New York Public Library. Wednesday, 7:04PM. A time for local college students to take advantage of the library's extended hours. Them, and Professor.

And apparently, Castiel, too, who entered the famed Rose Main Reading Room, spotted Professor at a table nearby and progressed to him. His shadow stretched over Professor's back and, suspecting the angel's presence, he froze under it. Twisting around in his seat to confirm, the chair screeched obnoxiously when he jolted from it, wobbled his knees to the floor and proceeded to bow down to him.

"Oh my God," he choked out as he did this, "I–I mean to say, oh my messenger of God! Divine being – paragon o–of virtue —!"

Loath to the growing attention they was garnering, Castiel firmly took him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

"Stop that," he growled quietly, steering him back into his seat, "Sit down." Taking the seat opposite him, he folded his hands on the table in a show of profound gravity. "What have you decided?"

Sighing, Professor pinched away his glasses to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. "I don't have a clue, I really don't." Replacing them on the bridge of his nose, he gestured slackly towards the jumble of books between them. "I honestly thought some insight w–would come with reading the Bible and, and brushing up on Christianity and God, but I'm scattered, completely scattered." His mouth opened and closed abruptly, reining back the urge to gratuitously enlarge on that, before donning a conflicted look. "I–I know you said I don't owe Him anything, but I feel like I should do something."

"This is why we refrain to be forthcoming about our existence," Castiel said grimly, "A misplaced sense of obligation would rise in mankind. A sense so great that it is liable to plague." His sternness eased a fraction. "Again, I apologize for bringing this upon you, but you mustn't define yourself with God." The faintest smile appeared. "That's our job."

"A–and what about mine? How could I possibly educate wh–when I now have an argument for much bigger things?"

"Faith is not an argument. Science and faith are mutually exclusive. You must grow to adjust." In the silence that followed, he was privy to only the doubts he could see boiling behind Professor's eyes, so he pressed on, seeking to bring that boil to a clarifying calm. "Difficult as it may be to carry on with your life as though still unsuspecting of our existence, it must be done."

Professor's mouth pulled with reluctant agreement, humming acknowledgment finally.

Detecting detachment in that response, Castiel's eyes narrowed. "This is no exaggeration," he said sharply, succeeding to restimulate focus in Professor, "You must act as though you've never known at all. If the worst were to happen and, say, your mother and father were to be critically injured, you cannot call for me and demand assistance." When Professor swallowed a lump in his throat, finally realizing the burden of all this, he added definitively, "Unless it were in God's will for them to live, my hands are tied."

It was instantly apparent that Professor knew this to be right yet groped for a way to avoid vocally admitting it, but to no avail. "Fine," he muttered, soft but loaded with shame.

As a small sign of gratitude, Castiel dipped his head slightly, but the grace of the move was tarnished when his eyes flicked aside, a flash of red earning his charm and reducing all solemnity. Oh no. Not here. Not now. She was his greatest distraction. He just couldn't escape her, could he? Professor, noticing the change, followed his gaze, but then swiftly looked away.

"I can't let her see me like this!" Professor squeaked, shuffling books about as if it would help any, before he simply pointedly avoided looking in her direction. Castiel, however, reacted differently.

Something rolled in the pit of his stomach (and perhaps further down) at the mere sight of her, and he seemed to inflate with anticipation. The last time he had seen her – about three days ago – she had, well, been in a position that catered to his comfort. And it had been … like nothing he had ever felt before. Wondrous. Magnificent. Transcendent. Alike to benediction. Beyond words a thesaurus could provide. And dammit if he wasn't determined to seek out that feeling again.

Of course, at the time, he had been unable to vocalize his sentiments as she had abandoned him straight after, but not before giving him a kiss on the lips that would normally be described as chaste, but considering what that pretty little mouth had just been doing —

"Look away!" Professor hissed when the angel did not immediately follow his attempts of inconspicuousness. Castiel stared on. "Look – away!"

"I can't," he murmured, enraptured. Clarity was slipping away fast and he blissfully allowed it to happen. Who knew the mind was the greatest erogenous zone?

As though hooked and reeled in by his regard, she turned in their direction, starting a bit when she spotted them. She approached their table, and by now, Professor was reluctantly inclined to acknowledge her presence. An uncertain little smile was offered back and forth between them.

"Hi. I, uh, didn't know you two actually hung out."

"W–we don't!" Professor blurted, but hastily recoiled, "Not… really. W–we just, ah, we just bumped into each other and, er, now he's teaching me all about, uh, you know, religion, and … stuff."

She squinted skeptically. "Uh huh. Oh, how's that existential crisis going?" she asked glibly, "Still planning on resigning from your prestigious teaching position to emulate Silas from The Da Vinci Code?"

Word must have gotten out and reached her about this, which, one would think, especially given her snide tone, would fluster Professor, but instead only irked him.

"Excuse you, Audrey," he replied prissily, "b–but I have seen the light, or, uh, more precisely, the light came to me and removed the black spots of Atheism that have encompassed my eyes and starved my prefrontal cortex for far – too – long!"

Castiel broke away from the trance he had indulged himself in to throw Professor a dry look, which was quick to waver under Audrey's incredulous regard.

"What have you done to him?" she asked, partly in jest. Before he could reply, she pivoted around, searching the room. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Castiel asked.

"My dad," she absently replied, before fixing impassioned attention onto him. "I am so glad I ran into you! Now you can meet him!" His initial reaction was that of dread, but the sudden reemergence of that gleam in her eye – the very gleam seen in them those days before – denied him a moment to weather it. "And since I don't plan on doing this in front of my father later —" Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him lewdly, with lips, teeth and lots and lots of that achingly clever tongue … was she deliberating being evocative of that incident? Without a doubt.

After ripping away from him, she casually sashayed out the room the way she came. Castiel, who had had trouble keeping pace that time, sat there motionless; near-expressionless on the outside, inflamed hunger on the inside. Clarity hit hard when, within his dizzying reverie, his gaze wandered onto Professor.

Gaping like a fish that was being suffocated, Professor's hands quivered up to illustrate before he even starting speaking. "What … in the name of the Knights who say Ni … was that?" He allowed no beat for a reply. "A–are you allowed to, uh, to engage in, in, in such congress with a human? Or, more importantly, does she even know about you?"

As they usually did whenever this was broached, his eyes lowered with guilt. "No." He peered up at him gravely. "I would appreciate it if you didn't tell her."

Professor blinked owlishly at him, and though he didn't overtly agree to that, he sighed, "If there was one aspect of humanity I wished you could understand, it would be this British television series from the seventies called Fawlty Towers. That way, you'd, ah, get an idea of how lying to sustain another lie to sustain another and so forth," as he rose to his feet, he closed with a shrewd look, "never ends harmoniously." He was leaving, but first, he smiled sympathetically at him. "Let this be a trial run, Castiel. However way you handled my situation, maybe you can do better when you tell her."

And with a tight, cynical smile, Professor turned and left the room. As he retreated, polite glances were exchanged with Audrey, who reentered and strode towards Castiel.

"Daddy's in the map room. He'll be there for a while. He loooves maps." She took his hand, drawing him to his feet. "Come with me, you. I wanna find a book."

His mind was elsewhere as she towed him upstairs, to the balconies which framed and overlooked the entire reading room. Understandably so; he could not view Audrey without it going in that direction of which she chose to take on him those days ago: down. Once she let go of his hand to rifle through the bookshelves, he spoke.

"Audrey."

"Yeeeah?"

Lingering at the corner as she browsed, he asked, "Are we not going to discuss what happened?"

Although she didn't look at him, there was the tiniest lift at the corners of her lips. "What's there to discuss? I went down my knees and worshiped at the altar – I'm not denying it. Why?"

When he didn't reply immediately, he expected her to look at him, but she didn't. At length, he gingerly answered, "I feel obligated to you on some level."

The tiniest lift became a full smirk. "That's a given, Cas," she eyed him obliquely, tone darkening, "I have yet to get mine. When we have some alone time, you may remedy that little dilemma," even her oblique gaze darkened similarly, her words slowing for him to feel the heavy weight of suggestion, "in any way … you see fit."

He watched her break away from that deeply implicated exchange to dip into another shelf. She was such a minx, and she knew it. Up until then, he had been contentedly submissive to her. Allowed the astute part of his mind to rest from its toils on the battlefield, and male sensibility to take over. She knew of his desire and lorded it over him. Gabriel was right. But. He, having "mentally probed" her some time ago, knew very well of her own desire too. So … why couldn't he play around with it, likewise? It was only fair. Oh, she had shaped herself a very, very powerful opponent.

"We're alone now."

She stilled. Hesitantly, her head turned to him over her shoulder, finding him already closing the distance between them, eyes glowing with a challenge being met. She smiled tamely.

"Castiel…" Though she demurred lamely, she was little adverse to when he touched her shoulder, motivating her to face him, and when she did, he gripped the sides of her face with both hands and brought her close, but not at their lips. Instinctively, the closeness compelled her to kiss him, but he curved his head, not indulging. He himself could feel his eyes dancing with something resembling flirtatiousness when she scowled up at him moodily, his face still a mere whisper from hers.

This was child's play compared to what she did the other day, but it achieved the desired effect nonetheless and proved that he had just as much of a pull over her as she did on him.

Walking her backwards into a shadowed corner, he decided to meet one of the more unusual demands he had extracted from her mind. His lips breathed hotly down to her neck, locating the coveted position, and then he bit her. She became liquid in his hands (oh, the irony), practically swooning into him as she muffled a moan into his chest. Her head kneaded anxiously into him, wordlessly coaxing for more of his attention, but when something somehow managed to catch her eye through the mist, she shoved him away like a broken toy.

"I found it!" she intoned triumphantly, pulling out a book within reach. His initial intention was to resume activity as he closed in on her, but his desire abated when he noted her sudden melancholy.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, watching her stroke the cover of the book plaintively.

Cradling it, she peered up at him sadly. "I wish I was a kid again."

His gaze fell to the book, having yet to glimpse the title and wondering what could have prompted this change of mood. "Why?"

She fixed him with a searching gaze. "Do you like being an adult?"

"I've never given it considerable thought." Because he technically wasn't one at all.

"You don't miss being a kid?" she asked, unconvinced, before glowering, "I hate responsibility. For everything! I just wanna have fun, you know? I don't want to handle hundreds of different types of insurance, I don't want to pay for bills and taxes and fees, I don't want to sign official documents, I don't want to vote in elections —"

"You want to do whatever you please," he concluded.

Ambling toward him, she smiled sheepishly. "I know that sounds selfish, but if I could have that freedom I would never ever ask for anything more, ever again. These days, people live their lives, trying to climb to the top, however high they've set their goal … and I just wanna float." She stood before him, sheepish smile still in effect, as if acknowledging herself how silly she sounded. Again, his gaze fell to the book in her clutches, and gently removed it from her. Peter Pan.

"I wish Neverland was real," she sighed wistfully, looping her arm through his in their usual way, and navigating them around to face the window, of which she pointed out of. "Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning!" she quoted merrily. A bashful smile. "You know, when I grew up, all the girls wanted to live out the quintessential fairytale. They may not admit it, but however unconventional their fantasies were, the notion of meeting someone perfect and living happily ever after is essentially what they wanted." A nod towards the book in his hands. "My dreams took to Peter Pan. I didn't wanna grow up. Still don't. I just want to," she made a sinuous gesture, "exist happily. In Neverland."

Existing forever in a different reality? Sounded familiar. "Perhaps Heaven could substitute."

Her eyes narrowed at him, not suspiciously but studiously. "I think … Neverland was like J. M. Barrie's version of Heaven. I mean, it's up in the sky, for starters, you can do whatever you want, and never grow old. And don't get me started on fairies. I think those were his understudies for angels." At this, Castiel gave the book in his hand the side-eye. "Maybe he was a devout Christian? That would explain the line, "I do believe in fairies! I do, I do!" Replace "fairies" with "angels" and you got yourself a raging declaration of religious belief."

"And," he began with caution, doing his utmost not to seem too pressing with his question, "do you believe in fairies?"

Her lips puckered contemplatively. "I'd like to. I'd have to meet one first."

Damn. That shifted responsibility onto him again. He frowned adversely at her. "Was it not of the author's intention to glorify the fact that one does not have to see things to believe in them?" he asked with a near-disdainful air. Her eyes stirred, but no thoughts moved with them. He pressed on, "Why is it so difficult for you to believe in Heaven? In your judgment, isn't Neverland just as fictional as Heaven? Why would you want to believe one more than the other?"

Her head bobbed back and forth, recognizing this to be a sound point. "Because … I guess I grasp more on to Neverland because I know its creator existed."

"That does not make Neverland any more real."

"But God," she hesitated, contrite with her words but otherwise not knowing how else to explain herself, "isn't real … so the whole concept of Heaven," and she knew this would sting, "… is a lie."

"So is Neverland," he countered, an edge rising in his tone.

"In this case, there is a line between fiction and a lie. It's a fine line but it's there. Peter Pan is fiction, made out to be fiction … God and all his glory is a lie, made out to be the most important thing in all of existence." Not wanting to see his response for that, she shut her eyes and shook her head, clearing further thought. "Let's stop right here before we start kicking dirt in each other's faces."

The scowl that had crept onto his face ebbed away as he gazed down at the book in his hands, studying its covers. "What is this about?"

Her face lurched with incredulity. "You've never read Peter Pan?" A shake of his head. She took the book back, opening it to an illustration. "It's a story about a boy who can fly and never grows up."

His eyes darted at these details. "Is he an angel?"

When asked this, she paused in her idle perusal of the pages. "Uh-hum, no," she chuckled, amused by this, but sobered when an afterthought hit her, "Actually, I'm not sure what he is. I think he's human," she mused, knitting her brow, "Ran away from home or something and then met Tinkerbell –" she snapped back into focus, flicking through pages and stopping on another illustration, "– who is his fairy friend. Peter's everlasting childhood is spent in a place called Neverland –" she indicated a picture of Peter Pan pointing to the sky, and then did so herself, "and there he is the leader of a gang called the Lost Boys. At night, Peter frequents the Darling household to listen in on the bedtime stories Mrs. Darling would tell her children, John, Michael and of course," she beamed, clearly partial to the next character, "Wendy! One night, he's spotted, and he loses his shadow when he tries to escape."

"It's impossible to lose your shadow."

"It's a kid's story, bear with it," she waved a hand dismissively. She continued, "When he came back another night to retrieve it, he accidentally wakes Wendy, who then reattaches his shadow for him. It's then learned that Wendy knows of many bedtime stories, so Peter invites her to Neverland, to play mother to the Lost Boys."

He eyed the book critically. "That is a strange story."

"I find it strangely romantic," she replied, smiling unabashedly, "A magical boy from the skies, in a way, always watching over you," she enthused, embracing the book to her chest and gazing, starry-eyed, up and out the window, "who then whisks you away in the dead of night to a magical place." She sideways caught his eye and grinned. "It's so cute, because he's so naive. Wendy offers to give him a kiss, and do you know what he does?"

"What?"

"He holds out his hand! So, instead, she puts a thimble in his hand. Then, "thimble" becomes a euphemism for a kiss." She smiled fondly and distantly at this, then at him.

Magical boy from the "magical place" in the "sky" who could take to the air? Always watching over a human girl? Leader of a "gang"? Naive? This was awkward.

Startling him in the lull, the book snapped shut as that gleam in her eye reappeared. "Now," she tucked the book under her arm and checked her nonexistent wristwatch, "we are going to meet the man of whom I am the genetic offspring of. Let's keep this PG rated," she told him as she adjusted his tie, "My father's gonna love you." She guided him back down the stairs and headed for the main hall.

"Audrey."

"Castiel?" she echoed.

"If I recall correctly, you've already introduced me to your father. As your friend."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, he totally thinks you're just my friend, so, restrain yourself."

"That instruction is ironic when it emerges from you."

Rounding the corner towards the elevator, she stopped him with a kiss on the lips. "Don't sass me tonight, Castiel, I find that sexy."

All vestiges of unease left him the moment they entered the library's Map Division and stumbled upon her father, who seemed to have as much of a penchant for tweed suits as Audrey did for jazzy miniskirts, showing off to the giggling, middle-aged clerks his surviving ability to perform the shopping cart dance move of the eighties. Inevitably, Audrey had to fall heir to someone's eccentricity.

"Daddy?" she called, capering into the room with the angel in tow, "This," she gently brought him forward, then thrust him the rest of the way, "is Castiel."

With great ceremony, Castiel said, "It's an honor to meet you."

For five solid seconds, her father beset him with a dubious eye, before exploding like a balloon with an energy he hadn't expected him to show.

"CASTIEL!" he raved, throwing his hands in the air and landing them on the angel's shoulders, mystifying him even more than he already was, "Such a regal beauty of a name you possess, Castiel! A thing of fantasy novels, it is! If I hadn't been so patently stable enough to have shown these lovely ladies my inner Baryshnikov, I would have believed you to be a mere pigment of my imagination!"

"I believe the correct phrase is "figment of my imagination"."

"D'oh, yes, of course, of course. Though, dare I say, pigment sounds abundantly more poetic, wouldn't you agree?" His arm wreathed around the angel's shoulder, while the other flourished about in the air illustratively. "You, Castiel, epitomize a lone pigment of the proverbial rainbow that is I, James Walter Hathaway; a rainbow encompassing such brilliant, rich and admittedly vaguely boastful colors such as Clever Crimson, Witty White, Eccentric Emerald, and let's not forget that dashing Gregarious Green! Why, these colors constitute the very palette of a cunning fox's ejected stomach matter!"

In any other situation, Castiel would have immediately suspected a case of spirit possession. Since this old English oddity was Audrey's progenitor – with double any peculiarities she may have inherited from him; the Xenophilius to her Luna – this was all understandable, but nonetheless startling. Walter seemed to sense this internal response and released his hold of him, humbly stepping away.

"I do apologize, I have an awful habit of striking terror into most. I find it hard to refrain from being my usual rather startling, prattling, incredibly handsome self," his rueful expression was quick to grow sly when he glanced at Audrey, who smiled indolently at him. A second later, he was hustling them to sit at a table, him facing the pair of them ("Come, come!"), and was swift to commence what felt, to Castiel, like interrogation.

"Now, I do actually have one question readied for you, and worry not, I've asked this very same question to every single boy my Audrey has met since she was knee high to a pig's eye and befriended a young Spencer appropriately-surnamed Pratt." He pulled a theatrically grim face at Audrey. "Shan't be having another little fluff up like that again, hm?"

A dutiful shake of her head. "Nooope."

"You'd be amazed how often you Americans answer this incorrectly: what are the four countries of the United Kingdom?"

"England, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales," Castiel answered.

Walter reeled back a little. "My word, answered without so much of a blink!" The smile that had been faint now stretched from ear to ear. "You must be one of the brighter crayons in the box!"

"I'm not a crayon."

He guffawed, head thrown back. For someone nearing sixty, he had a lot of verve. "Oh, my word," he sighed, wiping away a tear before springing back to focus. "Ooh! That's a rather dapper looking trench coat you're sporting there. Wherever did you get it?"

"A closet."

He laughed harder. "Delightfully clever and a laugh! Audrey, you ought to court this boy. I encourage it!"

"Daddy," she demurely brushed her hair behind her ear, "you're embarrassing me."

"Oh, tish and pish to your chagrin, my dear," Walter playfully dismissed, "So! Castiel! Are you at all fond of maps?"

The abrupt change in topic threw him off for a second. "I don't hold an opinion of them."

"Ah. Well, I think maps are brilliant," Walter enthused, grinning, "Up there with sliced bread, if I may be so bold to say. It could be because that I have a tremendous passion for travel and —"

All focus abandoned him the moment he felt Audrey's hand creep into his lap under the table. So much for restraining herself. Eyes full of questions, he made an attempt to look at her without turning his head, finding her still paying close attention to whatever her father was saying. When nothing further occurred, he supposed she was just being affectionate, and after a minute, her hand retreated.

Somehow along the way, the conversation had already taken some erratic turns.

"— the most outrageous pair of trousers I'd bought midway through the Reagan Administration, so you can only imagine how shocking they must appear! And not to mention the leather spats —"

Castiel bucked in his seat. Her hand had made another appearance, only this time, it had boldly went straight for home. He only vaguely perceived the slyness in her eyes before her father spoke out.

"Is everything alright there, Castiel? You look a bit flushed."

As her hand deliciously worked him, he wisely avoided the vocalization of the word "yes" and nodded instead. His eyes were begging to roll to the back of his head.

"Righto. As I was saying, the birds of Barcelona have the most foul temperament, worse than the bloody staff of your AT&T branches —"

She coughed into her hand to mask the sound of the zipper she had tugged down with her other. His clasped hands on the table broke apart, one traveling up to smother his mouth but tried to pass off as a token of deep immersion in the conversation. For some reason, her father currently had his eyes closed and his arms outstretched forward, imitating either a blind man without an aid or a zombie, allowing Castiel the chance to finally shoot her his most scandalized look. She batted her eyelashes innocently. What was ensuing under the table was quite the opposite.

Suddenly, her father was chuckling. "Did you like that impression, Castiel?" he asked proudly.

"Yeah," Audrey concurred. She kneaded harder. "Did you like that?"

She was killing him. She was far more superior at this game than he was. He had been biting off more than he could chew.

With a strangled expression, he nodded. Walter beamed. "Can't say I'm surprised! My impression of a sleepwalking Margaret Thatcher never fails to charm a crowd," he chuckled, grinning fondly at Audrey, who nodded in agreement. "Anywhooo. Castiel! What's your opinion of our current economy?"

Hand still smothering his mouth, a low groan escaped as relief violently hit him. Walter nodded with a sort of displeased agreement.

"My sentiments exactly, Castiel. It truly is a rotten mess."

Audrey nodded compliantly, withdrawing her hand and folding it neatly in her lap. "Yes, yes, very messy."

As Walter sustained the conversational turbulence by launching into the subject of Wall Street (alternating between the financial district and the film), Castiel furtively gave her his most punishing look.

That was it. No more toying around. He had to have her.

Sorry for the late update. I finally got around to listening to Willow Smith's "Whip My Hair" and I've been distracted by it. Fiercest ten year old girl ever. It's totally Sam's theme song for S6.

Read and review :D