As the final notes of a very suggestive song that most certainly was not about a pony - despite the title - trailed off to bridge onto another track, Castiel, who had been wandering about on the second floor of the mansion, searching for a room that didn't accommodate a ménage à trois, pulled out his phone and dialed. And having grown weary of opening doors and serving as the personified equivalent to the dumping of cold water on copulating individuals (one of them being the dirty blond from before, whose earlier "offer" was indeed being "taken" with open "arms"), he conceded and descended the tinsel-festooned grand staircase, reuniting with the heart of the reception.
"Cas, what's up?" piped Dean's voice, his words and monotone indicating he was in his own class of a good mood at the moment.
"How is the case in Tulsa progressing?"
Oddly, words audibly failed him during the lull that followed. "...er, what?"
"Your case at present - it's based in Tulsa, correct?"
"Uh, yeah?"
His ambivalence veered the angel into confusion. "What's the problem?"
"Well now that you ask," Dean's tone recovered its familiar levity, "two things suggest themselves. One, you never ask how our cases are holding up unless you're in league with it one way or another, and two... I can hear Kanye West music in the background."
This detached him from their exchange and unceremoniously thrust him back into his reality; a reality of wine being consumed like a substitute for water, an all-embracing sense of self-preservation specifically for one's hair weave, the tendency to holler out hysterically at something well-received, Kanye West's "Gold Digger" being chorused with the enthusiasm of a gospel church choir and in response to any differences of opinion that may transpire within conversations, the phrase "Haters to the left" was a favorite among them.
As he swept this analyzing gaze around himself, he inwardly fumbled for a truthful yet deliberately cryptic explanation. Nothing sprung to mind.
"Um," spilled unhelpfully from his lips.
"Okay seriously - where the hell are you?" Incredulity and amusement clashed for prominence in Dean's tone.
"I'm ... also on a case." It was so ambiguous that it was almost a lie. Whatever Dean then issued as a reply registered only vaguely as his vessel's eardrums became arrested by another voice.
"HEYYY, WHITE BOY WHAT CHO NAME IS?"
In his ear, the Winchester chuckled, lilted inquisitively, as he turned to the voice. It appeared that he had wound up in the main hall of the mansion, the heart of the heart of the party. Across from him, hogging the pews that framed the generous room, was a group of about ten or eleven people. They all seemed friendly, but at a magnitude that made them also seem rather intimidating.
"Castiel?" the angel answered, skeptical of their collective interest in him.
The group swapped glances in silence. Suddenly, they exploded with an ear-splitting medley of hooting and hollering, and basically had a religious experience with his name.
"Grandmaster Cas!" Cheer.
"C-Pain!" Cheer.
"Jay-C!" Cheer.
"C-yoncé!" Cheer.
"OutCas!" Cheer.
"C. Diddy!" Cheer.
"The Black Eyed C!" Cheer.
"Castiel!" Silence. Then, "WITH A DOLLAR SIGN WHERE THE 'S' BE!"
This inspired their most animated whoop of approval while the spotlighted angel remained costive. His presence of mind in the phone conversation rekindled when Dean spoke.
"Ooh-hey, that was a good one!" he remarked amusedly, then proceeded to sing, "Wake up in the morning feeling like Castiel, put my hand up on your shoulder, I'm gonna raise you from hell –"
"Dean –" he began, with the intent of following it with an honest explanation.
"Relax, Cas. Yeah, you probably should be doing something better with your time, but anything involving you as the proverbial fish out of water, I think is funny. Just promise me you won't embarrass yourself by reading into the pasts of all them bitches n' hoes."
"Dean –" he said again, with the same intent but opening with an admonishing tone.
"I'm kidding! Well, no, I'm not but – just let me know how it all goes down in the hood. Oh, and another thing –" There was pregnant pause, and he could picture Dean adopting a very stern demeanor for the words ahead, "– if you had one shot, or one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted - one moment - would you capture it or just let it slip?"
Despite efforts, and even regarding it beyond its literal sense, the angel failed to discern relevance in that, so he glowered. "What does this question pertain to?"
There was that recognizable note in Dean's chuckle, informing him another reference from his mental reservoir of popular culture had flown over his head. Was he never exhausted of these? Castiel certainly knew he was exhausted of being on the receiving end and not once being able to catch it. Suspicion told him that this was done willfully as Dean's only means to lord something over an angel.
"Never mind, Miss Thang," he said, audibly smiling. The receiver clicked and Castiel was left hung out to dry in his reality, where his awaiting audience imposed him with a keen grin as one.
"Baby boy, get on over here and kick it with us!" shouted a woman with an insane afro, gesturing their group even though there evidently were no available seats.
"I can't," he declined gently, "I'm looking for someone."
"Oh, lookin' for yo baby girl?" asked a man with gold teeth and sunglasses. This puzzled Castiel, as not only was it nighttime, but they were indoors. New Yorkers were the strangest breed of humans.
"I'm... looking for a girl."
A man - black Santa sans the costume, or Marcus O'Nayse as it turned out - heisted his attention by thumping a doting hand on his shoulder. "Aren't we all, brother? But you know, if you don't find that girl, you could always look to the man."
His gathered audience murmured with agreements. "The man, baby, always the man."
Although fairly certain about whom he was referring to, Castiel asked regardless; "Who are you referring to?"
"The Lord!" exclaimed Marcus, arms grandly outstretched in the crucifix position, holding that pose until he saw some level of comprehension in Castiel's eyes, to which he then gestured the ceiling in an equally grand fashion. "Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven."
"Preach it honey, preach it."
The rippling chord of a church organ sounded out of nowhere, followed by the hum of a nonexistent gospel choir, and Marcus then proceeded to deliver a spontaneous sermon. "There is man up there!"
"Up there!" echoed his gathered audience like a church mass.
"Lookin' down upon us!"
"Upon alla' us, y'all!"
"Lookin' down and – and not wailin'!"
"Never wailin'!"
"No! The good Lord –"
"Good Lord!"
"The Almighty –"
"Almighty, son!"
"The man, our Man Upstairs –"
"It's the man, baby!"
"He upstairs!"
"– he looks down upon us, from his seat up high –"
"Way up high!"
"– and he hates not those who refuse him as their personal savior –"
"Nuh-uh, not the man!"
"– instead, he loves, baby he loves. And if your girl," he directed to Castiel - who had been experiencing this all in what was undoubtedly an amazed silence - before addressing the group at large, "or your boy, or your brother –"
"Your brother!"
"– your sister –"
"Your sister!"
"– your father –"
"Your father!"
"– your mother –"
"Your mother!"
"– ain't layin' out the love to you, you know the man will surely pro-vide!"
"The man will provide, honey!"
"Brothers and sisters, can I get an ah-men?"
"Amen!"
At this point, Castiel was, probably for the first time, truly and genuinely, unreservedly smiling, as he avidly glanced between Marcus and his devoted congregation. Witnessing such a blatant, unashamed display of faith was rare, and after confronting so much ugly on this earth, the present feeling was wonderful.
"Mhm, yes yes y'all – let us not forget His love! I say love is all and everythang the Holy Ghost desires to bestow upon us!"
"Just love, pure love, honey."
"Do not hide the love –"
"Don't chu hide it!"
"– instead, make a joyous noise unto the Lord! Give God the praise! Show him the love!"
This was followed accordingly with joyous hoots, hollers and admissions of divine love born of impulse. Marcus redirected his focus on Castiel, placing his hands on either shoulder to cage his attention.
"Brother. When the time comes - and many times will," he said passionately, fleetingly shutting his eyes, "– will you show the love?"
The irony of the situation pulled the angel's smile to one side. "You have absolutely nothing to worry about."
Misunderstanding, he cocked his head. "I'm sorry, was that a yes?"
From where he stood held captive in his hold, Castiel cast a glance around, as though wondering if anyone else found this as amusing as he did. "... yes."
"I say what?"
"Yes."
"The Lord can't hear you, son!"
"He hears me better than most."
"Say yes, brother!" he ardently spurred as he gave him a little shake, clenching his eyes shut to boot. "Say it like you mean it!"
Eyes darting as he hesitated, he then yielded gladly. "Yes!"
Unfortunately, in his impulsive haste, the angel accidentally translated his words not into human English, but in his true voice, and much to fright of everyone within a one hundred foot radius, it rung rampant and shattered the glass throughout. Everybody dropped to the floor wincing and crying out in alarm while he stood transfixed in the midst of all this, not to mention the sharp wails of feedback quaking from the defused surround sound speakers. As his mind tolled with his equivalent of "Whoops!", his mouth twitched apologetically before hurrying out of the scene.
So within an hour and a half, he had effectively ruined Audrey's mood and the party itself. It was like a horrid natural talent. Now, he decided, would be the appropriate time to leave.
Occasionally having to work against the growing crowd migrating towards the scene of the spontaneous sonic boom, he explored the rooms for Audrey, but ultimately failed to feel her presence. When he turned his head heavenward, summoning her whereabouts - and, in the little moment between that and the universe's response, he hoped desperately that it would not inform him she was upstairs - the response he received pegged him in a solid confusion. Apparently, she was about fifty yards down the street, where all the cars were lined to park. What was she doing all the way there?
Immediately, there was a flutter of wings, and his shadow promptly stretched across her own.
Few things rattled him into speechlessness, even now, where the situation was nigh on achieving this. Instead, he made a new noise. A hybrid of a cough and an incoherent splutter, it translated with ironic intelligibility to his equivalent of the ever-popular phrase of human vernacular that was "WHAT THE FUCK?". Then, some words; resonant but livid, and not unlike the tone reserved only for evil.
"Audrey, what in Lucifer's name (– because he never took the Lord's name in vain –) do you think you're doing?"
She yelped with surprise before spinning round, her clutch on the brass fireplace poker froze mid-swing at the sight of him. She had been smashing a car. And it didn't take a genius to fathom whose.
"What – where the frick did you come from?"
"That's irrelevant!" he yelled. "What –" A threatening step forward, "– do you think –" And another two, "– you're doing?"
His tone visibly unsettled her, but she recovered, bold as the brass in her offending hands. "What I think I'm doing," she began, peskily poising it over one shoulder, "is balancing out the universe."
Balancing out the universe? The words were understandable, but her logic practically disoriented him into an aneurysm. What was occurring in his mind was alike to a sequence from Spongebob Squarepants, where the computers and filing cabinets representing the order of his mind were being smashed and set on fire. His thoughts turned inward and outward and sideways and slantways, working fruitlessly to find words to both address her reasoning and berate her actions, but he was so far discombobulated in this mental pandemonium that both efforts became entangled in a loveless marriage of something so chaotically messy that the author could not fathom a fitting enough word for it.
Her peskiness stalled in the face of his evident internal restriction, and for a moment it looked as if she was considering poking him back to life with the brass stoker. After ten solid seconds of silence, he revived from his paralysis, startling her with his sudden movement.
"Have your mental faculties completely forsaken you?"
All he got in response was a deliberately obtuse smile and a shrug to match. "You'd think by now the alarm would go off," she mused offhandedly.
His glare was severe and smoldering. How very foreign his male sensibilities seemed at present. Her attitude was really unbecoming, especially when she decided to return his glare with a smirk of her own charming brand of impudence, of which wasn't so charming right now. Smirk fulfilled, she turned and raised the stoker once more.
His thoughts chimed in right away with his formal alternative to "Oh no you don't!".
In a flash, Castiel had thieved the towering end of it, twisted his arm around her so that she was caged by the stoker itself and the arm it was attached to. Both the unearthly speed of his move and the way he had forced her backwards into him drew a gasp from her, but he was too exasperated to derive any gratification from her reaction, or their intimate closeness.
"Audrey, enough of this behavior at once!" he growled into her ear. "Have I taught you nothing?" Although still in his arms, he could practically feel the eyes rolling in her head. Sensing her clutch on the stoker slacken, he took it from her as he thrust her away - not to hurt, but firmly enough to bruise her ego. "I'm taking you home."
"You're coming with me?"
"Yes - no - stop it," he ordered, belatedly perceiving her suggestion and pointing to her with the stoker before tossing it into the gutter. "This is not the occasion to be fooling around."
The stoker oh-so lightly brushed against the tire. The alarm began to blare wildly. Castiel's eyes closed, not believing his luck; it was just another straw where his composure was concerned. Her glow of smugness had never radiated so fiercely.
"Do tell me when the occasion to fool around arises." Her insufferable smugness was met with a minute silence. Something as arcane as she was tugged at the corner of his mind as he exacted a long, searching gaze upon her. Upon trailing that route of contemplation and failing to meet a conclusion, he reached forward and gripped her shoulders.
"Audrey Hathaway, why must you be so difficult sometimes? Why, why?" he demanded lowly, inflicting a shake on her shoulders for emphasis. Wisely, she chose not to convey her smugness further.
Lacking the wherewithal to properly chastise her at this moment, he shifted to let go of her, but encountered an unforeseen difficulty. A lingering trace of his crescendoing desire for her over the course of the night snuck under the wire of his self-possession, dissolving his scowl into a vacant expression, open and vulnerable to what may transpire if his hands remained on her. Her eyes lost their venom, softening and responding to whatever she began to see in his own. His head tilted as he regarded her, as though what he was seeing was entirely unfamiliar to him. His eyes traced hers, her lips, her hair, her frame beneath his hands, her legs, her —
The stoker resting in the gutter served as a striking reminder, ripping all desire away. Collecting himself and recovering his scowl, he let go of her. "Don't bother. We're leaving immediately."
"Our limo isn't due for another two hours," she muttered as she crossed her arms, frazzled.
For a second or two, he considered her words, his eyes momentarily flickering aside in thought. Then, fixing her with a harsh stare, intending her to bear the brunt of his tone, "No, it isn't."
There was a shrill screech of tires, startling and stealing her attention and when she turned to the road, lo and behold, there was their limousine.
"How did..." She turned to him, eyes gaping and questioning. "– but it's so early!" He did not accommodate her curiosity with an answer.
It began to snow very delicately, the icing on what had become a rather melancholy spectacle. There was Castiel, his gaze down at her no longer exasperated, but instead deflated, while she looked similarly, no longer finding enjoyment in complacency but rather reluctant guilt at having befouled his mood. When she shivered, having perceived the cold finally, he nodded curtly at their waiting vehicle. She kicked at her heels petulantly but obeyed, not before making a strangled sound of protest. As he disappeared with her inside, his hand briefly swept the air, wielding power for an undisclosed action, and as the vehicle pushed into movement, Oliver's car began to mend itself as the alarm died.
I can't take credit for Dean's "Ca$tiel" lyrics, lol; I found that on FaceBook. And just for the record, I hate Ke$ha. Also, I may take another short hiatus; my make-or-break interview is in six days so I might spend it practicing answers to a mirror. I say "may" because 70% of the next chapter is completed, soooo, we'll see.
By the way, on the 21st, "Empire State of Mind" is being covered on Glee. Yes, you best believe I'm a Gleek.
Read and review! :D