Well, I apparently fail at writing BAMF-ness, was stuck in pretentious-mode and have been spending far too much time in Psych class, but never-the-less couldn't resist.
They almost don’t think of Castiel as an angel anymore.
It’s not like they forget he has powers; they still call on him for backup, the teleportation that’s somehow become commonplace, the esoteric knowledge of angels and demons and magic long forgotten by any human. It’s apparent every time he pauses too long, or gets frustrated, or just gives that odd little head tilt and a baldly-stated question whenever they mention something second-nature and commonplace, but apparently foreign to their visitor from on high.
But part of that humanity that is so confusing to Castiel is categorization, putting people and things into boxes so that lines can be drawn between them, to connect and divide. Angels-as-dicks is a label now firmly cemented in their minds - with more than enough supporting evidence as far as they're concerned - and Castiel, in contrast, has come to be a close part of their little alliance, part adviser and consultant in the affairs of the cosmos, part comrade-in-arms in the battle at hand, and part littlest brother/apprentice in the ways of the human world and hunting. It shifts him out of the dickish pile, and thus the angel one, and almost, but not quite, into the nearly-impregnable family one. When they think about it at all, they tend to put him in the middle ground label of friend, which has previously really only applied to humans, and as a result forget the power, though diminished, he still wields in his everyday existence until it’s shoved in their faces.
Like when on a simple salt-and-burn, they come back to find the intermittent showers have turned the exit from their formerly solid parking space into a brown mire. At the end of their wits, wet, muddy, frustrated, a call from their previously absent ally is just another annoyance. Until he shows up and, in a move they don’t quite see clearly, pulls the Impala up to the solid pavement of the normal street in the work of a moment, a reminder of his casually unearthly physical strength.
Or when he tags along on an investigation into some odd signs, generally making a nuisance of himself by requiring extra explanations for his presence, his questions, his too-truthful replies. They excuse him as a rookie to witnesses, mentally challenged to the hotel owner and waitresses, and he feels like both to the frustrated Winchesters. Until he matter-of-factly informs them of a witness’s beliefs about her husband’s hobby and a sense of demonic power from a simple wooden cup, breaking the case open, a reminder of his connection to the spiritual side of the world beyond their perception.
Or when, wearied after a yet again too-narrow escape from the latest pack of demons, they return to Bobby’s house ready to drop in exhaustion, and find him standing in the living room, face set and intent. Bone-weary, they try to preempt him with appeals for just a few hours to eat and sleep and unwind even a little bit before they snap, but reluctantly ready themselves for a fight. Until he quietly, calmly, reveals his purpose in their sanctuary - an offer to take over the watch for a while, backed by a perfect understanding of that weight, a reminder that this, their battle, has been his own since long before they were born.
Re: RemindersmaychorianMarch 29 2010, 04:46:31 UTC
Oh, I really like this, like a character study of just how alien Castiel can be and how often he catches the boys off-guard. And I love that little list in the beginning, how he's a counselor and ally and also like a little brother sometimes. ♥
This is wonderful. I love how you portray his BAMFiness not in a loud, sparks-flying, ass-kicking way (though I love that too), but in a quieter and no less valid way, in the strength of his character and the way his physical and spiritual strength and angelic knowledge are just part of who he is. Lovely job!
They almost don’t think of Castiel as an angel anymore.
It’s not like they forget he has powers; they still call on him for backup, the teleportation that’s somehow become commonplace, the esoteric knowledge of angels and demons and magic long forgotten by any human. It’s apparent every time he pauses too long, or gets frustrated, or just gives that odd little head tilt and a baldly-stated question whenever they mention something second-nature and commonplace, but apparently foreign to their visitor from on high.
But part of that humanity that is so confusing to Castiel is categorization, putting people and things into boxes so that lines can be drawn between them, to connect and divide. Angels-as-dicks is a label now firmly cemented in their minds - with more than enough supporting evidence as far as they're concerned - and Castiel, in contrast, has come to be a close part of their little alliance, part adviser and consultant in the affairs of the cosmos, part comrade-in-arms in the battle at hand, and part littlest brother/apprentice in the ways of the human world and hunting. It shifts him out of the dickish pile, and thus the angel one, and almost, but not quite, into the nearly-impregnable family one. When they think about it at all, they tend to put him in the middle ground label of friend, which has previously really only applied to humans, and as a result forget the power, though diminished, he still wields in his everyday existence until it’s shoved in their faces.
Like when on a simple salt-and-burn, they come back to find the intermittent showers have turned the exit from their formerly solid parking space into a brown mire. At the end of their wits, wet, muddy, frustrated, a call from their previously absent ally is just another annoyance. Until he shows up and, in a move they don’t quite see clearly, pulls the Impala up to the solid pavement of the normal street in the work of a moment, a reminder of his casually unearthly physical strength.
Or when he tags along on an investigation into some odd signs, generally making a nuisance of himself by requiring extra explanations for his presence, his questions, his too-truthful replies. They excuse him as a rookie to witnesses, mentally challenged to the hotel owner and waitresses, and he feels like both to the frustrated Winchesters. Until he matter-of-factly informs them of a witness’s beliefs about her husband’s hobby and a sense of demonic power from a simple wooden cup, breaking the case open, a reminder of his connection to the spiritual side of the world beyond their perception.
Or when, wearied after a yet again too-narrow escape from the latest pack of demons, they return to Bobby’s house ready to drop in exhaustion, and find him standing in the living room, face set and intent. Bone-weary, they try to preempt him with appeals for just a few hours to eat and sleep and unwind even a little bit before they snap, but reluctantly ready themselves for a fight. Until he quietly, calmly, reveals his purpose in their sanctuary - an offer to take over the watch for a while, backed by a perfect understanding of that weight, a reminder that this, their battle, has been his own since long before they were born.
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