Dark Shadows - Metaphysical Gravity - Ch. 4 - Old Things More Beautiful Than Things Brand New
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Castiel stops in to pay his respects to the current Collins women and finds Pamela alone. He pauses to have some polite conversation, both of them enjoying a Queen Anne chair in front of the low flames in the gas fireplace.
Yes, he does believe he will be staying in Collinsport for some time.
Yes, the town is quite charming.
No, he couldn’t possibly impose on dinner tonight. But perhaps tomorrow evening, he should like to dine with them, if they would have him?
The smile he gives is warm and genuine as she exclaims she would love to have him for dinner tomorrow and does he have any favorites?
This time the smile is not so warm and not so genuine as it falls slightly when he tells her quite simply that he is sure whatever they serve will be of the utmost pleasure to him as he has only dined sparingly since arriving in town.
“I do wonder,” he continues, leaning forward in his chair and holding the gaze of Pamela, “if I may impose on your hospitality a step further?”
“Of course.” She is leaning forward as well, nearly transfixed by the intensity of his blue eyes. “Changed your mind about staying with us here, at Collinwood?”
“I’m afraid not, although I thank you again for your generosity. I am rather used to a bachelor’s lifestyle and I find I enjoy the freedom letting a room at the Inn affords.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already found some company to keep after such a short time?” Pamela says, her eyes alight with flirtatiousness.
Castiel smiles. “Hardly,” he says with a friendly, conspiratorial tone. “I have been enjoying the somewhat less worldly things about being a bachelor, namely leaving my things about and staying up all hours of the night.”
“Night owl?”
He pauses for a moment, flicking through his mind for the colloquialism and its meaning. “Yes,” he answers easily after a fraction of time. “I prefer the evening to the day, truth be told,” at this he leans in closer, his shoulder inches from hers and she can feel the heat coming off his body. “I cannot be out in the sunlight very long.”
“Why not?”
“It is a genetic condition in the English Collins. A solar allergy. I’m afraid I would burn.”
“Well, you’re just a delicate flower, aren’t you?” Her fingers are gently splayed against her neck, resting casually against the soft, exposed skin or playing with the pendant of her necklace. He can’t help but look down. She raises an eyebrow at him.
He may be just nearly raised from the dead, but he wasn’t born yesterday and he’d have to be all the way dead not to notice her flirtation.
“I would hardly call myself delicate.”
“No, there is something…” her eyes have shifted from coquettish to searching. “Something nearly feral about you.”
His smile nearly falters and just when he is about to lean back, out of her space, she continues.
“I like you, Castiel Collins,” she says with a quick wink. “Still waters run deep, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do.”
“Now,” she says leaning back her body taking on a bit more formality. “What is this imposition you’re asking about?”
“I was wondering if I may take a look around the Old Estate.”
“Got a thing for old buildings?”
He tilts his head to one side as if he is considering it and then nods once. “Yes, I suppose I do. I rather like the architecture, the dichotomy of grandeur and simplicity. Quite often I find they are more solidly built than their modern counterparts.”
“You got that right, the old house is holding up pretty good despite being abandoned for years and partially burned. As long as you’re careful with yourself, you can look around all you like.”
“Thank you. That is most gracious.” He leans back as well, settling into the chair. “No one ever thought to restore it?”
“No,” she says quickly, dusting imaginary lint off her slacks. “After the fire, no one wanted to be near it again, so they built this house,” she gestures absently at the walls of the drawing room.
“And no one since then?”
“No.” This time she pauses. “As I said, look around all you like, but be careful.”
“Is it structurally unsound?”
“That house will outlives us all,” she says lowly. “But… I think… I feel…” she purses her lips. “That house has seen its share of misery and it’s… written on those walls and soaked into the floorboards.”
“May I ask what you mean?”
She looks down at her hands. Plays with her rings on her fingers, twirling them around and around. “I told you that I have a sense of things.”
“I remember.”
“That house has memories. And they aren’t all happy.”
He believes he remembers the memories of which she warns. He forces his lips to curve up into a smile. “I shall be careful, of course.” He presses his hands into the fine wood of the chairs, standing up with grace and elegance. “If you don’t mind, I should like to have a look at it tonight.”
She stands and frowns slightly. “Are you sure? It’s dark up there. No electricity.”
“Over the years, being out of the sun, my condition has actually improved my night vision greatly.”
“I bet that comes in handy.” She places a hand on his forearm and is surprised by the iron strength under the fabric. She gives his arm a couple of playful squeezes. “I guess I don’t have to be worried about you at all. You feel strong enough to handle yourself.” A pause. “Or anyone else.” She winks again.
“You charm me.” He gives her a quick wink back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll show you out.”
“Please,” he says fondly, now taking his turn to place one of his preternaturally strong hands on her arm gently. “It would make me feel most at home if you would allow me to show myself out.”
She inclines her head in acceptance. “Tomorrow night, then. Don’t be late.” Her smile is playful and coy.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
****
Standing in front of the old house, his house, if he lets his eyes drift over slightly and doesn't look too closely, he can still see it as it used to be. He remembers running through the halls chasing Abigail, racing down the stairs in a rush to leave, sitting in the kitchen waiting for Cook to finish biscuits, hiding in the cellar as a boy, poking into the dark corners of the basement looking for treasure or bugs.
He cranes his neck and looks upward. In the dark, he can just barely make out the top turret where he had a secret hiding place for all his boyish treasures. A coin, an oddly shaped rock, a horseshoe, bits and pieces that meant something only to him.
He smiles, thinking of his boyhood self, all awkward angles and messy, thick hair, bloody knees and ripped trousers. God, how his mother had yelled at him when he tore his clothes. He lets out a huffed laugh.
He loved this house.
He loves it still.
He grasps the handle and is amazed that he still needs to wiggle it just right to get the door to open. His footsteps echo loudly in the foyer. This part of the house wasn’t touched by fire. It is simply worn with time and aged by being forgotten. The walls are cracked and when he touches the banister it wobbles precariously in its posts.
He’s not alone in this house. But contrary to Pamela’s warning, it’s not something supernatural that is watching him carefully. He turns and faces his company.
“Hello.”
“Are you a ghost too?”
The boy stands in front of him and with his exceptional night vision, Castiel can make out faded and worn denim, scuffed runners and a heavy v-neck sweater.
“Do I look like a ghost?” he counters with a smile.
The boy flicks on a powerful flashlight and directs the beam up and down Castiel. The strong light fills the foyer in a glow. “Yeah. You kinda do. You look like that picture up at the house. All stiff and weird. With the cane and everything.” The boy smacks his lips in thought and then cocks his head. “So, ghost or not?”
“Not.”
The boy is wary, suspicion laced over his features.
“My name is Castiel. I am a cousin of Collins’ family. And who might you be?” He holds out his hand as an offer to greet the young man. The boy looks at the hand, looks back at Castiel’s face, and raises an eyebrow.
“I’m Ben.”
“Pamela’s son.”
“Step-son.”
Castiel inclines his head in acquiescence. “As you like. And how is it I come to meet you here?”
Ben shrugs. “Dunno. I like to hang out here. There’s tons of cool shit.”
Castiel’s amused by his gruffness. “I shall have to take your word for it,” he said looking past Ben and up the staircase. “What did you mean when you asked if I was a ghost ‘too’?”
The suspicious look sits on the boys face comfortably; it’s one he wears often. “I dunno. Nothin’.”
“Oh,” says Castiel, turning away slightly and running his hand over the banister again. He takes a few steps away from the boy in feigned disinterest.
It works because not two seconds later he hears Ben right behind him. “Why d’ya wanna know?”
Castiel fakes a casual shrug. “I heard from Pamela this house is… different.”
Ben purses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. She’s pretty cool for a step mom. She, like, knows things.”
“She appears to, yes.” Castiel walks along the staircase wall, running his hand along it until he finds the hidden latch with his fingertips. He presses in, and a door opens in the wall, groaning with release after so long. “Ah, look at that,” he says lowly, eyes sliding over to see Ben’s reaction.
“No way. Secret hideout. That is so freakin’ cool. How didja know it was there?”
“I didn’t,” lies Castiel easily. “I would wager this house is full of secret things.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s tons…” Ben stops abruptly, jaw snapping shut. “I mean, I guess.”
Castiel pretends not to notice the way the young boy cut his sentence off. “I lived in a house very much like this growing up. There were secret hiding places and servant stairwells and loose floorboards where you could keep your things.” He laughs as a sudden memory strikes him of playing with the dumbwaiter with Abigail and Sarah. To them it had been a new invention, the very height of modernity. “There was even a small elevator from the kitchen upstairs so the servants could move things.”
“Oh, there’s one here too!” Ben exclaims.
“Imagine that.” He’s staring at Ben, but not really seeing him. Castiel is looking backward in time to when he was a boy, not knowing what the future would bring.
“You’re not a freak are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, a freak. A freak who likes boys. ‘Cause you’re staring at me.”
“I meant no disrespect, Benjamin.”
“Just Ben. ‘Cause if you are a freak, my brother will beat the shit out of you.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a brother.”
“He’s not my brother-brother, he’s my Big Brother.”
Castiel frowns, not sure what the distinction is. Ben sighs, overly dramatic and drawn out.
“Like Big Brother, Big Sister?” At Castiel’s continued confusion, Ben presses on with annoyance. “‘Cause my dad skipped out and I don’t have a positive male role model,” he says in that way some children have of being too old for their age. “So we hang out. Only he’s really cool and he doesn’t just hang out with me ‘cause he has to. We hang out all the time. We do tons of stuff together.”
“Of course,” replies Castiel, because Ben seems to be waiting for some kind of response.
“Last month he took me to the roller-coaster and we even got our pictures taken and put on keychains.” Ben starts digging his wallet sized keychain out of his back pocket. He keeps it with him wherever he goes and every time he sees Dean pull up in the Impala he surreptitiously checks to see if Dean still has his. And he does.
“I see,” says Castiel as Ben hands over the key chain. Castiel takes it without breaking eye contact.
“So, if you are a freak, Dean will totally hand you your ass.”
What an odd phrase. “I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen.” His tone is gravely serious as he indulges Ben. And then he looks down at the key chain.
It must be the angle. The picture is fuzzy, not quite in focus. Perhaps some sort of distortion. Because it can’t be possible. He cannot possibly have this chance again. First Abigail and now…
It’s too much to hope for. It’s far too important to rest small plastic artifact treasured by a young boy. He has to be sure.
“Dean, did you say?”
“Yeah, Dean Winchester.”
“He lives here? In Collinsport?”
“Duh, he’s my big brother, of course he does.”
Castiel misses young Ben rolling his eyes as he snatches the key chain out of Castiel’s frozen fingertips and shoves it back into its treasured space in his back pocket. Castiel must leave and he must leave now.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ben. Perhaps I shall see you around the estate again.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Castiel is already gone, already out of the old building and crossing the lush landscape. He wastes no time, summoning Charles at the same time as he makes his way back to his room at the Inn. By the time he arrives and is sliding the key in the door, Charles is already racing up the stairs to meet him.
“Charles,” Castiel says lowly as he sweeps open the door and ushers the frazzled writer in.
“I came,” Chuck wheezes out of breath. “I came as fast as I could.”
“Of course you did. Please have a seat.”
Chuck takes his place at the foot of the chair in front of the fireplace. Castiel discards his dark felt coat as Chuck shucks his light windbreaker and starts rolling up the somewhat tattered sleeve of his flannel shirt.
“That can wait, Charles,” says Castiel impatiently as he sits in the chair leans forward and directs his startling blue gaze down to the author. “First, you’re going to tell me everything there is to know about Dean Winchester.”
Chuck is already nodding in happy acquiescence before the question even finishes falling from Castiel’s lips.
Next Chapter - 5 - Chuck Shurley, Purveyor of All Things Strange and Unusual
Castiel stops in to pay his respects to the current Collins women and finds Pamela alone. He pauses to have some polite conversation, both of them enjoying a Queen Anne chair in front of the low flames in the gas fireplace.
Yes, he does believe he will be staying in Collinsport for some time.
Yes, the town is quite charming.
No, he couldn’t possibly impose on dinner tonight. But perhaps tomorrow evening, he should like to dine with them, if they would have him?
The smile he gives is warm and genuine as she exclaims she would love to have him for dinner tomorrow and does he have any favorites?
This time the smile is not so warm and not so genuine as it falls slightly when he tells her quite simply that he is sure whatever they serve will be of the utmost pleasure to him as he has only dined sparingly since arriving in town.
“I do wonder,” he continues, leaning forward in his chair and holding the gaze of Pamela, “if I may impose on your hospitality a step further?”
“Of course.” She is leaning forward as well, nearly transfixed by the intensity of his blue eyes. “Changed your mind about staying with us here, at Collinwood?”
“I’m afraid not, although I thank you again for your generosity. I am rather used to a bachelor’s lifestyle and I find I enjoy the freedom letting a room at the Inn affords.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already found some company to keep after such a short time?” Pamela says, her eyes alight with flirtatiousness.
Castiel smiles. “Hardly,” he says with a friendly, conspiratorial tone. “I have been enjoying the somewhat less worldly things about being a bachelor, namely leaving my things about and staying up all hours of the night.”
“Night owl?”
He pauses for a moment, flicking through his mind for the colloquialism and its meaning. “Yes,” he answers easily after a fraction of time. “I prefer the evening to the day, truth be told,” at this he leans in closer, his shoulder inches from hers and she can feel the heat coming off his body. “I cannot be out in the sunlight very long.”
“Why not?”
“It is a genetic condition in the English Collins. A solar allergy. I’m afraid I would burn.”
“Well, you’re just a delicate flower, aren’t you?” Her fingers are gently splayed against her neck, resting casually against the soft, exposed skin or playing with the pendant of her necklace. He can’t help but look down. She raises an eyebrow at him.
He may be just nearly raised from the dead, but he wasn’t born yesterday and he’d have to be all the way dead not to notice her flirtation.
“I would hardly call myself delicate.”
“No, there is something…” her eyes have shifted from coquettish to searching. “Something nearly feral about you.”
His smile nearly falters and just when he is about to lean back, out of her space, she continues.
“I like you, Castiel Collins,” she says with a quick wink. “Still waters run deep, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do.”
“Now,” she says leaning back her body taking on a bit more formality. “What is this imposition you’re asking about?”
“I was wondering if I may take a look around the Old Estate.”
“Got a thing for old buildings?”
He tilts his head to one side as if he is considering it and then nods once. “Yes, I suppose I do. I rather like the architecture, the dichotomy of grandeur and simplicity. Quite often I find they are more solidly built than their modern counterparts.”
“You got that right, the old house is holding up pretty good despite being abandoned for years and partially burned. As long as you’re careful with yourself, you can look around all you like.”
“Thank you. That is most gracious.” He leans back as well, settling into the chair. “No one ever thought to restore it?”
“No,” she says quickly, dusting imaginary lint off her slacks. “After the fire, no one wanted to be near it again, so they built this house,” she gestures absently at the walls of the drawing room.
“And no one since then?”
“No.” This time she pauses. “As I said, look around all you like, but be careful.”
“Is it structurally unsound?”
“That house will outlives us all,” she says lowly. “But… I think… I feel…” she purses her lips. “That house has seen its share of misery and it’s… written on those walls and soaked into the floorboards.”
“May I ask what you mean?”
She looks down at her hands. Plays with her rings on her fingers, twirling them around and around. “I told you that I have a sense of things.”
“I remember.”
“That house has memories. And they aren’t all happy.”
He believes he remembers the memories of which she warns. He forces his lips to curve up into a smile. “I shall be careful, of course.” He presses his hands into the fine wood of the chairs, standing up with grace and elegance. “If you don’t mind, I should like to have a look at it tonight.”
She stands and frowns slightly. “Are you sure? It’s dark up there. No electricity.”
“Over the years, being out of the sun, my condition has actually improved my night vision greatly.”
“I bet that comes in handy.” She places a hand on his forearm and is surprised by the iron strength under the fabric. She gives his arm a couple of playful squeezes. “I guess I don’t have to be worried about you at all. You feel strong enough to handle yourself.” A pause. “Or anyone else.” She winks again.
“You charm me.” He gives her a quick wink back. “Thank you.”
“I’ll show you out.”
“Please,” he says fondly, now taking his turn to place one of his preternaturally strong hands on her arm gently. “It would make me feel most at home if you would allow me to show myself out.”
She inclines her head in acceptance. “Tomorrow night, then. Don’t be late.” Her smile is playful and coy.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
****
Standing in front of the old house, his house, if he lets his eyes drift over slightly and doesn't look too closely, he can still see it as it used to be. He remembers running through the halls chasing Abigail, racing down the stairs in a rush to leave, sitting in the kitchen waiting for Cook to finish biscuits, hiding in the cellar as a boy, poking into the dark corners of the basement looking for treasure or bugs.
He cranes his neck and looks upward. In the dark, he can just barely make out the top turret where he had a secret hiding place for all his boyish treasures. A coin, an oddly shaped rock, a horseshoe, bits and pieces that meant something only to him.
He smiles, thinking of his boyhood self, all awkward angles and messy, thick hair, bloody knees and ripped trousers. God, how his mother had yelled at him when he tore his clothes. He lets out a huffed laugh.
He loved this house.
He loves it still.
He grasps the handle and is amazed that he still needs to wiggle it just right to get the door to open. His footsteps echo loudly in the foyer. This part of the house wasn’t touched by fire. It is simply worn with time and aged by being forgotten. The walls are cracked and when he touches the banister it wobbles precariously in its posts.
He’s not alone in this house. But contrary to Pamela’s warning, it’s not something supernatural that is watching him carefully. He turns and faces his company.
“Hello.”
“Are you a ghost too?”
The boy stands in front of him and with his exceptional night vision, Castiel can make out faded and worn denim, scuffed runners and a heavy v-neck sweater.
“Do I look like a ghost?” he counters with a smile.
The boy flicks on a powerful flashlight and directs the beam up and down Castiel. The strong light fills the foyer in a glow. “Yeah. You kinda do. You look like that picture up at the house. All stiff and weird. With the cane and everything.” The boy smacks his lips in thought and then cocks his head. “So, ghost or not?”
“Not.”
The boy is wary, suspicion laced over his features.
“My name is Castiel. I am a cousin of Collins’ family. And who might you be?” He holds out his hand as an offer to greet the young man. The boy looks at the hand, looks back at Castiel’s face, and raises an eyebrow.
“I’m Ben.”
“Pamela’s son.”
“Step-son.”
Castiel inclines his head in acquiescence. “As you like. And how is it I come to meet you here?”
Ben shrugs. “Dunno. I like to hang out here. There’s tons of cool shit.”
Castiel’s amused by his gruffness. “I shall have to take your word for it,” he said looking past Ben and up the staircase. “What did you mean when you asked if I was a ghost ‘too’?”
The suspicious look sits on the boys face comfortably; it’s one he wears often. “I dunno. Nothin’.”
“Oh,” says Castiel, turning away slightly and running his hand over the banister again. He takes a few steps away from the boy in feigned disinterest.
It works because not two seconds later he hears Ben right behind him. “Why d’ya wanna know?”
Castiel fakes a casual shrug. “I heard from Pamela this house is… different.”
Ben purses his lips together and nods. “Yeah. She’s pretty cool for a step mom. She, like, knows things.”
“She appears to, yes.” Castiel walks along the staircase wall, running his hand along it until he finds the hidden latch with his fingertips. He presses in, and a door opens in the wall, groaning with release after so long. “Ah, look at that,” he says lowly, eyes sliding over to see Ben’s reaction.
“No way. Secret hideout. That is so freakin’ cool. How didja know it was there?”
“I didn’t,” lies Castiel easily. “I would wager this house is full of secret things.”
“Oh, yeah, there’s tons…” Ben stops abruptly, jaw snapping shut. “I mean, I guess.”
Castiel pretends not to notice the way the young boy cut his sentence off. “I lived in a house very much like this growing up. There were secret hiding places and servant stairwells and loose floorboards where you could keep your things.” He laughs as a sudden memory strikes him of playing with the dumbwaiter with Abigail and Sarah. To them it had been a new invention, the very height of modernity. “There was even a small elevator from the kitchen upstairs so the servants could move things.”
“Oh, there’s one here too!” Ben exclaims.
“Imagine that.” He’s staring at Ben, but not really seeing him. Castiel is looking backward in time to when he was a boy, not knowing what the future would bring.
“You’re not a freak are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You know, a freak. A freak who likes boys. ‘Cause you’re staring at me.”
“I meant no disrespect, Benjamin.”
“Just Ben. ‘Cause if you are a freak, my brother will beat the shit out of you.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a brother.”
“He’s not my brother-brother, he’s my Big Brother.”
Castiel frowns, not sure what the distinction is. Ben sighs, overly dramatic and drawn out.
“Like Big Brother, Big Sister?” At Castiel’s continued confusion, Ben presses on with annoyance. “‘Cause my dad skipped out and I don’t have a positive male role model,” he says in that way some children have of being too old for their age. “So we hang out. Only he’s really cool and he doesn’t just hang out with me ‘cause he has to. We hang out all the time. We do tons of stuff together.”
“Of course,” replies Castiel, because Ben seems to be waiting for some kind of response.
“Last month he took me to the roller-coaster and we even got our pictures taken and put on keychains.” Ben starts digging his wallet sized keychain out of his back pocket. He keeps it with him wherever he goes and every time he sees Dean pull up in the Impala he surreptitiously checks to see if Dean still has his. And he does.
“I see,” says Castiel as Ben hands over the key chain. Castiel takes it without breaking eye contact.
“So, if you are a freak, Dean will totally hand you your ass.”
What an odd phrase. “I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen.” His tone is gravely serious as he indulges Ben. And then he looks down at the key chain.
It must be the angle. The picture is fuzzy, not quite in focus. Perhaps some sort of distortion. Because it can’t be possible. He cannot possibly have this chance again. First Abigail and now…
It’s too much to hope for. It’s far too important to rest small plastic artifact treasured by a young boy. He has to be sure.
“Dean, did you say?”
“Yeah, Dean Winchester.”
“He lives here? In Collinsport?”
“Duh, he’s my big brother, of course he does.”
Castiel misses young Ben rolling his eyes as he snatches the key chain out of Castiel’s frozen fingertips and shoves it back into its treasured space in his back pocket. Castiel must leave and he must leave now.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ben. Perhaps I shall see you around the estate again.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Castiel is already gone, already out of the old building and crossing the lush landscape. He wastes no time, summoning Charles at the same time as he makes his way back to his room at the Inn. By the time he arrives and is sliding the key in the door, Charles is already racing up the stairs to meet him.
“Charles,” Castiel says lowly as he sweeps open the door and ushers the frazzled writer in.
“I came,” Chuck wheezes out of breath. “I came as fast as I could.”
“Of course you did. Please have a seat.”
Chuck takes his place at the foot of the chair in front of the fireplace. Castiel discards his dark felt coat as Chuck shucks his light windbreaker and starts rolling up the somewhat tattered sleeve of his flannel shirt.
“That can wait, Charles,” says Castiel impatiently as he sits in the chair leans forward and directs his startling blue gaze down to the author. “First, you’re going to tell me everything there is to know about Dean Winchester.”
Chuck is already nodding in happy acquiescence before the question even finishes falling from Castiel’s lips.
Next Chapter - 5 - Chuck Shurley, Purveyor of All Things Strange and Unusual