Welcome to the first chapter of "All In One Basket"! I hope you enjoy your stay and are pleased with your read - please review, it makes me oh-so-happy! I do not own Supernatural or it's characters - but I do own this story! This chapters song is called Rocks and Water by Deb Talan.
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His leather sole shoes made a terrible racket as they clamored over the low set planks of the simple bridge. His laces, untied like always, dipped softly in the cold water that smelled faintly foul - vegetation and the like swimming against it's current to create an awful colored green. But he didn't mind the scent, taking a huffed breath of the cold morning that still shook the leaves with Septembers early chill. It was perfect at this time, this moment - when his face was tight with cold and his black hair that he was told he got from his Daddy, unfurled messily in the wind.
These moments, it didn't so much as elate him as it contented him.
During the dawn, when the darkness was chased away by red and then yellow and then peach, it was marvelous. When the mockingbird sang at it's branch of hawthorn, and the trout made noisy splashes in the rivers that swirled all around the little sleepy whistle-stop town - it was wonderful. This little settlement nestled between thick oak and pine trees and swamps that stank to high heaven was the best place in his mind for one to get their fill of God's green earth.
It was this time when Castiel had his thoughts all to himself. To contemplate the last book he read - Madame Bovary, which was an invigorating read, but still made him shudder with bleak nerves -, or to think about how the sky was so blue right before night, why the robin hopped away from his feet instead of flew, or, even more importantly - what he was to do with his Saturday afternoon.
He was often plagued with these terribly trying thoughts that swam around his sixteen - soon to be seventeen - mind.
These thoughts were of great importance and he was not one to shoo away their persistent nagging in the back of his mind. His summer was almost gone, in the blink of an eye and he needed to cram it full with all kinds of activities before he was stuffed back inside those hot cramped school rooms where the teachers of the South still took rulers to your hands and pinched your face. All in the name of schooling.
He sucked at his cheek, feet hopping off the splintered wood of the creeks bridge to sink into the cold soil of the earth.
He half wished he had kept his shoes at home - the wet Alabama dirt feeling mighty fine between his toes - but his Daddy would be seeing red if he heard that his youngest son was running around the town shoeless. Castiel was raised better, and he should know better - his Daddy would tell him with a firm switch to the back of his legs.
Castiel frowned, holding the wire handle to the egg basket harder in his fist. He had no want to get another lashing by his father or his older brother. He could behave, he knew he could. So he would bear the horribly itchy woolen socks on his feet and the thick soled shoes that caked with mud too easily.
He hated these shoes.
Sticking out his lower lip in a sorry excuse for a pout, he picked up his feet and started to hop and run over tree roots that up heaved themselves from the earth - some of the pines and oaks old enough to have been alive during the coming of Christ way off in Jerusalem - or so Michael always told him on Sunday evenings.
Castiel wasn't sure he believed his older brother, but it was an awe inspiring thought anyway, and it made his legs run faster, quicker through the trees that provided shade from the still burning sun above. The trees made him edgy. As if warriors of God lurked above their branches.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, banishing that way of thinking, the sun making his pale face burn more than his wild imagination.
It may be early September, but Lord was it hot.
Mindful of the heat, the youngest of the Novak's, cradling the basket to his chest, finally sprinted through a few bushes of boxwood to find himself on the dusty road of the main street.
The Damn town only had four lanes to it's name, but what busy streets they were - ones that Castiel could call home.
The young man had to maneuver himself quite carefully in order to not find himself squashed into the shiny grates of the Cadillac's that shone as black as a crows wings, or to not bump into the ladies carrying molasses and sugar in one arm and a babe in the other.
He waved to the boys at the steps of the barber shop who were in uniform, waiting for their turn at a shave or a short haircut, olive green hats in their hands.
He nodded his head to the horse drawn buckboard that brought in the Alfalfa and Cotton from Singers Plantation and Junk Yard, the old man atop his seat nodded to Castiel as the boy went by, his weathered old lips sucking at his pipe.
He ran and he waved and he smiled, feeling at ease with these people who knew him since he was in cloth dippers at his Mamma's skirts.
The black haired boy, however, was also especially careful to not accidentally drop his parcel, which Anna had given to him to deliver to the good people of Samuel, as she was a bit vexed with all the other orders of stock to deal with. Receipts a mile long she had said.
And, being the good little brother that he was, he gladly scooped up the wire basket of eggs that his sister had placed on the cool and shiny glass countertops of their families General store.
After he left the pretty red steps of the store and made his way - the long route through the thickets of abandoned black walnut groves and springs - he had himself along the streets that stung faintly of far off grilling meat and the exhaust of the cars that were steadily milling their engines through the gravel.
Yet, plenty soon, Castiel found himself at the first door on his stop.
Taking the brass knocker in the shape of a big mean looking dog between his fingers, he knocked it three times along the smoky colored wood of the door.
Biting his lip he tried not to cower - for the first person on his order list, was Mr. Crowley.
The man had a funny way of talking - and none too Christian like, either.
He swore with more ferocity than a man whipping a lazy mule. He was curt, smelled like old expensive whiskey and had a thing for threatening people with his Hell Hounds. Castiel Hated him intensely.
His Daddy didn't like to do business with him either, but Crowley was what some would say filthy stinking rich, and liked to buy his fathers goods - especially the expensive dog kibble they kept in the back of the store.
Their families relationship with the man was strained, but civil none the less. Crowley made fun of Jimmy Novak's little market behind his back, but he always came back with wads of cash for his daily needs. Tobacco, liquor and dog food.
Anna often joked that the kibble was for him and the dogs drank the whiskey.
Yet how ever much they joked it still didn't mean the littlest Novak had ever stopped his insistent fear of waiting on the Scottish mans door step to fill orders.
But all too soon the grating noise of locks being undone, of chains being unlinked, caused the blue-eyed young man to stiffen in his place, hands sweaty where they clutched the cold metal of the basket.
"'S about bloody time, runt! You do realize that people usually have their breakfast, oh - I don't know - before the Goddamn noon sun!" Came a raspy hiss that was dipped in an accent so thick it almost made Castiel laugh - though he didn't dare. He did not need Mr. Crowley's hounds let loose on him - no, he'd like to keep all his limbs, thank you.
"Sorry, sir. I have your order right here." He meekly spoke, digging out of his pocket a little crumpled paper typed neatly in ink from their cash register.
Crowley, beady eyes and all, snatched it away from pale fingers and squinted at it for a second before nodding. He held out his hands lazily.
"Right then, hand 'em over. Runt." He mumbled, accepting the four eggs that Castiel passed to him with shaky fingers before. After the transaction was made and done the door was slammed in his face abruptly - a few dimes and quarters dropped to the floor.
At least the Demon-like man tipped well.
Grumbling, Castiel got on his knees and picked up the coins and pocketed them, saving a dime for himself to buy some two cent bubble-gum later should the mood strike him. Maybe a vanilla-cherry pop, too.
…
His next stop was much more friendly, more to his liking than mean old Crowley.
Making his way to a small little restaurant, black-eyed-Susan's and yarrow dotting the front of it in mix-matched pots, he knocked politely on the glass windowed doors. His feet began shifting back and forth from excitement.
In a matter of seconds he saw the curtains to the right of him draw back for a bit, before they were slid back in place and the sharp sound of a key docking into a lock gave weigh for the door to pull open. A smile greeted him, reaching to eyes warmer than an Angels.
"Castiel! I see you're doing Anna's routes for the day?" Ellens' voice was a bit raspy from always chatting with her patrons and taking sips of her rattlesnake whiskey, but she always had a kind word or smile for Castiel and he loved seeing her before the restaurant opened when he could. Early in the mornings was the best, before the crowd shook through the establishment.
"Yes'm. Maybe longer than today - she's mighty busy at the store." Castiel shyly spoke, catching the movement of two other people within the darken building.
Ash and Jo lingered behind their Mamma, both peering curiously at Castiel.
It was no wonder that everybody - at least adults - were kind to him, he being always quiet and attentive, singing in the church choir and helping his siblings with chores. He was a good boy, never did no one no harm.
But what he gained in admiration from the adults, he lacked in favor from kids his own age.
Oh, he wasn't picked on too badly. Occasionally being 'accidentally' pushed in the mud, or having stinging nettles stuck to his clothes - but it made making friends a hell of a lot of trouble.
So Castiel mostly just wandered along on his own, save for a few acquaintances. Ellens Children being some of the closest people he could safely call his friends.
So, when her son and daughter did show themselves behind their Mamma, Castiel gave them a right nice smile and nodded his head as Ellen checked over the receipt to make sure everything was in good order.
Ash, his mouth filled with bubblegum, gave a lazy nod back to the Novak child before leaning against the wooden door frame that creaked softly. He began to play with the closed sign in his fingers.
Jo smiled though, a pretty flash of teeth. Castiel nodded back good naturedly, noting that her straw colored hair was ratty in it's place atop her head. He knew for a fact she never brushed it - not with comb or fingers. She always said there was no point to when it would always just get all messed again.
He liked Ellens Kids, They always had such funny things to say.
When it was time to give her the eggs, a dozen and a half, to help feed the uproar of customers that would surely clamor to the restaurant at noon, she smiled at Castiel. Shooing her eldest, Ash, she sent him to go and get a slice of pie for the littlest Nokvak as a thank you for his hard work. She gestured to the fresh pie, in the pretty glass container that gleamed like polished quartz.
Castiel thanked Mrs. Ellen nice and kindly for her generosity - asking if he could have the pie wrapped up in a napkin for later as his father would be angry at him for eating sweets before breakfast.
She nodded, smile still in place before she hollered over her shoulder for Ash to bring it in a few wraps of pearly colored napkins. Once her words were met with a grunt of acknowledgement from Ash, she turned to her daughter, dropping each one into Jo's own waiting basket - egg after egg gently wrapped with soft straw so not one would crack and become useless.
When Ash came back with the pie - cold apple topped with cinnamon, smelling devilishly good, Castiel thanked her and her children again and went on his way.
The pie he stuck carefully and delicately atop the wedge of free space on his basket, careful to not break off a crumb. Ellen spent time and love into making her pies, and he was much appreciative to have been given just one heavenly slice.
Once the pastry was tucked nice and safely in the basket he trotted happily to his next stop.
Rufus, who had ordered three eggs, open the door smelling sweet with peach tobacco and a hint of leather oil. It made Castiel smile, the scent a lovely mix to his nose.
After giving the man a kind word and a good morning, he left him with his order and his receipt, marching off to his next house - ignoring the stares from white folks as he left the old mans property.
God fearing Christians they said they were - but Castiel saw them, on some Sunday nights dressed up in sheets of white and burning wood till the whole night sky was heavy with smoke.
He knew them by their shoes - the size fourteen clod hoppers was Mr. Zachariah's, the soft leather moccasins belonged to Alistair, work boots to Andy's twin brother. Castiel knew most of them and took well to avoid them men on the street.
It took him a good few months of struggling to understood why they did the things they did. Anna had taken him into her lap when he was young and explained that some folks were just plain hateful and ignorant of what they feared or didn't understand. They were wrong for it and would pay for their crimes in eternal damnation, she had told him with a firm nod.
So, swinging his basket at his side, Castiel whistled an old railroad song, paying no mind to those folks who glared at him slightly.
If they didn't like how his Daddy ran his store, accepting customers Black and White - then they could just sit on their rockers with snarls and brood like old hens without an egg. Castiel wouldn't give them the time of day.
On he went, to Bella's house to give her six eggs, Chuck his three, and Lisa and her son Ben their four.
By the time he was done, his shoes were caked with a first layer of mud and a second of street dust, yellow and pale. It made him sneeze as he kicked at their sides against a log - flecks of dirt flying everywhere.
But, he was still left with three eggs in his netted basket, a brown one and two whites and a napkin wrapped pie. Castiel knew exactly whom to give them and the pastry to. He grinned then, holding his head high as he made the trek to the very edge of town, where alley cat's growled and you could surely find the road littered with old caved in slaughter houses or porches growing weeds and sage brush.
He had been doing this a long time - traveling here whenever he could.
Whenever Anna or Gabriel were too busy keeping shop to go and send out orders themselves - bottles of milk, jars of pickled cucumbers, dried apples or sacks of flour - Castiel would always offer to help in any way that he could. He was a good brother - at least, partly.
He would pack his wire basket high with the days orders, trousers stuffed with receipts and a small little pencil that he would use to mark up any mistakes should their be any on the orders.
But he didn't always take the correct number of items in stock to deliver.
No, he always took more.
He didn't think of it as stealing - only as borrowing without the intent to give back. He knew it was somewhat of a sin - okay, a big sin, if his brother had anything to say about it. But he had to do it, he just had to.
He had long ago dealt with the guilt of sneaking off with one more apple than was needed, or stuffing a tin of tobacco under his shirt, always being careful not to be seen.
If he was caught, he would have to confess, and if he had to confess he would put those who he was giving these goods to in jeopardy. Castiel would never do that. He wasn't a double crosser - wasn't a tattle-tale.
He was needed way too much to get caught though. He had a job to fulfill.
He was on a mission from God.
His feet scrunched over cracked dirt that was thirsty from lack of rain in the past weeks. He ran over dead grass and stocky bushes that had never seen a pair of shears to a sorry looking shack. The outside had rotted softly from the onslaught of winter and spring rains, of the dry winds that ran through these parts in July and from the baking sun that destroyed everything in it's path.
Castiel walked up onto the porch easily, wincing as a fat rat scattered away to the left to crawl under the structure from harms way.
He didn't flinch at the sight of the rodent - points for him.
Sighing to catch his breath, he softly rapped on the door - the wood already splintering from the weather - holes peeking into darkness that was nice and cool.
No one opened the door, it's frame standing ghostly still.
Biting his lip, fearing the worst, Castiel tried again.
He knocked a bit louder.
"Dean - Dean, it's me - it's Cas." Castiel spoke, using his nickname that only two people knew and only one of them used. It was a code of sorts, a sense of familiarity that Castiel held dear to him. He had never loved a nickname more.
All the sudden the door shook under his fingers and Cas pulled away, eyes wide as the darkness staggered back to show a few shadows - long stalks of wood piled high in the house for winter fuel, cobwebs gracefully edged along the corners like pretty lace doilies - the sharp scent of a tobacco pipe burning. The splinters of red embers at his face - the smell of sweet hickory and earth.
Eyes, edged with almost tan eyelashes emerged from the solid weight of coal blackness, the white crescent of a grin accompanying the face to which it belonged to.
Eyes as green as the saw grass at the river banks was the last thing Castiel thought before his shirt collar was grabbed by warmth that smelled like dirt, and then he was being pulled, shaken, and sunken into the darkness of the house.
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