A/N:This fic is such a change from what I usually write. I've never written a movie AU, so that is a first.
There'll be some smut later on, but not nearly the degree that I usually deliver. The biggest change, though, is that this is a Sabriel
I'm not a Sabriel shipper, but when I was formulating this story, Sam and Gabriel just seemed to wiggle their way into the main pairing and I was like "Screw it,
let's go with it". I'm not even sure if Destiel will end up in this, but we shall see. I make no promises either way.
But for you Sabriel fans out there: this is for you guys.
This fic is set in the mid 90's. Originally I was going to move it to now, but Music Stores aren't as common as they used to be and the whole thing would become anachronistic fast.
Lastly, I want to give a big shout out to DemonsandDolls for inspiring me with all of her lovely Movie AUs.
Castiel sits on the office sofa, mumbling to himself. It could almost be mistaken for a prayer, but the heavy repetition more closely resembles a mantra. He stares straight ahead, eyes focused on nothing. The lamp on Crowley's desk bathes the room in a warm glow all around him. Heavy footsteps approach as the office door swings open.
"Crow-?" a low voice calls, followed by its owner in tight black t-shirt and low slung jeans.
"Dean," Cas jumps at the break in his concentration. Dean stops short as he sees Castiel, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
"Cas? What are you doing here" Dean asks, leaning against the door jamb.
"My life has reached its pinnacle," A small grin twists at Cas mouth, "Crowley is letting me close the store tonight." Dean raises an eyebrow in surprise.
"Wow. Big responsibility, Cas." Dean replies with just a hint of sarcasm. He's more surprised Cas is only closing the store now. He's been working here longer than anyone else, second only to Gabriel and Crowley himself.
"Yes, but Crowley's rules are extremely simple: keep my hands off of his scotch, contracts and drumsticks." Cas emphasizes each item and ticks off them on his fingers as he says them. He seems proud of his memorization. Dean crosses his arms over his chest and smirks at him.
"Geez, Cas, how are you going to remember all that?" He quips, turning to exit, "Good luck. Don't screw it up." There is a sing-song quality to his voice with the last words as he leaves. Cas sits there in the quiet for a moment, his mouth moving over his silent mantra, knowing with absolute certainty that a responsibility like this requires the obedience of a saint.
An hour later, Cas runs a thumb over the final stack of bills. He smiles to himself. He had counted the money twice (all $9104 of it), filled out all the drop paperwork, and had only taken maybe three swigs from the bottle of Craig Crowley keeps in his bottom drawer of his desk.
"See, I can do this," Cas says to the empty room, as he straightens the stack of bills for the fifth time. He can be trusted, Crowley will see that. He's already the night manager, there's no reason he shouldn't be closing as well. He never understood why Crowley always resisted letting Cas close. He called Castiel a "wild card".
Cas snorts at the thought. He isn't a risk. He'd count the money a third time to prove it, but then glances at the clock, noticing that he still has to drop off at the bank. He picks up the bank bag and and searches for the key. As he pulls open the desk drawer, something catches his eye.
It's a contract and, for some reason, it isn't in the file cabinent with all the other contracts.
"Music Town Franchise Agreement." He reads aloud as he leafs through the stack of papers, "They're turning us into a music town?" He tilts his head and pulls a photo from beneath the contract. It's a rendering of the store's familiar front entrance, the Garrison Records sign replaced with the well known Music Town logo.
"This isn't right," Cas mutters. He stares at the contract and picture in front of him, mind racing. Why is the store being sold? He thought Crowley loved the store? Is this because of Michael? Does Crowley need money?
Cas stares at the stacks of cash sitting on the desk in front of him as an idea begins to take root in his mind. Vegas is a few hours away. All he needs to do is play a couple tables, win a couple times and the store will remain it's lovely self.
"In the immortal words of the Doors," Cas says, dropping the money bag and stuffing the cash into the inner pocket of his leather jacket,"The time to hesitate is through." He grabs his helmet and locks the backdoor, rushing down the sidewalk toward his motorcycle.