Day 27: Liar
“Name?” Castiel asks without looking up from the plain paper cup in his hands.
“Bruce Wayne.”
Castiel frowns at the unnecessary last name, but dutifully writes down the necessary information. “Large red eye,” he tells Meg as he passes the cup along.
Meg snorts – an odd reaction even for her – but takes it.
“Seriously?” Bruce asks, his expression flabbergasted.
“He wouldn’t know a reference if it zip tied him with a grappling hook,” Meg cuts in. “Unless you want to stand here for the next ten minutes explaining Batman, you’d better get a move on.”
“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel says sourly, catching onto Bruce’s little game. “Is that all, Bruce?”
Lips pressed together like he’s holding in a smile, Bruce hands over a ten dollar bill. “Yep, that’s it.” His eyes flick down to Castiel’s chest where a name tag would be, if this university coffee shop gave a crap about making sure their student baristas complied to a dress code. “What’s your name?”
Castiel purses his lips. “None of your business.”
Bruce whistles. “Cold, man. That’s cold.”
“That’s Clarence for you,” Meg says as she hands over Bruce’s red eye.
“Clarence?” Bruce repeats, grinning from ear to ear.
“A nickname,” Castiel says, shooting down that train of thought before it can ever leave the station. He doesn’t need two people calling him that.
“Hm,” Bruce says, “We’ll see.”
* * *
“Name?”
“Fox Mulder.”
Castiel looks up at the odd response, not that he should really be throwing stones when it comes to first names. “Oh, you,” he says as he catches sight of Bruce’s – Fox’s? – smirking face.
“Me,” he says with a wink.
Castiel exhales a put-upon sigh. “I take it Fox isn’t your real name either?”
“Nope,” Fox says cheerfully. “Large red eye, please.”
After Castiel writes the made up name on the paper cup, Meg takes it from him with a grin. “Fox,” she reads out loud. “Caught any aliens lately?”
“Not today,” Fox says, “maybe after English.” He eyes Castiel warily. “You’ve really never seen the X-Files?” At Castiel’s bemused shake of his head, Fox demands, “How?”
“Is it a movie or a television show?”
Fox scoffs, “It’s just one of the most influential TV shows of the 90s.”
Over by the espresso machine, Meg snorts. In a carrying voice, she says, “I had to make him watch Friends last semester. You’re fighting a losing battle.”
Clinically, Castiel observes, “You seem very invested in this.”
Fox gapes at him. “But –”
“Order up, Agent Mulder!” Meg calls from the other end of the counter.
Muttering darkly to himself, Fox stalks off to grab his drink.
That night, Castiel searches Bruce Wayne Google and dozens of movies come up, plus a television show, and decades-worth of comic books.
He spends the night watching the first season of the X-Files instead.
* * *
“Hello,” Castiel says as Bruce/Fox steps up to the register. “What can I get for you today?” he asks politely, already reaching for the large paper cups.
Bruce/Fox smirks, his eyes following Castiel’s hands. “A large red eye.”
“Name?”
“Obi Wan Kenobi.”
Castiel frowns down at the cup. “Should I write Obi or Obi Wan?”
Obi makes a face that can only be described as distressed. “Goddamn, no Star Wars either?”
“Obi it is, then,” Castiel says, copying it down.
“Obi Wan if you’re nasty,” he says in a low voice, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
Castiel blinks. “Please tell me that’s another reference.”
Obi’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, it is.”
“Don’t worry, Jedi, I’ll fill him in,” Meg says as she takes the empty cup from him.
Castiel scowls at her. “You don’t need to do that,” he tells her sharply. “I can figure it out on my own.” As Meg stares at him in disbelief, he retorts, “I watched Batman Begins and the X-Files last week.”
“You did?” Obi asks, delighted. “So, what’d you thin –”
“Red eye for Obi Wan,” Meg interrupts.
“We’re not done here,” Obi promises Castiel as Meg shoves his cup at him and waves goodbye.
The next day, after Meg hears that Castiel watched Episode I – the logical beginning, any sane person would reason – she quickly sets him right with Episode IV and warns him to never slip to Obi he started with JarJar.
* * *
“Name?”
“Indiana Jones.”
Castiel frowns. “Are you ever going to give me your real name?”
Indiana leans in, bracing one elbow on the counter. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” He smiles, his green eyes crinkling at the corners.
Castiel’s brain fritzes out.
But before he can gather his wits together, Meg interrupts their conversation, “Move along, Indy, he’s not interested.”
Castiel gives himself a little mental shake to get it together. “What will you be having today?”
Indy scowls at Meg. “A large red eye.”
Castiel writes Indy in black letters on the cup as he gestures for the next person to come forward to order. “Thank you and please come again.”
“You come again,” Indy retorts nonsensically as he flees to the other end of the counter to wait.
* * *
From behind the register, Castiel narrows his eyes as his most memorable regular saunters up to the counter. “Hello,” he says, already reaching for the large cup. “Large red eye?”
“Yeah,” he says, staring at Castiel intently.
“Name?”
“Butch Cassidy.” As Castiel writes Butch along the side, Butch asks, “Damn, no westerns in your arsenal either?”
Castiel shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Shame.”
But Butch doesn’t move down the counter as their conversation lulls. Ignoring the two caffeine-deprived students behind him, he says in a casual voice, “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t shoot me down the other day – your little partner in crime did.”
Behind Castiel, Meg snorts. “What?” she asks as he throws her a curious look. “They’re good puns.”
Butch’s jaw drops.
Castiel blinks, equally surprised at Meg’s response. “I didn’t know you liked puns.”
“What you don’t know about me could fill a bible,” Meg says flippantly. She nudges him in the shoulder. “Pay attention, Sundance.”
Butch clears his throat. “So, what do you say...?” he pauses, “I still don’t know your name.”
Castiel bites his lip. “You don’t know me at all.”
Butch grimaces. “That’s the point of going out, man.”
Castiel glances at Meg, who rolls her eyes. “I’m not your keeper, Clarence. Do what you want.”
“I’m sorry, but no,” Castiel says, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable going out with someone I barely know.”
“Fine,” Butch says. “But I’m gonna keep getting my coffee here.”
Castiel huffs a noise that might be a laugh. “I look forward to it.”
Butch grabs a napkin and scrawls something on it. “’S not my number, don’t worry,” he says as he thrusts it at Castiel. “In case you forget.”
As he walks off, Castiel reads Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969).
* * *
After that, he starts leaving Castiel all sorts of recommendations on napkins, from Ghostbusters to Top Gun to Dirty Dancing (Meg has a good laugh when he uses a name from that movie).
“How come you don’t get any of my references?” he – James T. Kirk, today – asks. “It’s not that you don’t like movies or TV shows, or else you wouldn’t watch them after I bring them up.”
Castiel shrugs. “My parents never invested in a television or cable package, and going to movies alone was never particularly appealing to me.”
“Clarence grew up very sheltered,” Meg adds.
He cranes his neck to glare at her.
“What?” James stares. “Going to the movies alone is the best.”
Castiel reins in his surprise; James exudes such charm that would no doubt entrap any passers-by into attending the film with him.
“It’s the ultimate escape,” James continues. “You just sit there and watch the movie and forget about all the crap in your normal life. ’S why I’m a cinema studies major.”
“That doesn’t sound… too bad,” Castiel says tentatively. “I’m majoring in classics.”
The next day, James, going by Frodo Baggins, hands Castiel a ten dollar bill for his red eye and a single ticket to the local theater for the current blockbuster playing at 8pm.
* * *
Castiel smiles as his favorite customer approaches. “Name?”
“Freddy Krueger.”
Meg snorts.
“What?” Freddy asks her over Castiel’s shoulder. “I’m thinking I should do theme-weeks. Like, Halloween’s in a few days.”
Castiel doesn’t bother confirming his red eye, and instead writes Freddy on the cup and hands it to Meg.
As she prepares Freddy’s drink, Freddy grabs a napkin.
Castiel reads Nightmare on Elm Street upside down before he takes the note from Freddy. “I was thinking,” he says as he pockets it, “You proposed a deal earlier.”
Freddy’s expression turns intrigued. “What deal?”
“I’ll tell you my name, if you tell me yours,” Castiel repeats.
Freddy grins. “Seriously?” He waits a beat, his eyes narrowing as the silence drags on. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I am not,” Castiel promises. “So? What’s your real name?”
Freddy taps his fingers against the counter as he deliberates his next move. “I dunno, you tell me,” he says, his voice infuriatingly playful.
Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you five? You need me to go first?”
Freddy nods.
Castiel stares him down.
Freddy stares right back.
“Large red eye for Freddy Kruger!” Meg announces loudly, and more than a few heads swivel around in surprise.
“We’re not done here,” Freddy swears as he takes the cup from her.
“I didn’t think we were,” Castiel says pleasantly.
* * *
“Your name?”
“Michael Myers.”
“That’s not your real name, is it?” Castiel asks suspiciously. Michael has used a few normal-sounding names before.
“Nope.”
Castiel rolls his eyes as he scrawls a messy Michael on a paper cup. “You can give me your real name, you know.”
“So could you,” Michael vollies back.
“You guys are so disgusting,” Meg says, snatching the cup out of Castiel’s lax hand. “Just get the big reveal over with. I’m getting cavities over here.”
“Sure, once he goes first,” Michael says. “I put in all this work to drop a new John Hancock every day; it’s the least he could do.”
“Like it’s work for you,” Castiel retorts. “You once dropped five references in a single sentence! You do it as easily as breathing.”
Michael scowls. “Tell you what, let’s up the ante. I guess your name first, and you go out to the movies with me.”
Castiel freezes. Michael hadn’t brought up dating since that first time he asked Casitel out. Deep down, Castiel knew he hadn’t let it go, or else he would stop flirting over coffee and keeping up the parade of fake names. But still, the request takes him by surprise. “And what if I guess first?”
Michael shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
Castiel holds his hand out to shake on it.
Grinning, Michael does. “You’ve got yourself a deal… James?”
“That was your name a month ago,” Castiel tuts. “Try again.”
* * *
“Steve,” he says before Castiel can even ask for his name-of-the-day.
“C’mon, does he look like a Steve to you?” Meg asks, pinching Castiel’s cheek as she passes.
Castiel swats her hand out of the way. “My name isn’t Steve.”
“Damn.”
“I’ll get that red eye for you,” Castiel says, glancing up at him from lowered lashes, “Sam?”
He bursts out laughing. “Close – that’s my little brother’s name.”
“Right, well, what should I write on the cup, then?”
“Let’s go with Norman Bates,” Norman says, still chuckling.
“Going old school?” Meg calls appreciatively from over by the espresso machine. “Nice.”
“If it ain’t broke,” Norman says with a shrug. He turns to Castiel. “Are you dressing up for Halloween this year?”
Castiel purses his lips. “I wasn’t planning on it, but now I understand a great deal more costumes than last year.”
“That’s the spirit,” Norman says, his eyes sparkling.
* * *
Castiel’s usual, “Name?” dies on his tongue as he takes in how tired his favorite customer looks. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he says before yawning hugely. “Pulled an all nighter last night to marathon a few movies I slept through during lecture.” He grimaces. “Breathless can go fuck itself, and if anyone says French New Age film revolutionized cinema, run in the other direction.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Castiel says. “Name?”
“Ichabod Crane. Seriously, I almost fell asleep again –”
The customer behind him coughs loudly, and Castiel’s gaze flicks over his shoulder to see - “Dean?” he says.
Ichabod straightens, his face paling. “How’d you –”
“Large red eye, Meg!” Castiel calls as he gestures to the next person to step forward. “What can I get you Dean Adler?”
Castiel’s hard-ass Roman Philosophy Professor and Dean of the College stands behind Ichabod, already looking annoyed at the wait. “Large black coffee with an extra shot and extra cream.”
“Of course,” Castiel says as he swipes Dean Adler’s card through the machine.
By the time he looks up, Ichabod has disappeared.
* * *
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets the next day.
Dean sheepishly smiles at him. “You figured it out?”
“Hard not to, when you went white as a sheet when I addressed the Dean,” Castiel says. “So I only thought it fair…” he drifts off, gesturing to his chest.
Dean’s eyes widen as he reads the HELLO MY NAME IS sticker stuck to Castiel’s shirt, along with a clearly printed CASTIEL below it.
“Cas-tee-el?” he sounds out. “For real?”
“Clarence was named after an angel,” Meg sing-songs from behind him.
Castiel rolls his eyes. “I won’t watch It’s a Wonderful Life on principle.”
Dean laughs. “It’s overrated, anyway.”
Castiel grabs a cup and writes Dean in his best handwriting, turning it around to show Dean.
He nods in approval. “So, you won. What’s your poison?” Dean grimaces. “I’m not getting on a plane – or listening to Jefferson Starship. There are some lines I won’t cross, even for a gentleman’s agreement.”
Castiel pulls out two tickets from his back pocket. “I was thinking we’d go see a movie.”
