SPN FIC - They Offer Magazines, and Chocolate-Covered Cherries
Cas. On a bus.
The title is from the Rod McKuen poem "Trains," which I first heard (and memorized) in 1969.
CHARACTERS: Castiel, OFC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: 8.17
LENGTH: 602 words
THEY OFFER MAGAZINES, AND CHOCOLATE-COVERED CHERRIES
By Carol Davis
"Hard times?" the woman asks.
A rainbow, Castiel thinks. Or a symphony: two simple words as layered as music, or the progression of colors from one end of the spectrum to the other. For a moment he doesn't turn his head, doesn't acknowledge the question or its speaker, simply allows the sound of it to ripple through him until the last small vibration of the woman's voice fades and is gone, absorbed by the drone of the bus's big tires against the ribboned pavement of the interstate.
Then, finally, he shifts his head a little.
Concern, he thinks. Compassion. Curiosity. A desire to fill an empty space with conversation.
"Yes," he says. "These are difficult times."
She nods. Twice, then a third time, and she pats his forearm with a plump, aged-spotted hand. "Things will get better," she assures him. "You'll see. You're young."
He is anything but young.
In every conceivable way, he is not what he seems to be.
The tablet lies in his lap, carefully wrapped, tucked inside a simple leather briefcase. He has transported it this way for eleven days now, on a series of busses, crossing bits of the country in random directions. None of the drivers have needed more than a gentle mental bump to allow him to board without a ticket. They've asked no questions; nor have most of his fellow passengers. With their iPods and iPads, smart phones and notebooks and Nooks, they tend to keep to themselves, which is just as well.
He won't need to do this forever. Something will change, and he'll need to formulate a new plan of action.
For now, he is simply a businessman (an unemployed businessman, apparently) on the road.
"You?" he murmurs. "Where are you going?"
The woman breaks into a smile. "Milwaukee," she says. "To see my niece."
"That's… nice."
She'll show him pictures, he supposes. Will tell him about a girl: where she works, who she's seeing or has married. If this girl has children, there will likely be pictures by the hundreds, and by the time the bus reaches Milwaukee, he will know enough about the woman's family to write a book the size and heft of the Oxford English Dictionary.
Instead, she pokes around in the soft fabric tote bag she keeps wedged between her hip and the vibrating metal bulkhead of the bus, and produces a wrinkled copy of The New Yorker that she offers to Castiel with a knowing tilt of her head, her smile gone a little shy and tentative. "You see?" she says. "I pay attention. You're a man of few words. There's a good article here, on the future of the Supreme Court. Read, and I'll take my nap."
The magazine is quickly followed by a small plastic bag of chocolates.
Again, she pats his arm.
"A treat," she says. "I bought them, but I shouldn't. Marley will feed me non-stop when I get to Milwaukee."
"You're very kind," Castiel replies.
This is why, he thinks as the bus hums its way along the interstate. This unrequested camaraderie: magazines and chocolates, a gentle touch and a smile for a stranger. He has disobeyed orders. Risked death. Has wrought havoc throughout Heaven, for no reason his brothers and sisters can fathom.
They cannot, he thinks, because they have never done this.
They've never spent time sitting quietly beside grandmothers and soldiers, students and vagabonds, honeymooning couples on a shoestring, writers and musicians and…
He glances down at the worn leather of the briefcase.
Hunters, he thinks.
And he wonders if it's possible to buy enough time.
For them.
* * * * *
The title is from the Rod McKuen poem "Trains," which I first heard (and memorized) in 1969.
CHARACTERS: Castiel, OFC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: 8.17
LENGTH: 602 words
THEY OFFER MAGAZINES, AND CHOCOLATE-COVERED CHERRIES
By Carol Davis
"Hard times?" the woman asks.
A rainbow, Castiel thinks. Or a symphony: two simple words as layered as music, or the progression of colors from one end of the spectrum to the other. For a moment he doesn't turn his head, doesn't acknowledge the question or its speaker, simply allows the sound of it to ripple through him until the last small vibration of the woman's voice fades and is gone, absorbed by the drone of the bus's big tires against the ribboned pavement of the interstate.
Then, finally, he shifts his head a little.
Concern, he thinks. Compassion. Curiosity. A desire to fill an empty space with conversation.
"Yes," he says. "These are difficult times."
She nods. Twice, then a third time, and she pats his forearm with a plump, aged-spotted hand. "Things will get better," she assures him. "You'll see. You're young."
He is anything but young.
In every conceivable way, he is not what he seems to be.
The tablet lies in his lap, carefully wrapped, tucked inside a simple leather briefcase. He has transported it this way for eleven days now, on a series of busses, crossing bits of the country in random directions. None of the drivers have needed more than a gentle mental bump to allow him to board without a ticket. They've asked no questions; nor have most of his fellow passengers. With their iPods and iPads, smart phones and notebooks and Nooks, they tend to keep to themselves, which is just as well.
He won't need to do this forever. Something will change, and he'll need to formulate a new plan of action.
For now, he is simply a businessman (an unemployed businessman, apparently) on the road.
"You?" he murmurs. "Where are you going?"
The woman breaks into a smile. "Milwaukee," she says. "To see my niece."
"That's… nice."
She'll show him pictures, he supposes. Will tell him about a girl: where she works, who she's seeing or has married. If this girl has children, there will likely be pictures by the hundreds, and by the time the bus reaches Milwaukee, he will know enough about the woman's family to write a book the size and heft of the Oxford English Dictionary.
Instead, she pokes around in the soft fabric tote bag she keeps wedged between her hip and the vibrating metal bulkhead of the bus, and produces a wrinkled copy of The New Yorker that she offers to Castiel with a knowing tilt of her head, her smile gone a little shy and tentative. "You see?" she says. "I pay attention. You're a man of few words. There's a good article here, on the future of the Supreme Court. Read, and I'll take my nap."
The magazine is quickly followed by a small plastic bag of chocolates.
Again, she pats his arm.
"A treat," she says. "I bought them, but I shouldn't. Marley will feed me non-stop when I get to Milwaukee."
"You're very kind," Castiel replies.
This is why, he thinks as the bus hums its way along the interstate. This unrequested camaraderie: magazines and chocolates, a gentle touch and a smile for a stranger. He has disobeyed orders. Risked death. Has wrought havoc throughout Heaven, for no reason his brothers and sisters can fathom.
They cannot, he thinks, because they have never done this.
They've never spent time sitting quietly beside grandmothers and soldiers, students and vagabonds, honeymooning couples on a shoestring, writers and musicians and…
He glances down at the worn leather of the briefcase.
Hunters, he thinks.
And he wonders if it's possible to buy enough time.
For them.
* * * * *