![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
heaven is an office tower, Castiel really digs his stapler
the dramatic confrontation
"I'll send you a memo."
"Goddamn it, no. No more memos, Cas." Castiel gives him that same blank stare, this time with a little confusion mixed in. Humans, right? Dean crowds him, and the hell if Castiel's actual form is the size of a building and he isn't intimidated by Dean getting up in his grill, he's got to try.
"When we met, you told me that you were an angel of the lord. This what it means? All of you feathery bastards sitting in your ergonomically correct desk chairs, running experiments on the mudmonkeys?" Castiel looks up, meeting Dean's eyes with a mix of confusion and shame.
"TPS reports," is all he has to say for Castiel to get it.
"Dean, I-"
"Testing Procedure Specification," Sam says then. "What exactly are you testing?"
That gets him. Castiel squares his shoulders lays it out for them. "You. We're testing you." In true Castiel fashion, like every word costs him dearly, coming from a limited store, he gives it to them plain. Heaven is running the biggest social experiment this side of the internet and the Winchesters are at the middle of it.
Dean's natural inclination is to headbutt the sorry off of Castiel's face, but-- they need him, and it's not as though they didn't already know most of it. Those fucking clipboards and Blackberries.
"Cas," Sam says not at all gently. "We need you in this fight, not on the sidelines."
"You have to choose," Dean says.
"I... can I keep the stapler?" Castiel asks, hand already reaching for the shiny red stapler that's chained--actually chained--to his desk.
"Yes Cas." And Dean can hear Sam rolling his eyes. "You can keep the stapler."
"Ok, good. Good." Castiel nods to himself, expression hardening. "Let's kick some face."
"I'll send you a memo."
"Goddamn it, no. No more memos, Cas." Castiel gives him that same blank stare, this time with a little confusion mixed in. Humans, right? Dean crowds him, and the hell if Castiel's actual form is the size of a building and he isn't intimidated by Dean getting up in his grill, he's got to try.
"When we met, you told me that you were an angel of the lord. This what it means? All of you feathery bastards sitting in your ergonomically correct desk chairs, running experiments on the mudmonkeys?" Castiel looks up, meeting Dean's eyes with a mix of confusion and shame.
"TPS reports," is all he has to say for Castiel to get it.
"Dean, I-"
"Testing Procedure Specification," Sam says then. "What exactly are you testing?"
That gets him. Castiel squares his shoulders lays it out for them. "You. We're testing you." In true Castiel fashion, like every word costs him dearly, coming from a limited store, he gives it to them plain. Heaven is running the biggest social experiment this side of the internet and the Winchesters are at the middle of it.
Dean's natural inclination is to headbutt the sorry off of Castiel's face, but-- they need him, and it's not as though they didn't already know most of it. Those fucking clipboards and Blackberries.
"Cas," Sam says not at all gently. "We need you in this fight, not on the sidelines."
"You have to choose," Dean says.
"I... can I keep the stapler?" Castiel asks, hand already reaching for the shiny red stapler that's chained--actually chained--to his desk.
"Yes Cas." And Dean can hear Sam rolling his eyes. "You can keep the stapler."
"Ok, good. Good." Castiel nods to himself, expression hardening. "Let's kick some face."