Chapter Text
Ben looks up from his magazine when the door jingles and groans quietly.
The Gas N’ Sip he works at is way out in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, so he’s usually free to kick back and read some pornos, but occasionaly he does get customers. The downside of working so far out is that usually, his customers are crazy.
The man who enters—no, more of a boy, really—is drowned in an oversized beige trenchcoat, his dark hair mussed as if he just crawled out of bed. Seeming to sense Ben’s gaze, the boy’s eyes rise to meet his, their frosty blue sending a shock of unease down his spine. The boy’s expression doesn’t change, nor does he offer any kind of greeting. He just cocks his head slightly, that icy gaze studying Ben.
Yep. Ben hates his job. He gets all the weirdos.
“Evening,” Ben offers, hoping to break this heavy awkwardness, but the boy doesn’t respond. He does look away though, thank God, as if he’s lost interest in Ben and any prospect of conversation.
Well, that’s okay with him.
He goes back to his reading, all too aware of the bustling movement throughout the store in the back of his mind, every now and then glancing up to make sure the kid isn’t gonna make off with a couple six packs or something.
Getting a little too invested in a picture of a particularly stunning woman, he loses mental track of the boy and is startled when he looks up to see him right in front of the counter. Despite the youthful slope of his shoulders and the traces of baby fat rounding his face, he’s pretty damn tall and cuts an intimidating figure. Especially with that creepy fucking stare.
“Can I help you…?”
“Do you enjoy being in this place?” the boy asks, voice strangely gravelly and deep for someone who looks so youthful.
Ben’s eyebrows shoot up at the unexpected question. “Uh… no, not really.”
He cocks his head again, the confusion swimming in his eyes equal parts endearing and offputting. Like an animal in human form. “Then why do you sit here, day after day?”
“Because it’s my job?” Ben shrugs with an awkward smile, itching for his shift to finish so he can sleep all of this off. “Dude, I’m dead broke.”
He suddenly leans over the counter, and Ben jerks back with a surprised cry. “Hey, get back, kid! Didn’t your parents ever teach you about personal space?”
“I can hear your heartbeat. You are not dead.” He slowly straightens, then dusts off his coat, the seemingly permanent confused furrow between his brows deepening. “Does this place offer you a sense of purpose? Self-fulfillment, perhaps?”
“It… offers me money.” He sets down the magazine, leaning as far as he can away from the crazy kid. “Look, if you’re not gonna buy anything just get outta here, okay?”
“Money?” he parrots, mouth scrunching. His eyes slide past Ben’s as he appears to lose himself in thought, before recognition floods his previously emotionless face. “Oh, right. That is a human concept, yes? Pieces of coloured paper and metal for which they assign meaning and importance.”
Ben just stares at him, mouth agape.
“So, your purpose in life is this… money?” His cold eyes are locked onto Ben’s, something like yearning visible beneath the frosty veneer.
“Well, no,” Ben says, slightly affronted by the implication that he’s one of those idiots who spend their whole lives chasing riches. “It’s just… important.”
“So you have multiple purposes,” the boy muses, phrasing it like a statement rather than a question. There is a lilt of amazement in his voice, a certain distanced curiosity, as if he’s observing an animal from behind a glass wall. As if Ben is the curious creature he’s paying to see. “Fascinating. Humans really are so complex.”
“... Thanks.” Ben sends a glance towards the glass door, his eyebrows raising when he doesn’t see any cars in the darkened parking lot. “Dude, did you walk here?”
The first hint of real emotion worms its way onto his face, turning it stormy, and he bows his head. “I fell.”
Ben’s eyes skitter over his form, but he doesn’t see any blood. “You need, like, a hospital? I can call 911 for you.”
“No, nothing I need you can offer me,” he says with a thin, sorrowful smile. “Perhaps all I can do is resign myself to this cursed, inferior existence.”
Ben nods as if he understands what the kid’s going on about, seized by a feeling that maybe it’s best to play along. This is a flavour of crazy Ben’s never seen before, and he’s seen his fair share. “Right.”
The boy doesn’t leave like Ben’s hoping he will; he’s started staring daggers into the counter, mouth twisted into frown and shoulders tense with emotion. It makes Ben uncomfortable, because an upset crazy person is a dangerous crazy person, and Ben’s all alone out here.
Cautiously, he says, “Look, dude, I hope you find what you’re looking for, but if you’re not buying anything I have to ask you to leave.”
“Very well.” The boy deflates slightly, but as he steps away from the counter he pauses, offering Ben a tight smile. “You are kind, stranger. May I inquire as to your earthly designation?”
“Uh… what?”
“The name bestowed upon you by your parents,” he clarifies.
Despite himself, Ben feels a burst of fondness for the guy. He’s a few tools short of a shed, sure, but his heart’s in the right place. “It’s Ben.”
“Thank you, Ben. This conversation has been very illuminating.” He turns to leave, but before he does says over his shoulder, “My name is Castiel.”
“Wow. Cool name, dude,” Ben says. Just for a split second, he glances at the clock on the far wall, but when he looks back Castiel is gone. The only sign he was ever there is the glass door swaying in the wind.