The moment Dean appeared at the motel room door, Sam did a double take.
"What the hell happened to you?"
The elder Winchester had been bruised like a peach. As he hobbled toward the kitchen sink wearing the sourest scowl, he spoke blearily.
"Cas, the hell, the heaven, happened to me, again … dammit!" he cussed, abruptly animating, "I think he may have knocked out a few brain cells."
Sam's mouth worked in dumbfounded motion, before rising to his feet and moving to his brother. "What happened?" he asked insistently.
A look of tired exasperation blared his way. "We had rough sex – what do you think happened?" Pressing a damp cloth to his nose briefly, he scraped a chair forward and sank into it. "He beat me up."
There was a beat. "And, what, stole your lunch money?" he quipped weakly, before claiming the seat across from him, "How? How did this happen?"
"Eh, I told him about our plan," he ground out sullenly, chucking the cloth onto the table with more force than necessary, "Corner Dante, trap him, wheedle him into our favor. But," his tone grew colorfully sarcastic, "needless to say, all evidence pointed to the fact that our nerdy little angel does not approve!"
"Huh." Sam blinked in surprise. "So he just… laced into you like that?"
All soreness in his face fully retreated just to make way for his driest look achievable. "Is it not obvious?" As though the effort stung him, he winced, turning instead to the less painful act of thinking. "I told him that I was aware of how sick and tired he was of us working with the opposing team, and I told him that when you're short of options, you hock your standards to get some. We don't enjoy it, I thought that much was obvious. I said that I acknowledge the thumbs down he's gifted us with but he had to get over it." A humorless laugh. "Then the guy just snapped – I don't get it!"
There was a long pause before he rose from his seat and limped for the refrigerator, leaving Sam behind, who was nodding with a sort of forethought.
"He's been acting weird this past month," he finally said, after considering his words during the lull. His intent gaze elevated from the table top. "Doesn't he seem a little, I don't know, somber, lately?"
After a beer bottle had been drawn from it, the refrigerator was shut again. "We are talking about Cas here, right? Somber is like his," Dean twirled the bottle, searching for the words, "default setting."
"Yeah but, for a while he seemed kinda…" Sensing that Dean had already fathomed his judgment and was challenging it, he hastily threw in, "I don't know about happy, but … at peace." He smiled a little dismally. "The way an angel should be."
Predictably, Dean was not quick to jump into the sentimental, especially in regards to the angel that had just battered him, and eagerly preferred to wallow in resentment.
"I know what way he should be," he grumbled like an indignant child, wincing a little as he slumped into his seat, "A-way. From me." At Sam's bemused stare, he attempted to clarify, "Away, from me, don't you – god dammit! He's totally maimed my material!"
It was the fifth of May. He had left her on the last day of March. Since angels didn't sleep, it felt longer.
Longer in this world of darkness, chaos, warfare and witnessing the Winchester brothers model their bottomless supply of flannel shirts. It was discouraging to know that he could no longer enjoy the very charming experience he knew of outside this world, but he knew it was never his to enjoy. Audrey was never his. Angels did not have possessions, and technically not even their own gender-specific personal pronoun. He was an it. And it had a job to do.
He assessed the formerly pristine lounge room of the yet-to-be leased property. Just hours ago, he and the brothers had fought with and exorcised a notorious trinity of demons here, inflicting the place with a wealth of devastation. One could sardonically say that they had repainted the walls in the aptly named pigment of Blood Red. Raising two fingers, he drew in the prescribed sigils in the air, all the while whispering in Enochian. The room glowed gently as it was cleansed and blessed. He stood as a haunting figure in the midst of this luminosity, spoiling the heavenly grandeur with his hard, unmoved disposition. After a few moments, the light moderated and the room had reverted back to its originally pristine state.
Eyes sweeping the room, he reasoned himself to be satisfied with what had been achieved here tonight, but he knew the sentiment was hollow.
He felt empty and heavy at the same time. The contradiction and therefore its complexity frustrated him. He thought, by ceasing all contact with her, he would have regained his simplicity of mind. A strict mentality that served only for the convenience of Heaven and humanity. Out of sight, out of mind was the phrase he had come across. What a damned myth.
At one point in the past, he had been human, but at the time, the condition was pronounced only in light of his complete absence of power. How ironic that only now he felt human whilst very much existing an angel. Emotions were challenging. Whatever he felt mentally burdened him, dragging down and stretching his compassion and patience until it thinned into almost nothing.
A practical stance was needed. With her out of the picture, it meant one less human to tend to. The Winchesters were a more than generous bundle of issues he had to manage. They did what they saw fit, when they wanted to, how they wanted to, and with whoever they wanted to. They were like children with guns: no matter how big of a threat they may pose to his physical or mental preservation, he cared for them anyway. They were his weaknesses.
And unfortunately, as he had come to realize, Audrey was too. But he didn't want to care for her. She should not be entitled to the care of an angel. She wasn't relevant, therefore she shouldn't matter.
His eyes, that had been open but staring at nothing, suddenly enlivened. Not before obliging the room with a final, decisive once-over, he turned to take flight and leave.
The wide screen television on the wall behind him flickered on to static, coldly illuminating the shadowed room. The angel turned back around, frowning when he saw this. Something about it seduced him forward, until he was a mere five feet away from it. A face burst onto the screen suddenly, and he jolted back a little.
"And we're back on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire! I'm your host, Gabriel, and in the hot seat tonight is Gabriel! Now, Gabriel, how does it feel to be one answer away from winning one million dollars!"
Cheers of support resonated from the unseen audience as Castiel took a step back from the television, regarding the device overall with a mixture of incredulity and suspicion.
The camera cut to a shot of Gabriel the Contestant, the one not wearing the slick tuxedo. "I… I just haven't registered it all yet, to be honest with you, Gabriel –" the camera cut back to a shot of Gabriel the Host nodding gravely in acknowledgment, "– this is such a huge step." Gabriel the Contestant looked straight into the camera… straight at Castiel. "A huge step."
After a moment of constipation, Castiel revived to send a glance around the room, as though there may be some infinitesimal possibility that someone else was being addressed.
"For the viewers who have just joined us over the break, here is the question."
With a flash, appearing below on the screen was the question: "WHAT SHOULD CASTIEL DO?". Gabriel the Host read exactly this aloud for the audience, while Castiel drifted closer in interest.
"Now, just for tonight, we have reinstated our Fifty/Fifty lifeline, courtesy for our viewers, or viewer at home." Castiel was dangerously on the verge of rolling his eyes when Gabriel the Host turned to the strategically placed camera behind him and winked, with an accompanying ding!. "So! Gabriel, you have used this lifeline, and your remaining options are—!" he commenced, with some bravado, "A! Don't tell Audrey the truth. Or B! Tell Audrey the truth. Four options have been narrowed down to two. What have you come up with over the break?"
Sighing almost convincingly, he mumbled, "Right now, I'm just… weighing the options here. If Castiel doesn't tell her, then they'll remain at the same place for the rest of their lives! Well. To be precise, for the rest of her life, y'know?" The audience rumbled with low chuckles. Castiel hoped they (although imaginary, and possibly all comprised of Gabriel clones) felt his withering frown through the glass.
"But it certainly saves him the turbulence. No doubt she'd feel some level of betrayal. And then there's her huge ass pride to consider. She's gonna feel duped in the most personal way. It's one thing to have proof that there are angels, but it's another thing to discover that you've been messing around with one."
"And your thoughts on Option B?"
The camera began to zoom in on him, adding prominence to something significant. "Then there's the chance that the turbulence will end. She might accept him for who and what he is."
Castiel's eyes shaded dolefully, dropping from the screen entirely. No doubt he had considered that possibility before.
A smirk crept onto Gabriel the Contestant's face. "Who knows, it might cater to a weird, taboo fantasy of hers? Sleeping with an angel – mmm, I've been a very, very blasphemous girl! Smite me oh angel, smite me hard!" The audience laughed louder this time, and it was loud enough for Castiel to discern that it was, indeed, an audience of Gabriel clones.
"There are three ways this could end. Castiel could never, ever tell her; Castiel could tell her and she'll "dump" him like a used tampon; or Castiel could tell her, allow the tempest to make its mark, and then…" he made a dubious face and shrugged, "… they'll be fine, whatever that means." An expression mingled on his face that implied he was pursuing some line of thought, but shook his head upon meeting a dead end. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I think I have to phone a friend."
Castiel cast a wary glance down to his pocket, where his cell phone was.
"Another one of our defunct lifelines that we've restored just for tonight's game!" chimed Gabriel the Host. This time, Castiel did roll his eyes. "Who would you like to call?"
"I think there's no better person to answer this than –" Castiel drew in a breath. "– Gabriel!"
"A sound choice!" Gabriel the Host exclaimed impressively. With a flick of his wrist, he held a finger to his ear. "We're calling Gabriel. It's ringing."
There was the sound of dialing, ringing, a shuffling of the phone receiver and then a voice.
"Yyyyyellooo?"
"Gabriel! This is Gabriel here from Who Wants To Be a Millionaire!"
"What? Nooo, no way!"
"Yes way. Now, you're friend Gabriel is here —"
"Hoo-hoo! Gabe man, you made it!"
"I did! I did!"
"— and he's stuck on the question that determines whether or not he wins one – million – dollars."
"That's harsh."
"Way harsh."
"You have thirty seconds to help Gabriel, Gabriel. And your time… starts… NOW!"
"Gabriel! The question is: WHAT SHOULD CASTIEL DO? Should he A! Don't tell Audrey the truth. Or B! Tell Audrey the truth?"
"… what happened to C and D?"
"Fifty/fifty."
"Oh? I thought that was defunct."
"Yeah, so was Phone a Friend!"
"Fifteen seconds!"
"Hrm, righteo, um… first, let's measure this thing here —"
"That's what you did last night!"
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA—"
"Ten seconds!"
At this point, Castiel was desperate to hear an answer, any answer.
"Alrighty, I think I find the answer is —"
The camera suddenly cut to Gabriel the Host, who peered directly into the camera and dramatically said three of the most hated words spoken on primetime television:
"AFTER THE BREAK."
Only for a split second was Castiel allowed to deliver his kicked puppy dog expression to the television screen, but he immediately saw that something had gone wrong with the device. It was replaying that very second, over and over again, like a broken record.
"AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE BREAK! AFTER THE—"
It was increasing in volume, speed and pitch until he sounded like a frantic chipmunk, and it was as though the flurry of it was unscrewing Castiel's mental clockwork, overheating his mind and driving him mad. Tiny imaginary Gabriels were dancing around his head. In an effort to elude the likely chance of this mayhem exacerbating his already tender mind, he teleported right out of the room without a care of where he landed, allowing his wings to pilot him anywhere in the world.
Alighting a second later, he breathed in, collecting himself. The smell of the air informed him of his location. New York City. It was like he never left.
Boxed in by a tract of tall apartment buildings, the moonlight reached him through the slits of all the buildings' narrowly stationed fire escapes. His feet began to move, and he let them navigate him elsewhere without use of conscious thought. It was a seemingly endless alleyway; he took many turns yet never found the road, even though it could be heard. The sounds of urban activity loudened, and turning another corner, he was finally exposed to the direct light of a road. Two shadows intervened it, moving in his direction but not for him. All three stopped the instant they saw the other party.
"Fancy running into you here," one of them sang out, their Queens-inflected voice poisonously sweet.
Castiel glanced between the two. "Hello Jody, Nicky."
"What are you doing in this neighborhood?" Nicky spat, eying him with obligatorily-fierce disdain. Perhaps while Audrey may not bitter about his leaving, Nicky may well be, in her interests.
"What is this neighborhood?" he asked, appraising their surroundings but deducing little from all the brick and metal.
"Hell's Kitchen," Jody answered. Her regard grew mercilessly derisive all of a sudden. "Awww. Honey. Did ya get lost along the way to the whore ya ditched our Audrey for?"
His traveling eyes stopped their appraisal and fell to Jody, souring. "There is no whore."
Nicky inspected his nails, feigning dispassion, and huffed, "There supposedly is no spoon, either."
The reference skipped right over his head but he wasn't interested in understanding anyway. "How is she?" he asked, unsure if it was in his place to ask. Nicky jumped at the question, as though he had been eagerly bracing for it for quite some time.
"She is doing famously without you," he stated with his chin upturned high to the gods, immodestly haughty on her behalf, "As a matter of fact, she's become famous!"
Castiel gave him a curious look. Jody too.
"Not famous famous. Wikipedia page famous," he clarified snippily. Jody's nod was of resigned confirmation. "She lead a photo shoot commissioned by Mode magazine, and then punched editor in chief Wilhelmina Slater in the face when she called her the female artistic equivalent of Terry Richardson." His proud smile stumbled a little, and he turned to Jody. "Which is kinda true. Don't tell her that."
The added remark was lost on Castiel as he had been gauging their surroundings with suspicion. So this was Hell's Kitchen. The primary stomping ground for – if he were to take Gabriel's word for it, and he did – all the demons in New York. When he returned focus on Jody and Nicky, he found that they had already begun walking away without further word. Ah, the shoulder; for it was cold.
"You shouldn't be in this district," he said firmly.
Their arms had been linked together, so when Jody whirled around to sneer, Nicky awkwardly went with her. "What are ya yakkin' about? We're here to meet with someone who lives here."
"For what?"
Nicky fielded this one. "Drugs!" His ambitious grin demurred. "Seriously though, it's for a pirated copy of The Real Housewives of Orange County. Love the show like I love my Mother Monster, but unless it's for New York City's housewives, those bitches on the West Side ain't getting a dollar from moi, nor am I contributing to their Nielsen ratings."
Castiel wasn't listening. He had detected something dark nearby. "It's dangerous here," he rasped, marching up to them, determination laden in each step.
"It's New York City!" Jody dismissed witheringly, turning both she and Nicky to walk away from him, "You're signing a death warrant just by walking out the door."
A voice cooed to them, turning their heads. "Ladies! Hello!" Surfacing from the diffuse light of the main road was a shadow that emerged to be a kindly young man once he joined them under the light. To anyone else, he was just a cute twenty-something wearing an Invader Zim T-shirt that read "Deal With It" with pinstripe suspenders, sporting the supposedly-quirky-but-just-annoying hipster glasses and a Charlie Chaplin bowler hat. To Castiel, however, he recognized him as the demon Valefar. By way of his dark aura, not appearance. Demons were so different in New York. As was everything else.
It was a reflex for him to feel hostile to this being, but the feeling was displaced with calmness, almost against his will, when the boy smiled at him. It wasn't a mockery of a smile that demons typically bestowed upon others that held wicked promises. It was a genuine, boyishly sweet smile, one that could charm anyone into having a chat with him. Or seeing some indie band. Whatever hipsters did.
"Howdy Castiel!" he greeted with childlike enthusiasm. There was the slightest hint of mockery in his tone that could easily be dismissed, but the smile remained as sweet as ever. "Goodness me – no smile today, mister? Don't you know frowning makes the angels cry? Chin up, you!"
Nicky threw the angel a skeptical look. "You know our dealer?"
The word snared his caution. "Dealer?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes at the baby-faced demon. At least the T-shirt made more sense now.
"Yes indeedy!" His lips curved a little, privately taking pleasure in Castiel's inevitable, albeit remarkably veiled, shock. "You ought to know that I'm one to do all kinds of deals."
"Yeah, Robin –" Castiel did a double take at the name. "– much obliged for the great deal on that True Blood boxset," Nicky beamed, clearly smitten, "I needed me some Beel and Sookeh."
"What can I say?" His tone gained a sly edge as he discreetly eyed Castiel, who was staring at him precariously, trying in vain to anticipate the demon's actions. "I have a soft spot for the supernatural."
As they progressed with the very innocent monetary exchange, Castiel watched with a gradient of emotions, unable to look away. Confusion, horror, amusement, fascination, curiosity, more confusion. He waited for potential signs of menace but they never came. Whenever Robin looked over at him and smiled, he figured he must have appeared irrationally unfriendly with his unbroken scowl. Money was now tucked away in Robin's pockets while Nicky clutched his purchase with such glee he was almost in tears.
"It's all yours! Yaaaay!" Robin intoned merrily, clapping his palms together in a demure little applause. Nodding towards the discs, he added in a confidential whisper, "Alexis is a grade-A bitch. If it were up to me, I'd have her sterilized and exiled to Mars."
Nicky was jumping up and down like a child on Christmas morning. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You rock!"
"No problemo, Sassy Gay Friend. I know I rock. And occasionally roll."
The moment Nicky turned to Jody to squeal and wet his pants over it, Robin turned to the angel, and found that he had been standing by with a question at the ready.
"Robin?" he echoed questioningly, with a hint of a sneer.
"That's right, mister. Robin Hood's my name around these parts," he proclaimed with pride, making a fluid gesture to the setting around them, "I steal from the rich and give to the…" He contemplated Nicky's hysterical flailing over the discs. His lofty gaze flattened. "… lowbrow."
Castiel still could not comprehend the situation. "So, that's all?" he asked, near-incredulously. Robin smiled sympathetically.
"Did you expect me to act differently?" he asked, a knowing glint in his eye since, of course, an angel would expect different. "'Cause this is the way I work." His gaze darkened, but without malice. "This is the way we all work around here, believe it or not. And I hope you can respect that. If a demon wants to steal, let them steal. If an archangel wants to serve coffee, let them serve coffee. If a shapeshifter wants to be President of the United States, then by Morgan Freeman, let them be President!"
Upon seeing the resistance etched on Castiel's face, he pressed on with a hopeful smile. "You and I aren't that different. Not in this city. A demon here is just another word for "Typical New Yorker", the same way another word for an angel on earth is "Jesus Freak" and another word for American is "obese". So, before you say or think anything, kindly keep your double standards to yourself." Abruptly, he straightened his spine. "But, uh, don't think I'm not still awesomely evil! I am the top dog of copyright infringement in the Northern Hemisphere – and yes that verily includes Thailand, which is saying something – and I am also contributing to the early demise of the ozone layer by using lavish amounts of hairspray."
Castiel stared at him. Robin began to smile sweetly at the manifestation of the angel's resignation. Or so he thought.
"You expect me to simply let you walk away from here?" Castiel asked, with an undertone of a threat. Robin pouted, wrinkled his nose sullenly and grumbled under his breath.
"Ooh, you angels think you're so out of this world, huh? Well, uh, frankly, I wish you were!" He pounded his fists together in the air in conquest. "Bam! How do you like them apples?"
When Castiel tilted his head quizzically at him, the demon deflated with a darkly amused expression. "Look. This is New York City, Mr. Castiel, and the only evil, the only real freaks you'll find here are human." His eyes flicked aside to acknowledge something behind him, most likely Nicky and Jody who have been in their own little world, even though he was not at all interested. "For. Example."
Behind him, there was a bang, followed by a cry of pain.
"ALL OF YOU! WALLETS ON THE GROUND! NOW!"
So. Um. Who watched the last episode? GET IT, MEG. I always thought Castiel to be a fast learner. All the haters are probably slash fans. Come at me.
By the way, all your reviews for the last chapter were lovely! I hadn't gotten that many since chapter twenty-four, lol. I wish I could respond to my non-registered readers; you guys rock too. And roll.
Read and review :D