Dean glanced at the angel through the rear view mirror, then at his brother. Someone had to say it.
"Soooo." His knowing drawl made Castiel bristle. "You're famous now?"
It all came to light about an hour ago. He and Sam were pursuing their separate routes within a local Detroit mall in order to reach the enemy before they could kill Dean. Castiel had waved a hand, a door unlocking and swinging open at his command, and had appeared on the site of what was expected to be a habitual amount of bloodshed, accompanied by the standard sounds of fists impacting bodies. Instead, he had found… well, he had found this:
The enemy had an arm locked around Dean's neck but was not bothering to paralyze him; Dean wasn't even exploiting this absence of effort; Sam had a clear shot that would glance off a piece of metal and dispatch the enemy from behind, but he too was not taking advantage of the moment.
What all three of them had been focusing on, much to the angel's chagrin, was the poster imprinted on the broadest wall of the empty food court. Indeed, it was his poster.
When he had entered, he garnered all eyes. Then it all went to hell. It begun as a light snorting by the enemy, before their combined amusement ripped open and surged of uproarious laughter.
Eventually, the situation had progressed in its usual manner. They all played their game of verbal badminton, the enemy let slip a few snide remarks about the brothers' miserable lives, before said enemy was then killed and disposed of properly. As they headed back for their motel, Castiel occupied the back seat of the Impala, painfully anticipating the question or remark that was to inevitably transpire at any minute. And when it did, he had of course bristled.
"Now, I'm not much of a Bowie fan," Dean went on, audibly grinning as he switched cassettes, "too showy for my taste – but I think this song has never been more relevant."
Sam shook his head with helpless amusement as "Fame" by David Bowie began to fill the quiet. Dean kept throwing glances into the rear view mirror, awaiting some sort of reaction.
It was already one remark too many. So, Castiel informed them about his situation. Once it was all out in the open, and as they ambled into their motel room, Dean was predictably first to comment.
"I guess it's safe to say that she's ruined your life," he decided, making a beeline for the bathroom.
"I think you're blowing it out of proportion," Sam said carefully, locking the door and casting aside his duffel bag. "First of all, it's a photo, not a video. And it's not like it's a frontal photo either." He turned to him, aiming to look helpful. "Only people who really know you would recognize you. And even still, you'd have to point it out to them. Jimmy's wife might get weird feelings from looking at it, but nothing can prove it's you, not really. You're just some guy in a trench coat with some coincidental wings, staring at…" He frowned, inwardly recalling the photo. "Wait, so they edited out the tree?"
A tired look of exasperation was aimed his way. The absence of the tree was the least of his concerns.
"Are you mad at her?" Dean asked from the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door as he, you know.
"No," Castiel replied, frowning as he wondered why that was. "I'm just finding this all to be … immensely bizarre." He stared down at the floor. The image, seared into his subconscious, was now being projected onto the carpet by memory, like a black dot impeding his vision that would not recede. One detail of his situation tasted especially bitter. "This … tourism campaign … is global."
Sam's smile tightened sympathetically, while Dean's laugh reverberated in the bathroom. "And that, Cas, is why it's so funny!"
He knocked on the Haus of the Über Elitist's backroom doors, which opened after a momentary wait by Audrey.
"You sent me a message, requesting my presence?" he prompted, allowing her to herd him into the backroom. Once inside, only then did he notice her squirrelly demeanor, which, he had to grant, was virtually her regular demeanor sans a smile. She seemed so wound up she couldn't even relax those hands that insisted on being in the air.
After drawing in a mighty gulp of air, she spoke. "Okay, remember how I sold that photo of you for stock and publication?"
At that instant, the FedEx guy moseyed into the room, clipboard in hand.
"Where do you want this?" he asked gruffly, pointing a thumb at the framed poster his men were handling in. Alas, it was his poster, making its rounds. It was haunting him! He was haunting himself!
Audrey, who was blushing like a radish, removed one of her hands, which had moved to cradle her face in chagrin, to signal an empty spot in the room. The men followed her direction. Both hands on her face again, she peered at Castiel.
"How could I forget," he replied flatly.
"Well… it's become a bit of a … thing," she mumbled cryptically, eyes darting.
The way her tone drooped in dismay with the last word was not at all promising. Eyes narrowed, he took an ominous step forward, to which she took a step away from.
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"I don't know!" she cried frantically. "It's – the photo, the composition of the text, the font, the colors, the angle –" She fizzled out into sputtering sounds of inarticulacy. "It's sorta become a sensation!"
"Sensation?"
"Yeah! You know, a fad! A trend!" she fluttered her hands emphatically. "It's gone viral! I mean, it's turned into an internet meme! And, and, andandand Leno mentioned it in his monologue last night, and it was in Letterman's Top Ten list too, and, and, and they even parodied it on Saturday Night Live!" She squeaked out something between a giggle and sob, as though she found this to be tragically hilarious. In deference to him, she clamped a hand over her mouth and contained the rest of that reaction.
The FedEx guy and his men passed them to exit with a generic nod, but all stopped when they scrutinized Castiel. A smirk emerged on the man's face for the first time since entering the room.
"Heeey, this joe looks like —"
"ALRIGHT, THANK YOU, GOODBYE!" yelled Audrey, flailing in what was meant to be a shooing motion until they left. She leaned against the closed doors, recouping her breath and state of mind. When collected, she turned to him, eyes pleading. "I am so sorry! I had no idea this would happen! Like I said, I sold the photo, thinking that, at most, someone might buy it for a corporate presentation or something." She hacked out a laugh that lacked all humor, as though it could decline into a sob at any moment. "I had no idea that the friggin' state of New York would purchase it to promote the city!"
Her mouth opened to apologize again, but it seemed to pain her to look at him as she derived disappointment from his impassive stare. Pressing the balls of her hands to her eyes, she fell back into a waiting desk chair with a ragged moan. He watched her curiously, wondering if she was going to cry. Rarely had he seen her many shades far from cheerful.
"Jeepers –" she lifted her head abruptly, something dawning, "– to think of the profit I would've made." This line of thinking appeared to please her. "Yeah!" She shot from her seat, marching right up to him. "You know, I'm just as much of a victim as you! I could have been famous – an esteemed photographer! Up there with Annie Leibovitz and Anne Geddes!" Her eyes gleamed greedily. "And I could have been rich!" Her brow furrowed, all movements stilling. "Richer." And then they began again. "But still!" Her gaze, now gapingly feverish, flew to him. "So you, mister, can not be mad at me!" She poked him in the chest, "BOO TO YOUR INDIGNATION!" and another poke, "BOO, I SAY!" She raised her fists and began shifting her weight combatively. "Do you wanna fight? Am I making you mad? Do you wanna clobber me? Do you wanna pull my hair? You could try! I fight pretty well for a white girl! COME ON, LET'S GO!"
It took some effort to decide how to respond to that, manifesting eventually in the form of a smile, all the while inwardly recognizing that rare, tingling urge to actually laugh. She was just so delirious.
She threw a punch. He caught her hand. She threw another, he caught her again. Clarity dawned, and her face of bravado broke and she concealed her eyes again. "AARGH! I am losing it!"
"I'm not mad," he finally said.
Her hands dropped. "Really?" A hopeful smile tentatively surfaced. "How are you not? Look," she swept past him, obtaining her purse and rummaging through it, "can I offer you a check? You're entitled to some form of revenue —"
"No, that is not necessary," he shook his head, but she was already scribbling in her checkbook.
"Cas, you can't reject this. Justin Bieber dressed up like you in his new video, so I owe you big." Tearing the check from its spine, she held it out to him. "And even still, this isn't enough."
Despite his spoken refusal, he took the check. "Audrey, I insist you don't —" He read the number. An idea emerged. "Very well," he accepted, tucking it away for later as she carried on with her fluster.
"What was I thinking?" she grated vehemently, raking her fingers through her hair. "I never do that to people!" she chided herself. "I always ask permission first!"
"Is there a reason why you failed to?" he asked, not at all cross but merely curious.
Her regard fired straight to him, eager to pounce on any chance to justify herself. "Because the next day, remember? I was getting photos developed and submitted? I developed one copy for you, and one for my portfolio…" A hesitant smile crept to appearance. "But then I figured it was just too pretty not to submit! And I think I was planning to ask you that night I presented it to you, even though I'd already submitted it and I completely forgot to tell you that I did —" She stopped, short of words to aid her fruitless rationalization, her feverish eyes stilling on him. "HOW ARE YOU NOT MAD?"
"I don't know," he replied evenly. There was a long pause as her turbulent thoughts gradually achieved a calm.
"Well," she mumbled, exhausted, "thank you for not being mad." She moved to pace around, but found she was too exhausted to do that too. "I'm getting out of this one really lucky," she muttered reverently. She peered up at him. "You actually have a strong case against me, you know?" Then, her eyes narrowed. "You're not pretending to not be mad to get this information out of me, are you?"
"No."
She drew closer, eyes narrowing even further as her tone weighed with suspicion. "You could be lying."
"I'm not."
Once she was close enough to make her following question relevant, an arch smile traced her lips as she asked, "Why did you kiss me?"
He blinked down at her in surprise, but quickly deflated. "Why did you reciprocate after renouncing me?"
Her lips pursed, dreading but expecting that question. "Because at that moment," she began, her tone suggesting she was resigned to this reality, "I didn't feel anything wrong about it."
Had the universe released her? Had the universe been intervening in the first place? It didn't matter anymore. She was fully uninhibited now. They both were.
"What does that signify?" he asked lowly. He watched the roguishness seep back into her eyes as her mouth curled up in one corner.
"It means —" She yanked him by the tie and forcibly sent him backwards into the leather desk chair. "– that I am now fully willing —" She hopped on to straddle him. "– to have some fun."
Her lips took his by surprise, momentarily, before they grew mutually frantic in the occurrence of his ambitious response. All he became aware of were her lips on his and those demanding hands of hers; that is, until he was keenly introduced to her equally demanding tongue. He had never grasped the appeal of this kind of contact until now. There certainly was something strangely stimulating about having that added intrusion. Especially, as he was growing to quickly appreciate, when that intrusion moved with such sensual skill. Glide, push, swivel, withdraw. She knew how to coax.
Breath escaped her prematurely, so he detached his lips from hers, both allowing her a breath and securing the upper hand. Just as quickly as they had parted, their lips touched again, trifling with her as his teased and beckoned, never allowing her full attainment. He felt the tug to smile when she grew impatient to his baiting, thumping her fists on his shoulders petulantly until he obliged her.
His hands worked their way down her back of their own accord, but flew to grasp the armrest out of reflex when she pushed against the chair, sending it cruising backwards until it impacted a wall. Her mouth descended to his again, and his whole body jerked when her hand found itself in … an interesting place. He felt her blindly feeling around for the door knob with the intention to lock them in, and he pondered his fate for when that happened. Unfortunately, she wasn't fast enough, and the door opened towards them, temporarily concealing them from the guest until the door swung back to shut.
Jody gave them one look of tired indifference before furthering into the room with sigh. Audrey was still straddling him and his mouth was still on hers, both otherwise motionless, and their eyes monitored Jody as she foraged the room, the chair squeaking comically as it swiveled slowly to follow her movement.
"Audrey, sweetheart, I thought you were resolving it with a cash settlement, not an erotic arrangement," she said, vaguely irritated at either them or having yet to find what she was looking for. "Either both of you "get yours" now –" she delivered to him a pitying look up from the papers she was perusing, "– which would imply terrible, terrible things about your sexual potency –" gaze falling back to the papers, she thrust an arm in the direction of the door she had just emerged from, "– or Audrey, scoot your little tuchus out there and help these schmucks!"
"You do remember that I don't even work here?" she reminded, twisting around in the seat to sit on his lap. "Not really."
Jody cast her a sideways scowl before flouncing right up to them. "Listen galy," she thumped the handful of paper on Audrey's head, "if you don't go out there right now, I'm telling Elphaba here —"
"Elphaba?"
"Yeah." She angled aside to direct a smirk to Castiel. "'Cause your hair is Defying Gravity!"
Audrey smiled blandly. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"
"Since we'd met. Now, as I was saying, if you, honey, do not go out there right now and help Nicky explain to some putz the very clear difference between a seven inch and twelve inch record – a greasy fella who Nicky fears bodes serious risk to his immaculate pores – so help me, I will tell him your middle name."
Castiel felt her seize up completely. Without even turning to him, she scampered out of the room like a frightened mouse. "Bye Cas."
They were left alone, him looking wholly irrelevant in this place without Audrey around, and Jody began to smirk at him. She listed in his direction, and whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
"It's James."
Although he expected it when he appeared in their motel room, he couldn't help but bridle at the taunts, mostly by Dean. Actually, only by Dean. Sam was contributing simply by allowing it to happen.
"Hey there, Lord Liberty!"
"Dean —"
"Mister Manhattan."
"I need to talk to you —"
"Nicholas Knickerbocker of the New York Knicks."
"I will give you ten thousand dollars if you never speak of this again."
Silence. Any impulse to laugh in disbelief was curbed the instant Castiel held out the check. Sam, who had been silently watching from his post at his laptop, promptly stood up and moved next to his brother, both their eyes widening in unison as they discerned the authenticity of it. Finally, in a brisk manner born of shock, Dean took it from the angel's hand and eyeballed it narrowly.
"Okay, seriously – where, how and why?"
"Audrey expressed guilt for what she did, and insisted that I am entitled to it." Then, with some reluctance, "Especially, since it's become … marketable."
"Marketable?" Sam echoed, confused.
For a few seconds, there was silence among them, and filling it was a sound that had eluded their ears until now. It was music coming from the television, to which they all turned their attention to.
A certain Canadian teen heartthrob with his poor excuse for a hairstyle appeared on screen, garbed in Castiel's exact wardrobe, save for the black Converse sneakers, leading his back-up dancers in the choreography, who dressed similarly but with Wayfarer sunglasses (which was absurd, because it was nighttime) and black fedoras. Somewhere in the world, lesbians were fainting.
"Baby, don't chu know you're fine? Tell me that chu will be mine! Hit me up, this city's gonna flock to us, 'cause we're livin' life so divine! Oh! New York City, New–New–New York City —"
An awkward silence had never seemed more appealing to a slack-jawed Castiel as he watched Dean stumble all over the place with laughter, while Sam, who laughed initially, was now struggling in vain to get rid of the amusement on his face. The angel fixed the elder Winchester with a withering look.
"Dean. Ten thousand dollars," he reminded sharply.
Dean's grin was willfully unhelpful. "Six pack of beer? Seven dollars. Four new tires for my car? Four hundred dollars. Taunting an angel and his fifteen minutes of fame? Priceless." He wallowed in his own wit for a moment, before flicking a finger against the check and pocketing it. "But I'll take your money anyway."
With a resigned sigh, the angel vanished from the room without further word.
"You're such a bully," Sam muttered, smiling as he returned to his laptop.
"Part of my charm," Dean sighed, as though finding it exhausting. After a sip of beer, he nodded towards the laptop. "Find anything?"
"Not sure, what do you think of this – muffins that make people inflate like balloons."
Pause. "Don't all muffins do that, if you eat enough of them?"
He ignored the stupid question that was obviously, hopefully a joke. "Says here that Oprah actually ate one a couple of weeks ago on air while she was interviewing Gordon Ramsay, and had to be literally rolled off the stage. And this homeless woman gave a statement – here, come watch this."
Pressing play, they watched as the Cat Lady made incoherent caveman-like noises to the camera. Apparently it made sense to a translator out there since she was given English subtitles.
"Some guy in a Starbucks uniform came up to me and offered me the day's surplus of muffins, to which I obviously accepted. I let my cats enjoy them first and before I knew it, they were the shape of beach balls, rolling down the *censored* street!"
When guerrilla footage of just that appeared, Dean snorted with laughter. "They're like furry little tumbleweeds." He twirled his beer bottle thoughtfully. "Has anyone actually gotten hurt from this?"
"It says here the effect is not fatal or painful, but could lead to dangerous situations. One guy actually did die after eating the muffin on a high rise construction property, and he rolled right off the edge, falling two hundred and fifty feet."
"Damn."
"So what do you think?" Sam queried, stretching back on the chair. "I'm thinking witchcraft here." Something catching his eye, he briskly hunched forward again. "Oh, and it also says here that similar cases have occurred with cupcakes, quiches, cookies, tarts and pies."
The bottle twirling stopped. "Pies? We're in," he tipped the bottle in approval.
Sam frowned at first, but then smiled wanly. "You know this means you can't eat any of them, right?"
Dean fixed him with his most profound of looks. "You can still appreciate a good pie with your nose, Sammy. Where is this case?"
After a quick scan, Sam nodded back with surprise. "Huh." Smiling a little, he looked to Dean, who prompted him with expectant look. "Manhattan, New York."
I recently read a spoiler that Mark Sheppard (Crowley) is going to guest star on Doctor Who. OMFG. Shaking and crying.
BTW, to Leila, one of my many lovely unregistered reviewers: yes, there was a Mean Girls reference in the last chapter. My best friend and I quote that line all the time. ALL THE TIME.
Read and review :D
