Chapter Text
Dean Winchester--or Kurt Smith as the literary community knew him as--was a damn good writer, thank you very much, and he had earned the right to be considered as such. Or rather, that’s what he was repeatedly telling himself as he paced the cluttered living room of his apartment, trying to wrangle the right side of his brain into submission. His eyes flicked to and fro as his feet carried him restlessly back and forth, but he wasn’t seeing his furniture or walls, he was seeing his character and his story’s timeline dancing before him. He was missing something, he was absolutely sure of it, but he just couldn’t seem to find it yet.
He was so deep in his thoughts that when his cellphone rang, he jumped, making a very undignified noise that made him suddenly glad he lived alone. He yanked the mobile out of his pocket and answered it without bothering to look at who was calling.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dean, it’s uh, Chuck.” Dean tossed the pen he’d been toying with down on the table and collapsed onto the couch with a huff.
“Yeah?”
“Crowley wants you to come in.” Dean groaned quietly. Crowley was a brilliant but ruthless editor, and as much as Dean respected his damn near fearless yet practically perfect editorial skills, Dean just couldn’t bring himself to like the smarmy Brit. He was both pompous and loud and he was just overall unpleasant.
“When?”
“This afternoon. Around two?” Dean closed his eyes and massaged his temple.
“He couldn’t have scheduled for another day or let me know a little more in advance?” He griped.
“I uh, I’m just passing on the message, Dean,” Chuck responded nervously, and Dean rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there. Bye Chuck.” The poor man was barely able to stutter out a goodbye before Dean had hung up, tossing the device onto the couch beside him.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to his empty apartment, finally letting thoughts of his book drift away. Without the sound of his shuffling feet, muttering and the almost ever-present sound of his own thoughts, Dean found the apartment deafeningly silent. He sat there and contemplated the loud, static non-sound that seemed to permeate every crevice of the home. His eyes roved around, as if he could catch sight of the sound that wasn’t a sound. He stood static for a moment, his pose matching the unidentified not-noise. Dean then gave a small sigh, deciding he was better off preparing for the approaching appointment with Crowley than listening to his own silence.
He gathered his drafts, which had at that point traveled to blanket almost every part of the small apartment in his recent thought-storm. Dean carefully placed the pages in his well-worn navy blue folder, which he then proceeded to place in a nearby leather satchel. His fingers caressed the worn leather as his mind wandered slightly, the smooth feel of it both familiar but always still somehow pleasantly new to him. He still wasn’t quite sure about how Crowley would feel about his newest draft, as he had decided to cut a particular brutal showdown that the man had seemed quite fond of. That scene had been originally placed in the work to have a little more interaction between the main antagonist and the hero, but had decided that the piece had become a little piece of unnecessary bloodshed. And coming from Kurt Smith, the king of blood, guts and glory, that truly was saying something. Dean once more massaged his temples, checking the time on his outdated smartphone and finding he had about an hour and a half before he had to make his appearance.
Not wanting to have any more interaction with the overbearingly awkward assistant Chuck in the publishing house waiting room any more than necessary, he decided that staying at home for as long as possible was his best bet. Putting off leaving for as long as he could manage, Dean wandered over to the fridge and plucked out a bottle of beer. He was going to need the liquid courage, if he was talking to Crowley later...
***
Castiel slowly sank into the dark brown leather couch, pulling out the binder containing the final draft of his latest work, a novel which detailed the events of an unlikely romance, but used purgatory and its many beasts and banes as its characters and setting. For that is what Emmanuel Anael was known for; works which spoke of the world in a philosophical mindset, using themes common in religion and using them to provide a commentary and analysis on the various aspects of humanity. Castiel knew when he first chose his genre of writing that he was taking a risk, as sparkly vampires and gory apocalypse fiction seemed to be what was selling nowadays. But, as he liked to reflect upon often, his very first novel had immediately been snatched up for publication, so he obviously was doing something right.
He leafed through the binder, patiently waiting in the classy, modernly dressed waiting room for his editor’s office. Chock full of deep toned chintzy furniture, it seemed to reflect the editor’s rich personality well. The receptionist slash assistant slash Crowley’s errand boy Chuck sat across from him behind a dark-stained wooden desk, taking turns staring at the phone with a strange sort of fright and attempting to sneakily type a few more stray words in his own work-in-progress novel. Chuck had not seemed to notice Castiel’s arrival yet, which he was perfectly content with, as it meant he could spend the time waiting for his editor re-reading his own story. He had spent months perfecting this one, wanting to concoct the perfect balance of chaos and purity to create his version of purgatory.
“Oh my Jesus!” The sudden exclamation caused Castiel to snap his binder shut and jerk his head up, expecting to find some sort of disaster to befall his eyes from the intensity of the shout. His eyes found Chuck staring at him, one foot on his rolling office chair and the other on the floor in some sort of mock martial arts pose. “You couldn’t have, like, warned a guy before becoming a suddenly appearing statue on the couch? Thought you were a weeping angel or something!” Chuck relaxed slightly, having recognized the trench-coated author from his previous visits to the office.
“I was not aware that it was common for angels to be found ‘weeping’?” Castiel tilted his head, not understanding the reference the man had attempted to make. Is this something he should research later, or…?
“Uh, it’s from the show- er, never mind. Your appointment isn’t for another hour, so I guess you should just wait, or, whatever.” The ever awkward receptionist began to shuffle his already organized papers lining his desk, seemingly deciding he was done talking. Castiel examined him for another couple moments, squinting briefly before shrugging his shoulders, shaking his head and returning his attention to the binder in his lap. He slid a finger along the top of the paper, coming to and peeling back the corner in preparation to turn the page.
He quickly lost himself, reading and rereading lines, thinking of ways that he could edit each one before changing his mind and deciding that he quite liked the way he’d worded everything. Time slid by him, as it was wont to do when he was distracted, and when he glanced up at the clock on the wall, he found that he only had fifteen minutes before Crowley would presumably call him into his office.
It was around then that a man who, in Castiel’s opinion, was entirely too casually dressed for the setting, strolled into the waiting area. The man had a navy blue folder clutched to his side and a leather bag hanging on the opposite shoulder, and he called out a gruff greeting to Chuck, who snapped his attention up from his computer, where he had just been typing.
“Oh, hey Dean. Uh, just take a seat I guess. Crowley’s still, y’know, in his office and everything.” Chuck’s voice quavered slightly, as it always did, and Dean rolled his eyes before sauntering over to the chairs and sinking into one. He tugged his pen out of his pocket and sighed lightly. Finally, he seemed to realize that he wasn’t alone in the waiting room, and that Castiel’s eyes were on him. He raised his gaze, and found himself a little disarmed by the pure extremity of the blue that he found watching him.
“Hey,” Dean found himself saying quite suddenly, almost reflexively. Castiel tilted his head to the side once more, appraising the man presented him before responding. He was dressed in a simple plaid shirt and a pair of worn blue jeans, and it looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a couple days, leaving him with a solid scruff. His eyes were a strange shade of moss green that seemed to twinkle with life.
“Hello,” he said at last. Dean’s eyebrows quirked up, and instinctively he started to silently attempt to string together the proper words to describe the depth of the man’s gravelly baritone.
“Crowley call you in suddenly too? I swear, that man doesn’t give a damn if other people have lives, he’ll have his way.” Dean twirled his pen once or twice as he spoke, shrugging one shoulder in a “what can you do” sort of way.
“Yes, I too was called in unexpectedly. Fortunately, I was not busy and so it was not overly difficult for me to come in.” Castiel smiled in what he hoped was a friendly manner and Dean nodded slowly. Castiel pursed his lips and tried to think of an appropriate topic of conversation, afraid of coming off as unfriendly and stand-offish again, as his agent, Becky, had informed him was a constant problem.
“Who is your inspiration as a writer?” He blurted as the only idea to come to mind. Dean looked a little surprised at the sudden subject change, but decided to just go with it. He thought for a moment and then decided to drop his own pen name, to see what another writer, his colleague, thought of him.
“Kurt Smith,” he said simply, watching Castiel to gauge his reaction.
Castiel smirked and raised up one of his eyebrows, eyeing Dean critically as he adjusted his thick-framed glasses. “You are joking, aren’t you? Kurt Smith?”
“What?” Dean asked, bewildered at the response.
“Kurt Smith is one of the great many ‘authors’ who wouldn’t know actual literature if it hit them in the face.” Castiel’s tone was obviously disdainful and Dean felt anger clawing at the back of his throat immediately.
“And just how do you figure that?” He asked through gritted teeth.
“Surely you’ve read it and should know precisely what I’m talking about. Smith’s only concerns are how much blood he can have his characters bathe in and how many times they can survive completely impossible situations. It can hardly be counted as literature!” Dean had to press his fist into his thigh to keep himself from hitting the pretentious snob of a man right in his smug mouth.
“Oh? And I suppose your inspiration is a real literary genius, huh?” Dean asked with a tight jaw. Castiel straightened a little more and smiled as if sharing a private joke with himself.
“Of course. Anyone in the literary world should know that Emanuel Anael is one of the leading modern novelists.” Castiel’s throat went a little dry as he spoke the words and he sunk back into his chair a little. He would need to have a chat with Becky. She’d insisted that he try to act more confident as well as more friendly, but all he’d succeeded in doing was making himself feel like a pompous ass, a fact that he resented.
Dean actually laughed out loud. “Emanuel Anael? That over-hyped nut? I have never read anything with more obvious ‘subtle’ religious undertones. And talk about taking philosophy too far! By no means should that much religious crap and ‘philosophy’ be pumped into four hundred pages. The only reason he has an audience is because America has way too many spiritually and intellectually lacking people who want to feel self-important!” Castiel was both horrified and enraged by Dean’s assessment of his work.
“At least Anael’s readers have a modicum of intelligence! How much intelligence do you need to read bloody westerns about ‘cowboys’ with almost no sense of morality?” Castiel’s voice had risen above a normal speaking voice and it made Chuck flinch at his desk.
“No sense of morality? Have you ever read ‘Past Dawn?’ Laurence’s biggest struggle was his morality!” Dean argued back. He was on the edge of his seat without realizing it. Chuck was watching the two of them, unaccustomed to the sudden noise, flicking around behind his desk unsure what to do about the situation.
“You call that a sense of morality?” Castiel practically shouted back.
“Oh, I’m so sorry that there wasn’t a ridiculously heavy religious undertone that seeped into every part of the novel, necessary or not! Maybe Laurence’s Stetson should have been used to symbolize some glorified saint or something, oh yes, that would have been perfect for the plot!” They both got to their feet at the same time, facing off squarely, faces set into angry masks. Chuck stood hastily and slipped into Crowley’s office.
“Uh, sir? There’s a bit of a situation out in the waiting area,” Chuck stammered out in response to Crowley’s questioning scowl.
“What d’you mean there’s a situation? Deal with whatever it is and get out!” Crowley grumbled. His words were immediately followed by a muffled shout from beyond the office door. “What in the blazes?”
“It’s Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak. They’re, uh, arguing. Please, sir?” Chuck motioned towards the door helplessly and Crowley got to his feet with a thunderous expression on his face that sent Chuck scuttling out of the office before he could be bowled over by the infuriated editor.
“Oi!” He shouted as he was met by the site of the two men practically in each other’s faces, new insults on their lips. They both turned towards him and paled considerably. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’, mates? This is a bloody waiting area, not an obsolete gladiator arena. I think it would be best if the both of you took your drafts, which are, thank you, all over my waiting room floor, and went on your merry ways!” Castiel and Dean exchanged mutual glares, but neither dared to speak against Crowley so they gathered their binder and folder, which had gone to the floor when they’d both stood. They both turned, and after one last withering glance at the other, strode out without another word to anyone. Crowley watched them go before stomping back into his office, muttering under his breath.
Chuck stood there for a few extra moments, trying to calm down before returning to his desk and reopening the Word document he had been working on previously, attempting to push the fight out of his mind with his renewed feverish typing.
***
“Charlie!” Becky called over to the red-headed woman, who immediately made her way over to the bar, sitting down on the closest barstool and taking up the second beer that Becky had ordered. “I have some interesting news…” Becky began, lowering her head while trying to make her tone conspiratorial and mysterious. Charlie took a swig of her beer and leaned in, tilting the bottle in Becky’s direction to indicate that she should continue. Becky glanced around them and leaned in even closer, as if she was about to divulge a huge secret.
“I have it on good authority that our two favourite clients may have met today.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down dramatically. Charlie’s face lit up.
“No way! When? How?” Becky giggled at her friend’s excitement.
“I called Castiel tonight to see how he was getting on and he was absolutely fuming about some ‘half-wit asshole with no respect for true literature’ that he’d tried to be friendly with. Apparently, there was a scheduling snafu with Crowley today.” They both took a moment to groan at the name of the infamously pompous jackass of an editor. “So, they both ended up waiting in the lobby to see Crowley together, and Castiel, per my advice, tried to strike up conversation so as not to seem like some sort of super-chilled Vulcan or something, you know how he is.” Becky placed her face in her hands at this, shaking her head as if mourning Castiel’s lack of social skills. Charlie nodded with a chuckle, having seen firsthand how icy and distant her friends’ client could come across. “Anyway, they got into talking about their writing ‘inspirations’ and the two idiots dropped their own pseudonyms. Seriously.” Charlie was already laughing, a grin stretching from ear to ear.
“I talked to Chuck when he came over,” Becky continued, “And apparently the argument nearly turned to a full out Buffy style showdown. They were both yelling and in each other’s face when Crowley finally came out of his office to kick them out. Castiel told me that he saw the front of Dean’s folder, y’know, his pseudo and name and everything. Bet if you gave him a call, Dean’s still furious.” Becky waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Charlie smirked and immediately yanked out her phone, glad that the bar was fairly quiet.
She dialed Dean and flinched, holding back laughter at his obviously still-pissed tone. “Yeah?”
“Hey Dean, it’s just me.” Becky leaned in so she could listen in on the conversation.
“Oh. Hey Charlie. Sorry, I’m in a totally crap mood.” Charlie opened her mouth to make some sort of response, but Dean continued and she could just picture him pacing around his apartment as he spoke, gesticulating wildly with the flow of his oncoming rant. “Went to see Crowley today and there was this absolute bag of dicks named Castiel, or Emmanuel Anael to his mindless flock of tasteless fans.” He spat the name out like it was some disgusting thing that had been lodged in the back of his throat. Charlie had to hold the phone a little bit away from them so that Dean would not hear her and Becky laughing, both almost falling off their stools. When they brought the phone close enough to hear again, Dean was still ranting.
“…hoity-toity philosophy full of so much supposedly subtle religious bullshit that I expected Jesus freaking Christ to crawl out of the damn pages and jump me. And he was so freaking uppity about it, looking at me like I was some sort of literary scum who doesn’t know the difference between his ‘their’s. I just wanted to punch the look off his stupid face, knock the smugness right out of those clear blue eyes of his.” Charlie and Becky exchanged a look at Dean’s choice of description and smirked.
Charlie let Dean finish ranting and chatted for a few minutes more before excusing herself, sliding her phone into her pocket as she slowly turned back to Becky with a mischievous look in her eye..
“‘Knock the smugness right out of those clear blue eyes of his,’” Becky said in her best imitation of Dean’s rough voice, dissolving into a fit of giggles. “Castiel said something like that, I can’t believe I didn’t mention it! ‘I am not prone to violence, but I was struck with the sudden urge to shake him until his damn freckles scattered to the floor.’” Her impersonation of Castiel’s gravelly baritone had Charlie practically spitting up the beer she had just sipped.
“Are you getting the sense that there is some serious sexual tension starting to form here, or is it just me?” Becky asked, grinning like a madman.
“Oh yes,” Charlie replied with a Cheshire grin, turning to the bartender to order a round of shots. It looked like she and Becky had some very serious issues to discuss concerning a blue eyed client and one freckled author.