Sometimes Castiel's line of work was cumbersome and boring. He was often stuck in the office writing reports and filing paperwork. He much preferred to be out in the field entrapping criminals of higher profiles, hauling in the "motherlode" as the good captain called it. But with every apprehended criminal, every case he was assigned to, there was a paper trail sure to follow. It was part of his job to give detailed accounts of everything he did as he remembered it. For this, he referred to the collection of notepads and journals he kept.
Castiel was a hard worker, so much that the captain had to see him personally and temporarily evict him from his office.
"You're hittin' all sixes, Cas, but you need a vacation! Listen, we appreciate all the hard work you put in for us here, but I think you need some time off. Heavens, you even worked all through Christmas and New Year's without blinkin' for a cuppa joe! I'd have thought you were some well-oiled machine if you didn't have to get, what, ten minutes of sleep a day?"
"Oh, I know, sir, but I can't just take off on such short notice-"
"You can and you will. God knows you earned it."
"Really, Captain, I appreciate your concern but I'm fine without the-"
"Cas, you're not staying in in your office a minute longer, or so help me I'll suspend you on unpaid leave. I don't want to resort to that, but I will if I have to. Now, the choice is yours."
"...Maybe I could use a break after all..."
"Attaboy! Now I don't want to see your face here for two weeks, understand?"
What was Castiel going to do for two weeks?
The morning following his leave, Castiel woke up at exactly the same time he normally did. 6:48 a.m. on the dot, like clockwork. The detective stumbled through his morning routine without fail, only to remember as he was dressing that he didn't have to report to work today. He sat on his bed, positively stumped by this realization, before lying back. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, trousers pooled at his ankles.
Two weeks.
Nina, Castiel's little black cat, brushed past his legs. He swung forward to pick her up. She mewed as he brought her to lie on his chest, and he stroked her as he continued to watch the ceiling.
Two weeks.
This was going to drive him nuts.
"What's eating you, Cas? You look like you're about to fly off the handle."
"I don't know what to do with myself, Bal, I need to do something-"
"My god, you're still reeling about that? It's been five days! You're not working and you're still raking in cabbage. I'd cap a man to get paid in zilch!"
"I know, I'm sorry."
"Hey now, I know you love your gumshoeing as much as the next fellow, but at the rate you're going... you're gonna be wearing a wooden kimono before you hit forty, Cas. I'm worried about you."
"...Do you have any plans for St. Valentine's Day, Cas?"
"As always, Bal, no. You?"
"Oh, no more than the usual, I think. Catch a couple birds and bed them. That's about it. I'm more concerned about you, though."
"Bal, I swear, if you try to set me up on another blind date-"
"What? After that disaster? Good god, never again. No, what I'm thinking is something much better."
"How better?"
"How would you feel about sailing across the pond and making pilgrimage to the mother country?"
England was admittedly nicer than Castiel had first imagined. The air was crisp with accents that nicely buttered one's ears, and there were a lot of things to do. Though, he found that many of the activities he could part take in he could've easily done in New York. Most of the time, Castiel just walked around seeing all of the sights. He visited Big Ben and got a good look at the Westminster Palace. The Thames wasn't as impressive as he had heard, but maybe that's because the sky was overcast most of the time he was there. He made his way around the large city, but no matter where he went, the feeling of bothersome idleness followed in his wake. He managed to stave his addiction with films and books, but when he caught a glimpse of some suspicious characters, he couldn't sit on his hands any longer and he was back in the game.
Unfortunately, Castiel was out of his element, and out of his jurisdiction. This was Britain, not the States. He couldn't chow down on these weevils as much as he wanted to. But by his luck, he discovered that said weevils were planning on moving a "large shipment" overseas. To New York. And how better do it, they'd said, than on the very vessel that would bring Castiel home?
All Castiel had to do was find the precious cargo aboard his vessel, and its carrier, a man who was called "Crowley". If he could snag Crowley out on international waters, he would have him bagged for processing in the United States. The thrill of the hunt made his skin crawl, and he was eager to get this job done.
Unfortunately, it proved to be much more difficult than he'd anticipated. He had a hunch going in that "Crowley" was an alias and in the manifest, he found no such person claiming the name. He'd stolen the manifest away and locked himself up in his quarters. He started by striking out names of female passengers and crew. Crowley was a man, so he could narrow it down that much at least. Then he began the daunting task of intermingling with other passengers, trying to suss out information. It was nearly impossible to pry without making himself look suspicious, so instead he targeted the cargo. If he could access the hold of the ship and find the precious shipment in question (which, he had no idea what exactly he was looking for), maybe he could trace it back to Crowley. He wound up steered away by shipmates, and he had to feign ignorance, claiming to be "terribly lost".
Castiel kept his eyes peeled for any suspicious passengers, but he had no luck picking anyone distinguishable out. It was frustrating. He knew that a criminal was aboard this ship, but he only had straws to grasp at.
He only admitted "temporary defeat" in favor of a drink. The sun was long set and the vessel was gliding through the water westbound as if trying to catch up in vain. He tipped his flute glass back, gulping down (perhaps unwisely), and he dangled the glass over the railing of the ship. He had to be maybe three or four stories above the waterline. The moonlight was choppy on the restless ocean water. Leaning on the painted steel barring, he watched the beaver chips of bone-colored moon dancing on the waves. It was a full beauty tonight and it illuminated everything pleasantly. Castiel was aware that it was February the fourteenth, and he stood a solitary creature unbothered by loneliness. He thought of his best friend back home, likely up to his old antics and chasing skirts with reckless abandon. If he had any drink left in his glass, he would've raised it to him.
Hell, he did it anyway.