milliways_bar | (no subject)

[OOM: In the year 2013, Castiel gets by with a little help from his friends.]

A not-quite-man on crutches clumsily makes his way into the bar.

He may be familiar to you. From this side of the door, he hasn’t been away for very long.

Everything about him speaks of an existence that has grown shabby and threadbare. His jeans and button-down shirt are worn and frayed. He seems to be wearing an old ski boot in lieu of a cast. The crutches have seen better days; one of them sports a small pink Hello Kitty backpack, held on by a quantity of grey duct tape. His hair is unkempt and he is sporting about three days worth of stubble.

And yet Milliways, as far as Castiel can tell, hasn’t changed at all.

He had been thinking about it, for the first time in a long time, sitting in his cabin at Camp Chitaqua. And now, just like he has conjured it, here it is.

There’s really only one thing to do.

Castiel starts to laugh. Hard. And he shows no signs of stopping.

[OOC: You are all beyond awesome, but I must beg slowtime. As a favor, no new tag-ins? The cup runneth over. I'll catch tags tomorrow.]

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"We're all biased, when it comes to our friends."

It's part of being friends, right?

"Indeed."

It's one of the reasons Dean still has his unwavering support.

And this all feels a little hypocritical, because Meg's particular bias here is that she'd very much rather be talking to the Castiel of old.

(It would be different, she thinks, if it had been however many years for her, too, or if she hadn't skipped all the steps between suit and tie and wings, and cast and scruff and drugs. But neither of those is the case.)

But, if this the time and state from which Bar chooses to bring Castiel now, well, Meg will adapt.

(She hopes.)

"Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

Beat.

"That isn't contraindicated for any or all of what's on the table?"

"Maybe some coffee?"

For old time's sake.

"I think caffeine should be safe enough."

Unless he's planning to spike it.

Though it's not great for mending bones.

Still.

"Coffee I can get."

And if the coffee comes with an apple and a sandwich, well, so be it.

Castiel gives her a knowing look. But lets it slide.

He does pick up the apple appreciatively.

"It's been a while since I've seen one of these."

Fresh produce is a hit or miss thing these days. Some things they can grow at the camp (there are some enterprising gardeners among the ranks). And some things they can gather wild.

Apples don't fall into either category.

He said it himself. She hasn't changed a bit.

"They're good for broken bones," Meg says.

"Where are you living these days?"

Castiel waits until he has properly chewed and swallowed his mouthful of apple.

"Place called Camp Chitaqua."

"It's an old...I think it might have been a scout camp, or something?"

"It's not a bad place. It's safe. Remote. I have a cabin."

She doesn't ask safe and remote from what.

Next time, maybe. For now, she'll just leave it at safe and remote.

(And again, she feels a surreal disconnect related to how time has been moving for the two of them. It hasn't been long, for her, since they were talking about his not being sure about having a room. Now he has a whole cabin. She almost wants to ask if it has blue and white wall paper.)

"And you're not alone?"

"No. It's actually a pretty good size. Core of soldiers, and a lot of refugees."

In this case, the soldiers are average men and women who have looked the Apocalypse in the face and decided that they aren't too scared to try to fight it.

They are in the minority.

"I know everyone there--it's hard not to. Our fearless leader and our quartermaster I know from further back. Others I've gotten to know since we set up."

"Jordan. Erin. Dave. Smitty. Gina. Alan. Yeager."

"Alyssa. Sarah. Noelle. Julie."

"It's good. That you're not alone."

Meg hesitates, and then reverses her earlier decision to not ask.

"Refugees from what?"

"The Apocalypse."

No real way of hedging around it. Not without blatant dishonesty.

And he thinks too much of Meg for that.

"Oh."

Oh.

"You're not using that metaphorically, are you?"

"Unfortunately, no."

He's gotten better at metaphor. But this time he's being quite literal.

"It has not gone well, thus far, I'm afraid. For our side."

She hadn't really thought it was metaphorical.

And she has no idea what to say here.

After all, I'm sorry to hear that doesn't begin to be an adequate response to We're losing the Apocalypse."

Castiel sighs a little.

"Perhaps I've spoken too freely."

For a moment, he sounds like the Castiel who once was.

He does.

And it's reassuring and disconcerting all at once.

Meg shakes her head. "No.

"I just . . . don't know what to say."

"That's the thing, isn't it? There's very little one can say."

All you can really do is ride it.

To its inevitable end.

"I'm glad this place found you again."

The smile creeps back.

"As am I."

"I haven't had hope in quite some time. This restores at least a little of it."

Maybe just enough to crush him later. But even knowing that, he'll take it.