Wᴇ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴs Uɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜʀғᴀᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ( closed )

[righteously]

WHO: Various!
WHERE: The Aerie
WHEN: July 2512 (November 2020)
WHAT: Consolidated Event Threads
NOTES OR WARNINGS: extreme violence, angst, adult language, potentially explicit content.

fake cut real link

Comments

D̷E̷A̷N̷

[righteously]

I̷A̷N̷

[wittingly]

B̷U̷C̷K̷Y̷

[freightcars]

t̷i̷m̷e̷l̷i̷n̷e̷

[righteously]

→ asking out cas
→ getting caught by stephen
→ sponsorship conversation with blake
→ killing lance
→ nighttime quarry arena bonding with Cas

t̷i̷m̷e̷l̷i̷n̷e̷

[freightcars]

→ bonding with Tony
→ getting paraded around by Homelander probably
→ reconnecting with Nat ft. flashbacks
→ realizing they're engaged

t̷i̷m̷e̷l̷i̷n̷e̷

[wittingly]

→ flashback to post-quarry youngsters
→ post press tour breakdown at home w kyna
→ helping kyna prepare for the quarry
→ watching kyna die

[freightcars]

The venue holds all the luster and wealth of the obscenely rich and obscenely bored. He hasn't been to one of these in a while, but he won a quarry a few months ago. He's gotten some popularity points, whatever that means, and he's got expectations to meet. He's placid by now, tamed, obedient to the man who pays for his entire life — which means showing up to this despite every instinct in him wanting to duck out.

They didn't put him in a traditional suit. Not properly, because that detracts from his "selling point", the gimmicky feature he's known for. Left arm out, recently polished and shining dark metal, gold inlay. Long sleeve on the opposite side for the contrast, tight form-fitting outfit with otherwise crisp lines. He can feel the fabric pulling at his shoulders sometimes if he moves too much. He hates it, but he fits in well enough with the population that eventually nobody pays him any mind.

He didn't know marble floors still existed, but that's what people are dancing and mingling on. He stands at the open bar tucked into the corner, blending in with the wallpaper, elbow leaning against the high bartop for support while his other hand clutches a glass he's swallowing down too quickly. He doesn't paint a friendly picture, not with his eyes narrowed and the way he's scouting the room like he expects someone to burst out of the walls with a gun or something.

The crowd breaks just for a second. A clear path, a straight shot, and there she stands like a god damn beacon.

His face goes carefully blank. He doesn't approach her — he knows better, after how they ended — but neither does he disguise the way he's openly staring.

I'ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴ

[wittingly]

[ It's several minutes after midnight, and Ian is fucking exhausted. It's all still new, even months later — publicity, interviews. Getting dragged around from this event to that event like he's a piece of art to put on display, but art in this city mingles. Art in this city makes itself available to anyone with enough money.

He used to be outgoing. Sociable. He used to like parties, drinking in groups of people he only kind-of knew. He's been subdued ever since he walked out of the arena, and it feels like that's permanent now.

He's getting boring. Still a novelty, but the quiet demeanor and too-calm disposition aren't enough to hold anybody's interest once the mystery wears off. Maybe it's too apparent that he hates it, if you look closely enough.

The event wraps up and they're relieved for the night, banished to a large suite shared between three or four of them. A common living area. Individual bedrooms. The woman — he doesn't know her name — left with an older man. He knows by now not to expect her back tonight. He doesn't know where the other two are, whether they're in or gone, and it doesn't particularly seem to matter to him as he slams the door shut behind him and starts shaking fucking glitter out of his hair.

No amount of yanking his fingers through tangles is working, it's not coming out, and for whatever reason that's the breaking point. That's what has him finally snapping, mind gone white-blank, hands on the first breakable thing they can find and he doesn't even really see it before it gets slammed into the opposite wall.

As it so happens, it was the television remote. Plastic and batteries scatter with a loud crack.

So that's how his night's going, how are you man? ]

[bornrussian]

The first party Natasha ever attended at the Volary, the richness overwhelmed her. She thought she'd never get used to it. The opulence, the free flowing wine, the food. After living on rations, or what she could scrounge or steal for her entire life, the intricate hors d'oeuvres being passed around on trays seeming a grotesque luxury.

Now, it seems there's another party every other day that requires her presence. They've become everyday. Boring. A chore. This party is no different. Natasha shifts her weight discreetly from one foot to the other. Her feet already throb in the impossible heels she's wearing to facilitate the long sweep of her intricate evening gown, and her cheeks ache from smiling at dull and cruel jokes alike.

Natasha will never know what it is that draws her attention. Perhaps it's movement out of the corner of her eye as a waiter moves past, and the universe conspires to lay an open path all the way to the bar. Perhaps it's the feeling of his gaze on her that draws her attention like a magnet. Maybe it's just chance, that makes her eyes flicker away from the man droning on about his predictions for the next Quarry. Whatever it is, she looks up, and their eyes meet for just a moment. A heated blade slices straight through her, and her polite mask shatters for the fraction of a second.

The music and the laughter of the crowd fades away. Golden light becoming a sharp fluorescent bulb illuminating the concrete tunnel leading out from underneath the Quarry. Gone is the sweet scent of the floral arrangements lining each available surface. It's replaced by the sharp scent of water mingling with rust. Intellectually, she knows the blood on her hands was dried by the time she made it into the quiet of the tunnel -- someone on the way, gave her a towel to dry them on, and the blood flaked off her skin as she rubbed at it -- but in her memories, her hands are always dripping wet, fingers coated with the thick blood of her last kill.

You made me into a monster. Her voice breaks with anguish on the last word, and she shoves him back against the wall. He doesn't make a move to ward off her blows. Just takes it patiently. Like her chest hasn't been torn open, like her heart isn't beating out its last on the floor between them.

Natasha's fingers curl tighter around the delicate stem of the crystal champagne bowl in her hand, and she drags herself back into the richly decorated ball room. In her chest, her hardened heart flutters and little fault lines open up all the way through it.

She has seen him since, of course. He's loomed larger than life on the giant obtrusive screens that are ever present during each Quarry event. Her fingers curling so tight they ache for weeks afterwards. But it's not the same.

Though Natasha doesn't look his way again, she can feel his eyes on her like tugging on a loose thread. Each smile feels too tight on her face, each polite laugh cutting like a shard of glass in her mouth.

It's not an immediate thing. She moves between groups like a butterfly, pausing for just the right length of time to make polite chit-chat before moving on. But eventually, her path leads her to the bar and him.

It's not unthinking, some long-buried emotion guiding her feet. No. Natasha knows exactly what she's doing. (Now all she needs to know is why. Maybe it's just to prove to herself that she can. Certainly it's not because she's missed him.)

Boldly, like her joints aren't trying to all give out on her at the same time, she steps right up to the bar. She can feel his presence next to her, like the bass of the music pounding through her chest.

She leans her elbows against the bar and gives the bartender a wide smile that is perhaps a shade less flirtatious than it would've been before her engagement.

"Something sweet, please," she asks.

The bartender makes a joke, she thinks, but the words never make it past the buzzing in her ears. She laughs all the same, and with a pleased smile he disappears to fulfill her desire.

The sound of her inhale-exhale seems to fill the space between them. Short enough that she could reach out and touch him. Her fingers curl against the smooth surface of the bar.

"It's been a while." An understatement. Last time they met was a different life.

[freightcars]

Some people in the Valory can read minds. He knows, he's met them. He's got his own power when he's competing, it's stripped away when he leaves, but just for a second he wishes he had the ability to hear what's happening behind her eyes. That expression on her face... he can't read it. Not like he used to. Used to be an open fucking book to him, but now the book's printed in a different language.

But she's still walking and breathing, so he did his job successfully. It never mattered what he'd lose along the way, as long as she made it through. He'd do it again. Give it up, give up everything. Best friend, not quite a sister, something different and more important and more integral, he'd give that up all over again and just like the last time he wouldn't even fucking apologize.

All of that is muted now, though. He's tired. Burnt out. Spent too much time cutting out pieces of himself to feel the pain as freshly and as sharply as he did. It's a deeper, duller ache now. A bruise.

He tracks her around the room, maps her trajectory. Takes bets within his mind whether or not she's headed where his instincts say she is. He loses that bet with himself. Owes himself a drink. Resolves to get one as soon as he hears the sound of her voice. Forgot what it sounded like. Does that make him a bad person? Then again, he's pretty much cemented that already, hasn't he?

There's an animal in his chest clawing at the walls trying to get out but the door stays closed.

"Time flies. Traffic was crazy." Sorry I'm late. It's dry, flat, deadpan. Nary a hint of inflection.

[bornrussian]

The threadbare joke earns him an obligatory smile. Nothing more than a twitch of Natasha's mouth, tugging on aching muscles. Nothing genuine about it, just a well practiced expression.

Now that she's here, it's become evident that her plan never extended beyond the slow curving orbit that brought her to his side. She's never practiced what words to say if she ever met him again; she never thought their paths would ever cross. He's a bittersweet memory.

Except here he is. Standing right in font of her. His voice sanded down and flattened, like a pale shadow of what she remembers. His features weary.

The arm -- with its ostentatious gold inlay -- is new. But then it would be. Natasha's nails cut hard enough against the heels of her palms to draw blood when he lost the last one in the Quarry.

It used to be easy. The two of them were never at a loss of words when they were together. Like they were an extension of each other. Now, the words are locked away. She's not who she used to be anymore than he is who he used to be. Back when they knew each other better than the backs of their own hands.

The bartender returns with a tumbler filled with a softly glowing pink liquid. Natasha accepts it wordlessly, and pays him with another smile that's all sharp angles beneath the softness of the lie. He lingers, hopeful for something she won't give him. She straightens, fingers curling around the glass, and she turns her body towards Bucky, finally giving him her full attention.

At the edge of her vision, the bartender moves down the line. Words aren't always needed here. Natasha has had to learn a whole new language. Spoken in the flick of fingers, the shift of eyes, the quirk of lips, or the twist of shoulders. The rejection is obvious, but polite. No hard feelings.

To an outside observer, the line of her body indicates interest -- but not too much -- and the turn of her shoulders towards Bucky is an invitation to conversation. But the way she watches him, the way she drinks him in with her eyes, doesn't match what her body language telegraphs loud enough for the whole room to read.

She wonders idly, if she burrowed her nose against the crook of his neck, would he still smell the same? How many nights did they spend curled up together when the nights turned cold? His scent thick in her nostrils. More like home than any other memory she has.

Her fingers trace the rim of her glass, and she searches for something to say. Except none of her usual small talk fits here. So what do you think of the roster for the next Quarry? Did you see what Cardinal Thor wore to the gala last night? Did you try the veal yet? Positively divine. It would all sound too glib and shallow.

"Have you--" Natasha's gaze shifts away, jaw tightening with frustration. She watches a waiter make his way across the room, tray loaded with elaborate little bite-sized treats. She tries to untangle too many words, and the memories of too many feelings she thought she'd long since tucked away.

Her fingers tighten around the glass and she looks back, polite smile perfectly in place as if it never went away. As if she didn't just pause mid-sentence to look away into the middle distance.

"How have you been? Well, I hope." Her tone is soft rather than bright, the memory of the girl she used to be sitting flush against the base of her throat.

→ asking out cas

[unwings]

[ six feet of flannel and smirks is hard to miss, and cas spots him crossing the room, colors bright against the stark white backdrop of everything inside the Company offices.

Passing by Sam’s workstation, it becomes clear where he’s headed, and Cas drops his eyes back down to the scrawled equations and formulas in front of him, letting out a softly huffed, quiet laugh for the man’s audacity. He’s working, Dean, what are you doing. Ignore that there’s a small smile on his lips anyway, that’s what the ducked head is making a half-assed attempt to hide.

Scribbling away at a notepad, Cas has a pencil tucked behind his ear and a different one in his hand being used, because he forgot about the one behind his ear. It happens. Dean saunters up and Cas flickers the briefest glance up at him, but doesn’t stop with his scribbling. ]

Don’t you have work to be doing, Dean? [ Cas asks the steno pad in front of him, ] The hydraulics on the sector 4 platform need repairs.

[righteously]

[ See? Right there, prime example -- the pencil behind his ear that he definitely forgot considering there's a pencil in his hand -- that's the kind of adorable crap Dean's a sucker for. He's, like, sixty percent sure Castiel is hiding a smile in that otherwise impressive mask, so Dean hits him with one of his own. ]

Mornin', Cas.

[ Cheerfully greeted, as though he didn't just get called out on not working.

When he slows to a stop at Castiel's workstation, his hands automatically find whatever fidget toy, stress ball, or interesting something Cas has on it. He's a tactile person, with a clearly liberal view of personal property. ]

See, the thing is... I was thinking, man am I ready for my company-approved mandatory hour long lunch break.

[ No way he's leading anywhere with that. ]

And then I was thinking... you know who else probably likes eating food? Cas. Maybe that guy has a company-approved mandatory hour long lunch break, too.

Jᴇsᴜs Cʜʀɪsᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ sᴀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

[righteously]

'𝐶𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑓 𝑤𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛
𝑊𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡

[ The screwed up thing about it is that Dean didn't even really know. Dean isn't a Kestrel, he's not part of that whole rebellion, he doesn't even have any goddamn idea Cas is working with them until like a day before this whole thing goes down, tops. Maybe he loosely supports their whole goal, their whole philosophy, sure, sounds great — but he's a realist. He's got nothing that propels him to hope, nothing and nobody he feels like he has to step up to the plate and fight for. Nothing in him believes that they'll ever actually pull off real change.

And then there's Cas, the goddamn idiot who thinks he can make a difference, apparently. Frustrated as he is when he finds out — and he is, he's furious for different reasons than Cas might ever know — deep down a part of him admires the hell out of the guy for it. Maybe even loves him a little for it, but now's not the time.

And apparently it never will be.

They know somebody's stealing plans, charts, diagrams. They know somebody's distributing information to the rebels, and they know it's happening in their department. Now, thanks to the quaint little tracking chip attached to one of the USB drives, they know where it is. Namely, Dean's apartment. As soon as they crack that bitch open it flairs to life, and he's never had this particular brand of icy, sinking dread before.

It takes him about two of the four minutes they have to recover and come up with a plan. Not enough to explain it, not enough to actually assess his decision and figure out whether or not it's stupid.

They're going with it. ]

Shut the hell up and listen to me.

[ Sorry, Cas. If you were hoping to take the reins on this one you're getting shot down without a second thought. ]

Whatever I say, you go with it, you understand me? You keep your goddamn mouth shut, and you let me do what I need to do. If you screw this up you're not gonna be fixing it for me, you're just gonna make sure we both go down. I'm not watching that happen again after Benny.

[ And after his mom. It's not an exaggeration to say that he'd rather die than see someone else he cares about fall in the quarry.

He has enough time to plant a rough, inelegant kiss on Cas's mouth before the Shrikes kick down his front door. Dean paints a convincing picture to the grunts that mean to arrest someone, but they're wildly taken aback by Castiel's presence in an apartment in this shitty sector. It's easy to sell a lie by throwing out shit like:

I was using you, you poor dumb bastard, or how in the hell could you think I'd ever really want a rich asshole like you?

He's got them sold, he knows it as soon as they slowly descend on Dean alone with their cuffs. It would've worked, he thinks, it really would have worked if it weren't for the mind-reading douchebag that swept in to fuck it all up. ]

[unwings]

[ dean's grabbing at things that don't belong to him, like a child full of restless energy, and cas watches from the edge of his vision while dean commandeers his favorite knick knack - a rubik’s cube-esque little puzzle box, something he occupies himself with when he hits a wall with a problem. Now, dean’s fondling the thing and cas’s eyes catch on his fingers gliding over the toy, distracted with thoughts about work hewn calluses, mechanic dexterity. he's a tactile, physical personality, and there's something both appealing and apt about dean working with his hands, crafting and molding complex machines with them.

it’s a cute, endearing kind of nonsense, the way he rambles on, and his voice has an easy, smooth drawl to it that worms in around all the parts of cas that want to be stubborn and standoffish and laser focused on work. the beaming smile and bright eyes don't help, so he does his best not to look at either of those, not if he wants to stay on task. ]

Fair conclusion.

[ admitted absently. yes, he does have a company-approved mandatory hour long lunch break, and clearly dean wants to combine those breaks, but what’s the point in connecting the dots for him? ]

Like most all employees, and humans, I do require sustenance to live. [ cas confirms mildly, turning his attention from the notepad to his computer. dean winchester has a talent for distraction, and for cas, who'd always prided himself in his focus and efficiency, it's both infuriating and intriguing. dean's something he simply can't ignore. ] Is this a new revelation you’ve stumbled on?

[ finally, his eyes turn back on dean’s, brows arched expectantly, with a hint of amusement, as a hand reaches to snatch his puzzle box back. that's not yours, stop touching it, you manbaby. ]

[righteously]

[ The puzzle box goes with a momentary pout on Dean's part, an unvoiced I was playing with that protest that doesn't manifest past the two seconds it exists in his feelings.

No worries, Cas has tons of other shit on his desk so he'll just pluck something else out, not even remotely dissuaded. ]

See, humans yes. But here I was this whole time thinkin' you were an angel.

[ Smooth, right? It's a cheesy line, and it's delivered with an expression that makes it clear he knows exactly how cheesy it is. The self-mockery's part of his appeal, he's told.

But he's not done yet. ]

And I asked myself, 'Self, what in the hell would an angel even eat?' And then it hit me.

[ Pause for dramatic effect. ]

Angel food cake. They're serving it in the fancy cafeteria I'm not supposed to know about. Grab your coat, let's see how it stacks up.

[unwings]

[ he's so stupid. so goddamn stupid.

when cas started down this path, dean was just some sweet infatuation - a charming, dork of a man with a brilliant smile and sharp mind and gentle disposition underneath all the terse roughness. that was before angel food cakes and evenings curled up together on his couch, cas tracing the lines in dean's palm absently while talking low about hopes, dreams, douchebags who wear sunglasses indoors, and the merits of impractical action films. before he kissed him and it felt like floating on air, like he didn't really know what a kiss was supposed to be before dean winchester. cas was willing to pay the cost of rebellion himself, but he never thought the price would be dean. what an idiot he'd been.

dean's rattling off commands and he wants to refute, shove back, refuse to accept this sacrifice, but it all happens so fast. his head's spinning and cas barely has a moment to plead with him — ] No, Dean, please, you can't—

[ and then their lips crash together and cas realizes, with sudden horror, it may be the last kiss they ever have, hands gripping at the front of his shirt, desperate to keep him close. it's futile. the shrikes crack the door in and before cas has time to make a move to supersede, dean's claimed the guilt for this. silent as he throws out faked vitriol to play the part, cas feels like his body's gone numb, rooted in place and devastated as he watches it all play out.

eyes glassy and jaw gaping with words he can't find, the genuine heartbroken despair cas wears plainly fits plenty well enough into the narrative dean's painting for the shrikes. it wasn't supposed to happen like this. it was supposed to be his life on the line only.


it's like the air's sapped from the room when the cardinal steps in behind the line of shrikes manhandling dean into cuffs, and a shot of icy terror races up cas's spine. he knows him. everyone in parliament knows him, but for cas it's more personal, having just gained the ire of the arrogant, imposing cardinal days or weeks earlier. dean may have just thrown himself onto the pyre for nothing at all, and the realization is utterly crushing. shocked, numb, frozen in inaction, his eyes drift to dean's, bleeding sorrow and apology in the gaze. he fucked up, dean. he fucked up so, so bad, and he's so sorry. he's ruined the both of them.

in stark contrast to the defiance he'd shown stephen before, cas's eyes drop immediately away from him, towards the floor. there's nothing he can do now, but watch and wait, in silent dread, for the axe to fall. ]

[unwings]

[ and there goes cas's pencil sharpener. there is no winning.

except, dean calls him an angel, and it's such high praise, cas is left blinking dumbly. sure, it's cheesy, and that part pulls an involuntary scoff of a laugh, let out through the first genuine smile that gets past his mask. okay, fucker, you got him with that one. ]

An angel. Really? Here, building death traps?

[ doesn't feel very angelic, but somehow dean doesn't see that stain on him. he's successfully drawn cas's attention away from his work. angel food cake, he says, and cas presses his lips in a line to avoid the encroaching smile.

it's unfair how charming this level self-deprecating cheese is, and cas angles his eyes back to his computer screen - less towards the open programs, more towards the small clock in the bottom corner. it is about lunch time. and yet - ]

I'm in the middle of a project, Dean, I can't drop everything just because you want to wax poetic about deserts.

[ but he wants to. cas would absolutely love to listen to this ridiculous man ramble sweet nonsense about snack cakes at him. it's absurd how much he wants to. ]

[rehandle]

[ It's exceedingly rare that Stephen leaves the Volary these days— with the whole city available to experience through the eyes and ears of its populace, what would be the point? There's nothing he might want that can't be brought to him, nothing he might wish to see that he can't stretch out with his power and witness in an instant.

But occasionally something makes a big enough noise to draw him out, the lure of a thrill enough to warrant the extra work of stripping away the memory of himself from every mind that needn't hold onto it. And oh, this one had been something. It had started plainly enough: city surveillance, mind bleeding idly out and down through the Volary, when one mind had dropped him a hint of a flurry of activity amongst the Shrikes. He'd followed it, skittering through to the cluster of thoughts working on a potential Quarry case, following the suspect's name to its owner's mind. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing to linger on past a cursory scan. At least not until the alleged perpetrator's thoughts had drifted to a face that flipped the whole thing on its head.

Castiel had shown a disdain for hierarchy and system in their brief meeting that spoke either of promise or a fall. And here was his face, his voice, his laugh, his smell, all wrapped up in the mind of a criminal.

It had been enough. Stephen had dropped a quiet thought into the mind of a trusted Shrike, let them know to expect him on the raid, and headed out into the day.

And now here they are. And on walking into the room he finds not only the target of the day's operation— but Castiel himself. There's a suspended moment of silence as he takes it in, allows what pieces are already present to slot into place. ]

Hello, gentlemen.

[ When Castiel refuses to look at him his attention turns to Dean and the Shrikes struggling to detain him, benign smile plastered onto his own face. ]

This is cosy.

[righteously]

[ Dean's exposure to parliament has been incredibly minimal. He doesn't have big dreams or aspirations, he doesn't stir a lot of shit, he doesn't care enough to. The exactly two members he's known personally are ones he's dated, and neither of them have really taken the time to talk about their... coworkers? Co... cult... members? The point is, poor stupid Dean has absolutely no idea how quickly his entire plan is going to go to shit when Stephen walks in.

It's probably clear enough in his smartass attitude, written in the loose bravado he still wears even as they secure restraints on him. ]

Honey, your strip-o-gram's here.

[ It's called out pleasantly to Cas, but eye contact's all on Stephen. ]

Aren't you guys supposed to-- I don't know, sing or tap dance or something? Earn your keep, Sascha.

[ It's all a front. Of course it is. His hammering heart knows exactly where he's going, but like hell he's giving any of these assclowns the satisfaction. ]

[unwings]

[ a week ago, castiel was happy to squint judgmentally at this man strutting around the volary like a preening peacock, dismiss him as far too fully of himself to be in touch with reality, write it all off as a man that's lived too long with too many people worshipping him. now, cas is seriously considering dropping to his knees and begging stephen for dean's life.

it won't work. he knows it won't, and both their lives now depend on how cruel stephen strange is feeling today. the quarry might be the optimistic outcome, at this point. cas hasn't seen much of how the cardinals do business, but the reigning class doesn't have a great track record for compassion.

dean never should've been pulled into this. cas may as well have knotted the noose and wrapped it around his neck himself, and soon, stephen will know every detail of that truth. the chill of it grips his chest so tightly he can't even crack a flicker of a smile for dean's flippancy. only a wince, knowing it'll do nothing but worsen their fates. ]

Dean. [ cas says quietly, but firm, eyes finding dean with a mournful, pained grimace. ] He's a Cardinal.

[ hushed and spoken like an apology, because it is. dean came into his life full of light and laughter, and in return, cas has dragged him down to hell. ]

[righteously]

[ Death was an angel too, Cas. They're warriors, read the bible.

Doesn't matter, that laugh-scoff keeps the smile on his face, it's pure encouragement, he'll take it. ]

Perfect, so it's settled. Dinner. What time am I picking you up?

[ Because that's what that means right? What he heard wasn't no, it was a whole bunch of not no. His whole... body language vibe is not no. Dean's pretty good at reading people. ]

[unwings]

[ and now they've jumped from company mandated lunch to nebulously timed dinner fast enough to give cas whiplash. ]

What? I never said—

[ how has this happened to him. why has this happened to him. how does an establishment as strictly governed and organized as the Company keep an employee that's the embodiment of social chaos. cas huffs, shaking his head at the audacity of this offensively attractive problem of a human being, and attempting a put-upon frown. ]

Following a conversation with you is exhausting. [ cas reaches out to snatch his pencil sharpener back too, tapping it back down in it's proper, assigned space on his desk resolutely. ] Quarry's soon. I'm probably working late tonight.

[ which is still not no, but it isn't a yes yet either. ]

[righteously]

Alright, alright.

[ His hands come up in a gentle surrender, and it's accompanied by the shake of his head. You can only push so much before it starts to get creepy. He'll back off, and he'll gently return Cas's pencil sharpener where he found it. ]

You win this round.

[ That doesn't stop him from gently pointing. ]

But five bucks says I'm gonna get you to fall in love with me before all's said and done. Just watch.

[unwings]

[ dean barely knows him, and they spent their first conversation bickering and annoyed with each other, but here he is, making claims like fall in love. head at a tilt, cas watches him like he's trying to solve a puzzle for a long, silent, pensive moment. at length, the smallest smirk appears. ]

Only five bucks?

[ come on, dean winchester, if you're going to drop the L word, put a little more risk behind it. another, shorter, thoughtful pause, and cas picks up his abandoned pencil, scrawling something at the edge of his notepad.

maybe declaring cas winner has something to do with it, maybe it's dean shooting off a wild challenge like that, but he tears off the small section of paper and holds it out calmly, chin tipped up with an arched brow. congrats, you win his address. ]

Eight-thirty. Don't be late.