Four days prior, Gabriel was standing in the same place, at the same time, again engaging in a discussion but with a different person.
"There is a man who lives in Henderson, Nevada by the name of Redford Palmer, who is alleged to have empowered the Sigil of Baphomet." There was a heavy pause as Castiel pointedly narrowed his eyes at Gabriel from across the counter, commendably bluffing to appear professional. Nope, he wasn't thinking of who he was trying not to think of, not at all. "Do you know anything about this?"
"And, ah, why would you suspect that?" Gabriel asked in a wily tone. Though he was innocent, and Castiel knew that already, he decided to play it deliberately cryptic, if only to frustrate, which it did.
"Your businesses are inclined to occur in the Nevada area, are they not?" he questioned tersely, tilting his head. Gabriel simply crossed his arms and smiled at him in an emphatic way that demanded the rationale straight up. With a sigh, he dropped the curtain of formality and explained, "The brothers requested that I ask you."
As though expecting exactly that, he made a face and scoffed. "If Samwise and Mr. Deano think I'm suddenly subordinate company to their poor man's Scooby Gang, they are wrong."
"A small amount of cooperation would suffice," he said evenly, "You were spared, after all."
Another scoff. "Oh please – spared? I'm an archangel! They admitted it for themselves that they have nothing to threaten me with. Spare me?…" he trailed off into derisive chuckling.
Not in the mood to drag that out, Castiel asked again with pressing insistence. "Do you know anything?"
"Redford Palmer?" He pulled a theatrically thoughtful face. "Mmnope!"
Castiel deflated. With a curt nod, he turned to leave, unsuspecting of his being under Gabriel's penetrating observation as he did so. No more than five steps were made to distance them when the archangel's eyes began to pull into knowing slits, dancing with unshadowed mirth.
"So, she gave you a blowjob, huh?"
A squeak of shoes against the linoleum. Castiel reeled back around with wide, aghast eyes. His initial bewilderment collapsed when comprehension belatedly hit.
"You have no right to infiltrate my mind!" he growled, storming back to the counter, futilely enforcing an air of severe gravity in the face of such indignity. Noting the effort, Gabriel's smirk swelled before he promptly commenced justifying himself.
"Well, you showed up here, without a single word about her, and I hadn't seen you since Laverne and Shirley came and catered to my entertainment, as per usual —"
"Who?"
"Sam and Dean!" A snide huff. "Seriously, you have time to get your whistle blown but none to brush up on a bit of pop culture history?" With a roll of his eyes, he resumed the subject. "I innocently assumed, during the time when you weren't paying me visits, that things were just swell between you and Little Red. Now, you're here, so where's the scoop? Come on, spill, spill, spill!" he goaded, beating his hands for emphasis. "You're what I call an Info-Cow, Cas. I'd very much like to milk you for what you're worth." At this, the severity of Castiel's glare distorted into perplexity. He carried on.
"And I love hearing about your shenanigans! It's morbidly compelling to the ear, like the sound of a train derailing from its tracks." His focus waned momentarily as he paused, as if listening for these sounds, but then refocused, sinking back into his habitual slyness. "Here's the thing. If you don't tell me, I'll happily continue reading your mind and resort to having a discussion with that."
Castiel stubbornly scowled on. Gabriel launched into it. "So! How was she? … Really, that good? … Does she spit or swallow?"
"Stop this —"
"Did you then become the Mila Kunis to her Natalie Portman à la Black Swan?"
"Enough!"
An impish grin. "Cas–ti–el," he drawled dotingly, "you're all strung up and I don't understand why," he observed with abstract sympathy. "Let me help – no can of worms is too big for me to open."
When Castiel's mouth opened, he instantly knew why. "Metaphor for a problem," he clarified casually.
Understanding, his mouth closed. Then he frowned. There was actually a reason why he hadn't looked in on Gabriel for a while. Besides the obvious being that he had been preoccupied with helping the Winchesters score cases and just plain making attempts to score with Audrey, he was somewhat disinclined to his presence now.
As much as it needled him to admit, Gabriel's force of personality was very persuasive, and in his vulnerability engendered by continuously permitting him to dissect and analyze his thoughts, he himself had become rather suggestible within his presence.
At this point, however, he was open to any suggestions. Initially, he had been so sure that telling Audrey the truth would be the right thing to do, but doubts had since sprouted and bred into more.
Delicately, he divulged, "I wish to be close to her. But —"
A glow of recognition was already in Gabriel's eyes when he interrupted. "Ah, yes, your secret; the – secret. It plagues you, huh? A tale worthy of Edgar Allan Poe."
He contemplated him dismally. "What would you do?"
"I'd sleep with her." When the answer appeared to stun Castiel, especially in its swiftness, he elaborated, "I'm not like you, Cas. If she's putting out, I'm getting some. And you can't hit that if you tell her the truth, 'cause she'll be too busy screaming at you. And not in the good, ego-stroking way." His smirk grew slick. "Come on! Go and capitalize on her sexual philanthropy! She's practically holding a sprig of mistletoe between her legs. What further invitation do you need? Take a bite of her bad girl meat!"
"I can't," he enunciated tightly, eyes grimacing as he mentally restrained his thoughts that leaned to this logic, "Not yet. The truth must come out."
"Not everything has to come out! Look at Ryan Seacrest!"
"But —"
"Let me put things into perspective," he cut him off, snapping his fingers and producing a framed photo out of thin air. It was of a group of men, and he pointed to the man at the front. "This is you, you're John Lennon. Little Red represents the rest the Beatles and then –" he snapped his fingers again and a tiny, tattered photo of a woman materialized between them, "– uh oh? What do we have here? Yoko Ono? No! This," he shoved the photo in Castiel's face, "is the reality that you are an angel! Do you want to break up the Beatles? Huh? DO YA?"
Frowning, he stepped back from his adamant hand. "Before I can do anything, she must first know of my job —"
"Your job is Little Red!" he exclaimed, eyes rolling upwards, fed up with this constant campaign for comprehension, "And it needs to be worked hard and done well!" Humor resurfaced in his eyes, unable to resist this rewarding metaphor. "But don't rush it, you don't wanna get ink everywhere and upset the operation." There was a beat as he grinned. "Premature ejaculation," he clarified proudly.
"I gathered that very well," Castiel responded dryly.
"Cas," he sighed wearily, reclining against the counter, "I am telling you, if you reveal the truth about you, it will devastate her more than what Bristol Palin did with the rumba on the eleventh season of Dancing With the Stars." Suddenly, he posed in one direction, pasted on a handsome smile and spoke in a vibrant tone. "Only on the ABC!"
Castiel's solemnity abated as he glanced in the same direction, searching but finding nothing. "Who are you talking to?"
In a flash, Gabriel looked decidedly innocent. "No one." He folded his arms definitively. "So. What do you think?"
"I have a number of ideas," he murmured distantly. Either tell her or don't. So what if it was only two options? Two was a number. Unique situations didn't usually promise many ideal courses of action.
"That's just peachy, but can we focus on this first?" Castiel scowled at him in reprove, but it did not deter. "I didn't give you all that advice for all that time, just for you to screw it all up!"
Rounding the counter, he took him by the shoulders and herded him out the door. "Take her on a date – you know what those are, right? – maybe a nice walk on Brooklyn Bridge, someplace nice, before you bring her on home, jump in that long-sought-after car – your Little Red corvette! – and take it for a joy ride, ensuring that you drive it numerous times hard and fast over the horizon. Good luck! I hope the engine is loud!"
It was cold and windy on Brooklyn Bridge that night. Currents of air licked the waters of the East River and gusted across the bridge, biting all within its wake. Together, he and Audrey stood, appreciating the Manhattan skyline in silence. Little had been spoken so far, and what had been said inescapably regarded the incident that very nearly eventuated the other day. Castiel, having concocted yet another piece of fiction that taxed his conscience, told her that, at the time, he had had an emergency he needed to attend to. He knew she didn't believe him, but she had the grace not to hound him about it.
It was instances like these that his appreciation for her swelled, while at the same time bitterly knowing that these moments would later come back to bite her for her ignorance. He respected her too much now to stand idly by and allow that to happen.
Since that cock and bull story was passively accepted, the silence between them was not born from awkwardness, but rather, from a different quality floating between them tonight. Other moments between them could be described as intellectual, or sweet, or sensually suspenseful, but rarely this. Rarely romantic.
Inwardly, he had yet to associate the word with the situation since it still lied in the supposedly uncharted waters of experience. The notion that this "thing" with Audrey, after all this time, had been a budding human phenomenon that was romance was not at all comforting.
Despite this, he indulged a minute to really consider themselves in that light. Her arm was curled around his in their usual way, huddling close with her head rested against his arm. This was not a new spectacle seen on Brooklyn Bridge. In fact, several of their cases were scattered throughout.
For once, she was not babbling on about this and that (whether he was listening or not), nor was she trying to make a move on him. She was just quietly viewing the skyline in peace. He thought about this for a moment.
This really was peaceful.
Which is why it pained him to have to undo all the work they had put in to achieve this calm. Yes, Castiel had made his decision. Tempting and trouble-free though it may be to simply see her home and touch her the way he ached to, he had to tell her. She deserved to be shown the asterisk attached to him that supplied the fine print; she deserved the pure, unadulterated truth.
She caught him staring. She smiled. His internal conflict eased at the sight of it. Her free hand slithered up his chest, which relaxed under it, curled around his neck and drew him down for a kiss; soft yet still lingering of her indomitable sensuality. Again, this was nothing new on Brooklyn Bridge.
In the sparse but essential moments where they parted for air, nothing was said. Other occasions would see an instant leap into conversation, swift remark or furthering the physical, but tonight, their brows touched and they spoke no words, the silence between them saying everything that was needed.
The strain at his brow was the early indication that the words he had in mind did not match hers. Whatever simmered in her thoughts clearly pleased her, while his noticeably preyed on him.
Gently, he urged himself away from both her mental and physical hold, unaware that his next selection of words composed one of the biggest conversational clichés in the history of the universe.
"We need to talk."
Though these four words were not uncommon, the assembly of them together evidently disturbed her. He inhaled.
I am an angel. I am an angel. I am an angel of the Lord.
The words were at the tip of his tongue, ready to take that unavoidably compromising leap, but gazing at her, different words were forcibly offered to him. Different, but not wholly unfamiliar.
He had known from day one that any sort of relationship with her that extended beyond a shallow affiliation was treacherous. This was the same disciplinary perspective he held for every human being that was not affiliated with his operations on earth. Never did he expect their association to have blossomed so elaborately. It had been difficult to sustain that perspective when she had pressed much more compelling assessments into his insatiably curious mind; taking him by force, mentally spinning him around, thrusting him into her world and from the labyrinth he blindly ended up here.
The silence bought from her afforded him collectivity of mind at long last, something she had costed him for so long with her sheer presence. In such vivid clarity, dust was swept from that disciplinary perspective that had been out of mind these past few months, and from it emerged new words. He exhaled.
"I don't think we should see each other anymore."
The words struck amusement in her briefly, but she soon steadied under his stoical gaze.
"What?"
The clichés continued.
"It's not you, it's me."
And continued.
"I don't want to hurt you."
And continued.
"I simply can't do this anymore."
And continued.
"So I need some time to think."
There was a pressure in her face that so badly wanted to generate a "Why?", but with noticeable effort, she swallowed it back like a gag reflex, and straightened her spine.
"Okay."
There was a thickness in her light tone, if possible. He contemplated her sharply. He saw it: she was contriving to be treating all this lightly, and under his gaze that obviously discriminated exactly this, her pretense was beginning to wane. So much pride, she had so much pride. His gaze questioned her certitude, to which she repeated herself to.
"Okay!" she insisted, her tone gaining an unsteady edge. She made a hurried attempt to obscure it with a smile.
With that officializing response, he immediately disliked the notion that this – they – whatever it was, was over.
"No, I withdraw my words," he hastily declared with renewed confidence, but it withered as soon as he said it. "No. Yes. No."
Self-discipline warred with the wayward sentiments she had impressed and fostered within him, indicated only by way of the restless scowl on his face.
Exasperation flashed in her mannered smile, as she stiffly said, "Make up your mind."
In a blink of an eye, his hands framed her face possessively and he stared at her, searching for a way out but only finding reasons to stay. Her expression was graciously ambiguous, pressing no influence on him, but he saw and became trapped by the disappointment that lied beneath. A strange sentiment flooded him, one he had been harboring for her for quite some time, bringing suffering to his restraint, but he refused to let it conquer him. It would be wrong to stay. The threat must be severed before the cancer could spread.
With much difficulty, as though removing himself from a second skin, he finally let go of her. No words were said as he turned and walked away. She didn't move until he was long out of sight.
I really wanna hear from you 160 people who have favorited and/or alerted my story so far! It's gotten a lot quieter lately… :(
I'm going to make an attempt at rapid fire updates from now on. I got an email today saying that I have to start intensive apartment hunting in Sydney on the 7th of January (turns out our place in Sydney harbor is only temporary) and during that time and after I most definitely will not have time for this story anymore. Gah, why must time move so fast. So, looks like I have to condense this story hardcore and the chapters will be choppier. My inner perfectionist will be writhing in pain, lol. Alleviate the pain by reviewing! *undignified smile*
Read and review :D