SPN gen - don't ask, cause I can't explain it myself
Title: Vacation (All I Ever Wanted)
Author: edoraslass
Rating: Eh, say PG-13 for the potty-mouths, R if you’re sensitive about the F bomb
Pairing:Gen
Set some time after the discovery that the Trickster is actually Gabriel
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I don’t even write Supernatural.
Warnings: Cussin’, flagrant and gleeful abuse of italics, mention of Backstreet Boys,discussion of Sumerian porn.
Seriously, I don’t write Supernatural. But someone on fanficrants said something about how Dean would freak if there was no evil for a while, and it just took hold.
~*~
Monday
“So whatcha got for us this morning, Sammy?” Dean asks as he drowns his breakfast in maple syrup (including the eggs).
Sam studies the laptop for a long moment; Dean makes a bet with himself about what demons are next on the to-do list and shoves a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.
“Nothing,” Sam says at last.
Dean stops chewing. “Nothing? What the hell does that mean, ‘nothing’?”
Sam makes a face of disgust and squeamishly wipes up bits of chewed-up pancake off the table. “Don’t know how to say it any plainer, Dean.” He spins the laptop around; on the screen is one of those maps Sam uses to track supernatural activity, evil and slightly less evil, omens and that kind of thing. Dean doesn’t know how it works really, he just knows that it does. There’s a confusing lack of red. “See? Not a single hot spot.”
Dean squints at the screen, breakfast momentarily forgotten. “That’s only a three-state grid,” he points out somewhat triumphantly.
Sam rolls his eyes, hits a couple of buttons, and now the screen’s displaying the entire US of A, plus part of Canada. And it’s still red-free. Not so much as the faintest hint of pink anywhere. Not even in Calgary.
“How is that even possible?” Dean wants to know. “There’s…there’s nothing.”
“I told you,” Sam replies, digging into his oatmeal. “Guess we’ve got the day off.”
Dean glares at the screen for a moment longer, then shrugs, and goes back to his food. “We could use it,” he says magnanimously, dragging a piece of bacon through the puddle of syrup. “I’ve been needing some time to poke around on the Impala, she’s been making a weird humming sound. Tomorrow we’ll be back to the ol’ grind.”
Mmmmmm, bacon.
Tuesday
“What do you mean, still nothing?”
“You want me to sing it?” Sam asks. “See for yourself - the map looks the same as it did yesterday.”
Dean stops packing and goes over to stare at the screen over Sam’s shoulder. “So you’re telling me that for two days in a row, the entire country is an evil-free zone.”
Sam nods, looking just as baffled as Dean feels. “Yeah.”
“And you don’t think that’s a little….strange?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t strange,” Sam corrects. “I’m just saying that’s what it is.”
“Maybe your computer’s on the fritz,” Dean suggests.
“You don’t think I already checked that?” Sam shoots back. “I ran every test that I could think of, deinstalled and reinstalled the program, re-wrote the parameters so it’d pick up the low-level stuff we don’t normally screw around with - “
“What low-level stuff?” Dean’s mildly outraged. “You’ve got that thing programmed to ignore evil? What the hell, Sam?”
“Right, cause we want to spend all our time hunting down unfaithful spouses and CEOs who are embezzling and drug dealers…”
“Unfaithful spouses are not evil,” Dean scoffs.
“I’m willing to bet they seem pretty evil to their partners,” Sam points out, “and to their kids, and - “
“Not real evil,” Dean amends with a glare. “Not, like, wendigo evil.”
“So some kinds of evil are okay.” Sam’s got that smug college-boy bitchface on, which is entirely different from the whiny bitchface, the pouty bitchface, the I-want-my-way bitchface - Sam’s got a lot of different bitchfaces, let’s leave it at that. “When does it hit capital-letter EVIL, Dean? Is there some sort of Scale of Evil you’re working with?”
“Bite me,” is Dean’s clever retort as he goes back to the packing. “You know what I mean.”
Sam shrugs, and stretches elaborately. “You’re the one who wanted to debate the nature of evil.”
Dean scowls and jams a pair of jeans into his duffle. After a minute, he says, “Drug dealers, though. Maybe we should start going after them.”
Sam nods in solemn agreement that’s entirely fake. “Just as soon as all the demons are wiped out.”
Wednesday
“Never seen anything like it in all my born days,” Bobby says.
“Well, shit.” Dean twists the top off his beer, sends it sailing underhand into the sink. “I was hoping you’d have an idea about what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” Bobby repeats unnecessarily. “I’ve had the phone jammed in my ear since Monday, making calls, taking calls from hunters who stopped talking to me years ago, and everyone says exactly the same thing - there are no demons anywhere. No demons, no omens of demons, not even one damn embezzling businessman - “
“Shut it,” Dean snaps before Sam can gloat aloud - not in time to stop the gloaty bitchface, though.
“Couldn’t that be an omen in and of itself, though?” Sam asks, still grinning.
“How do you mean?” Bobby looks interested.
“Well, the fact that there’s apparently no evil anywhere isn’t exactly normal - “
“Damn straight,” Dean mutters.
“ - so couldn’t the lack of evil actually mean there’s some huge, giant evil out there, evil powerful enough to - I dunno, cloak itself and all other evil or something?”
Bobby drops into a chair and leans back, stroking his beard. “I ain’t ever heard of such a thing,” he says after some consideration. “Doesn’t mean it’s not possible, I guess.”
“Well, let’s get on it, then!” Dean grabs the nearest dusty old book, plops himself down on the couch and sets his heels on the coffee table. Bobby and Sam are just staring at him. “What are you waiting for? Come on, chop chop!”
“That book’s in Sumerian,” Sam points out.
Dean glances at the cover. He doesn’t know from Sumerian, but it’s definitely not English.
“Also it’s kind of…porn,” Bobby says after a pause.
“Porn?” Dean and Sam repeat in disbelief.
“What, you think Larry Flynt invented porn?” Bobby scoffs. “Those Sumerians got up to stuff’d make Ron Jeremy cry.”
Dean flips through the pages, hoping to find some kinky drawings or something, but the book’s filled with nothing but weird letters. “Well, their porn sucks.”
“Who’s Larry Flynt?” Sam asks.
Thursday
Dean’s awakened by the sound of Sam bellowing in pain; he’s out of bed and down the stairs like a shot, gun in hand. Of course he’s worried about Sam and already planning sixteen ways to get out of the house if they need to, but some teeny tiny part of his mind is utterly gleeful that evil’s back in town and all is right with the world.
Sam’s got his hand stuck under the running faucet, chanting, “Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow,” while Bobby’s complaining, “Well, what’d you expect, not usin’ a potholder?”
“I didn’t know it was hot!” Sam defends himself, pulling his hand out of the water and examining it closely. He catches sight of his brother. “What, you gonna shoot the pancakes?”
“Pancakes?” Dean repeats, not firing on all cylinders yet despite the adrenaline rush.
“Your moron brother don’t know how to use cast iron,” Bobby sighs, going over to look at Sam’s hand himself. “I figured he’d know that iron conducts heat, since he went to college and all.”
“Most the skillets I’ve used have plastic handles,” Sam grouses a little sulkily. “If you had a normal skillet - “
“That skillet’s older’n me, and it beats the shit outta any of that non-stick crap they sell at the dime store,” Bobby informs them. “Also useful to have as much cold iron as possible lyin’ around the house.” He gives Sam his hand back. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister, but keep an eye on it.”
Dean looks at Sam, then at Bobby, then back at Sam. “What?” Sam says.
“I thought - I thought we were being attacked or something.” Dean only sorta feels like an idiot; charging downstairs in his underwear is a perfectly normal reaction to hearing Sam screeching. Normal if your last name is Winchester, anyway.
“Nope.” Sam shakes his head, still examining his hand like a burn’s the worst thing to ever happen to him. “We are still in a green zone.”
Dean glares at the room at large. “This is bullshit, you know that, right?”
“Yep.” Bobby’s placid acceptance doesn’t do anything to make Dean more at ease with situation. “So how many pancakes you want?”
Sam suddenly narrows his eyes at Dean. “Why are you wearing a Backstreet Boys t-shirt?”
Dean looks down and kicks himself mentally. Usually he wears it inside out. “It got mixed in with my clothes at some laundromat!” he says, defensive. “It’s a perfectly good t-shirt! Heavy-duty cotton and hasn’t shrunk at all!”
Sam raises an eyebrow and nods condescendingly, if such a thing is possible. Dean just rolls his eyes, heads upstairs to take a shower, and ignores the sound of Sam singing “Bye bye bye bye bye” under his breath.
Friday
“Hey, look what I found!” Sam sounds so pleased that Dean’s sure a demon’s popped up on the radar. Finally.
But Sam’s holding a dusty old cardboard box with wires spilling over the top. He’s grinning like an idiot as he carries over in front of the TV [still a giant clunky console thing in a fake wood cabinet that’s as tall as a ten-year-old; Bobby really needs to get with the 21st century], sits down on the floor, and pulls out a big square…something.
“What the hell is that?” Against his better judgment, Dean goes over to see. “Wait, is that - “
“Our old Atari 2600? Yes it is!” Sam’s practically beaming. “Look, Fun With Numbers!”
“Could you actually be a bigger nerd? Cause I don’t think so.” Dean sits down next to his brother. “Hey, Asteriods! Damn, I was really good at that.” He studies the cartridge fondly. “Wow, that brings back memories.”
“And good ones, for once,” Sam mutters, and after a minute, Dean decides to ignore it.
“Hey Bobby, I didn’t know you kept this!” Dean hollers.
“Kept what?” Bobby comes into the room with a book in his hands and a pencil stuck behind his ear. “Oh Lord, you two are gonna be worthless for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”
“What else are we supposed to do?” Sam asks. “We’ve gone through all of the books in English - like we know what we’re looking for anyway - no-one’s answered my emails, we’re waiting on, like, fifty people to call us back and I’m pretty sure we all know what they’re going to say when they do - “
“ - we’ve cleaned every gun we all own, and I can only work on the Impala so long,” Dean pipes up, earning himself twin stares of disbelief. “What? I have other hobbies.”
“Name one.” Bobby’s frankly skeptical.
“Porn is not a hobby,” Sam adds as he’s untangling cords and plugging joysticks into the console.
“I could have hobbies!” Dean protests. “If I had any, you know, free time.”
Bobby snorts. “Sure you could.” He watches Sam a minute, an unfamiliar grin on his face; it takes Dean a second to place Bobby’s expression as nostalgia. “Gotta say though, that thing was the best investment I ever made for keepin’ you little rugrats outta my hair.”
Sam’s moved on to plugging the console into the TV. “I hope it still works.”
“You know, you could ring up your angel buddy and ask him to check into this whole lack of evil thing,” Bobby suggests.
Dean and Sam both freeze, exchanging vaguely panicked glances. “We shouldn’t be imposing on Castiel all the time,” Sam says in a rush. “I mean, he’s practically omnipotent and all - ”
“Yeah, he’s probably got other things on his mind,” Dean agrees. “It’s not like he’s our secretary - “
“ - he’s probably busy with angel stuff,” Sam finishes.
“Angel stuff.” Bobby’s got that nostalgic look on his face again, and Dean’s not sure why. “I suppose you think I’m gonna order in pizza and Mountain Dew for you.”
Sam makes a face. “Bobby, really, it’s not like we’re kids anymore.”
Silence.
“You could, though,” Dean says hopefully. “I mean, so we wouldn’t have to cook dinner and wash dishes and all that.”
Bobby laughs, shaking his head. “That TV takes a solid twenty minutes to warm up,” he advises. “Pizza oughta be here by then.”
“Just in time for me to kick your ass at Pac-Man!” Sam crows, waving the cartridge around.
Dean punches his brother in the shoulder. “On what planet could you ever kick my ass at Pac-Man ?”
Saturday
“Cas!” Dean bellows at the ceiling. “Cas, come on! You have to know what’s going on- care to flutter down here and share it?”
Six days of no evil. Six days of no demons to be fought, no guns fired except at bottles, no punches thrown, no omens, no nothing and Dean’s starting get a little twitchy. He can’t take this much longer; his skin feels like it’s on too tight and he’s jumping at every little noise, wound tighter than piano wire and absolutely positive that someone, somewhere is planning some sort of major attack, and he has no idea what’s coming or when. He couldn’t even focus enough to pick up the hot waitress at the bar they went to last night, and that’s just unacceptable.
Okay, maybe more than “a little twitchy”.
“Cas!” he yells again, more insistently.
“Yes, Dean?”
He hates that creeper thing Castiel does, but he’s willing to let it slide this time. “So you know what’s up, right?”
Castiel blinks slowly, glances towards the ceiling.
“With the whole lack-of-evil problem,” Dean clarifies before this can turn into a whole thing.
“I’m not certain how lack-of-evil is a problem,” Cas muses.
“Is it a djinn? It’s a djinn, right?” Dean paces the living room, not that it helps burn off his nervous energy.
Castiel ponders. “I sense no djinn energy here,” he says at last. “Dean, perhaps you could explain why you’re so agitated?”
“He hasn’t gotten to kill anything in six days,” Sam answers as he comes into the room. He’s carrying a metal bowl and mixing something. “I mean, neither have I, but you don’t see me freaking out about it.”
“Excuse me if I don’t think learning to make cupcakes is an appropriate reaction to six whole days of literally no evil anywhere,” Dean snaps.
“Okay, then you don’t get any of the next batch,” Sam retorts.
“Hey!”
“What do you mean, ‘no evil anywhere’?” There’s a small frown on Castiel’s face. “There’s no such thing as ‘no evil anywhere’, not since Cain slew Abel and released every wicked thing into the world - “
Dean throws his hands into the air. “My point exactly! And yet - “
“And yet what?” Castiel asks after a very long, very awkward silence.
“And yet there is no evil anywhere,” Sam finishes. “It’s not just us, Cas. There are no omens, no weird deaths, and every other hunter is finding the same thing -“
“A whole lot of nothing.” Dean’s growing more exasperated by the second. “So what, has Lucifer recalled all his little pets home for a family reunion or something? Is there something super-huge and super-evil cloaking itself and all the baby evils?”
“Oh, now you’re down with the super-evil cloak of evil - “ Sam butts in, but Cas is staring at them both like they’re dumber than twelve bags of hammers.
“What is that look for?” Dean is almost grinding his teeth together.
Cas gives a long-suffering sigh. “I am disappointed in the both of you,” he says, and Dean’s reminded of a teacher he had in elementary school. “And you as well, Bobby,” he adds as Bobby wanders into the room. “You have dealt with my brother long enough to be able to spot his work when you experience it.”
“Your brother?” Sam’s frowning.
“Cas, you have a lot of goddamn brothers!” Dean barks.
“Gabriel?” Bobby’s dumbstruck.
“Wait, you’re saying that Gabriel’s still playing around with that Trickster crap?” Sam looks - offended. “He’s an Archangel. We know he’s an Archangel. What would be the point?”
“What was ever Gabriel’s point in toying with you?” Castiel wants to know.
“Is that rhetorical?” Bobby asks when Cas doesn’t answer his own question.
Cas heaves a sigh even heavier than the last one. “Gabriel has a very low boredom threshold,” he replies, “always has - “
“And a looming apocalypse isn’t enough to keep him from not being bored?” Dean’s gone from exasperated directly to pissed off.
“Gabriel has a very low boredom threshold, “ Castiel repeats meaningfully, “and a great deal of power. Stopping evil for what is, to an Archangel, a blink of an eye, would be no great task.”
“He’s actually stopped evil?” Sam now looks kind of impressed, and Dean can’t blame him, but he doesn’t have to show it, hell, he’s got some pride.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sam, he’s not that powerful.” There’s that elementary-school-teacher look again. “Most likely he’s simply contained it in a separate pocket of reality, so that it can not affect your world, and vice versa.”
“Well, shit,” Bobby says with heartfelt disgust. “So has he trapped thousands of helpless people in the same reality pocket as evil? When he decides to let us out, is the whole earth gonna be swamped with dead bodies and demon attacks we’re gonna have to tend to?”
“I assume that would defeat his purpose -“
“Cas,” Dean sputters, “I can’t believe that your jerkass brother, no matter how big of a jerkass he is, and he is a huge jerkass, by the way, has done all this just to .. just to…”
“Just to… fuck with you? Is that the correct term?” Castiel’s face is deadly serious. “No, I suspect his intention was much more - thoughtful.”
“Okay, I’m more likely to buy that he’s just a huge jerkass.” Sam glares at Castiel, who is blithely unfazed.
“How is keeping us out of the game for six days ‘thoughtful’?” Dean’s back to pacing, and he’s added in some arm-waving. “Cause I have really had it with Gabriel’s bullshit, I don’t care how low his damn ‘boredom threshold’ is.” He is pissed, if he’s using air quotes, and he unmistakably just did.
“If I had to guess,” Castiel says slowly, “I would think that he is giving you time to rest, before the true battles begin.”
Dean feels like he just got punched in the face. “What?”
“The upcoming days will be the most difficult times you have ever faced,” like they need to be reminded, “and Gabriel has very clearly stated his desire for the fighting to end?” Castiel waits until all three men have nodded. “He cannot, of course, have that, but he can provide you with the opportunity to recover your strength fully and gird yourself for what lies ahead.”
“Huh.” Sam shakes his head sharply like it’s full of bees. “That is almost thoughtful.”
“Although I could be wrong,” Castiel says. “Gabriel does, as you say, have his jerkass tendencies.”
“So how do we get back to normal?” Dean wants to stamp his feet in frustration. “I mean, he can’t keep this up forever -can he?” And what if he could? Wouldn’t that just solve everything, tie it up in a nice neat bloodless bow? “Has he got some stupid trick we need to perform or something?”
“It would seem likely,” Castiel admits. “He is very fond of his games.”
“And he does like to make us look like idiots,” Sam adds, stirring the cupcake batter with unwonted hostility.
“So you’ve got no idea how we bust out of this ‘pocket of reality’?” Dean’s really got to get control of the airquotes.
“I’m afraid not,” Castiel says, and he comes close to sounding sorry. “Knowing Gabriel, it’s likely something very simple and obvious, but too simple and obvious to be considered a serious solution.”
“What does that even mean?!” Dean is yelling now and it feels pretty good. He hasn’t gotten to seriously yell at someone in a couple of days.
“As I said, I don’t know,” Castiel repeats, a hint of impatience in his tone. “Now I must go. In case you’ve forgotten, an apocalypse looms nigh, and some of us are quite busy.”
Of course he vanishes without letting Dean get in another word, which doesn’t stop Dean from shouting, “You don’t have to brag about it!”
Sunday
They have tried
Reading the Song of Solomon aloud like it’s a play, voices and all
Doing the Hokey-Pokey
Braiding Sam’s hair (and Dean doesn’t want to know why Bobby had all those barrettes lying around)
Loudly praising Gabriel’s hair and amazing sexual prowess
Not swearing for the entire day, which lasted about thirty minutes before Dean snapped and yelled, “Fuck that guy, seriously!”
Shouting “Rumplestiltskin”
Loudly mocking Gabriel’s hair and pathetic sexual prowess
plus like fifty other things too humiliating for Dean to ever, ever admit he’s done, and it’s all just a big zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Not even the hint of a pinfeather flapping in the breeze.
“This is totally pointless,” Dean declares, flopping onto the couch. “How are we supposed to be able to figure this out?”
“He can’t keep it up forever,” Sam reminds him. “If nothing else, one of his bigger, less douchebag brothers will realize what he’s doing, and then - “
“What less douchebag brothers?” Dean glares at his own, occasional douchebag brother. “They’re all pretty much total douches, Sam. Especially the ones bigger than Gabriel.”
“Okay, the brothers more interested in keeping the apocalypse going - “
“You mean the ones who want to ride us at the end-of-the-world rodeo?”
“All I’m saying is - “
“I swear, I’m about to whip out some evil on the both of you if you don’t shut up,” Bobby’s been sitting in a chair reading a book for the last half an hour- fairy tales or some pointless shit. “I think I’ve got something here.”
Dean and Sam look at Bobby expectantly; Bobby’s face is resigned, which on the one hand, makes Dean think he’s probably got something good, but on the other hand, means they’re probably not going to like it.
“Well?” Sam’s almost tapping his foot.
“Well,” Bobby says reluctantly, “we ain’t tried asking.”
Dean exchanges a confused look with his brother. “Asking? Asking what?”
“Asking Gabriel to put things back to rights.”
“Asking?” Sam actually appears to be taking the suggestion seriously, what the hell.
“Yes, asking,” Bobby repeats, a little testily. “Look, Cas said to try something so simple and obvious that we wouldn’t think could really be the solution, right? What’s more simple and obvious than just asking for something you want?”
Sam glances at Dean. “He’s got a point.”
Dean looks at Bobby, then at Sam, then back at Bobby again. “You can’t be serious. Since when has asking Gabriel for anything ever gotten us anything but more endless bullshit?”
“Since when have we ever asked Gabriel nicely?” Sam points out.
“Nicely?” Dean can't believe what he's hearing. “So now we have to be nice to the son-of-a-bitch who trapped us here in the first place? The same son-of-a-bitch who killed me about a million times and made you think -“
“Look, I don’t like the idea any more than you do!” Sam interrupts. “But Bobby’s right, Dean. This fits. And in lots of old legends, it is something just this simple that breaks the spell or whatever - it’s worth a shot, right? It’s not like it makes us Gabriel’s buddies or anything.” He narrows his eyes at Dean. “Unless you want to stay here inside this little evil-free bubble until Zachariah or someone brings it all crashing down? Cause I don’t think that’s gonna be more pleasant than being nice to Gabriel for a couple of minutes.”
Dean’s brain is throbbing inside his skull like it’s trying to escape; he really doesn’t like Gabriel, and he really, really doesn’t want to have to be nice to that asshole, even for a couple of minutes. But Sam is right, dammit. If Zachariah busts them out of here, it’s sure not gonna be pretty, and if Gabriel is actually trying to give them time to regroup - which Dean doubts, because what the blue blazing hell - he’ll at least want to let them out in a slightly more peaceful manner. Right?
“Fine,” Dean seethes. “We’ll …ask nicely.”
They’re all silent for a moment, then Bobby clears his throat and says, “Um…Gabriel? We’d sure appreciate it if you’d, y’know, let us out of this little reality pocket you created?”
“Yeah,” Sam jumps in, like a total suck-up. “It’s be a nice restful week and all, but we really should get back to work. So - if you’d just let us back into the world, that’d be…uh…great. Please.”
Dean’s clenching his jaw so hard his eyes hurt. He can’t do it, he can’t, he can’t seriously fuck that guy and all his shithead brothers -
“Dean!” Sam hisses. “It’s not going to work if we don’t all ask!”
“Fine,” Dean grinds out. “Gabrielwillyouletusoutofthisrealitypocket.” He takes a deep breath, feeling like an asshole, and adds, “Please.”
“Well, what do ya know about that?” And there is the raging asshole in question, smirking like a nuclear sunrise and clapping sarcastically - is that even a thing? “Lost a bet, by the way - I was positive it’d take you another week at least to even come close to figuring it out! Good job!”
Dean reminds himself it would destroy the temporary truce they’ve got going if he were to leap at Gabriel and throttle him to the ground, so he says nothing, only glares.
“What, you aren’t going to thank me?” Gabriel and smirk seem to go together like peanut butter and jelly.
“Thank you?” When you are Dean Winchester and you haven’t gotten to gank a single goddamn thing in six days, your temper is very angry dog on a very short leash. “For keeping us from doing our job?”
“For giving us time to not have to do our job,” Sam leaps in, being overly-familiar with the signs of a Dean-nuke-the-site-from-orbit meltdown. “And it’s been great, it has - “
“….buuuut?” Gabriel arches one eyebrow, and if Dean makes it through this without stabbing the son-of-a-bitch, it’ll be a fuckin’ miracle.
“…just maybe…it’d have been a little more relaxing if we…uh…had known it was supposed to be a break, and not…uh…spending six days freaking out about why there was no evil.” Sam looks at a spot over Gabriel’s left shoulder instead of looking at him square on; he’s almost squirming, Dean can see it if no-one else can.
“Well, I wouldn’t have wanted you to lose your edge, would I?” Gabriel beams, and it’s almost a literal beam; Dean swears he can see little sparkles and flickers of heavenly light or some shit emanating from Gabriel’s stupid, stupid hair. “Also it’s not like you would have agreed to it, if I’d’ve told you I was going to lock you up away from evil, is it?”
“So are you going to reverse this or what?” Dean can’t take it anymore.
“My my my my my my my,” Gabriel purses up his lips and clucks his tongue. “That eager to have your pert little asses thrown back into the ring of fire?”
Sam can’t repress a snort, although he does at least try; Dean reminds himself to smack Sam later for being so fixated on that stupid movie about the lost little clownfish.
“Look, I’m sure your intentions were…” Bobby casts about for a word, “…well, I’m not gonna say ‘pure’, so let’s go with ..uh…’good’, but - “
“..the road to hell and all that,” Dean spits out, and doesn’t appreciate it at all when everyone in the room throws him a surprised look. “What?”
“Anyway,” Bobby goes on, “we’re nice and rested up now, and so is every other hunter in the Western hemisphere, so we’d really appreciate it if you could, y’know - “
“- pop the lid back off Pandora’s box?” Gabriel finishes. “Ah, Pandora. She gets a bad rap, you know. She was totally tricked into opening that, of course, thought it was nothing but a gift from Zeus - but seriously, what a rack on her - “
Dean hears a frustrated growl and is almost surprised (almost) to realize it’s coming from his own throat.
“Yeah,” Sam says, a bit apologetically. “He’s…out of sorts.”
“Well, you did guess the secret words,” Gabriel allows, infuriatingly magnanimous. “And I do smell some delicious peanut-butter chocolate cupcakes - “
“They’re all yours,” Bobby assures him, although Sam looks a little outraged. “Believe me, I ain’t really eager to get this apocalypse on the road, but it ain’t like we can avoid it forever, so…”
“So all right,” Gabriel says. “There ya go. Reality filters are all gone, and you psychos can get on with carrying out your deathwishes now.”
Dean blinks. “What, that’s it?”
Gabriel’s wandering towards the kitchen. “You expected some sort of fireworks? Maybe evil to start kicking in the door? Come on, give me some credit for subtlety.”
“Right.” Oh, there’s a useful Sam bitchface, the one that means he’s going to kick any ass that crosses him in the next twenty minutes. “Cause that’s the first thing that leaps to mind when we think of you - subtle.”
Every phone in Bobby’s house starts to ring off the wall; simultaneously, there’s a mindless, earth-shaking roar outside. When Dean peers out the window, there’s an honest-to-fuck basilik standing on top of a burned-out Studebaker.
“Shit!” Sam yelps; he’s looking out a window on the other side of the house. “Is that a Chupacabra?!”
From the kitchen, Gabriel complains, “Hey, fucker, these aren’t even iced!”
Author: edoraslass
Rating: Eh, say PG-13 for the potty-mouths, R if you’re sensitive about the F bomb
Pairing:Gen
Set some time after the discovery that the Trickster is actually Gabriel
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I don’t even write Supernatural.
Warnings: Cussin’, flagrant and gleeful abuse of italics, mention of Backstreet Boys,discussion of Sumerian porn.
Seriously, I don’t write Supernatural. But someone on fanficrants said something about how Dean would freak if there was no evil for a while, and it just took hold.
~*~
Monday
“So whatcha got for us this morning, Sammy?” Dean asks as he drowns his breakfast in maple syrup (including the eggs).
Sam studies the laptop for a long moment; Dean makes a bet with himself about what demons are next on the to-do list and shoves a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.
“Nothing,” Sam says at last.
Dean stops chewing. “Nothing? What the hell does that mean, ‘nothing’?”
Sam makes a face of disgust and squeamishly wipes up bits of chewed-up pancake off the table. “Don’t know how to say it any plainer, Dean.” He spins the laptop around; on the screen is one of those maps Sam uses to track supernatural activity, evil and slightly less evil, omens and that kind of thing. Dean doesn’t know how it works really, he just knows that it does. There’s a confusing lack of red. “See? Not a single hot spot.”
Dean squints at the screen, breakfast momentarily forgotten. “That’s only a three-state grid,” he points out somewhat triumphantly.
Sam rolls his eyes, hits a couple of buttons, and now the screen’s displaying the entire US of A, plus part of Canada. And it’s still red-free. Not so much as the faintest hint of pink anywhere. Not even in Calgary.
“How is that even possible?” Dean wants to know. “There’s…there’s nothing.”
“I told you,” Sam replies, digging into his oatmeal. “Guess we’ve got the day off.”
Dean glares at the screen for a moment longer, then shrugs, and goes back to his food. “We could use it,” he says magnanimously, dragging a piece of bacon through the puddle of syrup. “I’ve been needing some time to poke around on the Impala, she’s been making a weird humming sound. Tomorrow we’ll be back to the ol’ grind.”
Mmmmmm, bacon.
Tuesday
“What do you mean, still nothing?”
“You want me to sing it?” Sam asks. “See for yourself - the map looks the same as it did yesterday.”
Dean stops packing and goes over to stare at the screen over Sam’s shoulder. “So you’re telling me that for two days in a row, the entire country is an evil-free zone.”
Sam nods, looking just as baffled as Dean feels. “Yeah.”
“And you don’t think that’s a little….strange?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t strange,” Sam corrects. “I’m just saying that’s what it is.”
“Maybe your computer’s on the fritz,” Dean suggests.
“You don’t think I already checked that?” Sam shoots back. “I ran every test that I could think of, deinstalled and reinstalled the program, re-wrote the parameters so it’d pick up the low-level stuff we don’t normally screw around with - “
“What low-level stuff?” Dean’s mildly outraged. “You’ve got that thing programmed to ignore evil? What the hell, Sam?”
“Right, cause we want to spend all our time hunting down unfaithful spouses and CEOs who are embezzling and drug dealers…”
“Unfaithful spouses are not evil,” Dean scoffs.
“I’m willing to bet they seem pretty evil to their partners,” Sam points out, “and to their kids, and - “
“Not real evil,” Dean amends with a glare. “Not, like, wendigo evil.”
“So some kinds of evil are okay.” Sam’s got that smug college-boy bitchface on, which is entirely different from the whiny bitchface, the pouty bitchface, the I-want-my-way bitchface - Sam’s got a lot of different bitchfaces, let’s leave it at that. “When does it hit capital-letter EVIL, Dean? Is there some sort of Scale of Evil you’re working with?”
“Bite me,” is Dean’s clever retort as he goes back to the packing. “You know what I mean.”
Sam shrugs, and stretches elaborately. “You’re the one who wanted to debate the nature of evil.”
Dean scowls and jams a pair of jeans into his duffle. After a minute, he says, “Drug dealers, though. Maybe we should start going after them.”
Sam nods in solemn agreement that’s entirely fake. “Just as soon as all the demons are wiped out.”
Wednesday
“Never seen anything like it in all my born days,” Bobby says.
“Well, shit.” Dean twists the top off his beer, sends it sailing underhand into the sink. “I was hoping you’d have an idea about what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on,” Bobby repeats unnecessarily. “I’ve had the phone jammed in my ear since Monday, making calls, taking calls from hunters who stopped talking to me years ago, and everyone says exactly the same thing - there are no demons anywhere. No demons, no omens of demons, not even one damn embezzling businessman - “
“Shut it,” Dean snaps before Sam can gloat aloud - not in time to stop the gloaty bitchface, though.
“Couldn’t that be an omen in and of itself, though?” Sam asks, still grinning.
“How do you mean?” Bobby looks interested.
“Well, the fact that there’s apparently no evil anywhere isn’t exactly normal - “
“Damn straight,” Dean mutters.
“ - so couldn’t the lack of evil actually mean there’s some huge, giant evil out there, evil powerful enough to - I dunno, cloak itself and all other evil or something?”
Bobby drops into a chair and leans back, stroking his beard. “I ain’t ever heard of such a thing,” he says after some consideration. “Doesn’t mean it’s not possible, I guess.”
“Well, let’s get on it, then!” Dean grabs the nearest dusty old book, plops himself down on the couch and sets his heels on the coffee table. Bobby and Sam are just staring at him. “What are you waiting for? Come on, chop chop!”
“That book’s in Sumerian,” Sam points out.
Dean glances at the cover. He doesn’t know from Sumerian, but it’s definitely not English.
“Also it’s kind of…porn,” Bobby says after a pause.
“Porn?” Dean and Sam repeat in disbelief.
“What, you think Larry Flynt invented porn?” Bobby scoffs. “Those Sumerians got up to stuff’d make Ron Jeremy cry.”
Dean flips through the pages, hoping to find some kinky drawings or something, but the book’s filled with nothing but weird letters. “Well, their porn sucks.”
“Who’s Larry Flynt?” Sam asks.
Thursday
Dean’s awakened by the sound of Sam bellowing in pain; he’s out of bed and down the stairs like a shot, gun in hand. Of course he’s worried about Sam and already planning sixteen ways to get out of the house if they need to, but some teeny tiny part of his mind is utterly gleeful that evil’s back in town and all is right with the world.
Sam’s got his hand stuck under the running faucet, chanting, “Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow,” while Bobby’s complaining, “Well, what’d you expect, not usin’ a potholder?”
“I didn’t know it was hot!” Sam defends himself, pulling his hand out of the water and examining it closely. He catches sight of his brother. “What, you gonna shoot the pancakes?”
“Pancakes?” Dean repeats, not firing on all cylinders yet despite the adrenaline rush.
“Your moron brother don’t know how to use cast iron,” Bobby sighs, going over to look at Sam’s hand himself. “I figured he’d know that iron conducts heat, since he went to college and all.”
“Most the skillets I’ve used have plastic handles,” Sam grouses a little sulkily. “If you had a normal skillet - “
“That skillet’s older’n me, and it beats the shit outta any of that non-stick crap they sell at the dime store,” Bobby informs them. “Also useful to have as much cold iron as possible lyin’ around the house.” He gives Sam his hand back. “I don’t think it’s gonna blister, but keep an eye on it.”
Dean looks at Sam, then at Bobby, then back at Sam. “What?” Sam says.
“I thought - I thought we were being attacked or something.” Dean only sorta feels like an idiot; charging downstairs in his underwear is a perfectly normal reaction to hearing Sam screeching. Normal if your last name is Winchester, anyway.
“Nope.” Sam shakes his head, still examining his hand like a burn’s the worst thing to ever happen to him. “We are still in a green zone.”
Dean glares at the room at large. “This is bullshit, you know that, right?”
“Yep.” Bobby’s placid acceptance doesn’t do anything to make Dean more at ease with situation. “So how many pancakes you want?”
Sam suddenly narrows his eyes at Dean. “Why are you wearing a Backstreet Boys t-shirt?”
Dean looks down and kicks himself mentally. Usually he wears it inside out. “It got mixed in with my clothes at some laundromat!” he says, defensive. “It’s a perfectly good t-shirt! Heavy-duty cotton and hasn’t shrunk at all!”
Sam raises an eyebrow and nods condescendingly, if such a thing is possible. Dean just rolls his eyes, heads upstairs to take a shower, and ignores the sound of Sam singing “Bye bye bye bye bye” under his breath.
Friday
“Hey, look what I found!” Sam sounds so pleased that Dean’s sure a demon’s popped up on the radar. Finally.
But Sam’s holding a dusty old cardboard box with wires spilling over the top. He’s grinning like an idiot as he carries over in front of the TV [still a giant clunky console thing in a fake wood cabinet that’s as tall as a ten-year-old; Bobby really needs to get with the 21st century], sits down on the floor, and pulls out a big square…something.
“What the hell is that?” Against his better judgment, Dean goes over to see. “Wait, is that - “
“Our old Atari 2600? Yes it is!” Sam’s practically beaming. “Look, Fun With Numbers!”
“Could you actually be a bigger nerd? Cause I don’t think so.” Dean sits down next to his brother. “Hey, Asteriods! Damn, I was really good at that.” He studies the cartridge fondly. “Wow, that brings back memories.”
“And good ones, for once,” Sam mutters, and after a minute, Dean decides to ignore it.
“Hey Bobby, I didn’t know you kept this!” Dean hollers.
“Kept what?” Bobby comes into the room with a book in his hands and a pencil stuck behind his ear. “Oh Lord, you two are gonna be worthless for the rest of the day, aren’t you?”
“What else are we supposed to do?” Sam asks. “We’ve gone through all of the books in English - like we know what we’re looking for anyway - no-one’s answered my emails, we’re waiting on, like, fifty people to call us back and I’m pretty sure we all know what they’re going to say when they do - “
“ - we’ve cleaned every gun we all own, and I can only work on the Impala so long,” Dean pipes up, earning himself twin stares of disbelief. “What? I have other hobbies.”
“Name one.” Bobby’s frankly skeptical.
“Porn is not a hobby,” Sam adds as he’s untangling cords and plugging joysticks into the console.
“I could have hobbies!” Dean protests. “If I had any, you know, free time.”
Bobby snorts. “Sure you could.” He watches Sam a minute, an unfamiliar grin on his face; it takes Dean a second to place Bobby’s expression as nostalgia. “Gotta say though, that thing was the best investment I ever made for keepin’ you little rugrats outta my hair.”
Sam’s moved on to plugging the console into the TV. “I hope it still works.”
“You know, you could ring up your angel buddy and ask him to check into this whole lack of evil thing,” Bobby suggests.
Dean and Sam both freeze, exchanging vaguely panicked glances. “We shouldn’t be imposing on Castiel all the time,” Sam says in a rush. “I mean, he’s practically omnipotent and all - ”
“Yeah, he’s probably got other things on his mind,” Dean agrees. “It’s not like he’s our secretary - “
“ - he’s probably busy with angel stuff,” Sam finishes.
“Angel stuff.” Bobby’s got that nostalgic look on his face again, and Dean’s not sure why. “I suppose you think I’m gonna order in pizza and Mountain Dew for you.”
Sam makes a face. “Bobby, really, it’s not like we’re kids anymore.”
Silence.
“You could, though,” Dean says hopefully. “I mean, so we wouldn’t have to cook dinner and wash dishes and all that.”
Bobby laughs, shaking his head. “That TV takes a solid twenty minutes to warm up,” he advises. “Pizza oughta be here by then.”
“Just in time for me to kick your ass at Pac-Man!” Sam crows, waving the cartridge around.
Dean punches his brother in the shoulder. “On what planet could you ever kick my ass at Pac-Man ?”
Saturday
“Cas!” Dean bellows at the ceiling. “Cas, come on! You have to know what’s going on- care to flutter down here and share it?”
Six days of no evil. Six days of no demons to be fought, no guns fired except at bottles, no punches thrown, no omens, no nothing and Dean’s starting get a little twitchy. He can’t take this much longer; his skin feels like it’s on too tight and he’s jumping at every little noise, wound tighter than piano wire and absolutely positive that someone, somewhere is planning some sort of major attack, and he has no idea what’s coming or when. He couldn’t even focus enough to pick up the hot waitress at the bar they went to last night, and that’s just unacceptable.
Okay, maybe more than “a little twitchy”.
“Cas!” he yells again, more insistently.
“Yes, Dean?”
He hates that creeper thing Castiel does, but he’s willing to let it slide this time. “So you know what’s up, right?”
Castiel blinks slowly, glances towards the ceiling.
“With the whole lack-of-evil problem,” Dean clarifies before this can turn into a whole thing.
“I’m not certain how lack-of-evil is a problem,” Cas muses.
“Is it a djinn? It’s a djinn, right?” Dean paces the living room, not that it helps burn off his nervous energy.
Castiel ponders. “I sense no djinn energy here,” he says at last. “Dean, perhaps you could explain why you’re so agitated?”
“He hasn’t gotten to kill anything in six days,” Sam answers as he comes into the room. He’s carrying a metal bowl and mixing something. “I mean, neither have I, but you don’t see me freaking out about it.”
“Excuse me if I don’t think learning to make cupcakes is an appropriate reaction to six whole days of literally no evil anywhere,” Dean snaps.
“Okay, then you don’t get any of the next batch,” Sam retorts.
“Hey!”
“What do you mean, ‘no evil anywhere’?” There’s a small frown on Castiel’s face. “There’s no such thing as ‘no evil anywhere’, not since Cain slew Abel and released every wicked thing into the world - “
Dean throws his hands into the air. “My point exactly! And yet - “
“And yet what?” Castiel asks after a very long, very awkward silence.
“And yet there is no evil anywhere,” Sam finishes. “It’s not just us, Cas. There are no omens, no weird deaths, and every other hunter is finding the same thing -“
“A whole lot of nothing.” Dean’s growing more exasperated by the second. “So what, has Lucifer recalled all his little pets home for a family reunion or something? Is there something super-huge and super-evil cloaking itself and all the baby evils?”
“Oh, now you’re down with the super-evil cloak of evil - “ Sam butts in, but Cas is staring at them both like they’re dumber than twelve bags of hammers.
“What is that look for?” Dean is almost grinding his teeth together.
Cas gives a long-suffering sigh. “I am disappointed in the both of you,” he says, and Dean’s reminded of a teacher he had in elementary school. “And you as well, Bobby,” he adds as Bobby wanders into the room. “You have dealt with my brother long enough to be able to spot his work when you experience it.”
“Your brother?” Sam’s frowning.
“Cas, you have a lot of goddamn brothers!” Dean barks.
“Gabriel?” Bobby’s dumbstruck.
“Wait, you’re saying that Gabriel’s still playing around with that Trickster crap?” Sam looks - offended. “He’s an Archangel. We know he’s an Archangel. What would be the point?”
“What was ever Gabriel’s point in toying with you?” Castiel wants to know.
“Is that rhetorical?” Bobby asks when Cas doesn’t answer his own question.
Cas heaves a sigh even heavier than the last one. “Gabriel has a very low boredom threshold,” he replies, “always has - “
“And a looming apocalypse isn’t enough to keep him from not being bored?” Dean’s gone from exasperated directly to pissed off.
“Gabriel has a very low boredom threshold, “ Castiel repeats meaningfully, “and a great deal of power. Stopping evil for what is, to an Archangel, a blink of an eye, would be no great task.”
“He’s actually stopped evil?” Sam now looks kind of impressed, and Dean can’t blame him, but he doesn’t have to show it, hell, he’s got some pride.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sam, he’s not that powerful.” There’s that elementary-school-teacher look again. “Most likely he’s simply contained it in a separate pocket of reality, so that it can not affect your world, and vice versa.”
“Well, shit,” Bobby says with heartfelt disgust. “So has he trapped thousands of helpless people in the same reality pocket as evil? When he decides to let us out, is the whole earth gonna be swamped with dead bodies and demon attacks we’re gonna have to tend to?”
“I assume that would defeat his purpose -“
“Cas,” Dean sputters, “I can’t believe that your jerkass brother, no matter how big of a jerkass he is, and he is a huge jerkass, by the way, has done all this just to .. just to…”
“Just to… fuck with you? Is that the correct term?” Castiel’s face is deadly serious. “No, I suspect his intention was much more - thoughtful.”
“Okay, I’m more likely to buy that he’s just a huge jerkass.” Sam glares at Castiel, who is blithely unfazed.
“How is keeping us out of the game for six days ‘thoughtful’?” Dean’s back to pacing, and he’s added in some arm-waving. “Cause I have really had it with Gabriel’s bullshit, I don’t care how low his damn ‘boredom threshold’ is.” He is pissed, if he’s using air quotes, and he unmistakably just did.
“If I had to guess,” Castiel says slowly, “I would think that he is giving you time to rest, before the true battles begin.”
Dean feels like he just got punched in the face. “What?”
“The upcoming days will be the most difficult times you have ever faced,” like they need to be reminded, “and Gabriel has very clearly stated his desire for the fighting to end?” Castiel waits until all three men have nodded. “He cannot, of course, have that, but he can provide you with the opportunity to recover your strength fully and gird yourself for what lies ahead.”
“Huh.” Sam shakes his head sharply like it’s full of bees. “That is almost thoughtful.”
“Although I could be wrong,” Castiel says. “Gabriel does, as you say, have his jerkass tendencies.”
“So how do we get back to normal?” Dean wants to stamp his feet in frustration. “I mean, he can’t keep this up forever -can he?” And what if he could? Wouldn’t that just solve everything, tie it up in a nice neat bloodless bow? “Has he got some stupid trick we need to perform or something?”
“It would seem likely,” Castiel admits. “He is very fond of his games.”
“And he does like to make us look like idiots,” Sam adds, stirring the cupcake batter with unwonted hostility.
“So you’ve got no idea how we bust out of this ‘pocket of reality’?” Dean’s really got to get control of the airquotes.
“I’m afraid not,” Castiel says, and he comes close to sounding sorry. “Knowing Gabriel, it’s likely something very simple and obvious, but too simple and obvious to be considered a serious solution.”
“What does that even mean?!” Dean is yelling now and it feels pretty good. He hasn’t gotten to seriously yell at someone in a couple of days.
“As I said, I don’t know,” Castiel repeats, a hint of impatience in his tone. “Now I must go. In case you’ve forgotten, an apocalypse looms nigh, and some of us are quite busy.”
Of course he vanishes without letting Dean get in another word, which doesn’t stop Dean from shouting, “You don’t have to brag about it!”
Sunday
They have tried
Reading the Song of Solomon aloud like it’s a play, voices and all
Doing the Hokey-Pokey
Braiding Sam’s hair (and Dean doesn’t want to know why Bobby had all those barrettes lying around)
Loudly praising Gabriel’s hair and amazing sexual prowess
Not swearing for the entire day, which lasted about thirty minutes before Dean snapped and yelled, “Fuck that guy, seriously!”
Shouting “Rumplestiltskin”
Loudly mocking Gabriel’s hair and pathetic sexual prowess
plus like fifty other things too humiliating for Dean to ever, ever admit he’s done, and it’s all just a big zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Not even the hint of a pinfeather flapping in the breeze.
“This is totally pointless,” Dean declares, flopping onto the couch. “How are we supposed to be able to figure this out?”
“He can’t keep it up forever,” Sam reminds him. “If nothing else, one of his bigger, less douchebag brothers will realize what he’s doing, and then - “
“What less douchebag brothers?” Dean glares at his own, occasional douchebag brother. “They’re all pretty much total douches, Sam. Especially the ones bigger than Gabriel.”
“Okay, the brothers more interested in keeping the apocalypse going - “
“You mean the ones who want to ride us at the end-of-the-world rodeo?”
“All I’m saying is - “
“I swear, I’m about to whip out some evil on the both of you if you don’t shut up,” Bobby’s been sitting in a chair reading a book for the last half an hour- fairy tales or some pointless shit. “I think I’ve got something here.”
Dean and Sam look at Bobby expectantly; Bobby’s face is resigned, which on the one hand, makes Dean think he’s probably got something good, but on the other hand, means they’re probably not going to like it.
“Well?” Sam’s almost tapping his foot.
“Well,” Bobby says reluctantly, “we ain’t tried asking.”
Dean exchanges a confused look with his brother. “Asking? Asking what?”
“Asking Gabriel to put things back to rights.”
“Asking?” Sam actually appears to be taking the suggestion seriously, what the hell.
“Yes, asking,” Bobby repeats, a little testily. “Look, Cas said to try something so simple and obvious that we wouldn’t think could really be the solution, right? What’s more simple and obvious than just asking for something you want?”
Sam glances at Dean. “He’s got a point.”
Dean looks at Bobby, then at Sam, then back at Bobby again. “You can’t be serious. Since when has asking Gabriel for anything ever gotten us anything but more endless bullshit?”
“Since when have we ever asked Gabriel nicely?” Sam points out.
“Nicely?” Dean can't believe what he's hearing. “So now we have to be nice to the son-of-a-bitch who trapped us here in the first place? The same son-of-a-bitch who killed me about a million times and made you think -“
“Look, I don’t like the idea any more than you do!” Sam interrupts. “But Bobby’s right, Dean. This fits. And in lots of old legends, it is something just this simple that breaks the spell or whatever - it’s worth a shot, right? It’s not like it makes us Gabriel’s buddies or anything.” He narrows his eyes at Dean. “Unless you want to stay here inside this little evil-free bubble until Zachariah or someone brings it all crashing down? Cause I don’t think that’s gonna be more pleasant than being nice to Gabriel for a couple of minutes.”
Dean’s brain is throbbing inside his skull like it’s trying to escape; he really doesn’t like Gabriel, and he really, really doesn’t want to have to be nice to that asshole, even for a couple of minutes. But Sam is right, dammit. If Zachariah busts them out of here, it’s sure not gonna be pretty, and if Gabriel is actually trying to give them time to regroup - which Dean doubts, because what the blue blazing hell - he’ll at least want to let them out in a slightly more peaceful manner. Right?
“Fine,” Dean seethes. “We’ll …ask nicely.”
They’re all silent for a moment, then Bobby clears his throat and says, “Um…Gabriel? We’d sure appreciate it if you’d, y’know, let us out of this little reality pocket you created?”
“Yeah,” Sam jumps in, like a total suck-up. “It’s be a nice restful week and all, but we really should get back to work. So - if you’d just let us back into the world, that’d be…uh…great. Please.”
Dean’s clenching his jaw so hard his eyes hurt. He can’t do it, he can’t, he can’t seriously fuck that guy and all his shithead brothers -
“Dean!” Sam hisses. “It’s not going to work if we don’t all ask!”
“Fine,” Dean grinds out. “Gabrielwillyouletusoutofthisrealitypocket.” He takes a deep breath, feeling like an asshole, and adds, “Please.”
“Well, what do ya know about that?” And there is the raging asshole in question, smirking like a nuclear sunrise and clapping sarcastically - is that even a thing? “Lost a bet, by the way - I was positive it’d take you another week at least to even come close to figuring it out! Good job!”
Dean reminds himself it would destroy the temporary truce they’ve got going if he were to leap at Gabriel and throttle him to the ground, so he says nothing, only glares.
“What, you aren’t going to thank me?” Gabriel and smirk seem to go together like peanut butter and jelly.
“Thank you?” When you are Dean Winchester and you haven’t gotten to gank a single goddamn thing in six days, your temper is very angry dog on a very short leash. “For keeping us from doing our job?”
“For giving us time to not have to do our job,” Sam leaps in, being overly-familiar with the signs of a Dean-nuke-the-site-from-orbit meltdown. “And it’s been great, it has - “
“….buuuut?” Gabriel arches one eyebrow, and if Dean makes it through this without stabbing the son-of-a-bitch, it’ll be a fuckin’ miracle.
“…just maybe…it’d have been a little more relaxing if we…uh…had known it was supposed to be a break, and not…uh…spending six days freaking out about why there was no evil.” Sam looks at a spot over Gabriel’s left shoulder instead of looking at him square on; he’s almost squirming, Dean can see it if no-one else can.
“Well, I wouldn’t have wanted you to lose your edge, would I?” Gabriel beams, and it’s almost a literal beam; Dean swears he can see little sparkles and flickers of heavenly light or some shit emanating from Gabriel’s stupid, stupid hair. “Also it’s not like you would have agreed to it, if I’d’ve told you I was going to lock you up away from evil, is it?”
“So are you going to reverse this or what?” Dean can’t take it anymore.
“My my my my my my my,” Gabriel purses up his lips and clucks his tongue. “That eager to have your pert little asses thrown back into the ring of fire?”
Sam can’t repress a snort, although he does at least try; Dean reminds himself to smack Sam later for being so fixated on that stupid movie about the lost little clownfish.
“Look, I’m sure your intentions were…” Bobby casts about for a word, “…well, I’m not gonna say ‘pure’, so let’s go with ..uh…’good’, but - “
“..the road to hell and all that,” Dean spits out, and doesn’t appreciate it at all when everyone in the room throws him a surprised look. “What?”
“Anyway,” Bobby goes on, “we’re nice and rested up now, and so is every other hunter in the Western hemisphere, so we’d really appreciate it if you could, y’know - “
“- pop the lid back off Pandora’s box?” Gabriel finishes. “Ah, Pandora. She gets a bad rap, you know. She was totally tricked into opening that, of course, thought it was nothing but a gift from Zeus - but seriously, what a rack on her - “
Dean hears a frustrated growl and is almost surprised (almost) to realize it’s coming from his own throat.
“Yeah,” Sam says, a bit apologetically. “He’s…out of sorts.”
“Well, you did guess the secret words,” Gabriel allows, infuriatingly magnanimous. “And I do smell some delicious peanut-butter chocolate cupcakes - “
“They’re all yours,” Bobby assures him, although Sam looks a little outraged. “Believe me, I ain’t really eager to get this apocalypse on the road, but it ain’t like we can avoid it forever, so…”
“So all right,” Gabriel says. “There ya go. Reality filters are all gone, and you psychos can get on with carrying out your deathwishes now.”
Dean blinks. “What, that’s it?”
Gabriel’s wandering towards the kitchen. “You expected some sort of fireworks? Maybe evil to start kicking in the door? Come on, give me some credit for subtlety.”
“Right.” Oh, there’s a useful Sam bitchface, the one that means he’s going to kick any ass that crosses him in the next twenty minutes. “Cause that’s the first thing that leaps to mind when we think of you - subtle.”
Every phone in Bobby’s house starts to ring off the wall; simultaneously, there’s a mindless, earth-shaking roar outside. When Dean peers out the window, there’s an honest-to-fuck basilik standing on top of a burned-out Studebaker.
“Shit!” Sam yelps; he’s looking out a window on the other side of the house. “Is that a Chupacabra?!”
From the kitchen, Gabriel complains, “Hey, fucker, these aren’t even iced!”