Prophecy
For the @profoundnet/ProfoundBond100 Drabble challenge. Prompt: prophecy. It’s only 500 words over the 100 word limit so: basically I nailed it, gang. I nailed it.
{on AO3}
Dean’s never been able to figure out what it is about the guy; sure, they’re stuck in the same open plan office suite, but it’s not like they share any interests. It isn’t clear if Novak even has any interests, or if he just plugs himself into a spare outlet in the server room to charge overnight. He’s nice on the eyes (and the ears, fuck), but he dresses like he works in the slide rule department for the Apollo program.
Still, Dean winds up next to him at all the Mandatory Company Fun events. Just kind of standing there, taking shelter from the fray with this vibey mystery nerd.
This time the Mandatory Company Fun is at a bowling alley, because God is dead, but there’s a full bar in the bowling alley, because He at least left a few nice things to His kids in the will. And, sure enough, Novak is holed up there, and he actually appears to be consuming an adult beverage, which blows Dean’s mind a little – though he couldn’t really tell you why.
So he snags the next seat over and they awkwardly put a few away together, and then they much less awkwardly put away a couple more. This is around when Dean asks: “Your first name. Is it short for something?”
“Yes,” the guy deadpans. Dean scowls at him until he cracks and tries to hide the little resulting smile in his Scotch and soda, which is weirdly adorable. “It’s short for, uh. Castiel. ”
“Ouch. So’s your family super religious, or was your mom just, like, really into angel stuff?”
Novak looks up at him. “You’re the first person I’ve met who actually knows where it’s from.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean says. “Me and my brother kinda grew up in a cult. I know a lot of weird off-brand Bible shit.”
This is usually where the other person’s eyes go wide to accommodate all of the questions suddenly filling their brain, and Dean can relax into a 45 minute set of his greatest Wacky Endtimes Upbringing Hits. Instead, Novak says:
“You too?”
Dean stares back at him. “Yeah, man. Our mom died when we were both little and our dad dove into this whole Jim Jones Doomsday kinda thing. Followed this prophet dude around the country for pretty much our whole childhoods. Whole lotta guns and Jesus with an extra side of freaky.”
Novak (Castiel, poor S.O.B.) is sitting bolt upright, like this is the best news he’s heard in weeks. “Polygamist compound outside of Provo,” he rushes out, and actually slaps the bar. “My father was the prophet. My mother was the ninth wife.”
“Well hey, I hear that’s a good wife to be,” Dean says. “Tenth, though? Forget about it.”
Cas laughs, a hard, real laugh (seriously, adorable). “You’re not wrong.” Then he looks away, deflates a little as the chuckles run out, starts to pick at the anemic lemon slice slowly bleeding out into his whiskey.
“So how’d you get out?” Dean prompts, and it comes out soft.
Cas shrugs. “Oh, I didn’t, really. I was expelled.”
“Kicked you out of the nest, huh? You cheep too loud?”
“No. Cheeped too homosexual.” He does not look up to see Dean’s reaction to this information, just deepens his aggressions against the lemon. “My fiancée turned me in.” He pauses. “She was scared. She was sixteen, so she should’ve been scared.” Castiel stops messing with the lemon, actually picks up the glass for a drink.
“Yeah. My old man never caught me,” Dean says, when the glass goes back down, and Cas’s eyes (by the way: real blue) pop right back up. Dean shrugs with an entirely whiskey-induced nonchalance. “Not with guys, at least.”
Cas leans over his forearms. “What made you leave, then?”
“Little brother. He grew a brain first, I guess.”
Cas narrows his eyes, glances back at the room full of overpaid kid-genius engineers enthusiastically rolling gutterballs.
“Well, Dean, if you were a late bloomer, you’ve certainly made up for lost time.”
“Takes one to know one,” Dean says, and they smile at each other like a couple of real grade-A dum-dums, and that’s the first night.
