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Let the Altars Shine

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He doesn’t know what to think. It is of course a privilege to be wedded to an angel, and it will give Dean’s family the leg up the social ladder they need. And if that were just Dad and him, Dean would be all complaints. But it’s for Mom too, and more importantly for Sammy, and if his little brother’s future hangs in the balance then there’s nothing he won’t do.

Still, trepidation weighs him down as he sits in the small salon, wearing his best suit, about to be introduced to his new husband.

The wedding is done on paper, an agreement between families, and there’s no ceremony. What there is is a formal, private introduction, after the deed is done, before which Dean’s parents have drilled into him the proper etiquette and respect with which to address an angel. Thus the suit, which Dean normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. Thus the sitting down, rather than pacing the floor as he’d rather be doing, and just waiting for the arrival of his betrothed.

The door opens. Dean sits stock still. For Sammy, he tells himself. Do it for Sammy.

“Excuse me.” The voice is harsh, grating. “Is there a men’s room in here?”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he doubles over laughing. “Dude, you are so lost.”

The man steps through the door. He’s holding himself so stiffly, Dean’s bladder hurts in sympathy. “I’m afraid I might be. Do you know where the nearest men’s room is?”

Dean frowns. “I think it’s down the hall a ways. Around the corner and down the stairs, something like that.”

“I’ll never make it.” The man’s so panicked his eyes are wide. He’s adorable, actually, like a lost puppy. What a welcome distraction at a time like this. Even though Dean’s starting to fear for the carpet.

“Hold it in, dude.” He gets up from his seat and peeks behind the door at the corner of the small room. “I think— yeah. There’s one here.”

“Oh!” The relief on the man’s face is palpable. Dean’s face is twitching with a smile that wants to break free. “Do you mind if I—”

“Go ahead.” Dean waves him on. The man hurries across the carpet and through the door. He closes it behind him and Dean listens with amusement as the man relieves himself and sighs.

“This always happens,” the man confesses. “My bladder gets weak when I’m anxious.”

“It’s not a problem,” Dean says, still trying to hold back a snort. “But you better hurry out of here. I’m waiting for someone.”

“I’m aware.” The man washes his hands while Dean tries to fit his brain around that comment. He emerges, still shaking water off his hands, and gives a slight smile. “Now that that’s done with… Hello, Dean.”

Dean very nearly pees in his pants.