2506/Who Goes There

Who Goes There
Date of Scene:	18 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Castiel

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
Closing time. Why does it always seem like work picks up to a hectic pace right before then.

Mercy's Garage is no different, it seems. This particular business is at the end of the street, sharing a parking lot with only one other business, as this one-story brick building is the last business upon the corner of the street. For he building there are two entrances, the front door and then a side entrance. The front door leads into a rather empty front office, whereas the side entrance actually leads into the garage workshop. The large segmented garage door for that side-entrance is likewise up and open, allowing a glimpse inside.

The owner of the garage is within the actual garage port of her business. She's /trying/ to close shop, but like everything this day, the business is thwarting her attempts to close the shop down. Right now it's because of the phone; it's rung at least half a dozen times and from those phone conversations Mercy has already scheduled well into tomorrow afternoon. Business is good, yes, but sometimes it can be quite exhausting and overwhelming.

It's only when the phone finally settles down that the coyote will take stock of her situation. Already a heavily damaged car sits within the garage and upon seeing that car, Mercy almost heaves a sigh. Stifling that sound, the coyote simply grabs a water bottle and heads towards the open side door. It looks like it's time for a ten or maybe twenty minute break for Mercy.

Along with the generic sounds of the streets and businesses nearby, the tang of magic might also be felt for those that can sense it. It's a mishmash of different magical schools and the trail of that magic leads right back to Mercy's Garage. Specifically to a shipping crate that sits within the garage, upon one of the work benches that can be seen within.

That's not the only hint of magic either, not with Mercy Thompson there. She also gives off the vague vibe of something 'other'. A shifter, definitely, but also something more. And even with that crate of magic, and herself, one might also feel a sense of something even more arcane, something alien. Not of this realm, but possibly hidden deep beneath the more active magic of that crate and the coyote.

Castiel has posed:
    He's still a wanderer, though there are a few places he's come to know better. But no place, yet, that he calls home. It occurs to him that that's what people do here, they have homes, and he should tend to that. What did they say, Angela and Beth? He stood out. Not in a bad way, but it was obvious he didn't quite fit in..
    There was time, though, and truth be known, he was finding these walks were teaching him things that settling in one place couldn't. He'd always thought humanity fascinating. He'd just never known how much so until he joined them.
    Today's walk was an amble without purpose, his hands shoved deep in his trenchcoat pockets, his shoulders hunched up towards his neck so that the whole thing, oversized as it was already, looked like it didn't quite fit and possibly belonged to another. And when he wasn't careful, he had a tendancy to bearwalk some, hip and shoulder moving on the same side with each step. But while his walk may have started without purpose, it didn't continue that way, Castiel catching at first only the faintest whiffs of something.. not amiss, but something.. magical. Which is how he found himself standing outside Mercy's shop, contemplating.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Months earlier and Mercy likely wouldn't have paid as much attention to the surrounding area of her shop, but after the last few weeks (really month), Mercy has become quite cognizant of the parking lot and beyond.

It's what allows her to see Castiel. Both from the movement caught by her coyote senses, eyes, hearing and scent, but also because of her more other-worldly senses. Those senses that pick up magic and/or arcane beings. Case in point Castiel. He definitely pings as a magical being.

As such, the water bottle that was halfway raised to her mouth pauses midway, as the coyote now focuses upon the man standing outside her garage. Immediately the coyote recaps the water bottle and sets it upon the ground. Wariness reflects in her eyes, her body, as she looks to the man in his trenchcoat. Which likewise causes an odd look, but let's face it, the coat is the lesser of the two evils at this point.

While common sense tells Mercy not to draw attention to herself, she doesn't necessarily listen to it. Or, she goes against that advice as she steps out into the parking lot now. "Evening - something I can help with?" She states and then asks, the tone of her voice likely betraying the cautiousness the coyote currently feels.

Castiel has posed:
     Ah.. Now that was interesting. Not that one could tell he thought so from his features, or his stance. If anything, he looked mildly confused. Almost lost, even. It was more than the place - the woman had an air of other about her as well. Not one he was familiar with. Not quite the signature of the magickal that had drawn him here, but infinitely more interesting for the moment.
    So caught up was he in regarding her that her question almost bypassed him. And, for the time it takes for him to answer her, she might well think he hasn't heard her. The man standing there in contemplation, craggy brows an unruly furrow as he watches her with clear blue eyes and forms his answer.
    "You are not one of them are you?" His phrasing odd; his tones low and gravelly.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The amount of time it takes for Castiel to answer almost causes Mercedes Thompson to ask her question again.

However, before she can utter that question of hers a second time, he finally speaks.

Neither his words or his odd actions seem to help the air of wariness about the coyote; in fact, his question seems to intensify those feelings within her. As such, Mercy can't quite stop the look she gives the man - it's one part caution and another part confusion - as she considers Castiel. Thankfully, that doesn't seem to stop the coyote from answering his question, it only stops her from approaching any closer.

"I don't know." She begins, before she continues, "You'll need to tell me who 'they' are for me to better answer that question." And while she could say more, Mercy doesn't. Not yet. Not until she figures out just who or what the man is referring to.

Castiel has posed:
     Again, her question leaves him pausing, his chin lifting fractionally, that same furrow of brow. "You are not human. Not fully." He seems certain of this thing. It isnt a question this time. Hes asked. Shes avoided an answer, but he didnt need it. Not really. Of course, he still doesnt know what she is. That seems another matter.
     His gaze drifts over the garage. The air of magic doesnt just linger here, it pulses. Where it was a trail before, this is a node. Something.. something here is not mundane. Again, he turns to the woman, giving her the calm of his bright blue gaze. "There are things here, magickal. You were aware, though."
    Again, not a question. Merely a calm statement of fact.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Not fully human. That earns a cant of the coyote's head and a vague narrowing of her eyes.

"Funny, I could say the same thing to you." Mercy states firmly, a small note of distrust now heard within her voice; again a couple of months back and she'd likely not be so distrustful, but current events as they are. It has shifted something within her core personality and now things aren't always seen in a positive or optimistic light.

It's only with his words about the magical things within her garage that Mercy takes a step backwards. A defensive movement, as she says slowly, "I am." A frown knits her brows close to the midline of her face as she once more considers the man. "So, are you a good witch or a bad one?" She finally asks, even as she adds with just a hint of humor, "And mind telling me your name? 'Hey you' is such a rude way to get someone's attention."

Castiel has posed:
    Her questions bring only the faintest of upturn of lips, a gesture reminiscent of a smile, but not a smile. "I would be Castiel, and I do not understand the reference. Good witch? Bad witch?"
    He hasn't made a move to come more fully into the garage, and now that she's moved into what is undeniably a defensive posture, so obviously so that even he doesn't miss it, he takes care to remain where he is. Even goes so far as to pull his hands out of his pockets slowly and show her his plams. The gesture at odds with the awkward stance and posture of the rest of him, it coming too smoothly, like a thing the body knows but the mind has not yet caught up to.
    "If you mean do I serve the Greater Good?" One can hear the capital letters as he says it, a rumbling intonation behind the words that suggests hints of power that may yet lie within the man. "Then I would say I serve man. I no longer listen to the Choir. But I do not turn my back upon it like some."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A faint flare of surprise might be seen upon Mercy's expression when he actually gives his name. Honestly she wasn't expecting him to. Still, with his name given, Mercy will acquiesce and offer her own. Or a portion of it, at least. "I'm Mercy."

The fact that he doesn't get the reference she dropped doesn't seem to surprise her. Not with all the odd little signals he's been giving off. Something more than just a general quirkiness.

His gesture of showing his hands and palms seems to be the right thing to do, as that stalls any further retreat from her. In-between showing his hands and those last words of his, Mercy scents the air between them. That flare of nostrils pulls in the various smells that hang heavy in the air; exhaust, oil, gasoline and also truth, sadness and something more. Something that's definitely inhuman. It's enough to cause the woman's brow to furrow again. Yes, she knows he's not fully human, but that inhuman portion of his scent causes more questions versus answers.

Those questions of Mercy's, however, stall when those last words of his are said. She can hear the capital letters there and it's enough to cause her eyebrows to unknit and raise upward toward her hairline. They'd go further upward, if they could, at his mention of serving man and then again at the mention of listening to the Choir. "I suppose it might be too much for me to ask what exactly you are, would it?"

Castiel has posed:
    His answer comes slowly, a thing borne of thought and consideration. In truth, he is uncertain of the entirety of what he is now. Much is gone, but so much remains. The Grace that bound him to the Choir is still within him, he can feel the tug of it if he reaches out and feels. And yet? It does not own him as it once did. There are weaknesses upon the bonds. Truths he has learned that have left their mark. Spaces where choices have been made. En entire eternity of choices, and most lately, milleniums of casting his eyes towards these imperfect images of He Who Is All.
    When Castiel speaks again, palms lowered slowly, so that his hands balls as awkward fists at his side, clutching and unclutching against the pocket seams of his trenchcoat, he murmurs, "I am.. I was an angel of the Lord."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
What can you say to that? He is or was an angel.

Another person might awkwardly laugh, thinking his words are some kind of joke, but Mercy doesn't laugh. Instead she just looks at the brown-haired man with an almost flat stare. Then there's a gust of breath as the coyote remembers to breathe. Or perhaps that was a sigh. Possibly a combination of both. Still, she seems to be taking the news better than what one might expect, which means she's taking it stride versus scoffing at the whole idea of it.

Before she says anything more, however, the woman will briefly raise her hand upward to the necklace that sits around her next. Specifically the Lamb of God pendant that's suspended by the gold chain. Only when she realizes what she's doing will Mercy drop her hand away from the pendant.

And while Mercy takes the news (mostly) in stride, she still grapples with what to ask next. When she speaks next, her words are definitely slower, as the coyote tries to navigate the potential verbal minefield here. "I see." Then with even more hesitation Mercy adds, "You know, you probably shouldn't be so free with that information. There are those that will either think you're crazy and try to commit you, or those that believe you and can see the truth and try to use you."

Castiel has posed:
    That? That last elicits a gravelly chuckle as the man gives a one-shouldered shrug. The thing a gesture the body remembered, as belatedly, Castiel tries to bring the other shoulder in, and manages only something that looks like he's trying to shrug himself out of his trechcoat, or avoid some persistant buzzing pest. The way some might try to shrug off an offending wasp, only with less terror.
    "I am what I am, Mercy. Those who can see it know. And I can only be used by my own will." A pause, while he does what she tells him he should not do, and speaks aggain, "The Choir does not come to my call. I made a choice, and it came with consequences."
    Now he shrugs again, this time, both shoulders participating, the motion carrying depths of sorrow to them, without indication of their cause. "You are, or were a believer," He notes, not missinng the gesture towards her throat. "When did you lose faith?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"And if you don't realize they're trying to use you?" The coyote asks, a vague frown turning the corners of her mouth downward. "Then what? Your will is there, sure, but now you're basing decisions on half information. Half truths." Then her head tilts slightly to the side, "Unless, of course, you have other means of figuring out people's true motives and meanings?" Which seems likely in Mercy's mind.

As for the mention of the Choir and those consequences from his decision, that earns another frown from the mechanic; though this time sadness and empathy can be found behind that expression. They may have only just met this evening, but Mercy is nothing if not soft-hearted even for perfect strangers. Or perfectly odd strangers in this case.

His question about her faith pulls her away from whatever internal thoughts were playing out in her head, and back to him. "Still a believer." She replies, "It may get tarnished now and then, but I know what is real and what isn't." And with those words Mercy's gaze turns to the area around the two. When her gaze returns to Castiel, the mechanic now tilts her head towards the interior of the garage. "I think it might be best if we pull this conversation inside. My neighbors think I'm crazy enough as it is."

Castiel has posed:
The steps he takes to move inside are with an ease at odds with how he stood in the doorway to the garage. Fluid motion he's not displayed. But it's only a small step or two. Perhaps it was merely an illusion, for as he's inside, there's that awkward hunch of shoulders again. The uncomfortable fit of the trenchcoat. The hands balled at his side, lain against the trenchcoat pockets.

"Still a believer, then." Castiel's chin dips barely a centimetre. Hardly enough to count as a proper nod, but it suffices. "Faith is a funny thing. Some would say I have lost mine. I think I am only now learning to understand what I believe."

It's his shoulders this time. Nothing more than a centimetre or two of lift, but a definite shrug. "I have means to understand motive. As you say, I should not reveal all my secrets."

It seems that when he is lost in what he was, much of the awkward of him flees. His words come easier. His stance - still stilled to almost absolute unmoving - ironically more human.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Stepping into the interior of the garage allows that faint scent of magic to intensify. It permeates the area within, an echo of past spells, past enchantments, past magical workings. There's also a faint psychic echo of people long dead and gone. All of this energy can be traced back to a specific work bench of Mercy's.

Upon the work bench is a rather large gray shipping container. Within that container are books. Dozens upon dozens of books. It's those hidden away books that gives off the majority of magic within Mercy Thompson's garage.

Along with that crate is a terribly crushed Ford Fusion, which sits waiting for Mercy to fix it. Really, that job is going to require several Hail Mary's for it to be even remotely successful.

His words bring a nod from the coyote, yes, still a believer. His mention of faith and learning earns a faint side-eye from Mercy. The question about fallen angels is there, but for now the mechanic doesn't voice that particular thought. Instead, Mercy moves to the back of her shop for a minute. From the small fridge she pulls out a cold bottle of water. Walking back over to Castiel, she'll offer it to him. A polite hostess and all of that.

"Faith is a funny thing." She finally says, agreement in her tone. "Sometimes it seems so rock solid, but then something changes - usually something within you, and then it seems lost. The easy answers you once had no longer there for you to find. That doesn't mean you can't find it again."

The mention of secrets causes the coyote to tilt her head in acknowledgement; yes, it's probably a good idea not to reveal all.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel is not privy to what the exact contents of the crate are, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are magical. It's one of the perks of his being. And beyond that, there is little to nothing he doesn't know about magic, short of practicing it. The slowly dying vehicle begging for euthanasia doesn't even remotely register to the man. The crate, however? That he can't keep his eyes from drifting to. It's clear he's curious.

When the water is brought and offered, he stares for long moments at the bottle, and the hand it is being offered in. Long enough it might seem he's refusing, though in the end he reaches for the thing, brows knit in a confusion as he contemplates it. He knows you drink the stuff, but the vessel doesn't hold any particularly fond or strong memories of the fluid, and politeness is still a thing the angelic is learning.

He's learning there's a vast myriad of human mannerisms to learn, and that these creatures he once thought quite simple may actually be perplexingly complex in their subtleties and nuances. So very unlike the Choir.

"Faith," he repeats, "Is a funny thing. All the answers I once believed seem flat and lifeless now."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When Castiel's eyes go to the crate so too does Mercy's. The crate is a bright beacon against her own senses, but she's had a day to get used to it. Surely she should move it into her living area, but the weight of the crate is enough to forestall that particular action.

"They're books. For a project." She says, to perhaps help with that curiosity of his.

And while others might not necessarily see Castiel's confusion, Mercy does; oddly enough the people in her life have given her good practice with the confused and uncertain. So, while she doesn't know what his confusion is exactly stemming from, she will add to that overall expression of his, "To drink. If you're thirsty."

Then it's back to the conversation at hand. "Then look for new ones." The coyote offers, "And who knows, maybe you'll find the new ones aren't so different from the old."

"Are you considered a fallen angel then?" The coyote asks, finally giving voice to those words within her head, "Because, let me tell you, you don't strike me as one. Though having never met one I'm sure my expectations are way off."

Castiel has posed:
When she tells him 'to drink' he nods, though, for some reason he seems compelled to say, "I do not get thirsty." Still, he opens the bottle - that the body remembers, at least - and lifts the thing to his mouth. Well, not at first. First he sniffs it, much like he expects there to be something identifiable about the liquid to place it within what he is learning about his new life. But, odourless and colourless, there's not much to be gleaned, short of taking a swallow, which he does. There's an awkward silence afterwards, that is filled with a belatedly remembered "Ah.." The sound meant to be one of satisfaction, but failing in both sincerity and intonation.

"I do not think it so simple," He remarks quietly, holding the bottle at an odd angle to himself, elbow tucked into his body, arm held straight out, unlike the more natural tucked closer to the torso stance another human might take. "What I seek to find may not be possible." His eyes gentle, the blue of them softening as he regards Mercy, and her question. "I did not fall so much as flew. No. I have not lost my Grace. But I am not all that I was, either. I am apart from the Choir, but still may return to whence I came." A pause. "It.. is complicated."

His gaze drifts back to the crate. "Books? I would be interested."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
He doesn't get thirsty and still takes a drink. Which is fine, but when he offers that rather awkward 'ah', that causes the coyote to turn a look back to him. This Angel in Man's clothing. After a moment, the coyote says, "Just a little advice-" She begins, "Instead of saying you don't get thirsty just go with 'no thank you'. People will accept that better."

And with that bit of advice bestowed, Mercy moves back to the conversation at hand. His words about simplicity, possibility and complication are all heard by Mercy. Also the fact that he's not a fallen angel; which, in Mercy's book, is a good thing. "Complicated." She states with a wry tone of humor to her voice, "Isn't it always. Especially for things that matter. What is it you're looking for?" Comes that final question of hers, even as her gaze turns toward the crate again.

When his interest is voiced, Mercy can't quite stop herself from going over to the crate and placing a hand upon it. A protective gesture on her part, "You mentioned secrets - I'm afraid this might fall under the same sort of situation."

Castiel has posed:
The angel in man's clothing takes her advice with something of a soft grunt of sound in the back of his throat. "It would not be a lie." That, seemingly, an importance to him. "The vessel remembers things. There is no fondness for this liquid within it." The awkward angle of arm remains, though. The bottle opened and sipped from, there doesn't seem to be a gracious way to deal with it otherwise; so he continues to hold it.

"It may be I could be of service. There are things I know," he offers with the soft gravel of his voice. His head is tilted ever so slightly to one side. "I have more than passing familiarity with the arcane." Amongst other things. He doesn't push beyond that, though. At least not yet, seemingly content to let the matter lie between them as an open offer. There is no stench of things awry that he has detected. Nothing that would demand more forceful attention.

"What am I looking for." It is not a question, but a consideration, the man's features lost in thought as both body and spirit settle into pondering what answer is best given. What answer most simply fits the criteria. "I seek to be my nature," is his cryptic answer.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Seeing him holding the bottle so wakwardly causes Mercy to step away from her crate of books. She reaches for the water, saying as she does so, "Here, I can take that for you." And then after a brief pause, she adds, "Most people don't like water. There's not enough flavor there for them." She adds, and while she has beer in her fridge in the back, something just seems wrong to offer an angel an alcoholic beverage. Just wrong.

His offer of aid is nodded at, though not accepted. Not yet. Perhaps later it will be. When she's certain of his true intentions.

His cryptic reply to her question earns a vague headshake from the woman. "Okay, so, with an answer like that I'm going to assume you're trying to figure out your nature. If so, perhaps you should ask yourself what do you want to do? And if you can't answer that then I'd go with something very simple - do good. Do good and help people."

Castiel has posed:
There is no indication of relief when the bottle is taken from him, Castiel only moving his arm from its awkward position to a ball of fist that is shoved inside his trenchcoat pocket. The man now standing, feet shoulder width apart, hands tucked in pockets, looking ever so much like he's come to supervise some ambiguous endeavour. "The vessel prefers other liquids," he comments, craggy eyebrows furrowing up together. "I do not understand the name, though, as I have yet to see a connection with either boiling or steam." The faintest of shoulder movements indicates something of a shrug. "I continue to drink them hoping for some clarity. They are not.. distasteful."

And saying that, he stands more erect, as though having imparted that bit of information, the subject matter has been put away for the moment. All aspect or attempt at human relaxation - if anything he's done since arriving to hover in the doorway of the garage could be considered relaxing - disappears as Castiel grows quiet and takes on an obviously thoughtful mein.

Finally, after too many heartbeats of silence, he reaches up and scratches unkempt fingers at his cheek - a gesture that looks too reflexive to be thought about - Castiel murmurs, "I am guardian by nature. It became impossible to fulfill that within the Choir. I chose otherwise."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Other liquids. That actually earns the faintest of grins to quirk the corners of Mercy's mouth upwards. "Hardly anyone /likes/ to drink water. We just do because it's supposedly healthy." And while Mercy was just about to touch upon the mention of boilers and steam, something stops her. It's the way he mentioned vessel. That has the coyote's expression twisting slightly, as she considers the angel before her. "You keep mentioning vessel - isn't that your body?" Her eyebrows lower slightly as a sudden thought occurs to her, "You're not possessing a human are you?" Perhaps not a logical leap to the angel, but it is for Mercedes Thompson. He's an angel, or ex-angel, and he keeps referring to his body as a /vessel/.

And while his last words definitely deserve /some/ sort of response, the coyote waits. Waits for Castiel to answer that very important question.

After, if the answer isn't too inflammatory Mercy will consider the next question of 'why', why did it become impossible to fulfill those responsibilities from within the Choir. Which, for Mercy and her faith, might be a scary question to contemplate.

Castiel has posed:
"The vessel has no need," Castiel imparts, the information without any particular inflection. It could be 'the sky is blue' or 'that road is closed' or any other number of mundane tidbits of knowledge that require no effort on the part of giver or receiver. It's just information.

His hand, the scratching hand, is returned to his its proper pocket, and the angel merely stands there. Obviously thoughtful, if those pauses of his are anything to go by, even if the rest of his posture isn't. He's merely a stillness there. Only his eyes betray anything else, the blue of them gentling in the crag of his features as he postulates his answer.

"I..inhabit."

It might not be a difference Mercy will comprehend, but it would seem - to Castiel, at least - there's a distinction between that and possession.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The vessel has no need. That doesn't seem to help the coyote in regards to that question of hers. His next words /really/ don't seem to help either.

It's enough that Mercy's expression darkens slightly, her gaze flattening and her arms crossing over her chest. It's both a protective gesture upon her part, but also something that could easily lead into anger, or being upset. Before she crosses that particular path, however, Mercy will strive for the benefit of the doubt here. He is an angel, after all. Well, ex-angel. That's something.

"Wait, let me get this straight. You inhabit." Repeats the mechanic, her gaze focused upon the odd man or being before her.

"What happened to the man who originally came with the body? Or, I should say, what happened to his soul? Is he inside there with you? A prisoner?"

And this is where Mercy's expression begins to turn from darkness to horror.

Castiel has posed:
He'd been a stillness, following her thoughts, listening. Following Mercy's train of thought and questions. The darkening of her features, and the crossing of arms garners the slightest of head tilts from the man, Castiel regarding her in contemplation. Clearly understanding that she is upset - though it isn't clear if he follows what has brought her to this place.. He'd thought his answer had made it clear.

There was so much to this being human thing he still did not understand rightly.

It's when her look turns to horror that the angelic shifts position. Again that seemingly to fluid, reflexive action of a raising of hand. This time held aloft with most of his fingers half-curled towards the palm, the index aloft. His shoulders now squared at an angle to the woman. Almost, but not quite a defensive position.

"I do not possess," he clarifies (if that statement alone can be called a clarification). But he seems wont to continue, pausing to gather his thoughts, before letting the hand drop away to his side. "He is..you would say sleeping. He would have left this vessel before I found him. I offered this, instead. He allowed."

Still cryptic, but closer, perhaps.

Castiel's features gentle, an odd look of compassion gentling the crag of his face, softening the blue of his eyes. "No harm has been done. I merely offered an alternative. He may yet redeem his soul for this."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The angel is watched by the coyote. In her eyes horror can still be seen and now alongside it distrust. Still, before Mercy verbally passes judgement she waits.

Thankfully, she doesn't have to wait long for an explanation. The hand that he raises is watched the words said in rebuttal listened to. His explanation of just /how/ he inhabits the body is absorbed and considered. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence one might see the lessening to Mercy's features. The tension around her eyes and mouth easing into something less so.

Only an echo of that previously felt horror and distrust lingers within her gaze, though her arms still stay crossed.

"Sleeping." She states, unconsciously echoing his words again, even as her mind continues to turn over the rest of what he said. "He was dying?" She finally asks, her gaze refocusing back upon the man and his cryptic words. "That's what you mean, right?"

Castiel has posed:
Now the body relaxes. There is no other word for it. Halfway there already, Castiel's posture slumps into the space he inhabits. Oh, the trench coat is still too big. He still looks awkward. But his shoulders drop and hunch forward. His head isn't held like it's connected to a pole rammed straight up his back. If it weren't for everything that had gone before, he'd look nothing other than merely human. And a fairly normal one at that... if scruffy.

"Dying." The word is mulled and tasted by the angel. Tested for truth. "No. Not the body. Though it would have. His soul." Castiel's gravelly tones carry a depth of sorrow to them, and his eyes, while still upon Mercy's face, look past and through her, remembering.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Finally Mercy's crossed arms loosen, but only so the coyote can rub her face at those next words of the Angel.

If she could mutter without it being rude, she would. As it is, all Mercy can do is rub her face tiredly.

And possibly think 'what did I do to deserve this?'

That thought has occasionally tripped through her mind far too much lately. Still, Castiel is within her garage and Mercy won't keep her face covered for more than a few seconds. Safety and politeness in that movement of hers. When her face is revealed again, the mechanic already has her attention focused upon Castiel. "Why was his soul dying?" She'll ask, her question quiet, her expression and mien serious.

"Though if you'd rather not say, that's fine. You said he gave his permission and that's all I really need." Until a thought occurs to her, "Of course, we're going on the honor system here. I'm assuming you're not /lying/ to me."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's eyebrows knot together in an all too-human expression of irritation, the scowl entering his tones. "I'm an angel, not a demon." There's a pause as he considers that. A long pause, but shorter than some he's given. "Was an angel." Which only causes him to scowl more. "It's complicated."

All to say, it would seem 'I don't lie' - which of course would have been the simpler route than the one he took.

"Why? Why do any souls die. He was tired. Ready to kill himself. I offered a better solution. Why does it matter what another soul does?"

But he remembers the medallion she touched earlier, and gives what almost might be a nod. Just a faint hint of gesture of chin drop.

"Ah. Yes. Your faith. Such as it is."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Like I said the honor system. I'm pretty sure a demon would just lie and say he was an angel too, so -" There it is. His irritation is met with Mercy's own brand of logic, human logic.

His mention of the complication of his status earns the vaguest of snorts from the coyote. Almost she says 'yes, isn't life', but for the moment she bites her tongue.

Those next words of his, however. They bring Mercy's ire, or frustration, or perhaps disbelief back to the forefront of her features. "Isn't that a rather cavalier statement to make?" Starts the coyote, as she takes a step towards the man now, "Doesn't everyone matters. You said you were a guardian, but a guardian of what? Shouldn't you, as a protector, be concerned over what one soul does versus another?"

His nod, to the small Lamb of God pendant is seen, even if the movement is barely there. That's enough to bring Mercy's hand upward again, a light touch to the small golden lamb. "Faith doesn't have to dictate whether we are kind to our fellow beings." And purposely Mercy omits the human there and just leaves it at 'beings'.

Castiel has posed:
His voice rumbles with intonations of power behind it, "Don't make light of things you do not know." You can almost hear the 'little girl' behind it. However she managed it, she's drawn another shift from the man, away from the mostly human and back to the mostly angelic. And if she's pissed.. you can hear it in his voice. He's unnhappy as well.

"You know nothing of what I've done. What has been given up for this..." He nods his chin in an action that indicates the body he wears. The remainder of his commentary is bitten off and unfinished as he gathers himself back together, working for a semblance of control over the shot of anger running through him.

Then, in an action all to human, and at odds with the blurring aura of power barely contained within him, Castiel rakes a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "I do not know why I try." But he does know. He knows all the reasons why. They're what made him make this choice in the first place. He just didn't expect humans to be so... human.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The rumble is heard and the power behind it and Mercy's expression flattens.

Before she may have faltered, but today, who she is right this moment, she doesn't. Instead her expression turns dark. "I do not joke about demons." States the coyote, her back straightening, her expression hard. "I just know how those types of creatures are. From experience."

"And you're right." She continues, "I don't know what you've done. Or what you've sacrificed to reside upon this plane."

The coyote's nostrils flare now, both in her anger, but also to catch the scents of the man across from her. "But in the end, you chose to give that up. It was your choice. I assumed it was to help those in needs, but clearly, my assumptions were wrong."

And while it's a close thing Mercy stills the 'please leave' from being said. She just waits to see how the angel reacts and responds.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The angel is watched by the coyote. In her eyes horror can still be seen and now alongside it distrust. Still, before Mercy verbally passes judgement she waits.

Thankfully, she doesn't have to wait long for an explanation. The hand that he raises is watched the words said in rebuttal listened to. His explanation of just /how/ he inhabits the body is absorbed and considered. After a few minutes of thoughtful silence one might see the lessening to Mercy's features. The tension around her eyes and mouth easing into something less so.
Only an echo of that previously felt horror and distrust lingers within her gaze, though her arms still stay crossed.

"Sleeping." She states, unconsciously echoing his words again, even as her mind continues to turn over the rest of what he said. "He was dying?" She finally asks, her gaze refocusing back upon the man and his cryptic words. "That's what you mean, right?"

Castiel has posed:
Now the body relaxes. There is no other word for it. Halfway there already, Castiel's posture slumps into the space he inhabits. Oh, the trench coat is still too big. He still looks awkward. But his shoulders drop and hunch forward. His head isn't held like it's connected to a pole rammed straight up his back. If it weren't for everything that had gone before, he'd look nothing other than merely human. And a fairly normal one at that... if scruffy.

"Dying." The word is mulled and tasted by the angel. Tested for truth. "No. Not the body. Though it would have. His soul." Castiel's gravelly tones carry a depth of sorrow to them, and his eyes, while still upon Mercy's face, look past and through her, remembering.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Finally Mercy's crossed arms loosen, but only so the coyote can rub her face at those next words of the Angel.

If she could mutter without it being rude, she would. As it is, all Mercy can do is rub her face tiredly.

And possibly think 'what did I do to deserve this?'

That thought has occasionally tripped through her mind far too much lately. Still, Castiel is within her garage and Mercy won't keep her face covered for more than a few seconds. Safety and politeness in that movement of hers. When her face is revealed again, the mechanic already has her attention focused upon Castiel. "Why was his soul dying?" She'll ask, her question quiet, her expression and mien serious.

"Though if you'd rather not say, that's fine. You said he gave his permission and that's all I really need." Until a thought occurs to her, "Of course, we're going on the honor system here. I'm assuming you're not /lying/ to me."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's eyebrows knot together in an all too-human expression of irritation, the scowl entering his tones. "I'm an angel, not a demon." There's a pause as he considers that. A long pause, but shorter than some he's given. "Was an angel." Which only causes him to scowl more. "It's complicated."

All to say, it would seem 'I don't lie' - which of course would have been the simpler route than the one he took.

"Why? Why do any souls die. He was tired. Ready to kill himself. I offered a better solution. Why does it matter what another soul does?"

But he remembers the medallion she touched earlier, and gives what almost might be a nod. Just a faint hint of gesture of chin drop.

"Ah. Yes. Your faith. Such as it is."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Like I said the honor system. I'm pretty sure a demon would just lie and say he was an angel too, so -" There it is. His irritation is met with Mercy's own brand of logic, human logic.

His mention of the complication of his status earns the vaguest of snorts from the coyote. Almost she says 'yes, isn't life', but for the moment she bites her tongue.

Those next words of his, however. They bring Mercy's ire, or frustration, or perhaps disbelief back to the forefront of her features. "Isn't that a rather cavalier statement to make?" Starts the coyote, as she takes a step towards the man now, "Doesn't everyone matters. You said you were a guardian, but a guardian of what? Shouldn't you, as a protector, be concerned over what one soul does versus another?"

His nod, to the small Lamb of God pendant is seen, even if the movement is barely there. That's enough to bring Mercy's hand upward again, a light touch to the small golden lamb. "Faith doesn't have to dictate whether we are kind to our fellow beings." And purposely Mercy omits the human there and just leaves it at 'beings'.

Castiel has posed:
His voice rumbles with intonations of power behind it, "Don't make light of things you do not know." You can almost hear the 'little girl' behind it. However she managed it, she's drawn another shift from the man, away from the mostly human and back to the mostly angelic. And if she's pissed.. you can hear it in his voice. He's unhappy as well.

"You know nothing of what I've done. What has been given up for this..." He nods his chin in an action that indicates the body he wears. The remainder of his commentary is bitten off and unfinished as he gathers himself back together, working for a semblance of control over the shot of anger running through him.

Then, in an action all too human, and at odds with the blurring aura of power barely contained within him, Castiel rakes a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "I do not know why I try." But he does know. He knows all the reasons why. They're what made him make this choice in the first place. He just didn't expect humans to be so... human.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The rumble is heard and the power behind it and Mercy's expression flattens.

Before she may have faltered, but today, who she is right this moment, she doesn't. Instead her expression turns dark. "I do not joke about demons." States the coyote, her back straightening, her expression hard. "I just know how those types of creatures are. From experience."

"And you're right." She continues, "I don't know what you've done. Or what you've sacrificed to reside upon this plane."

The coyote's nostrils flare now, both in her anger, but also to catch the scents of the man across from her. "But in the end, you chose to give that up. It was your choice. I assumed it was to help those in needs, but clearly, my assumptions were wrong."

And while it's a close thing Mercy stills the 'please leave' from being said. She just waits to see how the angel reacts and responds.

Castiel has posed:
He came to help, so why was it so hard to do so?

It came down to this matter of not understanding what it was he'd embraced. Somewhere between the act of compassion, and the odd welling of love he'd had for these creatures, and the reality of what it was to be human, it had gotten complicated. And there was only one way to reach a balance: to be what he was.

Not angel. Human.

"You are correct. I am not helping. I am not angry with you." It isn't an apology - or at least the words do not form one in the literal sense, but the meaning carries. The bulk of his frustration gone now that he has identified its source and found it not to be the woman before him. Just as he has much to learn about her, she has much to learn about him. And neither will be sufficient to any cause if they can not meet on middle ground.

"I did not expect it to be so difficult." A strong admission. Roughly voiced, if softly so. The angel looking suddenly small and alone as he stands there in her garage.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The anger that Mercy Thompson currently feels is still there, seen within her flat expression, the hard purse of her lips, but it doesnÕt last long.

Not with that last admission of his.

The emotion behind those words is heard by the coyote and itÕs enough to cause a softening of her stance, her expression, a lessening to the righteous anger she was just feeling. Her arms uncross and while she doesnÕt necessarily step closer to the angel clothed in human form, her countenance becomes a tinge more open.

ÒHow long have you been here?Ó ÊShe asks, before adding, ÒNot long I take it?Ó

Castiel has posed:
The lessening of her anger and softening of her stance is a thing the angel notices, but without any particular recognition. Were he in all his glory, battling as a Warrior of the Lord, it might be a thing of note; a weakness to exploit; but he isn't. Here he is merely Castiel. Fallen and failing. Trying to be something he doesn't fully understand.

The question gets an answer, though. Still with that expectant pause that hovers just a little too long between them. And still with that too rough gravel of voice that betrays the sudden vulnerability of the man.

"Not long enough."

Which wasn't the answer she probably wanted, but it was the most useful one. The angel not noting the sunrises and sunsets since his arrival - time of that sort was meaningless in His presence. It hadn't occurred to the angel that they might be so valuable to humans as to be counted and stored in memories like so much gold and silver. Even the vessel had passed beyond note of such things before he had offered it this out; before he had become the Castiel that stood in Mercy's garage.

And no matter how you looked at the numbers, it hadn't been long enough. Might not be long enough before it mattered. A thing he was only just now realizing.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy watches. ÊThe coyote waits.

The pause may lengthen, but she doesn't interrupt it. ÊPerhaps there's an understanding there that he's thinking. ÊGathering his thoughts. ÊOr perhaps she's just patient like that too.

Either way, Mercy waits.

Eventually (thankfully) Castiel speaks again. ÊOf course his explanation has very few words to it and the coyote just stares silently at him for a moment. Ê"I see." Is what she begins with, before Mercy says somewhat gently, "I'm going to take a wild guess and figure it hasn't been too long." ÊNow Mercy allows herself a moment to rub her face, almost at a loss for words, almost. Ê

"So, you fell because you felt like you couldn't do what needed to be done, but now you're uncertain of what your job is and you're finding it hard to be human. ÊDoes that about cover it?" ÊAnd while that last question is more rhetorical than actual, Mercy will turn a questioning look towards Castiel.

Not that it stops her from moving and this time instead of moving towards the fallen angel, Mercy moves to the back of her garage again. ÊTo the fridge. ÊÊFrom within, she pulls out two beers. ÊÊ"I know you said you don't need to drink, but I do and it's not polite to drink in front of a guest without offering something in return. ÊThis is also much better than water.Ó

Castiel has posed:
Ah.

The bottle with the beer. That was a thing the body remembered. The vessel recalling such a thing kindly. Perhaps too kindly - the moments that the angel had found himself in the company of others with such a bottle in his hand, or a glass, were many. Too many.

Still, Castiel regards the thing in his hand, it still being held with the awkwardness of angel not quite overridden by the memory of the body. "No whiskey." It could be question or statement by how he gives it, looking up from the bottle to Mercy, and back again before in a smooth action of reflex, the angel tucks his sleeve about the screw top cap and undoes it, flipping the cap to a corner of the garage floor, and taking a long swig. His "Ah..." of pleasure a belated thing, one that seems to catch him off guard.

"You would not be wrong. I do not know what I thought it would be, but I am finding it.." The next word is paused over, the admission not one that comes easily to the man. "Difficult."

Certainly there had been bits that were easier. Despite his oddities, few had truly questioned his presence. He was just another eccentric vagrant among a sea of them in New York. Even so, it had been more difficult as well. He had not expected the complexity of the human mind. The human experience. How they interacted with one another. He had thought on one hand to fit in, and on the other, to offer things that would be gratefully accepted.

He had been wrong. Certainly he'd underestimated the stubborn nature of his charge. The manner in which these frail things clung to matter and meaning and forced on through.. Or how they would not understand or appreciate what he had done; what he had brought to them.

Mostly, he was finding that he had been wrong. That he had come thinking himself something of a saviour, and was finding, ironically, it was maybe himself being saved.

It left him uncomfortable and adrift. Feelings he didn't understand.

Vulnerable.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Once the second bottle is out of her hand Mercy will take a moment to open her own beer.

That movement pauses, however, at the mention of whiskey. ÊÊEyebrow quirking upward, the coyote says, "I do have whiskey, but I usually only bring it out for more medicinal purposes." ÊÊA corner of her mouth quirks upward with a touch of humor, even as her gaze tracks the cap that's flipped to a corner of her garage. ÊÊWhen the cap settles upon the floor that allows Mercy to bring her attention back to Castiel. Ê"I've a garbage can right over there." ÊRemarks the mechanic dryly, even as she points a finger towards said trashcan.

What few words he offers Mercy listens to. ÊÊWhen he's finished speaking the coyote can't help but Êreflexively scent the air between them. ÊÊThat faint sniffing gives some insight into Castiel and his current emotional state. Ê"You remind me of Êa newly turned werewolf." ÊThe woman begins, her words only pausing when she takes a sip of beer, "Struggling with your old life and now your new. ÊÊThere's the before the 'change' and then the after. ÊÊNeither life feels like a good fit for you. ÊÊThe old one can never be returned to, whereas the new one? ÊThat's still up in the air."

Another slug of beer is taken, before the bottle is set aside, her next words gentle, Ê"Usually friends are there to help them through. ÊOr the pack."

Castiel has posed:
The angel follows Mercy's point of finger to the trashcan, showing no outward signs of remorse or even recognition that he's just littered her space. "I see," he remarks calmly, lifting the blue of his gaze from the can to the woman herself. "I will remember that." Still, he makes no move to rectify his action. The cap remains where it was tossed. Castiel clearly not bothered by the reprimand, or perhaps he merely doesn't understand why it is an issue, or the niceties around what one does in other people's places.

"The whiskey comes with the boilermaker," is the only other comment he makes before she moves on to speak about his change. Castiel's features moving from the unconcerned about the lid, to a furrow of consideration. So much so that he leans forward some, as though the tilt of his head, and the ever so slightly closer positioning of it towards Mercy will help him hear and understand.

It's clear his focus is there. He doesn't even sip his beer.

When she is through, leaving a silence between them for the angel to fill, Castiel remains ever so slightly canted towards the mechanic, lips a twitch betraying only that he seems to be caught upon answers for her.

The pause is not longer than any he's given before, but those aborted motions of speech may make it seem so.

When he finally speaks, it is softly, the low gravel of his voice barely covering the distance between them, "I have no pack."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The mention of whiskey and boilermakers seems to finally spark a recognition in MercyÕs eyes. ÊPerhaps she understands what heÕs saying right now, but does she speak what she understands?

Not quite yet.

Nor does she get that cap off the floor. ÊÊSheÕll tell him to pick it up, but later. ÊRight now she waits to see how he accepts what she says about the change. ÊÊAbout old lives and new. ÊÊAnd when he does finally remark upon it, her expression echoes a vague sadness.

ÒYou donÕt.Ó ÊShe agrees, her bottle of beer set off to the side now, upon a work bench. ÊÒBut that doesnÕt mean you canÕt find one. ÊÊAll creatures need people they consider family. ÊThe same can be said for you, now you just need to start making those connections. ÊÊMake acquaintances who then turn into friends and then finally family.Ó

Castiel has posed:
The angel certainly doesn't seem to register a clue that the cap he tossed is his responsibility to throw away. If anything, he seems to consider the matter closed with the discovery of the trash bin and its use. Or, maybe more pointedly, there is much more absorbing his thoughts at the moment. This whole matter of change and acceptance. This life he's taken on, and what it will mean for him.

How to... be human.

He wears the skin, but still is so far removed from them that this thing he has chosen, this act he believes was necessary, has no definition or meaning. How is he to protect and guide when he doesn't understand?

The fundamental flaw of his plan.

If these humans have a place in the fabric of Creation, if they are more than just pawns, then he must do more than lip service to his Fall.

Friends. Family. He understands those words, but poorly.

"You speak of.." He tilts his head to consider Mercy, the position of it held awkwardly, and coming with a puzzled furrow of bushy brows. "You wish me to form bonds with others? Like how I watch over them." Which is not at all what she means, but it's a baby step in the direction of understanding this ephemeral thing he's only known in theory, not practice.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
One would hope that humans are more than just pawns in this thing called life.

Surely, Mercedes Thompson feels that way, though is she correct in that thinking is the question.

Not that it matters right this moment. ÊNot when she watches the angel consider all of what she just said. ÊÊItÕs, however, what he says next that causes the coyote to consider her own response. ÊThereÕs a faint tilt of her head now, a shadow of the animal she can turn into in that movement. ÊÒBonds, yes. ÊFriendships and all of that. ÊPeople you care for and who care for you too. ÊThose sorts of relationships.Ó

And then, ÒSo, who do you normally watch over?Ó

Castiel has posed:
"I do not understand," the angel rumbles, brows still knit in that unforgiving line. And it's true, he doesn't. People who care about him? He can't even fathom that, even as he knows there is a fondness within him for some few humans.

Which may be where his understanding can lie.

The thought dwells within him even as his reply is pondered. Given after his usual pause. "I watch those I have placed my mark upon." Though this time he seems to anticipate her next question. "The brothers Winchester. Some few others." Those he's chosen to care about. Ones who have tugged at his awareness and burgeoning emotions in some particular fashion.

And this, this he seems certain of, the words coming with a nod as he moves to a more erect stance again, a swig of beer taken, followed by the just off a beat sound of pleasure, "The feeling is not mutual."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
He doesnÕt understand. ÊAlmost that pulls a sigh from Mercedes Thompson. ÊShe should have expected him to react that way, but with the form he wears itÕs hard not to see him as human.

Even if all her other senses tell her otherwise.

ItÕs, however, the mention of the Winchester brothers that refocuses MercyÕs attention away from the conundrum that is Castiel and back upon the present. ÊÊÒSam and Dean? I know them too.Ó ÊShe immediately says, and while her expression shifts at those last words of his, Mercy doesnÕt necessarily remark upon them.

Instead she circles back a bit and asks, ÊÒYou say you donÕt understand and yet youÕre watching over people. ÊIf you didnÕt feel something then you wouldnÕt do that. ÊÊEspecially for those that are more stranger than anything. ÊSo, perhaps you should ask yourself ÔwhyÕ. ÊWhy do you watch over those people? ÊWhat makes you do that. ÊWhy do you care? Because that is caring, just in case you didnÕt realize.Ó

And while others might have tacked on that Ôjust in caseÕ with sarcasm, Mercy doesnÕt. ÊItÕs simply said in a patient tone; of someone whoÕs not sure how much the other person is comprehending.

Castiel has posed:
There's a sudden rumble of irritation from the angel, "Why do I care?" That he has no answer for. He has never had an answer for that, other than of all his many eons of service to the Lord, he has found himself drawn ever closer to these frailties known as human. Their plight calling to him enough that he chose for them and against his own nature. It was still a thing he did not understand fully. An act he could not fully explain to himself.

Castiel isn't mollified that the mechanic knows the boys. It only seems to frustrate him further, as though knowing them should explain why he cares. Should tell her all she needs to know about the profound tugs of compassion and caring he has for them in particular.

"I care. Is that not enough? They did not ask for this. I gave it freely." Though even that seems to irritate the angel, Castiel taking another swig of his beer, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, the gesture pure reflex, so fluid and easy is it. "Love is not a thing of reasons."

If he were any other, he would be pacing. Instead, the bristle of him painfully emotes the need to pace without giving the actual action. The need fair snaps and crackles about him as he stares Mercy down.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That irritation and frustration that Castiel is feeling earns a head-tilt from Mercy. ÊÊShe's considering what those emotions mean when he offers that second question of his. ÊIsn't it enough that he cares. ÊThat brings the coyote's hands upward, a definite placating gesture from her. Ê"Hey, it is, but you were the one asking to understand. ÊI'm just trying to help you figure it out."

"And love isn't a thing of reason, no." ÊShe agrees, even as she watches the man and all that restrained energy. Ê"Love isn't something you can apply logic to. ÊPeople just accept it for what it is. Perhaps you should too?"

"Listen, ÊI think this is one of those conversations where we're going to have more questions than answers." ÊThe mechanic states simply and at his stare the coyote averts her eyes slightly; a movement somewhat ingrained within her, thanks to her time with the wolves, ÊÊ"Emotions are hard to get a handle on and explaining the ins and outs of what you're feeling is probably going to be even harder." ÊEspecially with how little he seems to understand everything, Ê"Why don't we take a step back and start from the beginning. ÊYou have feelings and that's okay. ÊÊÊWhy don't you tell me why your scent spiked with so much irritation? ÊMy questions clearly annoyed you, but why?"

And perhaps there's the faintest quirk to a corner of her mouth, as she offers those last words of hers; another question. ÊShe does understand the irony here.

Castiel has posed:
His brows knit together, the line of them carrying his frustration, allowing expression of things he doesn't seem able to say.

"Perhaps," he admits grudgingly as she tells him to let love be the enigma it is. It is not a thing I understand. His admission goes further, It would be easier if I understood.

The irritation remains, but it is no longer flung at her, the core of it contained again. Kept within. He didnt know know of the spikes of his scent, though. This was news to him. Though it made some certain sense. He, himself, able to detect such things off of others by other means, could detect demons and magic by the trails they left behind - often scent, so why should not another..

Then it occurs to him, how? How is she able. "You smell me?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Pretty sure no one understands love." ÊRemarks the coyote, her expression actually turning less serious and more amused. ÊOr understanding, perhaps. Ê"But, if you ever do figure it out, you'd probably become a millionaire overnight. ÊEveryone would want the answers -" ÊShe says with evident humor found within her voice.

Though who's to say he'll understand she's joking here, only time will tell.

The dampening of his irritation, at least outwardly to her, is noted, both by scent and gaze, as the woman watches the angel. ÊShe waits for his next words which turns out to be a question. ÊA good question, but a question that causes the mechanic to grin. ÊÊ"I can." ÊShe states, though she doesn't (thankfully) leave it at that, ÊÊ"You sensed I'm not necessarily mortal and I'm not." ÊShe continues with, what humor that lined her features leaching slowly away to something a bit more serious. Ê

"I'm only half mortal. ÊÊI'm what you'd call a skinwalker. ÊÊI change shape to a coyote, but even in my human form I still retain the senses of the coyote. ÊSight, hearing, smell. ÊÊWhen a person, or human, experiences emotions it changes their scent. ÊI can smell that change."

Castiel has posed:
"A millionaire?" Castiel has no framework to place that within. She smiles, though, so it must be a good thing for humans. If she'd said someone would pay him for the answer, he might have had a better place to regard that from. Money he'd discovered, but fairly peripherally. It really wasn't something he'd had to think about much yet.

He doesn't dwell, though, totally missing that she's tossed him a joke. He merely accepts that love is ephemeral in many ways. It is, or it isn't. Nor is he certain he would explain it if he could. The closest he had was the Divine, and even that wasn't the same as what he felt. It was complicated. So many things were complicated..

"I see," he drawls slowly, turning his head ever so slightly as he considers her in this new light, once she's explained things. "But you are not a demon."

It isn't a question. He knows she isn't. Even as she speaks of what she is, facts and lore come to mind enhancing what she has told him. Things snap into place. Make sense.

"Not unlike reading surface thoughts" Yet another thing he needs to remember. While in this form, while fully in this form, he is readable. All the things of human frailty that he knows..bar some few that his essence mitigate, become him.

It is, he understands more fully, why there is the irritation. So many things below the surface that he is unused to dwelling upon or dealing with. Now he has her answer. "There are times I do not understand this being human. I am left.." He searches for the words he wants, but is left with nothing but silence, and the word she gave him. It isn't quite all he wishes to say, but it is enough for now. "Irritated."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His statement may not be a question, but Mercedes Thompson still answers it as if it were so. "No, I'm not a demon. Shape-changer, shifter, were-creature - all of those I could be considered." As for the mention of reading surface thoughts, that earns another head-tilt from the coyote, as she considers his words. "I suppose so." She agrees, though now a vague-sort of frown flits across her features. It also pulls her brow downward as she bandies that thought around, "Or reading a person's expressions, gestures, it gives me a little bit of insight into what's going on. Less, I think, than what one might glean from reading a person's surface thoughts."

Again, Castiel voices his irritation, or frustration and the coyote can't help but grin slightly now. "I'm going to circle back around and point at the newly changed. Before the change a person had average emotions, normal things they could deal with. After the change /every/ emotion suddenly felt larger, too much to handle. It's hard to go from understanding /yourself/ to suddenly not." Her expression shifts back to something solemn now, serious. "I won't lie to you, Castiel, you have a steep learning curve."

Castiel has posed:
The angel dwells with that response, his brow furrowed into a knot as he contemplates. Shoulders tilted at an awkward angle and held. Only the bottle of beer in his hand seems to have any natural place with the body, as though he were two beings and the one clung religiously to that bottle for some sense of normalacy.

And in some ways, that was exactly what he was. Two natures struggling to bend to one another's wills and become a singular.

It wasn't a thing he was navigating well by any measure. Certainly not by the coyote's observations and assessment.

It wasn't reassuring to hear that things would not easily get better. Finally, "I do not know what to do."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy's brown-eyed gaze watches the angel as he contemplates.

She sees the way he holds himself and the bottle. One part okay, the other part clearly not. It's enough to bring forth a sympathetic look from her now, alongside that serious one.

Carefully, like one would with a caught wild animal, Mercy approaches the angel. Her movements are as telegraphed as she can make them when she reaches to try and give his arm a pat. "I think -" She begins gently, "All you can do is keep going forward. Each step will bring further understanding into the human world. Even the mistakes will help you. Just try not to get into /too/ much trouble as you go."

And with that said Mercy will take a step back, "One thing I can tell you though - you need to work on how you move around with your body. Which isn't a bad thing - new wolves need to relearn how to move too."

Castiel has posed:
As Mercy approaches, she is watched, those brows still knit. Blue-eyed gaze curious. Her wariness is a thing he understands, but he isn't sure why it is being employed. There is nothing of her that speaks of an attack. Nothing of her that speaks of ill will, or sudden motion. So why? Though it becomes apparent when she pats his arm, the gesture unknitting his brows and causing him to draw up suddenly. Erect. The angel's version of a startle, only it is done without the haste of one. Without the sudden shock. Even his gaze is placiddly questioning, only the movement to erect betraying she has taken him aback.

"What is wrong with my body?" His gravelly question bypasses the rest of what she's said, making it unclear if he's heard or processed the words. But knowing him, he has. She's merely drawn him into another place. Another irritation.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His startled response, slow as it is, is seen by the coyote, but the fact that it isn't anything more than standing straighter allows Mercy to not react with her own version of a startle.

Instead her hand simply drops at her side, perhaps a bit of understanding in her gaze.

It's that last question, however, that actually brings forth a coyote grin. "You walk like a malfunctioning robot." She says humorously, and then uncertain if he'll get that reference, she adds, "It's clear you're not used to being in a human form. You're pretty stiff when you move around." Shoot, even when he stands still, but Mercy's going to take this slow right now. "It's like you need to jump up and down and shake out the kinks - otherwise people might start calling you Tin Man."

Which, again, he'll likely not catch the reference, but it must be said.

Though perhaps Pinocchio really is more apt here.

Castiel has posed:
Again with the brow furrow, though not at the dropping away of her hand. It's the commentary that stills him, and sets him back to silent contemplation. But it's not an answer he has within his experience. This robot she speaks of, what is it? And Tin Man? What is this?

Castiel leans forward slightly, as though such a serious question must needs be shared in smaller spaces, to ask, "This robot. What is this thing? Or this man of tin. It is not possible to be a man of tin. Explain."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When he leans forward, with that serious expression upon his features, Mercy just watches.

She had a feeling he'd likely ask about her references and when he does, the woman grins again. "We definitely need to get you watching TV. You can get away with not knowing /some/ things, but 'cultural' references will definitely out you for what you are."

Which is to say not so human.

She steps away from the de-winged angel and moves over to a work bench. From there she pulls forth her smartphone. She takes a few minutes to tap the screen before she makes her way back to his side. The phone will be brought up now and as soon as he focuses upon the screen, Mercy will tap the play button on the video.

What proceeds to play is a short clip of the Tin Man and Dorothy meeting. "It's a movie. Books made into physical imagines, I guess is the best way to describe it." States the mechanic, as she watches for a reaction from the angel.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel watches the video play out before him, brows furrowing and unfurrowing as he does so, and when it's finished, he looks up at the mechanic with confusion. "I have seen a book." As though the things were ultimately and only singular. "This is like watching.." He pauses, head tilting to one side. "It is like life unfolding?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When the video is through Mercy will finger swipe the page away, which just shows the desktop of her smartphone. Then the phone is slid into one of the pockets of her coveralls.

"Life unfolding?" She echoes, her eyebrows nearly knitting together.

"I suppose /some/ might describe it that way." She answers hesitantly, thinking of all the people who watch 'reality' shows. "But perhaps an even better way to put it is it's like a play. Theatre even, but recorded so people can watch it over and over again."

Her gaze looks back to the angel now, "Please tell me you've seen plays."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel doesn't answer for a long time. Longer than his usual pauses. Long enough that she really doesn't need his answer, even though it comes as a simple, "No."

He covers his discomfort with a sip of the beer, though even that does not seem to hold his attention fully. Now that she has drawn so much of his awareness to how it is he does not fit in - despite the fact that there is still so much of him that holds himself in higher regard and better than these humans he has thrown his lot in - he is suddenly saddened. It seems, suddenly, something insurmountable.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Really, she shouldn't be surprised that he hasn't seen a play, but she is and that's reflected in her eyes for a brief moment.

Then she reigns her reaction in and the coyote now takes a turn at a pause. Or silence in this manner.

She's thinking and while she can't say she knows what Castiel is thinking, she can scent some of what he's feeling.

Sadness. She can't say specifically about what, but she has perhaps a slightly good guess. That he doesn't know. Or perhaps that he doesn't know humans so well. That's how she's reading the note of sadness found within his scent.

"Then we'll fix that." She finally says, her voice resolute, "I've helped enough wolves figure themselves out, I can do the same for you. Which means going to see a play, or a movie, or both."

Castiel has posed:
That he doesn't immediately negate her offer, or snap with irritation is significant. That he allows her this? "I am not a wolf," Castiel says softly, but it is not a protest. It's an observation and a query all at once: why? Why would she do this?

He is suddenly erect again, looking to the bottle in his hand, then bck to her. "To do what I wish, I will need to be more." Again, it isn't a question. Merely a statement of acceptance. A thing he has come to realize. That merely wanting to be a saviour, and being one, were not the same thing at all. If humanity were not to be a pawn, then he must become one. Not merely a human, but perhaps a pawn. A thing to be used in place of those he would protect.

"You do this? Freely?" His gaze is intent upon the mechanic as he asks.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"You aren't." She says in agreement to his statement of not being a wolf, "But you still need help." She finishes with and then when he voices his statement, Mercy nods, understanding in that gesture.

He will need to be more. Especially if he wishes to hide within the herd of humanity.

It's only with those last words that the woman allows a second nod; though his verbiage brings a vague pinch to her features. "I do." Her head tilts, "Not sure what sort of help you're used to that you have to ask if this is given freely, but yes, freely. Just know though, I've a quirky sense of humor. I imagine we'll be seeing a lot of comedies."

The last didn't need to be said, but it's added to try and lighten the conversation at hand.

Castiel has posed:
"Comedies?" The angel blinks, the gesture unthinking. But he doesn't dwell, her answer, her complete reiteration that this is of her own free will and volition seems all he needs. Castiel standing upright and fixing her in his gaze, letting his aura shine about him as he intones softly, "Done." The single word rumbling with echoing power even though it is nothing but softly spoken.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When his aura shines through the coyote pauses -

She was just about to explain comedies, but the power that can be seen around the man causes those words of hers to be forestalled.

The fact that there's a sense of finality to his one word of 'done' also causes Mercy to hold her silence. She just entered into some kind of deal here, didn't she?

At least it's not the devil?

Finally though, that silence of hers is broken. "Done then. So, how's a friend get in contact with you?" And while they might not necessarily be 'friends' as of yet, Mercy will give him that moniker.

Castiel has posed:
That she does not flinch at the binding, such as it is, bodes well. The angel dimming down to merely human again, as he regards her. Castiel's voice still that soft gravel of sound as he informs, "You bear my mark. You may call me. If it is within my power, I will come."

That small loophole covering any number of situations that may find him ignoring calls he considers frivolous. Though those, too, he is learing are less frivolous to the humans he watches than himself.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A mark - that causes raised eyebrows from the coyote.

There will definitely be some explanations for this, she's sure. Well, to other people who might see this angel's mark.

That's filed away for further consideration, for now the mechanic can only say, "Thank you." Because it's polite, but also an angel's mark (even de-winged ones) isn't something to play off frivously. "While I can't be called quite so easily, here's my phone number -" A card will be pulled from a pocket of hers. "It's directly to the garage."

"You can call if you ever need anything." She adds, extending the card to Castiel.

Castiel has posed:
Reflexively, Castiel extends his hand to take the card. Unfortunatley, it is also the beer bottle holding hand and there is an awkward moment while he is faced with what to do about this, while also recognizing that he isn't quite sure how or why he reached out the way he did. In the end, he shifts the bottle to his free hand, and re-extends the now free hand for the card. Not realizing how much simpler it would have been to merely take the card with the hand that wasn't holding the beer.

"I will not need to call," he said, staring down at the string of numbers. Numbers that currently make no sense to him, and are thus shoved into his trenchcoat pocket.

"I watch those under my care." Which she may extrapolate to mean she is now under his care.