VIGNETTE - TAINTED LOVE
Crowley stood over John, eyeing him speculatively. The Gospel writer was a new arrival in Hell, one who the King had been very excited to receive. Up until just recently, John had sat on the elite Upper Echelon board in Heaven, and he had been one of Castiel's toadies. Privy to many of Crowley's brother's secrets. Crowley couldn't wait to crack open the walnut and see what precious nuggets lay inside.
But, surprisingly, John was being recalcitrant. Querulous, even. Why? Castiel was the one who had killed John, after all. And he had killed John slowly, painfully, and very, very successfully. Which, of course, begged the question: could you UNsuccessfully murder someone?
The King smiled at his bon mot, but of course, there was no one here he could share it with. He had never met anyone named Winchester, Bobby Singer, or Gail. Crowley was still His Majesty, and his subjects still feared and respected him. Well, more like loathed, really. But, whatever worked. Hell was humming right along, tickety-boo. So much so, in fact, that Crowley was frequently restless and bored.
But at least he had something to do, now. The King was actually glad that John was being difficult. It gave him an excuse to call in the head of the Torture Department. Despite the fact that he despised his brother, Crowley had no doubt that Castiel had dispatched yet another Gospel writer for a good reason. If John had been planning treason, or even engaging in sedition, maybe Crowley could pry some real information out of the guy. Or, his best torturer could, anyway. Crowley really didn't like to get bodily fluids on his designer suits. No matter what reality the Father might throw him into, he was who he was. Or more accurately, he was who he had made himself into.
And because Crowley had pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, he had respect for others who had, too. He even had a grudging respect for Castiel, who was behaving a lot more like Crowley these days than the Angel he was supposed to be. How could the King of Hell not feel a kinship towards the de facto dictator of Heaven, then? Even if they weren't related, Biblically speaking.
"You called for me, Your Majesty?" the head torturer said, striding eagerly into the room.
Crowley stood there for a moment, admiring the view. Abbadon was all woman, all right. She was an evil, scheming bitch with long, luxurious hair, bright red lipstick and fingernails, and high, spiked heels. Gorgeous. There wasn't a man, alive or dead, who could resist her. Crowley couldn't, nor did he try. One of the many perks of being the King of Hell was iniquity, and lots of it. He had watched Abbadon scheme and screw her way to the top with great interest. Crowley was a sexist pig in many ways, but he was an equal-opportunity employer. He had no compunctions about assigning a woman to a highly-placed position, if she had demonstrated a real aptitude for the work. And Abbadon hadn't let a little thing like the glass ceiling get in her way. She had been on the staff in the torture wing, toiling away under the Master, but Abbadon wasn't really into dues-paying. Plus, she knew that if anyone was going to be promoted from within, that person would have a penis. Well, except for the occasional little fun and games session, Abbadon didn't. So she had accelerated the process by stickling the heels of her stiletto shoes into the Torture Master's eyeballs, and then once he'd been blinded, she had gone to work on him, using his own weapons. Afterwards, she had marched over to Crowley's office, with the Torture Master's blood fresh on her clothes and her skin, telling the King she was officially applying for the position. He had been both impressed, and amused. He'd told her that he was prepared to go through the interview process immediately, if she would just clean herself up, first. They could talk about it over a drink or three, and depending on how many positions Abbadon was willing to find herself in, she might just come away with the job. The inference was clear. Crowley may be a swine, but at least he was an honest one. Abbadon had raised an artfully trimmed eyebrow, looking Crowley up and down. What if she didn't want to play that game? she'd asked him. Why couldn't she just interview the same way as the men on his staff did? Crowley's lip had twitched. That WAS how all the men interviewed, he'd told her.
Abbadon had eyed him curiously. Was he kidding, or not? Who knew? And, actually, who cared? Not her. She hadn't gotten where she was by being particular about such things. So she had gone back to her little hole-in-the-wall room, glammed herself up, and by the time Crowley was leaving his love bites on her neck, Abbadon had the promotion, and the large suite that went with it.
She and Crowley had gotten together a fair amount of times following that night, and both had been very satisfied with the arrangement. For his part, Crowley had been very, very satisfied. Abbadon was quite skilled in a multitude of different areas, and she was just as insatiable as he was. Truth be told, he was extremely besotted with her. Not that he would ever tell her that, of course. Abbadon was the sort of woman to whom any perceived vulnerability was a red flag. They had never talked about her life prior to her stint in Hell, because quite frankly, Crowley didn't care. But if he indulged in a little idle speculation, he could well imagine her having been married to a man who would dedicate his entire life to giving his wife anything she wanted. He would be totally and completely in love with the woman, and she would lap up his devotion like a cat would lap up cream. But as soon as she had his heart in her hand, she would also own his soul.
Well, Crowley had sold his own soul centuries ago for an extra 3 inches of willy, and she couldn't use his infatuation against him if he didn't confess to it. Confession was for Angels, anyway. Let Castiel sit up there in the High Office with his piousness and his paranoia. Crowley ruled his own domain with as much of an iron fist as Castiel did his, but Crowley was having a damn sight more fun.
The King left Abbadon to her knitting. He told her to get any and all information out of John that he had to give, and then to clean herself up and come to his office. A good torture session usually got her excited, and after the King debriefed his Torture Mistress, he was looking forward to...well, de-briefing her. Damn it. He really needed to get an assistant with a sense of humour. Or, barring that, a lackey who would laugh at his jokes regardless of how funny they were.
Abbadon put everything she had into John's torture, taking out her frustrations on the poor wretch. She was in love with the King, and normally, that would be a cause for happiness. But here in Hell, it was something to be lamented. If Abbadon thought for just one second that confessing her feelings to Crowley would get her anywhere, she would just do it, already. But he was an ancient being, a product of his time. There was no way that Crowley could ever regard a woman as his equal partner. Even if he were to ask her to be his Queen, she would always be on her knees before him, both literally and figuratively. That kind of existence was unacceptable to Abbadon. She had no problem with dealing it dirty, and receiving it the same way. In the bedroom, she always demanded satisfaction for herself, and Crowley was up to the task. But once their clothes were back on, all she was to him was one of his subjects.
Abbadon had begun to seriously consider leaving Hell altogether. But, where could she go? What would she do? Would Crowley come after her, or would he even care?
Once she'd wrung all the intel out of John that she thought he had to give, Abbadon had a couple of her minions come and get him. She'd left him in one piece, more or less, although he was in almost unbearable agony. But just in case they needed to go back to the well, Abbadon instructed that John's wounds should be treated, but very gradually. That way, he would become improved enough to torture again, but he would also be in constant pain.
"So, what did our Gospel writer have to report?" Crowley asked Abbadon, pouring her a drink.
She made herself frown. "Nothing."
He eyed her. "What do you mean, 'nothing'?"
"Just what I said," she said, keeping her voice level. She accepted the drink, taking a sip from the glass.
"So you're telling me that you used your very best techniques on him, and he didn't crack?" Crowley said doubtfully. "I find that very hard to believe."
"Nonetheless, it's true," Abbadon assured him. "I get the feeling he doesn't know very much of anything. He mentioned that this Castiel is a very suspicious individual. That he sees conspiracies everywhere." These latter statements were absolutely true, but the other statements were a lie. John had been a veritable fund of information, given the right incentive. But Abbadon had her reasons for not sharing this with the King. "I think we're wasting our time with the smaller fish," she continued. "Why don't you send me topside, so that I can get the information from the source?"
Crowley regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "Do you mean from Castiel?"
Who the hell did he THINK she meant? The Pope? Although, from what Abbadon had heard, the head Angel was very much like that individual, or at least, he fancied himself just as holy. But Abbadon had yet to meet the man, or woman, for that matter, who could resist her when she turned on her powers of seduction. If this Castiel was a dried-up old prune, like most of the Angels were, she could just close her eyes and fantasize about some of her steamier encounters with Crowley. The King of Hell may be a sexist despot, but he sure knew how to show a girl a good time, when he really applied himself to the job.
Abbadon waited for Crowley to consider her offer. If she said anything more, he would probably just reject the idea out of hand, because he hadn't been the one to come up with it, first. Men. She restrained herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely. It was a damn good idea, and she knew that Crowley knew that.
He did, yet the King hesitated to give his blessing, pun fully intended. That had been another wasted gem. He should really be writing these down. But it wasn't ego that was making him hesitate. Astonishingly, it was plain, old-fashioned jealousy. As much as it pained Crowley to admit, and it really, truly did pain him, he had to face reality. Abbadon was a beautiful, sexy woman, who could seduce anyone any time she chose. Castiel acted like a sexless, lemon-sucking Priest, but he owned a very good-looking vessel. It wasn't too hard to do the math. Unless Castiel was made of stone, like so many of his brother's religious statues, Abbadon might be opening the biggest can of worms since Creation, when their Father had wriggled His little finger and made the first two planets collide. Castiel was an ancient being, as old as time, who had never even touched a woman. The analogy of two planets colliding might be extremely apt, in this instance. How badly did Crowley want to throw his brother off his game, anyway? And how much did he care for Abbadon, and her safety? There was a very real chance that Castiel could kill her, one way, or the other.
There was that unexpressed wit, again. It really wasn't fair. In the movies, the supervillains had sycophantic sidekicks, who appreciated their jokes. He sighed. Sex was great, of course, but there was something to be said for a good, old-fashioned bootlicking.
"Very well, my pet," Crowley said to Abbadon now. He considered that a term of endearment, and she supposed he even meant it that way. But it set her teeth on edge. She was not his little lap dog. But she kept her mouth shut, because he was about to give her what she wanted most: her freedom. "You may go to Earth," Crowley told her. "I will call Castiel on the Hotline to advise him that you are looking for the Portal to Heaven, because you are a traitor."
Abbadon looked at him sharply. "Why would you tell him that? He'll just have me killed!"
"No, he won't," Crowley said calmly, pouring them both another drink. "I'll tell you exactly how that conversation is going to go." He cleared his throat. "'What do you want, Crowley?'" the King of Hell said, imitating his brother's gravelly voice. "'Well, hello, Castiel. How are you, this fine day?'" Crowley said lightly. He was playing himself now, but using an exaggeratedly chipper, upbeat tone. "'Never mind that'," Crowley snapped, warming to his role as Castiel. "'What do you want, you disgusting abomination?'" Crowley pouted. "'Words hurt, Castiel. Don't your lot have Sensitivity Training in Heaven?'"
He looked at Abbadon. She was sitting there, expressionless. Nary a smile. Her ruby-red lips hadn't even twitched. He sighed, wondering if the routine would be funnier with sock puppets.
"I will tell Castiel that he should kill you, thereby ensuring that he won't," Crowley said in a clipped tone, abandoning the comedy routine. "I will tell him that you were one of my closest associates, but now you are a traitor, and that you should die. Castiel will recognize a golden opportunity. He is a sour-faced, objectionable individual, but he is shrewd. He will take you alive, because he will want to mine the gold in your pretty little head. And, because he does not trust any of his men, he will insist on interrogating you himself. Just the two of you, alone. And that's when you will go into your Sharon Stone act."
Abbadon was puzzled. "My what?"
Crowley sighed again. "Never mind. Anyway, go ahead and do whatever you're going to do. Report back to me afterwards."
And that was it. Just like that, he was letting her go. Still, she sat there for a moment, wondering if there was a catch.
Of course there was, but she was not going to be privy to it. "Off you go," Crowley said, waving his hands dismissively. "Don't forget to pack that low-cut red number, with the slits up to here. He'll really like that one."
Abbadon regarded him for another moment, and then she rose and left his office.
Crowley waited a few beats, and then he took out the Hotline. He advised Castiel about Abbadon's imminent arrival on Earth.
"Why are you telling me this?" Castiel said. Crowley could hear the suspicion in his voice. Perfectly understandable.
"Because she thinks she's coming to get information on your operations for me," the King replied smoothly. "She plans to get you alone, and seduce the state secrets right out of you. If you want, I can send an emissary, with a picture of her. Or you could just move into the current millennium, and get yourself a computer."
"I repeat: Why are you telling me this?" Castiel said impatiently. "What is your angle?"
Crowley rolled his eyes. Everyone was being such a stick-in-the-mud today. Fine. "She has outlived her usefulness to me. She is a backstabbing, conniving Demon bitch, who thinks she can outsmart the King of Hell. Do with her what you will." Then he slammed down the phone.
A moment later, Crowley began to smile, picturing Abbadon applying all of her feminine wiles, trying to get a rise out of Castiel. All entendres intended. He knew his brother inside and out. Abbadon was going to strut into that interrogation room in her sluttiest, most disgusting, most delectable outfit, and she was going to get exactly nowhere. Castiel was a stone idol, a false god, and the very image of prudish self-denial. He was going to carve Abbadon up like a jack 'o' lantern. And the best part was that Crowley had led Castiel to believe that Abbadon would have a wealth of information on Hell's operations to divulge before she died. The Torture Mistress would meet her match in Heaven's Torture Master, and she would die a very painful death, having divulged nothing. His smile widened. Fornication was one thing, but no one screwed the King. No one.
He poured himself another drink.
VIGNETTE - CAN'T FIGHT THE MOONLIGHT
Becky had finally figured out a way to be able to interact with Professor Sam Winchester. Sure, she served him drinks at Lyman's, when he sat at the bar or at one of her tables. But they usually only had time to exchange a couple of pleasantries, or make a little small talk about the weather. Then she would have to rush off and fetch more drinks or some bar food for other customers, or he would look politely away, discouraging further conversation.
It was crazy. She knew Sam was married, with a couple of kids. He'd told Becky that. He'd even shown her pictures of his family, and of his brother Dean, and their wives. Boy, did Sam ever have good genes. He and his brother were as handsome as anything, their wives were beautiful, and Sam's kids were so cute. It made Becky feel sad, and achy. She would never have a family like that. Never. She knew she was pretty, and customers asked her out all the time, but there was no guy that interested her. She'd come close to going out with that Gabriel guy once, after he'd asked her out for the umpteenth time. He was quirky, and he was funny, and he was certainly persistent. But in the end, Becky had turned him down, too. She liked the idea of Gabriel more than she liked Gabriel. Did that even make sense?
Becky had allowed herself to become obsessed with Sam Winchester again, and this time, it was even worse, because in this reality, he had a wife and kids. But Becky kept telling herself that what she had was just an infatuation. A harmless crush. If she could just see Sam and listen to him talk a few times a week, what was the harm in that?
So, during one of their casual chats one night, Sam had told Becky that he was going to be teaching a night class in the fall at the university.
"Oh? What on?" Becky asked him.
"'The Lore and Lure of Monsters, And Things That Go Bump In the Night'," Sam replied with a grin. "That's the official working title, anyway." Then his smile faded a bit. "Do you think it's too long?"
"Yeah," Becky answered honestly, and Sam's face fell. "You know what you should call it?" she said quickly, trying to atone for her mistake. "'Monsters, Inc.'"
Sam brightened. "Hey, that's cute, Becky. Mind if I steal it?"
"No, not at all," she stammered, blushing. Sam Winchester had just called her cute. Well, that was the way that Becky had heard it, anyway.
"You should take the class," Sam went on. "It'll be a little scary, but we'll have some fun, too. I plan on throwing some pop culture in there, along with the lore. I've even printed out a few pages of a script from one of those cheesy teenage slasher movies that we can act out. Maybe for Hallowe'en."
"That sounds great, but I don't know if I'm up to taking a course at the university," Becky said self-deprecatingly. "There's a reason I'm just a cocktail waitress, you know."
"Nonsense," Sam said, shaking his head. "Never put limits on yourself, Becky. You can do anything you want to do, if you just apply yourself. That's what I tell my kids. I wanted to be a Professor, so I'm a Professor. But as interesting as ancient cultures are, I've always been fascinated with supernatural mythology, too. So even though it'll cut into my drinking time - " he grinned " - I decided that it was something I wanted to do. Think about it, Becky."
Then he looked away, and Becky had to move on. But her head was spinning now. This could be just the thing for her. It would be another way to see Sam, and to get to know him a little better. Becky had never been a big fan of academics, but this sounded like it could be fun. At least she would get to look at Sam, and see him smile. When he had grinned a moment ago, she had just about melted into a puddle on the floor. Becky just had to see more of Sam looking like that. He had no idea how handsome he looked when he smiled.
Becky made up her mind; she was taking that class. No matter what she had to do, she was taking that class.
Sam was nervous on that first night. What about if no one showed up? Just because he was keen on the subject, that didn't mean that others were, too. The students he taught during the day attended class because they were required to, as part of the curriculum. But this was a much more fanciful subject, and many people who signed up for night courses were using their precious time off work or with their families to go. Sam himself was missing time with Quinn and the kids, but she had encouraged him to teach the class because she knew how keen he was on the subject matter. That was also why Sam's wife didn't say much about him stopping by that bar for Happy Hour a couple of times a week. She knew he needed the outlet.
The younger Winchester had roped Dean into coming to his first night's class. Sam's big brother had rolled his eyes and teased him about needing his hand held, but truthfully, Dean was kind of interested in the subject, too. He liked to razz his brother about being a nerd when Sam talked about ancient artifacts and civilizations, but deep down, the elder Winchester was really proud of Sam. He was the smartest guy Dean knew, and now, he had a cool hobby, too.
The brothers were still close, of course, because to be otherwise would be unthinkable to them. But because they hadn't ever had to deal with all of the death and the blood and the horror associated with monsters, Demons, and, yes, even Angels, in real life, their relationship had never been under any significant strain. The two of them hung out because they preferred to, not because circumstances had thrown them together. Dean didn't mind being here for moral support. In fact, he was looking forward to hearing about all the cool, scary monsters.
Becky walked in with another girl, and Sam greeted her, asking who her friend was.
"We're not actually friends," Becky hastened to explain. Then she looked at the other girl, who was frowning at her. "Oh. Sorry," Becky said insincerely. Dean smirked. He would have to ask Sammy who the blunt chick was, at the first break. Maybe she was one of Sammy's students.
Another half-dozen people filed into the classroom, and then a short young woman came hurrying in, followed by a tall guy.
"What's the rush?" Frank said to his sister.
"I hate being late," Gail said impatiently. "I don't know why you have to drive around the parking lot five times to try and find the closest spot. You waste so much time! We've got legs, you know."
"My knee hurts," Frank complained. "Matty and I fell running for a bus, in London. I told you that."
"You fell off a barstool," she retorted.
Sam and Dean were grinning at each other. "Husband and wife," Dean said to his brother.
"Sister and brother," Sam said affably. "Ten bucks."
"You're on," Dean said. He looked at the siblings. "So, which is it?"
Frank smirked. "Little sister," he said, pointing down at Gail. "Literally, and figuratively."
"Pay up," Sam said, extending his hand to Dean. He smiled at Gail. "Why don't you sit in the front? That way, you won't have to crane your head, to look around your brother."
"I think he's saying you have a big, fat head," Gail said, poking her brother. She plunked herself down in one of the front desks, beside Becky.
"I don't know what you're so worried about," Frank said, taking the seat behind his sister. "This guy's so tall you can see him from outer space."
Once everyone had arrived, Sam looked around, pleased. There were 17 people in the class. That was about fifteen more than he'd expected, he joked to the class, and they all laughed softly.
Frank was bemused. When he'd come back from Europe, his and Gail's parents had told him that his sister had been moping around all summer. At first, he'd rolled his eyes. Why should it be up to him to cheer her up? But he'd knocked on her door to talk to her anyway, and the fact that she had aged nearly fifteen chronological years since he had last seen her didn't even register, because God Himself had made the change.
Gail had been thrilled to see her brother, but she had also been reluctant to tell him what had happened with Castiel. Now, in addition to feeling sad about it, she felt angry, with a heaping helping of humiliation on the side. But finally, Frank wore her down, and she ended up spilling her guts.
Frank felt bad for his sister, but he also realized there wasn't much he could really say about it. "Guys are just a-holes, sometimes," he told his sister. "Forget about him. You'll meet lots of other guys."
She looked at her brother with a baleful expression. Gail knew he was just trying to be nice, but he had no idea. She'd tried everything she could think of to forget about Castiel, but it was impossible. Every time she laid down to go to sleep, she saw him. Every time she saw a good-looking actor on TV, it was him. She'd abandoned her King Arthur and the Round Table story shortly after the experience, but Gail had still felt the urge to write. So she'd tried a story about the Salem Witch Trails, but her handsome protagonist ended up being Castiel, again. He was a dashing, manly sailor, who was going to fall in love with a free-spirited colonist on their way to the New World. But when they got there, they were going to be falsely accused of witchcraft. What would happen to them after that? Gail wasn't sure, and she wasn't even sure that she should continue on with her endeavour. Wasn't she just tormenting herself by continuing to write about a guy she would never see again?
Gail was happy that Frank was back, but their parents were pushing them to make some choices about their lives, now. That was pretty easy for Frank. He had decided that he really didn't want to pursue a higher education. What for? So that he could be some suit behind a desk, tippy-tapping at a computer all day? No. Frank was a man of action. He was more interested in a hands-on kind of job, ideally working on classic cars, in some form. That was fine, his dad had said, encouraging Frank to pursue his interest.
What was Gail going to do? her mother had asked then, and she shrugged. It beat the hell right out of her, Gail thought. But, since Frank had opened up about what really interested him, she supposed she would, too: "I'd like to be a writer," the young woman told her parents.
They looked at her, expressionless. This was shakier ground. They didn't want to be the type of parents who stomped on their childrens' dreams, but at least Frank's had been realistic.
But this reincarnation of Gail had the doe eyes too, and she used them on her parents now. So Jim and Christina had exchanged glances and then they had told their daughter that they would be willing to subsidize her for a year, to give her an opportunity. Frank, too. But if by next fall, either or both of their children had not achieved some sort of financial independence in their chosen fields, they would have to capitulate, and get more pedestrian jobs. Frank had quickly agreed; he saw no problem with that arrangement. If he could even get his foot in the door at the kind of place he was looking for, he could just sweep the floors and help keep the shop floor clean, until the boss gave him a chance to show what he could do.
Gail had been a little more reticent about her own situation, because she knew that it was the longest of long shots. She might have a fanciful imagination as far as story ideas went, but she could also distinguish fantasy from reality. Whenever she went to the library or a bookstore, there were thousands upon thousands of books there, and there were even more online. What would make hers stand out from all of those?
So the siblings had gladly taken the deal, and Gail had begun the research. Frank was teasing her, telling her that historical fiction was boring, and romance was for "girly girls". Why didn't she write mysteries, or horror?
"Horror?" Gail had said incredulously. "What the hell would I know about that? Who am I, Stephen King?"
Frank rolled his eyes. "Since when do you have to be a man to write horror? Mary Shelley ring a bell?"
Gail laughed. "True enough. And I even have my own Frankenstein, right here."
"Oh, har, har. I hope your plots are more original than your jokes," Frank had retorted.
But he'd gotten his sister thinking. Maybe a change in genre WAS in order. She didn't know much about horror, but she could do research, couldn't she? At least she wouldn't be thinking about Castiel anymore. Unless she was going to make him into a sexy vampire, or something, Gail thought, making herself laugh. That was the first time she'd been able to have a laugh about that whole fiasco, and it felt good. It felt freeing. Some of the tightness around her chest loosened when she was able to find humour in the situation. No; no vampires. That genre had been done to death. Or Undeath, maybe. She laughed again. Unless she made him into a big, green, blobby monster, or something. Then again, that might be just what he deserved.
Gail had seen the posting for Sam Winchester's class online, and she thought it could be ideal for her purposes. The problem was, she didn't drive, and the University was a two-bus ride from their home, returning late at night through a dicey part of town.
"Why don't you get Aurielle to take you?" Frank had asked her. "The two of you could be study buddies."
But Gail had frowned. "She and I aren't really friends anymore," she told her brother. It was true. The two young women had started to drift apart right after the night they'd met Castiel and Gabriel. Aurielle had been sympathetic to her friend at first, but when Gail couldn't seem to let go, Aurielle had berated her, and then she'd stopped taking Gail's calls. For her part, Gail could kind of understand that. But she hadn't been able to help herself. Aurielle had extended a couple of half-hearted invitations to parties that her college friends were hosting, but Gail hadn't really been able to get up the energy or the motivation to pretend like she was interested.
Frank had sighed. He knew That Look. "Hey, I'll tell you what," he'd said casually. "Since it was my idea for you to write about that junk in the first place, I guess I could go with you."
As he had expected, her face lit up. "Great! I'll sign us up right away!" his sister said, and then she'd hurried out of the room as if afraid he'd change his mind if she remained. But Frank didn't mind. He actually thought that the class might be pretty interesting.
So here they were now, listening to Sam as he gave the class a brief outline of the kinds of things he planned to cover in the course. Becky just sat there staring at Sam, Gail took copious notes, and Frank and Dean cracked jokes. Dean invited the brother and sister for a coffee after class, after finding out about Frank's interest in classic cars. Sam went with them, and he and Gail talked about literature and ancient civilizations. And, just like that, the four of them became fast friends, and the nucleus of their family had begun to regenerate.
VIGNETTE - DON'T STOP BELIEVING
Castiel washed Abbadon's blood from his hands slowly and methodically, checking his clothing for errant spots. He didn't see any, but perhaps he would change clothes anyway, once he finished working for the day.
But as he began to dry his hands, Cas paused. He had taken no particular pleasure or satisfaction from killing Abbadon. She was an abomination, of course, as all Demons were. However, it had become clear to him within a few short minutes of the start of the interrogation that she had no new information for him. Crowley had merely set her up for slaughter, because she had outlived her usefulness to him. The woman was obviously conniving, and Castiel knew that his brother would not harbour a traitor in his bosom, any more than Castiel would in his. The difference was that the King seemed to find it amusing to send his scraps to Castiel to dispose of. The two of them were going to have to have a little chat about that, very soon. Castiel was not Crowley's employee, nor one of his minions.
Castiel had had no compunctions about killing Abbadon, though, because of what she was. But it had been a quick and efficient kill, once he'd found out that there was no information to torture out of her. Despite what many Angels seemed to believe, Castiel was not a bloodthirsty or sadistic individual. Nor was he an automaton, although he allowed people to believe these things about him in order to stave off any sort of sedition. But being constantly suspicious of everyone around you was very wearisome at times, and Castiel was feeling despondent now.
He had been sickened by Abbadon's initial attempts at seduction. Perhaps his brother was that easy to manipulate, but Castiel was not. The Demon had been barely clad, looking like a harlot. Did she really think that Castiel could be swayed by that sort of appearance, and behaviour?
She had abandoned her efforts once he had been firm with her, but even thinking about it now made Castiel feel decidedly unclean. So, instead of proceeding to his office as he normally would have, he continued on to his living quarters, instead. There, he took a long shower, dressed in the Earthly clothing that Gabriel had given him, and put some cologne on.
Castiel called Gabriel on Angel Radio, asking his Brother if he had a moment for a chat. Gabriel was surprised. The two of them hadn't really had anything to do with each other since Gabe's failure to thaw Cas out of the deep freeze. He was too curious not to answer the summons.
When Gabriel popped over to Cas's apartment, he was amazed by his Brother's appearance. And the shock deepened when Castiel cleared his throat and said, "I want you to take me to Happy Hour."
"I'm stressing out," Gail said to her brother. "I have no idea what kind of monster to put in my midterm composition."
Frank looked at her dubiously. "You're kidding, right? This is a night class. It's not War And Peace, or The Shining. It's a three-page short story that's supposed to be mildly entertaining, and show that you might have learned a thing or two. AND, it's gonna be graded by one of our best friends. So, where's the stress?"
"What kind of a teacher would I be, if I showed a bias to my students?" Sam said, sitting down next to them.
"My kind," Frank quipped, accepting the beer that Sam had brought him.
"I don't think either of you have to worry," Sam said affably, as Dean sat down on the other side of Gail, putting a fresh drink in front of her. "Next one's on you," Dean told Frank. "Although, I might just have to give you a raise. We made a lot of money on that Camaro."
"I wouldn't say no to a bump, but I just appreciate you giving me the chance to work on it," Frank said, tipping his beer in salute.
"Hey, you guys should have one of those reality shows," Gail said to the men, smiling.
As the quartet continued to banter, Gabriel and Castiel walked into the bar. Gabe had been surprised when his Brother had told him that he wanted to come to Earth to have a few drinks and unwind. But then when Cas had added that he wanted to go to the Rogue Angel, Gabriel had gotten it.
"She won't be there, Cas. That was months ago," Gabriel said. "And even if by some miracle she IS there, what are you gonna say to her?"
"I have to see her, Gabriel. I have to apologize to her, from the bottom of my heart," Cas said earnestly.
"Oh, so you DO have one. I always kind of wondered about that," Gabriel retorted.
"Please don't joke about this, Gabriel," Castiel had said to the Archangel. "Please. I need your help."
Well, if Cas was going to put it that way, Gabe supposed he had no choice. So here they were, and for a wonder, there was Gail. But the only problem was that she was sitting at a table with three tall, strapping, good-looking men. Wow. She sure hadn't let any grass grow under her feet. Good for her.
Castiel was frozen. He had absolutely no idea what to do. Had he honestly thought that Gail was going to be sitting here pining away for him, when he had treated her so shabbily? Now here she was, with other suitors. He watched them for a minute. None of the men was sitting close to her, or holding her hand. But all four of them were laughing and chatting amiably with each other. It was funny, really; any or all of those men could be potential rivals, yet Castiel felt no hostility towards them. They had open, friendly expressions, and Gail seemed to be enjoying their company very much. It was Castiel and Gabriel who were the outsiders in this situation.
Gabriel was looking at his Brother now, and the Archangel was shaking his head. He had never seen an expression like that on Castiel's face before. If those board members could only see him now. He looked like an orphaned puppy that had been sleeping outside all night, in the rain. Aww, geez.
Gabe grabbed Cas by the arm and propelled him towards the table where the four of them were sitting. It was time to take matters into their own hands. "Hey, look who's here," the Archangel said loudly.
Gail looked up, and her eyes widened for a moment. Then she looked away, taking a sip of her drink.
Gabriel poked Castiel, and his Brother swallowed the growing lump in his throat. "Hello, Gail," he said stiffly. "May I talk to you for a moment, please?"
"Why?" she said, still not looking at him.
Cas was at a loss for words. Her companions were looking at him with curiosity, and he had no idea what to say. "Please," he repeated.
"Do you know this guy?" Frank said to his sister, still eyeing the Angels. Then, it occurred to him: "Is that Castiel?"
Gail kicked her brother under the table. Why would he say that out loud? Gail didn't want Cas to know that she had spoken to anyone about him. How embarrassing.
Sam and Dean had no idea what was going on, of course. Gail felt like they were her friends, but she wasn't prepared to confide something so personal to them. But Dean was looking at Frank, who was glaring at Cas now, and the elder Winchester's wind was up. "Is everything OK?" he asked the siblings.
But then, Gail made the mistake of looking at Cas. He was looking so forlorn that her heart softened a bit. She sighed. "Go ahead, then. Talk," she said to him.
"Would you please sit at another table with me?" Cas said to her. "I need to talk with you alone."
She frowned, but she rose from her chair, picking up her drink. Frank lifted an eyebrow to his sister. "You gonna be OK?" he asked her.
"Fine, Frank. I'll be fine," Gail assured her brother.
She and Cas walked over to another table nearer to the side wall of the place as the mens eyes followed the couple. Then Frank's gaze turned to Gabriel. "Friend of yours?" he asked the Archangel, with an edge to his voice.
"More like an acquaintance, actually," Gabriel said glibly. "Can I buy you fine gentlemen a drink?"
Cas pulled Gail's chair out for her, and once they were seated, he said, "How are you?"
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Good. Very busy." There was a pause, and then she said, "How are you?" She wasn't sure if she really cared, but her parents had raised her to be polite.
"I'm terrible. Miserable," Cas said, subconsciously echoing her speech pattern. "I'm so very, very sorry about the way I behaved. I should not have left you, that day. Would you please forgive me?"
Gail shrugged. She was trying to be casual, but her heart was beating a mile a minute, now. In the movies and on TV, whenever the man pissed off the woman, she would act as if she didn't care. "Sure. Whatever," she said, taking a sip of her drink.
"Which of those men is your suitor?" Castiel asked her. "Or is it all three?"
"My what?" Gail said, her forehead wrinkling. Oh. Right. "You don't have to talk like that. I'm not writing about Camelot any more," she told him. She pointed to Frank. "That's my brother, and those are our friends, Sam and Dean Winchester. They're brothers."
Oh, Cas thought, relieved. Friends. Her brother. He let out the breath he'd been holding. "I have not been able to think of anything else but you, ever since that day," Castiel told her.
Gail regarded him dubiously. "Is that so? Then why didn't you come back? I came here every day after that, for two weeks straight! If you felt so bad about it, why didn't you come back?" Oh, crap. She hadn't meant to tell him that. Now she was going to look like a pathetic loser.
Somewhat surprisingly, Cas smiled. "You did?" He felt warm inside. She did love him, after all. Then he surprised her again. "May I hold your hand, just for a moment?" Cas said shyly.
Gail was staring at him. "What? Why?" she said suspiciously.
Castiel was tongue-tied again. She was right. He had no business asking her for such a personal gesture. But he needed very badly to see if she was the one. "Please," he said again. "Just for a moment."
Gail sighed once more. What the hell. Considering the way she'd let him kiss her when they'd met here before, it was a pretty tame request. She put her hand on the tabletop.
Cas looked at it for a second, and then he scooped it up with his hand. Gabriel looked over at them. Oh, geez. Cas was holding her hand. Humans had no idea what that meant to Angels, especially Angels of Castiel's and Gabriel's era. It was a deeply intimate activity. Gabe had had sex with some females whose hands he would never have held.
"What's the deal with your friend there, anyway?" Frank asked the Archangel, frowning. "I don't want him screwing around with my sister."
Gabriel sighed. "He's not, Frank-en-burger. He's not that kind of a guy."
"Furter," Sam said, his lips twitching.
"Huh?" Gabe said, puzzled.
"You said 'Frank-en-burger'. Wouldn't 'Frank-en-furter' be the joke?"
As Gabriel continued to stare at the younger Winchester, Dean nudged Frank. "Maybe he doesn't like weiners, Sammy," he said, smirking. "Although, come to think of it, I've never seen Frank with a girlfriend."
"Oh, I get it," Gabriel said slowly, as the light dawned. "It's funny, because a frankfurter is a weiner."
Sam and Dean laughed. "Hey, he said it, not me," Sam said, grinning.
Frank shook his head, still eyeing Cas. "What kind of a guy IS he, then?" he asked the Archangel.
As Gabriel was trying to formulate an answer to that question, Cas and Gail were still holding hands.
"You're my person," he told her. Gail's hand fit perfectly in his, like interlocking pieces of a puzzle. "You and I were meant to be together. I place you above all others," Cas went on.
Gail was eyeing him again. Sure. Right. He'd said stuff like that to her before, and then, he had taken off. "What do you do for a living, Cas?" she said suddenly. "Really. You're not a CEO, are you?"
He sighed. "No. No, I'm not."
Well, at least he was being honest. "Are you a gangster?" she persisted.
"Am I a..." Cas was taken aback. A gangster? She was asking him if he was a criminal. A thug. He opened his mouth to demur, but then, he thought about that for a minute. Maybe he WAS, in a way. Look at the way he'd been going about his business. "Would you excuse me, please?" he asked her.
Cas reluctantly let go of Gail's hand. He jumped out of his seat and rushed over to Gabriel. "Can I speak to you for a minute?" he asked his Brother.
"Uhh...sure, Cas," the Archangel said, allowing Cas to lead him away from the table. Once they were out of the mens earshot, Gabe turned to Castiel. "What's with you, Cas? You're acting weird, and those guys are suspicious about you, as it is."
"Do you think I'm a thug?" Cas said bluntly.
Gabriel stared at him for a moment. "Who wants to know?" he said slowly.
"Please, Gabriel. I don't have an ulterior motive. I promise," Cas said earnestly. "I need a friend's opinion."
Gabriel let out a breath. "Friend, huh? Well, in that case...yeah, Cas. Yes. You kind of are."
Cas nodded as if he'd known it all along. And, on some level, he had. Killing Demons was one thing, but he had been murdering his own brethren at a disturbing rate, for reasons that were usually dishonourable, or unclear, at best.
"You've got to stop hanging around with guys like Jason," Gabriel went on. He was excited now. Cas might finally be ready to make a real change. What had Gail said to him? Gabe pressed his advantage. "Jason is a selfish, sadistic bastard," he told Castiel. "He's more interested in knocking off your rivals than he is in the truth. And, once they're all gone, who do you think he'll come after next? Jason's not your friend, Cas. I am. And I think Gail and those guys could be, too. I know they're humans, but you've got to give them a chance. I've been on Earth for a while, Cas, and there are some really good ones here." Then, as Cas appeared to be thinking about that, Gabriel grinned. "So...holding hands, eh?"
"I love her, Gabriel," Cas said softly. "Thank you. I know what I have to do, now. Can you please tell Gail I will be right back?"
Then, without waiting for an answer, Castiel did an about-face and headed towards the hallway where the mens' rooms were. Unbelievable. He was doing it again. But at least he had asked Gabe to communicate with Gail this time, and at least it appeared as though he intended to come back, this time.
Gabe sighed, heading towards the table where Gail was sitting, looking confused as anything.
VIGNETTE - IN THE AIR TONIGHT
In another part of the city, in another watering hole, Bobby Singer was nursing his second double bourbon on the rocks. He'd been a little quick with the first one, and he was already feeling its effects. He was looking at a blonde woman who was sitting up at the bar, drinking some kind of a pink lady-drink. She was sitting by herself, playing with the little plastic umbrella that must have come with her drink. Bobby could never understand that. What the hell were you supposed to do with something like that, once you'd taken it out of the glass? Hold it over your head when it rained?
The woman was cute, and she was wearing a skirt that had a slit in the side. It had fallen open to reveal a glimpse of creamy thigh, and Bobby was fascinated by that glimpse. It had been way too long for him.
Once he'd finished his drink, Bobby had worked up the nerve to approach her. It had been a while for this, too. "Hi, I'm Bobby," he said to her.
"Hi, Bobby. I'm Abigail," Rowena's protegee said pleasantly.
"Mind if I buy you another?" he asked her, taking the barstool next to hers.
Abigail was startled. She almost looked behind her. She had never had a man approach her in a bar like this before. She guessed that Rowena had been right; if she dressed a little more provocatively, she might land a few fish. So to speak.
"Mind?" she said, smiling slowly. "No, not at all." As Bobby signaled to the bartender, she said, "So, what do you do, Bobby?"
He had the stock answer all ready to go: "I'm in insurance." It wasn't like he was lying. Well, not exactly. He was in the business of insuring that monsters were dead. Close enough. Then he smiled. "But don't worry, I'm not gonna sell you a policy, or anything," he assured Abigail. The drinks came, and Bobby raised his glass. "Good to meet you, Abigail. Tell me about yourself. What do YOU do?"
Hex people, she thought. "I work in the recording industry," she told him, touching his glass with hers.