the goggles, Sam carefully opened the box, looked inside, and a sad smile appeared on his face.
— Here, look…
The goggles went back to Dean. He moved closer and saw it. Inside, on worn green velvet, lay a bronze-colored feather nearly a foot long. Golden sparks danced on its silken surface, continuing in the soft radiance that surrounded it.
—This is... — Dean started.
—It's Gabriel's feather. A gift. He gave it to me before he disappeared after... after he killed Asmodeus. The only thing that reminds me of him after he died. — Dean was now looking at his younger brother, whose voice had faltered, but he quickly regained his composure. — Though memory is not a physical object, but something that remains in one's heart. — Sam closed the box and handed it to Dean. — This is a worthy use of such a gift, Gabriel would be happy.
Dean pulled the goggles down around his neck and stared at Sam for a moment, who in turn watched his older brother's funny expression change.
— So it means you and Gabriel…
— It means the extra questions, we had an agreement earlier, remember, Dean? — Sam interrupted hastily, confused. — At least not now, okay?
— Um... Okay. I understand. Are we going?