tampered | log | [ on-going]

log | [ on-going]

When; Tuesday night
Rating; PG-13 (for language)
Characters; Castiel (

rehymenator) & Ben Hawkins (

taravata)
Summary; The prophet meets the angel.
Log;

It isn't too uncommon for Ben Hawkins not to know where the hell he is. Actually, it's a nightly ritual: dreams, visions, whatever you want to call them; they send him everywhere and nowhere, and tonight it's in the midst of a bustling City. He stumbles through the crowd in a haze, slotting through shoulderblades and bumping against upper arms with mumbled 'cuse mes' passed off hastily as he moves along. They're probably more offended by his smell than anything. Ragged blue overalls, a torn shirt and a pervading stink of dirt and sweat that follows anyone who spends his days out toiling in the desert. Never been a city boy, tried to be a city boy but failed and ended up chained, shackled and back out in the sun.

He pauses in front of a Chinese restaurant and the neon green and blue letters flash against dirt-stained cheeks. He'll wake up eventually, any moment now, just like always.

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The angel has his own rituals here in the City. Avoiding his own family and moving among strange humans (and others), anonymous and unseen, Castiel finds he can feel a little clearer. Hang onto those lingering human emotions that are supposed to have been long cut out, unable to fit in him alongside his grace.

It's not unusual for him to slip between the cracks in space and time, bending enough to stay untouched. What is unusual is when he fails to do it entirely; though it isn't completely impossible, given the City's penchant for toying with its people. So when he realizes that he's about to bump into this man's side, Castiel tries to move quickly, clipping him in the shoulder and stumbling forward to catch himself.

Castiel begins quickly to move away, no attempt at a mumbled apology. It's only two steps before he turns, scowling, to outright stare at the newcomer. He doesn't ask, but that scrutinizing look probably reads loud and clear: What are you?

Ben immediately recoils upon contact, backing away from Castiel with a hand clutched to his forehead as the visions drive in fast and sharp. For a moment, he's no longer there, and whatever Castiel is— who he is— is ripped apart like a gutted book, pages in fragments as the visions stream across his mind. It's all too piecy to glean any kind of revelation from the images, except for the distinct fact and feeling that this man isn't human.

The presence about him, the role of authority he assumes, all topped with the energy he exudes? He sees the redheaded angel, Anna, the murder of a sister, even a smashed Castiel. Bits and pieces of everything that makes not a lick of sense. Pieces that comes at him too fast for him to even discern anything. But then, when did these things ever make sense?

Ben is still cringing as the visions end, furrowed brows and a frown to compliment a look of pure confusion. Now it's only time to gawk and wonder. Wonder who the hell this bastard is, and why the hell you can even have a vision inside another vision.

"The hell," he sucks in a breath, continuing to frown, "The hell are you?"

This exchange of information is easy to sense, but the lack of difficulty ends there. Along with it, Castiel's understanding of the City is muddled further; this man was clearly new. Human, and yet not; wielding death and life in a capacity much greater than humans should.

"I'm Castiel," he answers the question rather flatly, habit bringing the name out of him almost right away. Castiel takes a step forward, into Ben's space (also habit, albeit a terrible one) to take a closer look. He doesn't need to ask questions now that, to Castiel, they have thoroughly met.

He'd heard the words of the Scripture, and now knew faces he'd never seen before. The sharing of information isn't foreign to him, but the source of the information is. This man, Ben Hawkins, is something of intrigue. He doesn't quite realize that he's doing that intimidating scowl and brimstone deal. The one that his best friend usually ends up laughing at, actually.

This whole interaction reminds him of Jimmy, and yet not at all. As his vessel, Jimmy had cooperated with him, given him memories and knowledge and while he didn't always use it, its availability and ease of access had been useful in his duties. Now, though, this isn't right or useful (not to mention the fact that Castiel has no duty to apply it to). It's personal and strange. Castiel doesn't know where to begin with it, except that he very much desires to know more. Hence the breach of Ben's personal bubble.

The notoriety involved with the names Gabriel, Michael and Satan is entirely missing when it comes to the lesser known angel of Thursday. Castiel's name is as good as a question mark, unrecognized, even by Ben who had learned his letters from force-fed lines of scripture. Perhaps it's there somewhere, shoved up in the dusty rafters of his mind, but for now the angel is a powerful unknown. An unknown that perturbs him simply because it is unknown. He doesn't feel something inherently malignant as he did with the tattooed man.

"Yeah? That don't tell me nothing," he snaps back, hostility bubbling up like a spring, "Get away from me you crazy sunvabitch."

Ben jerks away, stepping one step backward for every step the angel takes forward. If he knew what Castiel is, Ben might consider that face precursor to a round of deserved smiting, but he reads aggression in his ignorance. His fists clench instinctively, and shoulders tense; but visions tell him that whatever this man is, brute strength will do little to deter him.

For Castiel, sometimes a person has to speak very bluntly, possibly even rudely, for him to understand the social implications of his actions. Dean quite often berates him and treats him terribly, but it hardly fazes the angel and in some cases is required for clear communication.

Being called crazy in that tone of voice does the trick, and Castiel takes a full step back, raising his hands in front of him, palms to Ben.

"I'm--" he usually never hesitates when identifying himself, but he usually doesn't identify himself to things he's completely ignorant of. "--an angel of Heaven."

That's his version of 'we mean you no harm,' but he knows that even that doesn't do the trick sometimes. The stoic poker face drops out, and Castiel looks a bit more concerned. This is very similar to the night he met Dean Winchester, and Castiel doesn't want to make the same mistakes.

"But perhaps you know that now." His stance is a bit more open, less expectant and more curious but not without caution. If this is some kind of demon or trick, Castiel is ready to face it full force.

His declaration evokes an expression stuck somewhere between confusion and shock. Ben does not move to speak, only staring, studying Castiel intensely, as though trying to derive truth from observation alone.

The angel's appearance, so sudden and unceremonious, comes off as an insult. A mockery. God doesn't just drop his angels onto the earth, does he? Whatever the bible says, his world back home had seemed completely abandoned by the Lord. Terrible times, people called them. A world that was plagued with suffering, for want of simple needs like food and livelihood, that some men would turn to false prophets in their desperation; to a devil in preacher's clothing who would offer relief at the cost of destruction. That is, if Ben Hawkins couldn't stop him. But where was God in any of this? Why is the fate of the world left up to a single man?

He feels bile rise up against his tongue. If this really was an angel, why would he stop for him? There's an obvious answer to this, but Ben still has difficulty connecting himself with the others-- with true saints and saviors. His first thought is to assume that Castiel is here to judge. He has killed, lied, stole, had sexual relations out of wedlock. He can't remember the last time he had prayed; nevermind the poor job he's done of fulfilling his destiny.

But what does one say to the last being he expects to meet?

"Why--," The shock has yet to leave his features, bleeding into his words as he draws them out shakily, uncertain. "What do you want?"

There are so many ways to answer the question Ben decides to ask. That in and of itself is surprising to Castiel, who takes his turn at looking shocked, cocking his head to the side and pursing his lips in preparation to answer.

No answer comes, at least not a fully formed one. He's got fleeting ideas, but the question isn't one he's used to being asked. All Castiel knows is fulfilling duty and the idea of want or need is always left by the wayside.

"Angels aren't built to want," he finally responds. Having sufficiently (in his mind) answered the question, Castiel moves directly into his own, even though he's aware it may not be the best approach to solving this mystery. Regardless, he falls into old habits when faced with something not quite familiar to him. Power is power, and Castiel has experienced the difficulty in attempting to find the source and motivation for that power. So out comes the question, a direct attempt at finding the root of the issue.

"What are you?"

"You say that, but ain't you talkin' at me now? You wanna talk to me," he replies, bolting his words down with forced firmness. His abating shock also gives focus to a continued study of the angel. Human in every physical aspect, right down to the clothes on his back. A fashion uncommon to Ben, but clothes are clothes, and clothes are a human convention. And while Castiel's manner may be odd and abrupt, if not socially awkward, who's Ben to criticize? Flip the subject around and he might as well be describing himself.

But this man isn't human. Looks human, but he don't feel human at all. He ain't bad either. Still, Ben can't escape the slightest measure of doubt. It'd less of an insult if this all turned out to be a falsehood, but an angel makes the most sense-- feels like the truth. None of this doubt will be broadcasted to the angel, for Ben Hawkins is picking his words carefully. Better be safe than smited.

Castiel's next question, however, throws him for a loop and into another bout of silence. Of course, the angel would know something was off. Just as management knew Ben Hawkin's wasn't just a man from the day he was born. But what was he? That answer's still unknown to Ben Hawkins, even if he's got a clue.

"I ain't human, that's for sure," he replies, tentatively, the shrug of his shoulders audible in the slouch of his words. As if it's not a big deal, he tries to suggest.

Ben's argument makes Castiel pause, even smile minutely. It's true, he does want to talk to the newcomer. "A means to a greater purpose."

The answer's vague, sure, but that's kind of Angel Communication 101. Vague enough to sound profound with enough information for the other to interpret at will. He'd thought Dean might have beaten it out of him for the most part, but there it was again, natural as ever.

"Our free will is...limited. To achieve His desires." And one of those is definitely to figure out what Ben is, and what he's capable of. Not that he'd necessarily be of use, but if the angel has learned anything from his time among humans, it's that not all relationships were required to have use.

He takes a moment, remembering now that there was far more to meeting a person than vague declarations of origin and power. More important things than sizing the other up, making his own intents somewhat known. Things like food. He asks not entirely awkwardly, (he has been making progress) but also very abruptly: "Are you hungry?"

There again, someone talking around the fact that he's a person, the conversation amounting to his role as a chess piece: the purpose of which Castiel means to discover. Castiel's knowledge of his situation, Ben can't begin to confirm, but he suspects that this angel of the lord is grasping in the dark. Questions, confusion, from a creature one would expect to be built without the capacity to doubt. And doubt, too, is part of free will. Perhaps those limitations are overstated- if anything, Ben Hawkins would never have expected an angel to be this... well.

Human.

A thought only exaggerated by Castiel's consideration for human needs. He might as well be any man asking him out for lunch, instead of a goddamn angel. Food seems like it would be the last priority.

"Don't got time to eat, Mister. Got things to do at home. Important things that can't wait ," he declares, rather politely. The more Ben centers himself, the more he becomes that good christian boy his mother beat into him. You respect God, boy. Thus you respect his angels. "You won't be upset if I refuse, will ya? Don't mean to be rude."

He does smile, now, inclining his chin (though one might notice that it does not come back down to complete the nod). "Here, you may have plenty of time. Or you might have none at all."

If only Castiel could explain his affinity for them, for their ability to choose and their ability to deny what others want. But that would require he understand his interest in them for himself, which he's not quite aware of just yet. The more humanity bucks what should be done, what has been predicted to happen, the more Castiel finds it intriguing and worth admiration. If there was anything Ben might have done to make Castiel more interested in him, it was that refusal.

"It's your choice." He should take a step back and leave Ben Hawkins to wander and explore for himself, but Castiel continues to linger another moment. "But if you have questions, well. Prayer seems to work here, and you know my name now."

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