Chapter Text
“Besides the aliens, scientology’s opposed to psychology because Hubbard refused to be treated for paranoid schizophrenia.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a cult leader.” Crowley acknowledges as Castiel slides off the hiking trail and climbs onto the trunk of a fallen tree. Crowley follows along.
“It’s a fascinating religion.” Cas goes on.
“Cult.”
“Most cults are religions.”
“And most religions are cults.”
Castiel rolls his eyes, but takes the offered hand as he reaches the end of the log and hops off, crunching autumn leaves on impact. “Not all rectangles are squares, Crowley.”
“But all squares are rectangles.” He smiles through the other’s glare. They’re still holding hands. “Shall we?”
Cas tries to remain chiding as he flips his backpack over his shoulder. “I’ll pour the salt, you light the candles.”
So it begins. Castiel walks clockwise, pouring out a thick layer of salt in a circle, slightly lopsided in the way it’s nestled between trees. Crowley follows with four pillar candles for four cardinal directions, igniting each with a butane lighter. He meets Cas at the end, and offers up the lighter. Castiel brings the tip of a sage bundle to a smolder, and hands it back.
“You know, white sage is endangered.” Crowley gibes as he sits just south of centre.
“And you know I grew this myself.”
Rolling his eyes, Crowley spreads a square (rectangular) remnant of black velvet on the ground before him while Cas smudges the circle in smoke. He finishes, and shoves the bundle in front of Crowley, who bats it away. “Hey, keep the stench to yourself.”
“I’m cleansing you of that overwhelming negativity.”
Crowley looks at the sage, and blows it out. Castiel narrows his eyes, and takes a seat with his back to Crowley’s- but takes the two tealights passed to him. He unlatches the gold clasp on a wooden jewelry box, already set in its place before him. It’s an antique, with an age-dusted mirror in the lid and red-upholstered tray that rises out of the box as the hinge spreads. He slots a tealight into either side of the tray, and stands up the votive holder he’s consecrated as a cauldron. He’s awash in calm, just looking at it- though that may be the charm bottle hung in one corner.
Crowley, conversely, has a single black jarred candle (Cas has no idea how he can complain about the smell of sage when that smells like burning sulphur), a deck of tarot cards, and a book Cas knows to be his grimoire (and anyone else could guess, with the gold-leaf pentagram on the black leather cover). It is an exponentially simplified alternative to Castiel’s complete crystal collection.
This decade, a witch can cast a protection spell on an Otterbox in the same circle as a curse on the obnoxious soccer mom next door- which, coincidentally, is a ritual Cas and his significant other find themselves performing that night. More to the point: no modern secular witch does anything but roll his eyes in response to the term “black magic”- but... if Castiel were to assign colours to their practices: his would be a sort of baby blue, and Crowley would be that new super black the British scientists invented.
He thought pure hex workers were extinct- never heard of them outside of Satanic circles- but Cas hasn’t seen him use any plant that wasn’t poisonous, and they’ve been dating for two years. Going by that threefold law Wiccans abide by, Crowley should be in terrible shape from all the ill he’s sent into the world; yet, here he is, perfectly healthy ex-smoker, owns a three bedroom colonial in the nice part of town, never has trouble with his antique Bentley, and he even loves his job.
He’s a lawyer. Have you ever met a lawyer that likes his job?
Castiel’s grounded by a snap of Crowley’s fingers. Some people end a spell with a bell, or “so mote it be,” but Crowley snaps. Cas reaches back, and touches his partner’s arm.
“Hm?”
He makes a small, negative sound of reply.
“Kitten, I’m still not an empath.” he reminds, scribbling something in the back of his Book of Shadows.
“Far from it.”
He hears paper tearing, and then flame licks, and lets his head rest on Crowley’s shoulder. Stars peek through the canopy, and he revels in the feeling of untouched earth beneath his palm.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?” he grumbles back.
“Being romantic. You’re corrupting my energy.”
“For you?” Castiel looks to the sky as he deliberates. “Not a chance.”