Summary: Castiel is a photographer who aspires to work for National Geographic someday; Dean is a journalist who can manipulate ordinary words into something otherworldly. So when Castiel asks his least favorite person in the office to help him with a surely career-rocketing project, Dean agrees. However, a new, greater challenge arises as they stumble across something they shouldn't have.
A/N: Hey, guys! So here's the story of Castiel the photographer and Dean the journalist; I'm kind of really excited about this story, so I'm hoping it turns out like I'm intending.
I should note that I'm unsure if this could possibly happen in the wonderful world of journalism (as in how the two got the project), so we'll just pretend it does. Shh!
Please read and review!
Thank you!
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Supernatural.
A set of cold eyes surveyed the room silently.
They noticed car memorabilia placed meticulously throughout the room; papers creating a haphazard mountain range on the desk; a half-drank, long cold cup of coffee sitting patiently on the edge of the desk; a wrapper to what appeared to be a fast food burger finding the coffee to be its company, and it was most likely the scribbling man's breakfast; and a leather coat finding its place on a long hidden, but very utilized, chair. Yet the intruding eyes were merely scratching the surface. The occupant of the office, who was still marking away furiously at his notebook, had promised his fellow coworkers on numerous occasions that he would finally clean his disastrous office, but every time he managed to find a new lead that "beckoned" to him or a piece that "was dying to be finished" or some prior engagement he had to attend. He had vowed earlier on that day that he would attempt to minimize the heaping mounds on his desk, yet he was sitting there, brainstorming for a new article that was "waiting to write itself".
The man let out yet another exasperated sigh as his pen resigned to leaving him with a mere indented trail; the ink had run out. That left him searching for yet another hopefully fresh pen. The possessor of those eyes pondered at what he could be thinking. Maybe he could be contemplating buying new pens, not like he probably didn't have enough hiding somewhere. And that would have brought him back to the full circle of cleaning that catastrophic work space.
Those eyes continued watching, now almost curiously.
The man seemed more than reluctant to begin the daring and hazardous task of taming his office, so it seemed he decided to scour his desk for another pen. He nudged documents around carelessly, tossed folders to the floor (which he would probably claim to be a temporary home for them, but then leave them there), and searched surprisingly thoroughly. Then the eyes noticed the man freeze and then turn his attention to them. The pen seemed to be able to wait.
"Mr. Novak," he began, settling back into his chair and folding his hands together. His emerald eyes settled questioningly on the figure in his door. "What sort of reason graces me with your presence?"
Mr. Novak, Castiel, left his spot at the door and approached the desk rather slowly. Castiel was usually blunt with him, preferring not to have to deal with this man's so-called humorous jokes and jabs. In all honesty, he usually found them crude and tasteless, but that was when he "took the time to understand them". Just like he found the person sitting arrogantly behind the desk. Yet he had a job that he needed to do, an opportunity that he couldn't refuse, and this crude, tasteless, impossible to understand, arrogant man was exactly who he needed to be able to get it done and done well.
So he drew in a rather large breath and began.
"Do you have anything planned over the week of July eleventh through the eighteenth, Dean?" he asked, his dark blue eyes turned icy with slight irritation, and his hair seemed to reflect that. His locks poked wildly in each direction as if electricity were running between them. Or as if he had just gotten out of bed. His nervous habit of running his hand through his hair probably didn't help much, either. Speaking of which, Castiel pulled the hand he found running amok through his hair and returned it limply to his side.
"Well, Cassie, I'm going to sleep," Dean began with a grin, "and then I'm probably going to find a nice-" His green eyes were dancing happily, and "Cassie" couldn't help but note his sudden desire for a spoon. Or an ice cream scooper. Or any other object that could be used for gouging.
"No," he interrupted, his voice easily hiding his sudden violent urge out of practice. "I'm looking for a journalist to cover an event with me. You would be the best I can get." Unfortunately.
"I'm flattered, Castiel, but you do realize that's late for the Fourth of July by about a week?" Dean said as he discovered a pen hidden under a clipped packet. He flipped the cap off and scribbled for a moment, a brief, but loud, laugh of success escaping him as it worked.
Castiel merely ignored the small distraction and begrudgingly moved the conversation forward; he noted that Dean's jokes were, as he would say, "dumbed down".
"Not the Fourth of July. Bastille Day. It's on July fourteenth. It's a French holiday. I'm working on a collaboration with other photographers and journalists to document and share large national holidays of various countries." And he, a photographer, needed a journalist, Dean Winchester, to create a masterpiece on none other than that French holiday.
"So you're telling me that we're going to have to go to France?" Dean's eyes narrowed interrogatively at Castiel, who gave no outward signs of reaction. Instead, he responded curtly.
"That's where Bastille Day is, and it'd be your job to write about it." Castiel remained just as stoic save his own eyes, which merely grew more frigid.
"Just to let you know, I don't exactly speak French." Their narrowness challenged those of a snake's.
"I have something worked out." Antarctica suddenly became comparable to the Sahara.
"Okay, talk."
And so green followed by blue gave up arms for an alliance of sorts.
And so neither was aware of what they were getting themselves into.
xxxxx
If Castiel were completely honest with himself, he would say that he admired his new partner no matter how annoying he found him. If Castiel were to describe Dean Winchester, he would confess through a state of fluster, reluctance, and awe that although Dean was bigheaded, he knew how to weave the right words together to create something wonderful. If magic existed somewhere on the large rock they lived on, then he would say it was in Dean's work. Castiel would be fooling himself if he said he didn't want Winchester's vivid descriptions and intriguing insights bringing life to his photographs. The writing and the pictures were what he needed to finally get his name known, and, hey, maybe even Dean would benefit in the same manner. Just as long as no one stepped on anyone's toes, he was sure they'd be fine.
With those thoughts resting in his mind, the first thing Castiel did when he entered his apartment was toss his collar-like tie onto the dinner table. He then moved to discarding his damp overcoat unceremoniously onto its typical chair, and he continued on toward the kitchen. The man absentmindedly noted the still present rain thundering just outside the window and the dozing gaze of his beloved cat Meg. He couldn't help but feel a small bubble of relief as the wave grew louder; he made it back in time.
He fetched a pot to boil water in, filled it, and placed it on the stove to heat. Castiel's thoughts were starting to fall back to earlier in his day when he heard yet another presence enter the room. The newcomer was likely his older brother, who had decided that he owed a visit. Not that Castiel minded, that is; he actually enjoyed his brother's lighthearted company.
"Would you like anything, Gabriel?" Castiel asked as he turned toward his brother, who was perusing through a tiny stack of envelopes on the counter. Gabriel faced his brother slowly, they both had enough time to waste, and smiled delightedly.
He pondered the question for a moment before replying, "You have hot chocolate?"
Castiel gave a small, knowing grin and a nod as he made for the cupboards. "How was the road up?"
"It was long," Gabriel complained, his voice rising in pitch. "I was about ready to turn around halfway here."
A snort emerged from the figure buried in the cupboard. "Yes, but the trip would have been then same length nonetheless." He withdrew with the prize in hand: a box of Swiss Miss hot chocolate.
"It would've spared me the trip back, Cassie," Gabriel pointed out with a teasing gleam in his eyes. Castiel couldn't help but notice the difference between Gabriel and Dean using that nickname for him; he had essentially grown up on Gabriel calling him "Cassie", so it was a name of endearment; Dean, on the other hand, used that name almost mockingly; no one else really even called him by that. It seemed interesting to him how the same name can feel utterly different when used by two different people. He retrieved two larger mugs with that new thought lingering in his mind.
"And, naturally, the desire to see your younger brother overshadowed that treacherous boredom," Castiel teased and peered into the pot. The water wasn't boiling yet. He turned back to his brother.
"Naturally," Gabriel repeated with a wide, toothy grin. "How was work?"
"It was," Castiel paused for a moment, eyes searching his new, shiny toaster for a fitting word, "decent." Considering. "The final details for the project I told you about are being sorted out."
Gabriel nodded in understanding, pursing his lips rather tightly. He watched as his drying younger brother remembered the hot chocolate in the works, bustling around to prepare those waiting mugs and mix for the delectable, warm, chocolaty goodness. It was odd times like these where he felt a weird mix of pity and happiness for his younger brother.
xxxxx
Castiel set his coffee cup hastily on his desk, his khaki overcoat already discarded on a hook hanging merrily on the wall, and spun back around to face his boss. His hair was just as chaotic as the previous day, as was becoming the trend with him; he woke up late that morning due to his troublemaker brother, so he was stuck with bedhead. In all honesty, however, he was happy to have spent a few more minutes in dream world; he was busy conjuring precious moments whether they be fireworks, parents chasing their kids around the park, lovers embracing in the festivities, or even the history of Paris. This would also be related to why he loved his job; he loved capturing those real moments of beauty. "I assure you, Mr. Singer, that this will not happen again," Castiel stated with a regretful expression etched into the lines of his face. His lips parted to begin again, but he was interrupted.
"I know, idgit," Mr. Singer replied with resigned sigh. "That's not what I wanted to talk about, though."
Castiel eyed him curiously, and his boss continued on.
"You're taking up the assignment, right?"
The photographer nodded. "Yes, and I've talked to Winchester as well. He's in."
"Alright, then," Singer stated; Castiel wasn't able to identify the tone that hid in his voice, but he let it go. "I'll send you and Dean the final details today."
Castiel nodded and thanked him as his boss left. He then turned to his not-so-long forgotten, but ever needed, cup of coffee. That black elixir would surely be what would give him that final waking boost. And it was working.
After a rather generous sip, Castiel seated himself to start his work of the day. It wasn't necessarily a field work day for him, but he enjoyed the calmness that usually fell on these office days. Then again, that was usual, and the calmness was suddenly dispelled by an all too familiar, brown coated man rounding into his office.
Castiel peered up at the intruder, setting his lips tightly together and tilting his head slightly. Although he said nothing, his expression was inquiring. Dean merely gave a meek smile before welcoming himself farther into the office and to the desk; then his expression turned serious.
"I figured that since we'll be, you know, working together that we should probably have a good heart to heart," Dean proposed carefully. Or at least it was for him. If Castiel were surprised at all, he didn't show it. Instead he nodded slowly, silently, thoughtfully, before inhaling sharply and replying.
"Fair enough." Castiel said and sipped at his coffee. He loved how that energy seemed to flow into him, and he was suddenly prepared for everything that would come his way. That is, at least, until the effects of the coffee wore off. He couldn't help but fleetingly ponder his likelihood of having a caffeine addiction – it took an ungodly amount to have an effect on him, and he doubted he could live without it – but he dismissed the idea quickly. There was no way.
However, Dean seemed to pick up on it.
"You always seem to have Garfield with you," he observed and gestured lazily to the orange cat that stared back from the cup, "or some other furry relative of his."
"I like coffee and animals," Castiel defended himself timidly, and then quickly retorted. "What about all of those cars in your office?"
Dean shrugged. His reply was simple in words and tone. "I like cars. It's a hobby."
"I can tell." Castiel's voice was unrevealing, yet it was noting. He retreated behind his dearly loved Garfield again, and he took another drink of his coffee.
"I also like pie." Dean seemed to offer that information more than willingly and with a small grin. "It's probably one of the greatest things on Earth."
"Pie?" A hint of amusement leaked into Castiel's voice as he raised an eyebrow.
"Hey, coffee bean, we're in a judging-free zone."
"Right."
It was a pretty decent start to their little "heart to heart"; maybe this talk and maybe this project wouldn't be so bad after all.