"I watched Yes Man with Nicky last night, and Zooey Deschanel was doing this thing where she jogs with a group of people while taking spontaneous snapshots at the same time. So, that's essentially what I'm doing, except –" After adjusting the roller-blades on her feet, she playfully kicked her legs to Castiel, a gesture he regarded with interest, "– I'm roller-blading! I've entitled the concept: Run, Forrest," she motioned the surrounding post-winter foliage of Central Park, "Run!" She giggled, but quickly sobered. "I'm so clever. I should totally write for The Soup."
Her unabashed arrogance never failed to intrigue him. And while the reference flew over his head, logic didn't. "That makes no sense. You are not running."
She fixed him with a loudly pitying regard. "You're not cultivated enough to understand art, Castiel." He blinked with indolent amusement as she busied herself with her laces. "I actually phoned up one of my art professors from Columbia about this – I thought she'd like to know – but it turns out she's since left the place to pursue what came to be a very successful photography career in Paris, and she's become famous and everything and a millionaire too, so she couldn't come down to see me because she killed herself."
The unexpected punchline clouded his focus for a second, before he resumed watching with keen attention as she rose to her feet from the park bench they had been sharing.
To Castiel, aesthetics had always been a subsidiary aspect of his perception of humanity; always conscious of it, but never to a degree that it inhabited the foreground of his cognition. But, there was something … stimulating about her recurrent "short skirt and thigh high socks" combination. Her legs were always flaunting its form but only allowing the slightest visual taste of skin, rousing an inclination to see more.
No wonder he had a fondness for that part of her body. When something nice was half-packaged, who wouldn't long to reach out and unwrap the rest? And when an entity was as curious as he, lust acted as a hazardous hallucinogen that vacated all remaining sense. He groaned internally. He could feel his grace aching for her.
His eyes narrowed at a passing male jogger, who appeared to be of the same mind.
"Why do you dress the way you do?" asked Castiel. Pausing from her inspection of her camera, she lifted an eyebrow at him.
After an interested moment, she tartly questioned, "Do you have a problem?"
"I find myself having a problem with others looking at you the way I do."
To his surprise, his answer made her beam. "Oh!"
There was a note of achievement in that. Again, his eyes narrowed. "You do this on purpose," he concluded, a little bitterly.
"No!" she exclaimed, overtly indignant at this judgment, but rapidly subdued to cool indifference, "Not all the time. Perhaps that's weird to you, but I'm just not as formal or as staid as you are, with your humorless tan trench coat, generic excuse for a suit and perpetual game face. The only bold thing about you is your … bisexual hair." The humor in her eyes vanished as if never existed, and her fingers hovered as claws right above his head, tempted. "Which I could just … pull." Calming gingerly, she put on a smile. "But I won't."
As she turned away and smoothed out the creases on her pleated skirt, he stared at it, contemplating. "I've been … audacious in the past," he told her at great length.
"Not around me you haven't. I would know. I put the Aud- in audacious, Cas. In fact, the term was coined after me. I am my own prefix. True story."
Behind her, Castiel's eyes flashed up to her with the same subtext of a light bulb proverbially popping up above one's head. Audacity was what she sought, was it? Never underestimate the audacity of an angel. Especially one that had enough of it to have once rebelled against Heaven. If only she knew.
A little while later, she found him following her through the Ramble Arch, eyes glued to the hem of her skirt. She rolled around and skidded to a halt, facing him. "I didn't realize you were coming too?"
"Of course I am. I'm here to watch over you."
Straightening her spine, she spoke loftily, "I am comfortably agile in a pair of blades, thank you very much."
Once within arms' reach, he gripped her hips and lifted her an inch off the ground as though she weighed nothing. She squeaked an attempt at "What are you doing?" but was flustered further into dumbness when he carried and laid her back against the sloped stone behind her. His shadow extended over her until his body covered hers, hard against soft.
"That's not what I'm implying," he husked, smoothing his palms along her inner thighs, spreading them to encompass him over her. Her skirts always made this manner of conduct uncomplicated, and for that, he was grateful. Despite the astonishment in her wide eyes, she welcomed with a moan the assertive kiss he swooped in on her, more than happy to allow his tongue to conduct hers.
Seconds later, with a choked sound of reluctance, she pushed him a fraction away with all the effort she could summon on such short notice, panting.
"Oh God, what are you doing?" she demanded in a frantic hiss, "It may be secluded in this area but not deserted!"
"I'm sorry," he intoned dryly, not sorry at all, "Am I being too –" His fingers sidled up to press into her very intimately, eyes glowing with suggestion, "– audacious?"
Having been denied him for so long, she was overly sensitive to his intimate touch. Her lips parted for a silent moan as her head limply fell aside, lower body arching into his possession, receiving it in earnest. Even with closed eyes, she scowled intently, huffing with agitation at his precarious but not unpleasant provocation. Roller-blade clad feet crossed over the angel's back as she coiled internally.
A hand scrabbled its way to the back of his neck, wordlessly begging him to kiss her. Although he fulfilled this plea, she was far too fixated on his lower foray, too inundated by the pleasurable burn, to gather the means to appropriately reciprocate.
The heady pressure within her reduced her to one word, which was near-incoherently moaned against his mouth. "More."
"Tell me what you want." His words were not designed to translate as seduction, as he was genuinely curious, but his gruffness of tone had it received that way. It earned him an answer that mewled to him in graphic detail of what she wanted, inflected with the foulest language he had ever heard her use, which nearly sobered him with the novelty of it.
Cupping her chin with his free hand, he tilted her head forward, their temples meeting. "Your language is unbecoming," he growled, caressing her sensuously.
Her teeth flashed in a wicked little sneer before prodding him away with her knee. The distance allowed her to reach down and fumble with his belt in a ravenous frenzy.
"Foreplay … screw it … no more … I can't —" she muttered aimlessly, and in her desperation finding his belt unworkable, "Ugh, just get it off!"
"Manners, Audrey."
The look she shot him suggested she was not above socking him in the face. Instead, she clawed him back down to her, frustratingly seeking some form of compensatory release just by kissing. When it only fueled her appetite for more stimulation, she keened hopelessly beneath him.
All activity halted when something struck their heed.
"And coming up we have something that I believe resembles the lovely castles in your fairytale books: the Ramble Stone Arch," drifted a nearby voice.
"Ooooooooh," cooed the dreaded sound of approaching children.
They looked at each other, both now fully alert, before reeling up to their feet, adjusting themselves. As the children and honest to God nuns strolled past, they were both unsurprisingly given glances that ranged from suspicious to naively inquisitive. One little girl actually pointed to Castiel and screamed that he was the travel guy on the bus, much to his chagrin and Audrey's entertainment. Sharing a meaningful glance as the children left, they relayed similar sentiments.
One way or another, they would get each other. And that was Attempt Number One.
Attempt Number Two occurred one night later.
Castiel threw her back against the double door refrigerator, not hard enough to bruise but enough to earn his place as authority, and slammed his mouth down on hers. Her instinct to convey confusion retreated and she responded in fervor instead. Reasonably, clarity soon somehow compelled her through the haze.
"What are you —" A gasp broke from her when he made one of those moves that elicited the mental commentary of "Hello!", when he latched his hands onto that elusive region wherein her legs began, lifting her so these very legs wrapped around his waist. Words had yet to leave him since he had barged into her apartment after one knock and pulled her into the kitchen.
It was for certain now: he wanted to, for the lack of a more fitting phrase, be intimate with her. The phrase was not entirely fitting as it had romantic, saccharine connotations, when he had concluded that Audrey found the act and its subdivisions to simply be recreational. Another reason why that phrase was not fitting was because romantic, saccharine moments did not ensue against refrigerators.
Her skirt was unlike her familiar ones, which flared. This one hugged her form, which he found to be unaccommodating. As he obliged her into another demanding kiss that impacted her head against the refrigerator (which, by the sound she made, she morbidly took pleasure in), he unceremoniously shoved the material up to bundle around her waist. No underwear. My, my.
This carnal urgency of his extinguished all remaining austerity he possessed. Also, perhaps, a few traces of common sense – her father and his friends were outside, sitting on the balcony! Although she generally welcomed this ambush, there was a slight rigidity to her conduct that informed him that she was painfully aware of exactly that.
So. Run to a base or steal home? Decisions, decisions. Searching her mind didn't help; he only found numerous variations of a home run.
Her mouth ripped away from his, royally pissed that this was all she was receiving in such a profitable position, and granted him a scowl that smoldered her impatience. Yielding to that incitement, he sunk his mouth onto that exquisite spot at her neck. This move only momentarily made her melt before she stiffened delightedly a second later, when his fingers roamed down and curled into her.
She felt already … ready. As though she had been —
"You've been thinking about me," he breathed, pulling back to survey her expression.
Her body tightened hungrily. His mouth wafted forward to capture hers, muffling the moan that escaped her.
The way of the universe, kids: when you don't want something, or at least not yet, it's foisted on you. When you finally want it, you're denied.
And it was then that her father's voice came flowing into the kitchen.
"Audrey, have you seen the —"
She was humorously swift with the way she lowered her legs, swung open one of the refrigerator doors, shoved him inside as she adjusted her skirt and, right on time, turned to her father. To Walter, she would have looked like she was taking an innocent peek in the fridge.
He noted her blush. "My dear, are you alright? I haven't seen you this florid since I took you to see the first episode of American Top Gear and you died of second hand embarrassment."
Castiel, still feeling decidedly experimental, dipped his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and gently tugged her forward. She smacked him and wrenched back his fingers in a way that would hurt anyone else, all the while smiling charmingly at her father. The way her unseen arm moved jerkily earned her a strange look from him, but went unaddressed.
"I'm fine, daddy! Did you need anything?"
The question abruptly triggered his habitual levity. "D'ah, yes, is the root beer in there? The gents and I are feeling a little parched after holding our poker faces for so long. Our established ambiance is so serious and so silent, we could just about hear Henry pass another gallstone."
She glanced back into the refrigerator, back at Castiel, who was now being respectfully silent during all this (though his heated gaze was loud with resolve). "Um, yeah!" Reaching above his head, she picked up the four pack and held it out. "It's here."
"Ah, there we are. Could you please pass it over?"
She froze. "Like… like close the fridge and walk on over and hand it to you?"
Walter looked vaguely amused by this. "Well, you're not going to throw it at me, are you? I'm a dreadful catcher. Haven't even caught the common cold in thirty-three years."
Her mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. "D'oh, never mind, I'll get it."
"No!" she shouted, and a startled Walter ceased his approach. "H–how about I bring it out to you all? You know, I'll be like a waitress; I'll bring them out in wine glasses – first rate hospitality!"
"Oh." His perturbation dissolved into a merry smile. "That'd be lovely! Thank you, darling. Don't keep us waiting or we'll withhold you your tip!" he wisecracked, sauntering out of the room.
Both stood by for sounds of a glass door opening and closing. When it came, she breathed a sigh of relief that sputtered into a laugh. "Well. We kinda walked into that one."
"We didn't walk into anything," Castiel said, frowning.
Her grin pulled with further amusement. "You're so cute. Don't tempt me."
And so, the foiled attempts continued.
Attempt Number Three happened in the back of her father's Rolls-Royce. A bird flew into the windshield and died. It took ten minutes for Castiel to put a stop to her crying.
Attempt Number Four happened on a flight of concrete steps, outside but out of sight. A bag of garbage flew out the window of a nearby building they thought to be abandoned and landed on them.
Attempt Number Five happened in the public restroom of Bloomingdales. An old friend of her father's walked in and they were immersed in conversation for half an hour, while he was locked in the stall.
Attempt Number Six happened against her front door. Dean phoned him for his help. The brothers were left wondering why the angel was so snappish during the whole job.
Attempt Number Seven (seven! lucky seven!) was a … pivotal one.
Castiel sat on the edge of Audrey's bed. Not poised for what they had been venturing for and constantly denied, but, rather contrarily, examining her Bible. While arranging herself in her wardrobe, she maintained a conversation with him.
"I don't get why you say the Bible is misleading. I mean, it's the Bible! Not Star magazine."
"Are you insinuating that the content is worthy of trust and belief?" he asked, idly leafing through the ivory pages.
"Theoretically, yeah – I'm not saying I believe that stuff. But I don't get it, you're super religious but you, you don't believe the Bible?"
"I very much believe in the fundamental substance of the Bible," he closed the book and set it aside on her bed, "but not necessarily the way it was narrated." Silly prophets and their purple prose.
"But," she emerged from her wardrobe, a look of sore confusion on her face, "what do you mean by misleading? How can you mean that? What do you know that the millions of authors, who supposedly penned the Bible, didn't? Cas?" He was staring at her. "What?" It was then that she fully discerned his regard toward a certain part of her body, as though he found it to be an eyesore.
With a bit of strain, he began, "You are wearing —"
Having followed his gaze, she finished, "Jeans? Yep. I'm in the mood to swathe my legs in denim today." His critical scowl never left, and in response, she hotly shot back with her own. "It's my dress style, Castiel, so today it's jeans or nothing!"
Only when she turned away from him did his expression finally change. Jeans or nothing, she said? Very well, then.
Before she could cross the room, he caught her hip and steered her around to stand in front of him. Startled, she squeaked his name, but little was he deterred from his current mission to remove the undesirable, disobliging fabric that was her denim jeans. Sam and Dean wore jeans. His Audrey wore skirts. That's just the way it was. Their eyes never left each other's as he effortlessly undid the clasp, hooked his thumbs into her sides and pulled down, meeting and gathering her underwear along the way. Dutifully, she stepped out of them, and he pulled her forward to bestride him on the bed.
"I'm thinking you don't like them," she bantered, her voice soft yet stirring, as she curved her palms onto his shoulders.
His fingers wandered down to take her, and the slightest smirk traced his lips at what he felt there. "That most definitely is not what you're thinking of," he murmured, shaking his head.
Desire making her anxious, she fisted his lapels as she kissed him, her lips hastening force as his touch did likewise. It drove her wild, and she practically took his limbs with the trench coat she eventually managed to wrestle off after much effort. As her lips inched their attentions to the sharp jawline of his that she fancied so much, his gaze veered off to her open door.
Mustering a handful of her hair, his lips grazed the shell of her ear as he lowly warned, "Your father should be home soon."
He felt the rumble of her smothered moan that rejoiced the hot caress of his breath. "Fuck him."
"I'd rather not."
With a growl of raw impatience, she forced him onto his back. Before she could make a move that would inevitably steal ascendancy, he drove against her, rolling them over so he loomed over her. She struggled with his tie, finding it especially difficult from her position beneath him, before she irately gave up on it and sent her hands south. The struggle continued at his belt, and he had to smile a little when she muttered something resembling "fucking chastity belt".
Eventually, she was tugging at it petulantly, eliciting a groan from him at the friction it caused. His hand removed itself from within her, despite her cries of protest, and pulled her agitated ones away. His knuckles feathered her as he undid it himself, and her legs wantonly blossomed further, pleading for only one thing.
Hastily, she then kicked down the material, and when he was equally as exposed as she, she chuckled breathlessly, victorious in finally having him. His mouth sought to taste hers again when a moan erupted instead, taking himself by surprise when it did, as she had taken him in her hands. He nearly lost it right there. He could practically hear her taking great delight in his reaction.
Apprehending these capable hands, he pinned them on either side of her in the crucifix position. They shared a climactic, vehement kiss that seemed impossibly endless.
His leg hit something hard. He stole a glance down. The Bible. Then, realization untimely struck and held him captive.
Descending on her, into her, would be the ultimate violation. The utmost abuse of trust. Trust he wasn't entitled to in the first place. He couldn't give himself to her if she didn't even know what she was getting. He could not do this without first telling her the truth about him. Of all the barriers, he was now his own. He had to tell her. It was for sure now. He had to tell her. He had to. Definitely.
"Don't do this now, Castiel," she moaned, arching herself against him as willingly given bait, "don't make me beg, I just want…" Her eyes opened, noticing the stillness in his. "Hey, what's wrong?" she asked, her tone impressively gentle all of a sudden.
His eyes grew from glazed to tenderly repentant in mere seconds. He released custody of her wrists and clutched at her head, holding it against his with possessive hands. His eyes were trained on hers, but he saw nothing beyond his own deception. Their mouths opened and closed, both fumbling to select words from their confusion of thoughts, until he pulled away from her completely.
In record time, he redressed to leave. Her questions, meanwhile, were faint to his ears; his thoughts were louder. He knew what had to be done. It wasn't going to be pleasant, but it had to be done.
It was one week later, and Gabriel broke away from his reverent watch of the television (oh, how he loved that delightful lesbian that was Ellen!) to his first customer in half an hour.
"Oh praise Jesus, Joseph and that head bitch in charge, Mary – a familiar face!"
Audrey glanced down at him from the menu and smiled. It was a small smile. Something was restraining its full wattage today.
"Hi."
"You remember me, right?" he asked, granting her a winning smile, "Castiel's brother!"
Her smile faltered at the name. "Um, yeah, I do, of course I remember you."
"Sooo, what's he been up to?" he asked coyly, leaning forward on the counter, "Been, ah, busy?"
Although he amused her to some level, it seemed she could not see past an initial thought. "Uh, heh, I'm sorry, Gabriel, but hasn't he told you already?"
His grin froze. Oh no he didn't. He didn't. He didn't tell her yet, did he? No, just, no. No. Bad Castiel. Stupid Castiel.
"Nooo. What is it?" he asked rigidly, through the grin.
When she smiled disconsolately at him, it – dammit, Castiel! – confirmed his suspicions. Oh, that self-righteous son of a bitch. How could he tell her? How could he be so insensitive? How could —
"He dumped me."
I saw Deathly Hallows Pt. 1 today! Wow. The only thing I hated was the cinematography. What, did they hire the same DP used for the Twilight films? Siriusly.
Read and review :)