Two motels on Euclid Avenue in Cleveland, Ohio, as seen in an (apparently) mid-1950s color slide. Watson’s
Motor Hotel was at 3333 Euclid Avenue (US Route 20) and the Colonial
House Motel was at 3301 Euclid Avenue. No trace remains today. Image from the Flickr feed of Alan Mays.
Prompt from @msarahv: Castiel is sacked from his job and finds himself outside, holding his office stuff in a box. He’s all depressed as he wonders how he’ll feed his kid sister, when a stranger parks his car and come comfort him. In the end, Destiel + Sam hires Cas as his assistant. This got so much longer than I intended. 1.4k
The cardboard box in his hands grew soggy and flexed beneath his palms, unlikely to survive the half-mile walk from his former office to the house he rented on Ohio Avenue. The least his former employers could’ve done was offer him a trash bag to cover it, but the security guard had stood adjacent to his desk while Castiel furiously scraped the personal contents of each drawer into the single box that had been thrust at his chest, then escorted him to the sidewalk. No warning, no curious co-workers watching him – Castiel had returned from his lunch hour to find the office vacated, senior partner Zachariah Adler waiting next to his desk with a pleasant expression and a termination notice, effective immediately.
Downsizing, Zachariah had explained, meaty hands folded on his lap. A necessary staff reduction. He promised Castiel an excellent reference and wished him good luck. With a stiff jaw, Castiel had bit back what he really thought of Zachariah’s well wishes and refrained from clocking him in the face.
He hurried at a pace just short of a run, shaking with anger and with cold – of all the days for his car to be in the shop. The wind picked up, blowing the rain sideways, and soaked his pants. His overcoat slapped heavily against his legs as he went, head bowed, blinking every second to keep his eyes clear. His desk plant, a rescue he’d nursed by fluorescent light, tickled his chin as he went.
He should’ve called a cab, but he needed every dollar for rent, the local service was questionable, and Hannah would need new books again soon.
It was just rain. He’d dry off once he got inside.
He cursed when the bottom of the box gave out three blocks from his house, and stood looking down on the water-logged contents scattered on the sidewalk. None of the items held much value, but he knelt in a puddle to retrieve them, putting the engraved pen (a graduation gift from his brother Michael) in his pocket and balancing the ruined pictures on top of his books, held in the crook of both arms. He’d never get the plant home. He left it on the sidewalk, among the ruins of the cardboard box, and hoped it would still be there tomorrow once the rain had stopped.
A few cars passed him, politely arcing their path to spare him the spray off their tires, but that couldn’t be said about the driver of a black car that peeled past and sent a wave of water up Castiel’s back.
Today was an abomination.
Seething, he clutched the books tight to his chest and bit out, “Assbutt!” at the car, though he knew perfectly well the driver couldn’t hear him, probably hadn’t seen him, wasn’t aware what he’d just done. And that thought, knowing Castiel was expendable, disposable, invisible, was the proverbial straw and Castiel the broken camel, trudging through a rainstorm.
The car stopped just shy of the intersection, tail-lights pulsing momentarily red before the reverse lights came on bright, and the car pulled alongside him.