In Search of a Lost Smile
Title:In Search of a Lost Smile
Rating:PG-13
Word Count:5143
Prompt: Tentacles
Warnings: None, really
Summary: Since the angels fell, everyone has been trying to find a way to cope. Sam and Charlie are organizing the bunker library. Dean's cooking and Castiel - Castiel's trying to write.
The sky was awash with rain and alive with lightning. Thunder echoed across the valley and made it impossible to sleep. Thunderstorms happened in this part of the world constantly in the spring. Bringing with it howling winds in the form of straight line, shear, micro-burst and sometimes as cyclones. It was a blessing that there was no hail tonight. The only time ice ever fell with regularity on this city was in the brutal, harsh winter that lasted longer than it should. Starting in October, before Halloween and staying until after Easter, often not departing until the first week of May.
It was June now. The month of rain, wind and the beginning of summer's almost unforgiving heat. Although the humidity that plagued the middle of North America was nothing compared to the raging fires of Hell or the punishing heat of Death Valley or the Sahara, it was still, in it's own way, cruel and destructive. Like a sunny clear day in February that gives the illusion of spring, but holds a more wicked cold than that of a blizzard.
The Sun could in fact, be cold.
And still, humanity lived in this place. A city next to a river that flowed into town gray and left it tinged with brown. A city called Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Castiel sat back in his chair, glaring at the old typewriter. Dean had offered to find him a laptop or another computer, but there was something satisfying about the whack of the keys and letters slamming ink into the paper. He wasn't even certain why he felt the need to write. He just knew he needed to do something - anything, to keep his mind off his current situation. He took a drink of water, rather liking the taste of nothing. Before, water had tasted of elements, tiny microorganisms and dirt. It was funny how nothing could have a taste. Ice water was wonderful stuff and the former angel would drink it by the gallon if he could.
Dean told him that drinking anything like that, even water, was dangerous.
It was something he already knew but he appreciated Dean's concern. Dean worried about things far to much. He set his glass down and turned his attention back to the typewriter.
The angel had caused the storm. Not with the intent of ill, but as a way to hide his movements from the demons that were roaming the Great Plains. He had not gotten a chance to smite more than the handful in a town called Pontiac, Illinois. He was also under orders to let at least one escape - so that they could warn the others. Not that demons stood a chance in the Universe against the armies of Heaven. The angel flew back towards Pontiac and the barn that was his destination, edging around the storm and landing effortlessly outside.
The Righteous Man and Robert Singer had summoned him. The last time a friend of Dean Winchester had attempted to call him, it had ended badly for the clairvoyant. The angel had warned her not to look on his true face, that she would not be able to see it and come away unscathed.
Humans and their arrogance.
Castiel looked at the sheet of paper in the typewriter, snarled and flipped the valve on the typewriter that locked the paper in place. He spun the dial until he could yank the crisp, white paper from the machine and crumpled it in his hands, tossing the ball across the room, not even aiming for the trashcan. He took a fresh sheet of paper and put into the machine and began again.
The Angel did not understand mankind's obsession with food. He could understand some religions and cultures feelings towards a certain type of food such as the feelings of both the Jewish and Islamic feelings towards pork and the Hindus holding cows sacred. He could not, try as he may, understand why humans couldn't be content with the food that provided the needed sustenance. It seemed like it should be a basic thing. The food pyramid or food plate idea made perfect sense. Why did mankind insist on eating things that were unhealthy, provided little to no nutrients and seemed to serve no other function than to make the human crave more.
The Angel supposed it stemmed from the fact he didn't understand taste.
When he ate food, all the flavors were present. It was easy to enjoy things like grapes plucked right from the vine, potatoes fresh from the earth, and pomegranates straight from the tree. Things that were more complex, like bread, tasted of the wheat, water, cream, salt and what other ingredients that made up its components. True, as an angel he could shift his mind to deaden that sense, but it wasn't automatic and it while it wasn't an effort, doing the act made eating more complex than it should be.
Messing with the pure flavors of natural ingredients somehow seemed wrong.
So the Angel set out to discover the world of food as a human would, so he could explain it to his brothers and sisters. Understanding mankind's love of food had to be a key element in understanding humanity.
“Cas? You want some lunch?” Dean's voice called from the doorway.
“Lunch?” He turned, frowning. “Is it that time already?”
“No, it's just after eleven, but I'm getting ready to cook it and wanted to know if you wanted some as well.” Dean leaned against the door frame, that odd look on his face that Castiel would expect to see on the face of a nine year old, not a thirty-four year old man. Especially not one who had seen all Dean had.
“What are you making?” Knowing that Dean knew how to cook was another one of his recent adjustments.
“Grilled cheese, steak fries and salad. Sam insisted on us having salad - sadly it's from a bag. But it's a good mix.” He shook his head.
“I think I would care for some lunch, yes.” He frowned. “Are you making the fries or are they frozen?” If they were going to be fresh, that would be the only reason Dean was asking about lunch so early.
“Frozen fries are awful once you've made them yourself. Not to mention the kitchen has an actual slicer for the things.” He shook his head. “A fries slicer. I thought those were things for people on Food Network, not a nearly-extinct order of paranormal observers.”
“I assume it being in the kitchen means that the Men of Letters loved to eat potatoes.” Castiel turned back around to his keyboard. “Thank you for asking.”
“Not a problem. You want one sandwich or two?” Dean coughed.
“One and a half.” He paused. “Is someone else here besides us, your brother and Kevin?”
“Yeah, Charlie's here. She and Sam are organizing the library so it makes sense. The Men of Letters apparently never heard of the Library of Congress or the Dewey Decimal System. Don't be surprised if she wanders in here and starts talking about things you don't understand. She's already done that to me a few times.” He chuckled. “I told her don't talk to me about anything except Star Wars or Stephen King. Anything other than that, I might get lost.”
“Tell her if she wishes to discuss the plot holes of Harry Potter sometime I would welcome the conversation.” He heard Dean laugh and then walk away. “Where was I?” He took a drink of water and resumed typing.
The Angel decided to start with spices. Spices were a safe place to start with in his mind, as they were the flavoring of the foods of mankind and eating them in the raw form could help him understand a little better. Salt was a familiar taste and made him thirsty. Black pepper was harsh by itself and cinnamon was rough. Herbs were easier than the spices - basil was sharp and clear, oregano was pepper without the burn and saffron... saffron's taste was like Heaven and the angel understood why it was the most expensive spice on the planet.
Castiel sat back in his chair, frowning at the typewriter. It wasn't that good of a start and it wasn't a terrible one either. He drew the sheet of paper out of the machine and set it on the the desk. He would come back to it later, if he could find the inspiration again. He put in a fresh sheet of paper and stood up, stretching his legs a little. He picked his story back up, looking around at the walls of the room. It was ten by twelve, dominated by two desks, one of which was where the typewriter sat. It really was a rather ornate desk for such a drab room. The walls were a flat green, and he opened the top desk drawer and found a roll of masking tape. “Perfect.” He took a tiny piece off the end of the roll and attached the start of his second story to the wall behind the desk.
After stretching his legs and taking another drink of water, he sat back down and began to type.
The true tragedy of war was the unaccounted for loss. Not the bodies slain on the field and the destruction of cities and nations. It was the ones left behind. The widows, the orphans, the sisters who lost brothers, the mothers who lost sons, the children who lost fathers, or both of their parents. Cities can be rebuilt and while scars will remain, time will go on and eventually things become nothing more than a mention than a measure of their true devastation.
The city of Atlanta speaks of being razed to the ground by General Sherman and the Union Army during the American Civil War, as if they were the only city to fall prey to the advancing forces. The city of Savannah bore scars as well, as did Columbia and Charleston, South Carolina. It is almost boastful in the mouth of a certain type of Georgian, as if Atlanta was the greatest casualty of the war. When really the catastrophic death toll was far worse.
History is written by the winners and those who fail in their attempt are left with little more than pride, if anything. The American Confederacy was like that - but human history and the century that followed the American Civil War would dwarf the suffering of the now united country. Perhaps it was the Confederacy's lack of a ruthless and brutal dictator that made it more of a dramatic event than the horror it was.
Dictators somehow make a war seem justified.
“This is terrible.” Castiel ripped the sheet from the typewriter and crumpled it up, sending it to join his first story attempt in a ball next to the trash can. “I do not need to write about war. I have seen all of humanity's and I do not wish to trivialize any of it.” He stood up and began to pace. It was terrible - humans chucked out stories like they were nothing and here he couldn't even manage to get past one page.
“Cas?” A voice came from the doorway and he turned. “Sorry, you mind if I sit in here too?” Kevin Tran, the prophet, stood there. “I know this is a big place and all, but Sam and Charlie have taken over the library and...”
“It's fine.” The angel said. “I think there's a plug in here, if you need one.”
“Sure.” He set his laptop down on the other desk and walked out of the room, returning a moment later with the cord that went to the computer and Castiel watched for a few moments while the young man set himself up across the room. “What are you doing in here anyway?”
“I am attempting to write a novel.” Castiel sat back down in his chair, putting another piece of paper into his typewriter.
“What's it about?” Kevin slid into his chair.
“I don't know. That is why I'm having trouble.” He took a drink of water.
“Why don't you just write short things and then let a novel come from there?” Kevin paused. “One minute.” The former angel watched as the prophet worked on his laptop for a moment and then looked up. “My English teacher in high school used to make us do this - it was sort of stress relieving.” He looked up. “I'll give you something to write about and a time limit.”
“I do not understand the purpose of doing this.” He frowned. “But even if it is nothing more than a distraction, I suppose I should welcome it.”
“Yeah. Okay, here's something - write about a building doorman and old photographs - for fifteen minutes.”
“Very well. The sound will not disturb you?” He took a sip of water.
“Got it covered.” Kevin held up his I-Pod. “I'll tell you when fifteen minutes are up.”
“Thank you.” He looked back down at the keyboard and began to type.
The building used to be beautiful. Dressed in his uniform of deep blue with polished brass buttons, John Winchester remembered when the Hotel Endor used to be glorious. The floors were always gleaming clean, the plants in the lobby were real. Real, alive and thriving - and the guests - the guests were well dressed, well mannered and the children were well behaved. All of that was long gone.
Sometimes he still felt foolish, standing there in his over-impressive uniform he'd worn with pride for decades while guests strolled into the lobby in all manner of dress. From the sharp-dressed businessmen and women, to slovenly dressed teenagers and sticky children. But still, John wore his uniform and smiled and greeted the guests to Hotel Endor as he always had.
Although, to his great annoyance, fewer and fewer people were saying thank you these days.
He often thought of the picture hanging on his apartment wall - taken years ago when coming to this place was an event. Now it was nothing more than a place to sleep here in the city for many people.
**
Dean set the seventh potato into the slicer and deftly drew the handle down, watching as ten perfectly shaped fries fell into the bucket of salt water underneath it. Having a kitchen that was equipped to cook meals for as many as thirty people was amazing. He'd enjoyed cooking at Lisa's house, when he got the chance - she'd been a little protective of that room and he suddenly understood why. If Sam so much as mentioned the word 'microwave' he might punch him. They'd grown up eating food like that and it was time for proper cooking. Not only was the stove, ovens and fryers all industrial grade (well, for 1950s standards) But the pots, pans and such were the sort of high quality that would cost a small fortune in a store these days. Sometimes had to wonder where the hell the Men of Letters got their money from.
Then again, if they were centuries old and knew a time travel spell, they most likely got lucky in the stock market and had sold their shares in Standard Oil, Carnegie Steel and who knew what else before the 1929 Stock Market Crash. Dean didn't know and quite frankly, didn't want the headache of trying to figure it out.
He sliced ten more potatoes before deciding he had plenty - Sam's recovery from the trials had suddenly given him the appetite of a race horse - and then hefted the bucket over to the counter near the frier. He wouldn't need to fry them for a little while longer. Going back to the fridge, he drew out the packages of cheese and butter and went over to the griddle. He sorted the three types of cheese and paired them with their respective breads. He and Cas were having pepper jack on whole wheat, Kevin and Charlie were having Swiss on rye and Sam - he just wanted plain white bread and American. Dean supposed that was a good thing - as his brother stated he wanted three sandwiches.
Dean wasn't sure what was more off-putting. His brother wanting fried food or suddenly having the appetite he did during puberty.
Maybe he'd agree to get his hair cut sometime soon too.
He turned on the fryer and went to get a bowl and the seasoning salt.
If the current situation wasn't tragic, it almost would be sweet. Cas had been tricked by Metatron into throwing the angels out of Heaven. Not all of the angels were now on earth though. There had been millions of angels in Heaven and all the poor bastards who fell into the ocean and drowned were already back in Heaven, thus restoring some of them. The rough estimation of that was around twelve million. If not for the first time, Dean wished Gabriel was still alive and would go to Heaven and kick Metatron's ass. Or better, just rip off his wings and sent the bastard to him and Sam to 'interrogate' for answers. He was almost willing to pick up the knife again and resort to the skills that Alistair taught him to get some satisfaction out of that lying pathetic excuse for a lover of humanity.
Metatron probably thought Twilight was good reading and that alone was reason to get punched in the face.
While Dean knew that the majority of the angels had returned to Heaven, it was still horrible what had happened. The rest of the world was still trying to figure out where the millions of beings saying they were angels came from. Although there was news of said claimers of angels creating uprisings and war and drug lords in Africa and South America were being deposed.
As Pastor Jim might say, there was always a little good inside the bad.
Stopping the Apocalypse suddenly sounded as simple as a game of Candyland to fixing this. Cas had no idea how to start and little will to do so. Kevin was still working on the Angel Tablet - though not constantly and Dean wasn't pushing - and Charlie and Sam... well, they were just dealing, like the rest of them.
Dean was apparently cooking to keep his mind off the current situation.
The other good news was that the former angels were also rounding up monsters, of both the supernatural and human kind. It was crazy the way things were. Even though the angels were now human, they were still putting up one hell of a fight in trying to survive. But still, the world was still trying to adjust and Dean knew it was only a matter of time before shock and awe went straight to panic and chaos.
He made a note to start stocking up on non-perishable food items for a 'just in case' scenario.
*
Hell is not a place of raging fire. The fires burn in vents and pour out their noxious fumes and heat through vents spaced so closely together so there is no illusion of shade. The walls, the floors and the ceilings make the brimstone preachers warn and scream about. Room upon room of damned souls caught in unspeakable tortures, their screams of agony mixed with demon's screams of delight. It is a place where there is nothing but chaos but yet there is order in this nightmare.
Not all of Hell is this place. It takes on countless forms and illusions. From an unending line that once reaching the front, the soul realizes that they are once again the the back. Planes that crash constantly and ships that sink, nightmares where souls experience the sensation of burning alive drawn out like drowning and drowning shortened to a gunshot to the head. Those that drown over and over go mad faster than those that burn.
“Shit that's dark stuff.” Kevin's voice cut into Castiel's thoughts and he jerked back from his memories of Hell.
“What?” He replied, although he knew very well what was wrong.
“This is horrifying stuff, Cas.” Kevin shook his head. “I think you need to keep your mind off terrible things for a while.”
“You may have a point.” He pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and added it to the wall behind him. It was something to come back to.
Draco doesn't remember seeing Luna on her first day at Hogwarts. He'd been far to busy imagining just how much trouble Potter was going to be in when he showed up at school. He's mulled it over a few times, thinking how the girl must have looked, a tiny scrap of a thing, like nearly Hogwarts students seem to be when they first arrive.
He knows well enough that she probably was probably well on the way to convincing a bunch of Mudbloods of things that didn't exist actually existing. Such as Snorkacks. The first time he'd heard the term, he'd laughed. Looking back, he supposed he should feel horrified or disappointed in himself for being so - cruel. But Luna - Luna never seemed to let much get to her, unless it was a direct insult.
Draco sometimes wishes he could go back to that first day of Luna's, but he knows that doing that could change everything. He likes the way things are now and wouldn't want to run the risk of changing how it is.
“Draco and Luna?” Charlie's voice interrupted him this time. “I never would have thought you'd think those two would make a good couple.”
“I believe it is a matter of opposites attract in this case.” He sat back in his chair, folding his arms. “Isn't this what is known as a fanfic dribble?”
“Drabble.” Charlie and Kevin said at the same time.
Kevin cleared his throat. “You need something, Charlie?”
“Yeah. Dean wants to know if you want to eat where you are or in the dining room.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And to check to see if your salad dressing preferences have changed.”
“I'm good where I am - and dressing is still the same.” Kevin said and stuck his headphones back in and went back to whatever he was doing on his laptop.
The woman snickered and turned to him. “How about you?”
“The same.” He removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter and fastened it to the wall.
“Are you aiming for the trash can just tossing those at random?” He heard her cross the room and then open one of the crinkled balls of paper. “This should be on your wall.” She set the discarded story on the table and smoothed it out with her hands. “I like this one.”
“It's overly sentimental and rather pathetic.” He busied himself with putting a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. “How are you and Sam doing organizing the library?”
“Well, the good news is, we've gotten all the books that aren't written in English separated from the rest of them. The bad news is, that's only two hundred of the books. Not counting the whatever language-English dictionaries. Which is what, along with textbooks on languages, we're going to get together next.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I'll go relay the message to Dean.”
“Thank you.” He stared at the blank sheet of paper for a moment before starting again.
Some things only have value because someone says they do. Things that are regarded as worthless by some can be treasures by someone else. Even things which are unquestionably counterfeit can mean something to the owner. A brilliant copy of a Monet hanging on the wall of a businessman who knows what hangs on his wall is merely a facsimile of the original can still gleam proudly in a frame because the man knows that while the true painting hangs on the wall of a museum miles away and is locked away at night, here, in his home, hangs something not quite as good, but it is his. While it is only a copy, it is his copy and his alone.
To the outside observer, the black 1967 Impala is merely an ancient relic of American car building. A blight on the road another might say, or a gas guzzler that should be naught but rust now. A collector of classic cars might see the behemoth of a car and feel an insatiable envy of the man behind the wheel. The collector would want to know where the man found it, how much he paid for it, how long he had it.
To the Impala's owner, however, the car was a hair short of everything.
*
Dean sliced the sandwiches corner to corner, no matter how many times Charlie and Kevin insisted on having them cut down the middle. If they wanted their sandwiches cut a certain way, they could come down the kitchen and make their own food. He was the chef and if he wanted to cut the sandwiches this way, he could. He quickly arranged the food on the plates, saving the fries for last so they would stay hot hanging over the fryer. One plate, one bowl of salad and two ramekins - one of dressing and one of ketchup for everyone. He never would have used that many dishes if there wasn't a dishwasher in the place - and just because he brought the food to them doesn't mean he was going to take the dirty dishes back.
Before taking the four plates out, he put his own plate in the warmer (the kitchen had a freakin' food warmer like it was a real cafeteria) and then set out into the bunker with the first tray. Sam and Charlie didn't even look up from what they were doing when he came into the library and set the tray on the only empty table in the place. “Lunch is served - please return the empty dishes to the kitchen sometime before two in the afternoon.”
Sam set the book he was skimming down and came across the room. “Is there a specific reason the dishes need to be back then?”
“Yeah. That's when I'm running the dishwasher. If they're not back by then, you're doing your own dishes by hand.” He replied. “Find anything interesting lately?”
“It's all interesting.” His brother snapped and picked up his salad bowl. “You should...”
“Don't start on the I should read more crap.” That was the other thing about coming off the trials - Dean could swear his brother was going through puberty again with his attitude.
“That's not what I was going to say, Dean.” He looked at Charlie. “I was just saying the two of us could use another person...”
“Well, Doctor Banner, if you hadn't chased Prophet Boy out the library, you'd have a third person.”
Charlie snorted. “Sam as the Incredible Hulk?” She came over to get her food. “I knew letting you watch The Avengers last night was a mistake.”
“You should ask Sam about the time we interviewed a woman whose abusive husband got murdered by the Hulk. TV Hulk, that is.” He grinned as Sam nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.
“No, you didn't...” She looked from brother to brother and her eyes widened. “You did?”
Sam coughed as Dean left the room. “Yeah... but it's not a story to hear while we're eating...”
*
Both Cas and Kevin were deep in - whatever the hell they were doing to do much more than to thank Dean for the food. He returned to the kitchen and pulled his plate from the warmer and then dressed his salad. This whole alone time was a concept that was both welcome and at the same time, sort of frustrating. A lifetime of living in a small room with almost no privacy was hard to let go. He took his plate and bowl in hand and went into the movie projector room. The film the Men of Letters had weren't all recordings of their work and things related to it.
In the far corner of the film storage room, Dean had found reel upon reel of old motion pictures that brought up images in his mind that seemed rather humorous. Men in fine suits, the jackets tossed over chairs, lounged on the couches, with ice cold Coca-Cola in bottles and bowls of popcorn slathered in real butter. They laughed and cheered as if they were young boys instead of grown men. The last year in the collection was 1952 and while many of the movies seemed almost comical when they should be serious, they were still enjoyable.
He set down his film of choice and set up the reels. After he turned out the lights, he flipped the switch on the projector, picked up his plate of food and let himself get lost in an Errol Flynn and Maureen O'Hara pirate movie called Against All Flags. Maybe this alone stuff wasn't all that bad - he didn't have to put up with anyone telling him how corny and cheesy the special effects were.
It was most likely 1951 when this was made - so of course you'd see wires and shit. Early computer animation looked just as fake. Hell, even current computer animation looked rather fake.
“Dean?” A voice called from behind him and he jumped up, flicking the projector off.
“Cas?” He gave him a confused look. “Is something wrong?”
“I need to take a break.” The former angel came in and set his plates on the table next to his. He looked up at him. “And we haven't had any alone time in a while.”
“Yeah.” He sat back down. “You want me to start the film over?”
“No.” Castiel settled into the couch, picking up his salad plate. “I think I can guess what happened before.”
Dean nodded, turned the projector back on and sat back down. This made things even nicer. He and Cas hadn't had a proper movie night in - well, in a long time. There was a little good in the bad today. A moment later, a fry appeared under his nose and he glanced over at the former angel, raised an eyebrow and then took a bite of the offered food.
And then, for what felt like the first time in forever, Castiel smiled.
Rating:PG-13
Word Count:5143
Prompt: Tentacles
Warnings: None, really
Summary: Since the angels fell, everyone has been trying to find a way to cope. Sam and Charlie are organizing the bunker library. Dean's cooking and Castiel - Castiel's trying to write.
The sky was awash with rain and alive with lightning. Thunder echoed across the valley and made it impossible to sleep. Thunderstorms happened in this part of the world constantly in the spring. Bringing with it howling winds in the form of straight line, shear, micro-burst and sometimes as cyclones. It was a blessing that there was no hail tonight. The only time ice ever fell with regularity on this city was in the brutal, harsh winter that lasted longer than it should. Starting in October, before Halloween and staying until after Easter, often not departing until the first week of May.
It was June now. The month of rain, wind and the beginning of summer's almost unforgiving heat. Although the humidity that plagued the middle of North America was nothing compared to the raging fires of Hell or the punishing heat of Death Valley or the Sahara, it was still, in it's own way, cruel and destructive. Like a sunny clear day in February that gives the illusion of spring, but holds a more wicked cold than that of a blizzard.
The Sun could in fact, be cold.
And still, humanity lived in this place. A city next to a river that flowed into town gray and left it tinged with brown. A city called Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
Castiel sat back in his chair, glaring at the old typewriter. Dean had offered to find him a laptop or another computer, but there was something satisfying about the whack of the keys and letters slamming ink into the paper. He wasn't even certain why he felt the need to write. He just knew he needed to do something - anything, to keep his mind off his current situation. He took a drink of water, rather liking the taste of nothing. Before, water had tasted of elements, tiny microorganisms and dirt. It was funny how nothing could have a taste. Ice water was wonderful stuff and the former angel would drink it by the gallon if he could.
Dean told him that drinking anything like that, even water, was dangerous.
It was something he already knew but he appreciated Dean's concern. Dean worried about things far to much. He set his glass down and turned his attention back to the typewriter.
The angel had caused the storm. Not with the intent of ill, but as a way to hide his movements from the demons that were roaming the Great Plains. He had not gotten a chance to smite more than the handful in a town called Pontiac, Illinois. He was also under orders to let at least one escape - so that they could warn the others. Not that demons stood a chance in the Universe against the armies of Heaven. The angel flew back towards Pontiac and the barn that was his destination, edging around the storm and landing effortlessly outside.
The Righteous Man and Robert Singer had summoned him. The last time a friend of Dean Winchester had attempted to call him, it had ended badly for the clairvoyant. The angel had warned her not to look on his true face, that she would not be able to see it and come away unscathed.
Humans and their arrogance.
Castiel looked at the sheet of paper in the typewriter, snarled and flipped the valve on the typewriter that locked the paper in place. He spun the dial until he could yank the crisp, white paper from the machine and crumpled it in his hands, tossing the ball across the room, not even aiming for the trashcan. He took a fresh sheet of paper and put into the machine and began again.
The Angel did not understand mankind's obsession with food. He could understand some religions and cultures feelings towards a certain type of food such as the feelings of both the Jewish and Islamic feelings towards pork and the Hindus holding cows sacred. He could not, try as he may, understand why humans couldn't be content with the food that provided the needed sustenance. It seemed like it should be a basic thing. The food pyramid or food plate idea made perfect sense. Why did mankind insist on eating things that were unhealthy, provided little to no nutrients and seemed to serve no other function than to make the human crave more.
The Angel supposed it stemmed from the fact he didn't understand taste.
When he ate food, all the flavors were present. It was easy to enjoy things like grapes plucked right from the vine, potatoes fresh from the earth, and pomegranates straight from the tree. Things that were more complex, like bread, tasted of the wheat, water, cream, salt and what other ingredients that made up its components. True, as an angel he could shift his mind to deaden that sense, but it wasn't automatic and it while it wasn't an effort, doing the act made eating more complex than it should be.
Messing with the pure flavors of natural ingredients somehow seemed wrong.
So the Angel set out to discover the world of food as a human would, so he could explain it to his brothers and sisters. Understanding mankind's love of food had to be a key element in understanding humanity.
“Cas? You want some lunch?” Dean's voice called from the doorway.
“Lunch?” He turned, frowning. “Is it that time already?”
“No, it's just after eleven, but I'm getting ready to cook it and wanted to know if you wanted some as well.” Dean leaned against the door frame, that odd look on his face that Castiel would expect to see on the face of a nine year old, not a thirty-four year old man. Especially not one who had seen all Dean had.
“What are you making?” Knowing that Dean knew how to cook was another one of his recent adjustments.
“Grilled cheese, steak fries and salad. Sam insisted on us having salad - sadly it's from a bag. But it's a good mix.” He shook his head.
“I think I would care for some lunch, yes.” He frowned. “Are you making the fries or are they frozen?” If they were going to be fresh, that would be the only reason Dean was asking about lunch so early.
“Frozen fries are awful once you've made them yourself. Not to mention the kitchen has an actual slicer for the things.” He shook his head. “A fries slicer. I thought those were things for people on Food Network, not a nearly-extinct order of paranormal observers.”
“I assume it being in the kitchen means that the Men of Letters loved to eat potatoes.” Castiel turned back around to his keyboard. “Thank you for asking.”
“Not a problem. You want one sandwich or two?” Dean coughed.
“One and a half.” He paused. “Is someone else here besides us, your brother and Kevin?”
“Yeah, Charlie's here. She and Sam are organizing the library so it makes sense. The Men of Letters apparently never heard of the Library of Congress or the Dewey Decimal System. Don't be surprised if she wanders in here and starts talking about things you don't understand. She's already done that to me a few times.” He chuckled. “I told her don't talk to me about anything except Star Wars or Stephen King. Anything other than that, I might get lost.”
“Tell her if she wishes to discuss the plot holes of Harry Potter sometime I would welcome the conversation.” He heard Dean laugh and then walk away. “Where was I?” He took a drink of water and resumed typing.
The Angel decided to start with spices. Spices were a safe place to start with in his mind, as they were the flavoring of the foods of mankind and eating them in the raw form could help him understand a little better. Salt was a familiar taste and made him thirsty. Black pepper was harsh by itself and cinnamon was rough. Herbs were easier than the spices - basil was sharp and clear, oregano was pepper without the burn and saffron... saffron's taste was like Heaven and the angel understood why it was the most expensive spice on the planet.
Castiel sat back in his chair, frowning at the typewriter. It wasn't that good of a start and it wasn't a terrible one either. He drew the sheet of paper out of the machine and set it on the the desk. He would come back to it later, if he could find the inspiration again. He put in a fresh sheet of paper and stood up, stretching his legs a little. He picked his story back up, looking around at the walls of the room. It was ten by twelve, dominated by two desks, one of which was where the typewriter sat. It really was a rather ornate desk for such a drab room. The walls were a flat green, and he opened the top desk drawer and found a roll of masking tape. “Perfect.” He took a tiny piece off the end of the roll and attached the start of his second story to the wall behind the desk.
After stretching his legs and taking another drink of water, he sat back down and began to type.
The true tragedy of war was the unaccounted for loss. Not the bodies slain on the field and the destruction of cities and nations. It was the ones left behind. The widows, the orphans, the sisters who lost brothers, the mothers who lost sons, the children who lost fathers, or both of their parents. Cities can be rebuilt and while scars will remain, time will go on and eventually things become nothing more than a mention than a measure of their true devastation.
The city of Atlanta speaks of being razed to the ground by General Sherman and the Union Army during the American Civil War, as if they were the only city to fall prey to the advancing forces. The city of Savannah bore scars as well, as did Columbia and Charleston, South Carolina. It is almost boastful in the mouth of a certain type of Georgian, as if Atlanta was the greatest casualty of the war. When really the catastrophic death toll was far worse.
History is written by the winners and those who fail in their attempt are left with little more than pride, if anything. The American Confederacy was like that - but human history and the century that followed the American Civil War would dwarf the suffering of the now united country. Perhaps it was the Confederacy's lack of a ruthless and brutal dictator that made it more of a dramatic event than the horror it was.
Dictators somehow make a war seem justified.
“This is terrible.” Castiel ripped the sheet from the typewriter and crumpled it up, sending it to join his first story attempt in a ball next to the trash can. “I do not need to write about war. I have seen all of humanity's and I do not wish to trivialize any of it.” He stood up and began to pace. It was terrible - humans chucked out stories like they were nothing and here he couldn't even manage to get past one page.
“Cas?” A voice came from the doorway and he turned. “Sorry, you mind if I sit in here too?” Kevin Tran, the prophet, stood there. “I know this is a big place and all, but Sam and Charlie have taken over the library and...”
“It's fine.” The angel said. “I think there's a plug in here, if you need one.”
“Sure.” He set his laptop down on the other desk and walked out of the room, returning a moment later with the cord that went to the computer and Castiel watched for a few moments while the young man set himself up across the room. “What are you doing in here anyway?”
“I am attempting to write a novel.” Castiel sat back down in his chair, putting another piece of paper into his typewriter.
“What's it about?” Kevin slid into his chair.
“I don't know. That is why I'm having trouble.” He took a drink of water.
“Why don't you just write short things and then let a novel come from there?” Kevin paused. “One minute.” The former angel watched as the prophet worked on his laptop for a moment and then looked up. “My English teacher in high school used to make us do this - it was sort of stress relieving.” He looked up. “I'll give you something to write about and a time limit.”
“I do not understand the purpose of doing this.” He frowned. “But even if it is nothing more than a distraction, I suppose I should welcome it.”
“Yeah. Okay, here's something - write about a building doorman and old photographs - for fifteen minutes.”
“Very well. The sound will not disturb you?” He took a sip of water.
“Got it covered.” Kevin held up his I-Pod. “I'll tell you when fifteen minutes are up.”
“Thank you.” He looked back down at the keyboard and began to type.
The building used to be beautiful. Dressed in his uniform of deep blue with polished brass buttons, John Winchester remembered when the Hotel Endor used to be glorious. The floors were always gleaming clean, the plants in the lobby were real. Real, alive and thriving - and the guests - the guests were well dressed, well mannered and the children were well behaved. All of that was long gone.
Sometimes he still felt foolish, standing there in his over-impressive uniform he'd worn with pride for decades while guests strolled into the lobby in all manner of dress. From the sharp-dressed businessmen and women, to slovenly dressed teenagers and sticky children. But still, John wore his uniform and smiled and greeted the guests to Hotel Endor as he always had.
Although, to his great annoyance, fewer and fewer people were saying thank you these days.
He often thought of the picture hanging on his apartment wall - taken years ago when coming to this place was an event. Now it was nothing more than a place to sleep here in the city for many people.
**
Dean set the seventh potato into the slicer and deftly drew the handle down, watching as ten perfectly shaped fries fell into the bucket of salt water underneath it. Having a kitchen that was equipped to cook meals for as many as thirty people was amazing. He'd enjoyed cooking at Lisa's house, when he got the chance - she'd been a little protective of that room and he suddenly understood why. If Sam so much as mentioned the word 'microwave' he might punch him. They'd grown up eating food like that and it was time for proper cooking. Not only was the stove, ovens and fryers all industrial grade (well, for 1950s standards) But the pots, pans and such were the sort of high quality that would cost a small fortune in a store these days. Sometimes had to wonder where the hell the Men of Letters got their money from.
Then again, if they were centuries old and knew a time travel spell, they most likely got lucky in the stock market and had sold their shares in Standard Oil, Carnegie Steel and who knew what else before the 1929 Stock Market Crash. Dean didn't know and quite frankly, didn't want the headache of trying to figure it out.
He sliced ten more potatoes before deciding he had plenty - Sam's recovery from the trials had suddenly given him the appetite of a race horse - and then hefted the bucket over to the counter near the frier. He wouldn't need to fry them for a little while longer. Going back to the fridge, he drew out the packages of cheese and butter and went over to the griddle. He sorted the three types of cheese and paired them with their respective breads. He and Cas were having pepper jack on whole wheat, Kevin and Charlie were having Swiss on rye and Sam - he just wanted plain white bread and American. Dean supposed that was a good thing - as his brother stated he wanted three sandwiches.
Dean wasn't sure what was more off-putting. His brother wanting fried food or suddenly having the appetite he did during puberty.
Maybe he'd agree to get his hair cut sometime soon too.
He turned on the fryer and went to get a bowl and the seasoning salt.
If the current situation wasn't tragic, it almost would be sweet. Cas had been tricked by Metatron into throwing the angels out of Heaven. Not all of the angels were now on earth though. There had been millions of angels in Heaven and all the poor bastards who fell into the ocean and drowned were already back in Heaven, thus restoring some of them. The rough estimation of that was around twelve million. If not for the first time, Dean wished Gabriel was still alive and would go to Heaven and kick Metatron's ass. Or better, just rip off his wings and sent the bastard to him and Sam to 'interrogate' for answers. He was almost willing to pick up the knife again and resort to the skills that Alistair taught him to get some satisfaction out of that lying pathetic excuse for a lover of humanity.
Metatron probably thought Twilight was good reading and that alone was reason to get punched in the face.
While Dean knew that the majority of the angels had returned to Heaven, it was still horrible what had happened. The rest of the world was still trying to figure out where the millions of beings saying they were angels came from. Although there was news of said claimers of angels creating uprisings and war and drug lords in Africa and South America were being deposed.
As Pastor Jim might say, there was always a little good inside the bad.
Stopping the Apocalypse suddenly sounded as simple as a game of Candyland to fixing this. Cas had no idea how to start and little will to do so. Kevin was still working on the Angel Tablet - though not constantly and Dean wasn't pushing - and Charlie and Sam... well, they were just dealing, like the rest of them.
Dean was apparently cooking to keep his mind off the current situation.
The other good news was that the former angels were also rounding up monsters, of both the supernatural and human kind. It was crazy the way things were. Even though the angels were now human, they were still putting up one hell of a fight in trying to survive. But still, the world was still trying to adjust and Dean knew it was only a matter of time before shock and awe went straight to panic and chaos.
He made a note to start stocking up on non-perishable food items for a 'just in case' scenario.
*
Hell is not a place of raging fire. The fires burn in vents and pour out their noxious fumes and heat through vents spaced so closely together so there is no illusion of shade. The walls, the floors and the ceilings make the brimstone preachers warn and scream about. Room upon room of damned souls caught in unspeakable tortures, their screams of agony mixed with demon's screams of delight. It is a place where there is nothing but chaos but yet there is order in this nightmare.
Not all of Hell is this place. It takes on countless forms and illusions. From an unending line that once reaching the front, the soul realizes that they are once again the the back. Planes that crash constantly and ships that sink, nightmares where souls experience the sensation of burning alive drawn out like drowning and drowning shortened to a gunshot to the head. Those that drown over and over go mad faster than those that burn.
“Shit that's dark stuff.” Kevin's voice cut into Castiel's thoughts and he jerked back from his memories of Hell.
“What?” He replied, although he knew very well what was wrong.
“This is horrifying stuff, Cas.” Kevin shook his head. “I think you need to keep your mind off terrible things for a while.”
“You may have a point.” He pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and added it to the wall behind him. It was something to come back to.
Draco doesn't remember seeing Luna on her first day at Hogwarts. He'd been far to busy imagining just how much trouble Potter was going to be in when he showed up at school. He's mulled it over a few times, thinking how the girl must have looked, a tiny scrap of a thing, like nearly Hogwarts students seem to be when they first arrive.
He knows well enough that she probably was probably well on the way to convincing a bunch of Mudbloods of things that didn't exist actually existing. Such as Snorkacks. The first time he'd heard the term, he'd laughed. Looking back, he supposed he should feel horrified or disappointed in himself for being so - cruel. But Luna - Luna never seemed to let much get to her, unless it was a direct insult.
Draco sometimes wishes he could go back to that first day of Luna's, but he knows that doing that could change everything. He likes the way things are now and wouldn't want to run the risk of changing how it is.
“Draco and Luna?” Charlie's voice interrupted him this time. “I never would have thought you'd think those two would make a good couple.”
“I believe it is a matter of opposites attract in this case.” He sat back in his chair, folding his arms. “Isn't this what is known as a fanfic dribble?”
“Drabble.” Charlie and Kevin said at the same time.
Kevin cleared his throat. “You need something, Charlie?”
“Yeah. Dean wants to know if you want to eat where you are or in the dining room.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And to check to see if your salad dressing preferences have changed.”
“I'm good where I am - and dressing is still the same.” Kevin said and stuck his headphones back in and went back to whatever he was doing on his laptop.
The woman snickered and turned to him. “How about you?”
“The same.” He removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter and fastened it to the wall.
“Are you aiming for the trash can just tossing those at random?” He heard her cross the room and then open one of the crinkled balls of paper. “This should be on your wall.” She set the discarded story on the table and smoothed it out with her hands. “I like this one.”
“It's overly sentimental and rather pathetic.” He busied himself with putting a fresh sheet of paper into his typewriter. “How are you and Sam doing organizing the library?”
“Well, the good news is, we've gotten all the books that aren't written in English separated from the rest of them. The bad news is, that's only two hundred of the books. Not counting the whatever language-English dictionaries. Which is what, along with textbooks on languages, we're going to get together next.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I'll go relay the message to Dean.”
“Thank you.” He stared at the blank sheet of paper for a moment before starting again.
Some things only have value because someone says they do. Things that are regarded as worthless by some can be treasures by someone else. Even things which are unquestionably counterfeit can mean something to the owner. A brilliant copy of a Monet hanging on the wall of a businessman who knows what hangs on his wall is merely a facsimile of the original can still gleam proudly in a frame because the man knows that while the true painting hangs on the wall of a museum miles away and is locked away at night, here, in his home, hangs something not quite as good, but it is his. While it is only a copy, it is his copy and his alone.
To the outside observer, the black 1967 Impala is merely an ancient relic of American car building. A blight on the road another might say, or a gas guzzler that should be naught but rust now. A collector of classic cars might see the behemoth of a car and feel an insatiable envy of the man behind the wheel. The collector would want to know where the man found it, how much he paid for it, how long he had it.
To the Impala's owner, however, the car was a hair short of everything.
*
Dean sliced the sandwiches corner to corner, no matter how many times Charlie and Kevin insisted on having them cut down the middle. If they wanted their sandwiches cut a certain way, they could come down the kitchen and make their own food. He was the chef and if he wanted to cut the sandwiches this way, he could. He quickly arranged the food on the plates, saving the fries for last so they would stay hot hanging over the fryer. One plate, one bowl of salad and two ramekins - one of dressing and one of ketchup for everyone. He never would have used that many dishes if there wasn't a dishwasher in the place - and just because he brought the food to them doesn't mean he was going to take the dirty dishes back.
Before taking the four plates out, he put his own plate in the warmer (the kitchen had a freakin' food warmer like it was a real cafeteria) and then set out into the bunker with the first tray. Sam and Charlie didn't even look up from what they were doing when he came into the library and set the tray on the only empty table in the place. “Lunch is served - please return the empty dishes to the kitchen sometime before two in the afternoon.”
Sam set the book he was skimming down and came across the room. “Is there a specific reason the dishes need to be back then?”
“Yeah. That's when I'm running the dishwasher. If they're not back by then, you're doing your own dishes by hand.” He replied. “Find anything interesting lately?”
“It's all interesting.” His brother snapped and picked up his salad bowl. “You should...”
“Don't start on the I should read more crap.” That was the other thing about coming off the trials - Dean could swear his brother was going through puberty again with his attitude.
“That's not what I was going to say, Dean.” He looked at Charlie. “I was just saying the two of us could use another person...”
“Well, Doctor Banner, if you hadn't chased Prophet Boy out the library, you'd have a third person.”
Charlie snorted. “Sam as the Incredible Hulk?” She came over to get her food. “I knew letting you watch The Avengers last night was a mistake.”
“You should ask Sam about the time we interviewed a woman whose abusive husband got murdered by the Hulk. TV Hulk, that is.” He grinned as Sam nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.
“No, you didn't...” She looked from brother to brother and her eyes widened. “You did?”
Sam coughed as Dean left the room. “Yeah... but it's not a story to hear while we're eating...”
*
Both Cas and Kevin were deep in - whatever the hell they were doing to do much more than to thank Dean for the food. He returned to the kitchen and pulled his plate from the warmer and then dressed his salad. This whole alone time was a concept that was both welcome and at the same time, sort of frustrating. A lifetime of living in a small room with almost no privacy was hard to let go. He took his plate and bowl in hand and went into the movie projector room. The film the Men of Letters had weren't all recordings of their work and things related to it.
In the far corner of the film storage room, Dean had found reel upon reel of old motion pictures that brought up images in his mind that seemed rather humorous. Men in fine suits, the jackets tossed over chairs, lounged on the couches, with ice cold Coca-Cola in bottles and bowls of popcorn slathered in real butter. They laughed and cheered as if they were young boys instead of grown men. The last year in the collection was 1952 and while many of the movies seemed almost comical when they should be serious, they were still enjoyable.
He set down his film of choice and set up the reels. After he turned out the lights, he flipped the switch on the projector, picked up his plate of food and let himself get lost in an Errol Flynn and Maureen O'Hara pirate movie called Against All Flags. Maybe this alone stuff wasn't all that bad - he didn't have to put up with anyone telling him how corny and cheesy the special effects were.
It was most likely 1951 when this was made - so of course you'd see wires and shit. Early computer animation looked just as fake. Hell, even current computer animation looked rather fake.
“Dean?” A voice called from behind him and he jumped up, flicking the projector off.
“Cas?” He gave him a confused look. “Is something wrong?”
“I need to take a break.” The former angel came in and set his plates on the table next to his. He looked up at him. “And we haven't had any alone time in a while.”
“Yeah.” He sat back down. “You want me to start the film over?”
“No.” Castiel settled into the couch, picking up his salad plate. “I think I can guess what happened before.”
Dean nodded, turned the projector back on and sat back down. This made things even nicer. He and Cas hadn't had a proper movie night in - well, in a long time. There was a little good in the bad today. A moment later, a fry appeared under his nose and he glanced over at the former angel, raised an eyebrow and then took a bite of the offered food.
And then, for what felt like the first time in forever, Castiel smiled.