Role-Play Log





Pat Benetar, "Hit Me with Your Best Shot"


Castiel attempts to follow up with Dean on the "Dislocation" phenomenon. Dean isn't having it.

July 31, 2015
Tiki Inn, near San Francisco

The Tiki Inn, home of happiness! Or at least, home of affordable rooms, unlike pretty much anywhere in San Francisco Dean wanted to be. So he found the place and basically moved in, at least as much as he ever moves in anywhere. This time of day finds him sitting back with a beer, the very slight remainder of Chinese takeout sitting on the table across from him. He'll eat the rest of it later and then probably go out and get more. Right now it's too important to stay in: right now, Dr. Sexy, MD is on. He's riveted to the television. He couldn't do this when Sammy was here.

Just as the show is hitting a commercial break, Dean may suddenly become aware of a presence in the room. Rather abruptly, Castiel is suddenly standing there. "Dean," he says without preamble. "I have given you several days now in order not to invade your space unduly, but... based on our exchange at the taqueria, I feel it's important that you and I speak. Particularly, I'm concerned about your lack of interest in the current calamitous events taking place across this continent." A beat, and he adds, uncertainly, "I had thought you would find it... appropriate... that I bring a matter of this gravity to your attention."

"Cas!!" Dean starts, nearly dropping his beer. He fumbles it but, miraculously without spilling, finally sets it back up on the table next to him. "Warn a guy next time!" The glare softens to a more neutral expression, and there's silence in the room as he just stares at Castiel for what seems like a long time. It's really just a minute or two. Some commercial flashes on the television about spatulas. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Castiel frowns. "I do not believe you would find my attempts at explaining instinctive quantum physics terribly helpful. Suffice it to say, at one moment I was not here. At the next, I was." Another beat, and he adds, almost defensively--except that it's as unemotional as ever, "I am an angel. It's something I do. And you did not answer my question." Apparently, the angel is intent upon the topic at hand.

"You didn't ask a question." Dean gets to his feet, dusting himself off as if he's been rolling around on the floor. Really it's just a nervous habit that he uses to avoid looking nervous. "But I did, and you didn't answer it. Cut the angel crap, if you want my help, you're gonna have to talk my language."

The angel's frown deepens. "To use imprecise language, I teleported. And I thought my earlier question was implied: Why have you chosen to ignore the dire portents that I brought to your attention? Previous observation indicated that this was the sort of problem you normally seek out and confront intentionally."

Dean thinks again of setting his beer down. He's going to need a drink for this. He turns and picks up the bottle, taking a swig and gulping it down in a mouthful. Smacking his lips and resting the bottle none too gently back on the table, he returns to facing Castiel. "What the hell do you expect me to do? You can teleport. You're telling me some unknown force has picked up parts of cities, oh and of course that you're some feathered fruitcake from hallelujah land." The man wiggles a hand through the air, a sort of sneer on his face.

Looking more puzzled than offended, Castiel says, "I have not claimed to be a popular holiday food and gift item. I am an Angel of Heaven. And the key aspect of this crisis is that someone is abusing magic on a massive scale, which could threaten human life to a degree not seen since... at least the Flood. Perhaps before. You're not concerned about it? You instead prefer to watch... a curious soap opera about sexually appealing medical professionals?" His own body language remains as impassive as ever, though he does continue to emote genuine confusion.

"Don't start getting on Dr. Sexy!" Dean huffs, grabbing the remote and shutting the television off entirely, tossing the boxy implement onto the table somewhere between the boxes of Chinese food and the selection of mostly empty beer bottles surrounding the slightly aloof one about half-full. "Yeah, someone's abusing magic on a massive scale. You still haven't told me what you expect me to do about it. Look, Cas, this is way outta my scope. You pop up suddenly, I thought you were in trouble and I could help. Now you tell me you're some kinda angel and want me to do...what? I couldn't even get Sammy to stick around. It's just me, and there ain't much I can do here."

Castiel frowns all over again. "I had hoped you would join with the other potential Champions and investigate... look where I cannot. Heaven is greatly limited in our ability to interfere with these matters. We, especially seraphim such as myself, can only protect human souls and work to support the divine plans. I don't have broad authority to act, and I am bound by divine edict. You are..." he searches for the words. "A free agent. You have an often-troubling history of doing what you wish, not what you are told."

"I ain't a team player." Dean trots back to his chair and, after a moment of awkward silence more, he picks up the remote and turns the TV back on. It would seem that whatever this is, whatever's going on, it is not something Dean Winchester particularly finds himself agreeable towards.

Castiel continues to look troubled, and for a moment the only sound is the television. Then, after a bit, he asks quietly, "This has to do with more than simply the crisis, doesn't it? You are... angry... to discover what I am. It's almost as though you take it as a personal insult."

Dean grunts, and that's about all Castiel gets for a few minutes. Dr. Sexy continues his fairly vapid adventures on the screen, and some indie pop cranks up at yet another inevitable makeout scene in a supply closet. "You know what, you're right. I was okay with you when I thought you were just some weird dude who could do crazy shit sometimes. That's not too hard to believe. But this angel crap...yeah, you're goddamn right I'm angry. My mother believed in your song and dance, and that got her jack squat. So if I'm not exactly chomping at the bit to help you clean up your mess that you're not even willing to do anything about? Yeah. Go figure, I'm angry."

Looking both stoic and somehow more troubled, Castiel says, "I was not acquainted with your mother, Dean. I'm sorry that you take no comfort from her faith, but I'm certain her soul has ascended to Heaven by now." His frown deepens, and he pauses a few moments before continuing. "As I have said, it is not our purview, generally, to defend individual human lives, only their souls. And this threat is not of my making, nor Heaven's. Mortal agents have undertaken to upset the spiritual balance, which affects you very directly. I am doing all that I'm permitted to, but I'm beholden to Heaven." Another pause, then, "As I said before, you are free... where I am not."

"Yeah, my heart weeps for you. Is there a reason why you're still here?" Dean takes his bottle up again, draining the last of it all in one gulp. "Cause as far as I can see, you haven't told me anything except a buncha horse hockey and gave me a bunch of excuses at why you're sitting around with your thumb up your ass bothering me in my hotel room which, by the way, you broke into. Real paragon of virtue, you angels."

Castiel seems puzzled again. "I broke nothing. I simply entered the room. If you refer to the locked door, then I should point out to you that a locked door in this dimensional plane is no more impassible to me than a line drawn across the floor would be to you." He steps back, though. "In any case, I didn't come to anger you. I came to attempt to understand... and it would appear that I have failed. You may not understand what it is to have orders that must be obeyed, but that's my reality. I brought you information so that you would have a better chance of protecting your own world. If the Earth is overwhelmed or subsumed... I will grieve, but it will not affect me. I will remain safe in Heaven. This is, as I believe the expression goes, your problem. I hoped to aid you, but I see I was mistaken. If you prefer. I will depart."

Dean gets to his feet, stalks over to Cas, draws back a fist, and punches. Maybe that's all he can think to do at the moment. Maybe it's just something that he has to do, to figure out whether or not Cas is actually human, or crazy, or what exactly he is. Maybe he's just tired of the conversation. He's probably a little drunk too. But he has enough of a monstrous tolerance to alcohol to be still in his right mind; he's not doing this accidentally, or unaware of his actions.

Castiel steps back slightly, mostly from surprise, but punching him feels about as satisfying as punching a dressmaker's dummy. It's not that he has a rock solid jaw. He does feel like flesh and blood, but he just... doesn't break. Dean's fist impacts, hard and true, but Castiel is just left standing there looking confused. "Has that improved the situation?" he asks, clearly unsure what to make of Dean's lashing out like that.

Dean does look surprised. Of course, he does it again, this time trying for a gutpunch. But that of course won't be any different. It confuses him, for sure, but then it just seems to put him back in the "angry" state. Instead of punching, he just pokes. In the chest. Insistently. "Yeah, you can't even do that right. You know what? I'm gonna give you this advice for free: if you want anyone to actually go along with your cockamamie ideas, if you really wanna persuade people and win friends and all that garbage, maybe you could actually get off your freakin' high horse and try to connect with this world a little bit more. Now get the hell out of my room."

Castiel stares at Dean for a moment, almost seeming sad, but then he simply nods. "Very well. I... apologize for invading your space and occupying your time." And then, the same as the last time, he's abruptly gone, leaving no sign but that faint, distant fluttering sound to mark his passing.

Dean has, by then, stalked bow-leggedly back to his chair. Not even Dr. Sexy can console him. He grumbles and feels around for his cell phone inside his jacket, which has just been slung over the nearby bed, and he starts to dial. "Come on, Fred. Answer your phone..."