Fic: Best Taken 10 Days Prior
Title: Best Taken Ten Days Prior
Author: Kally
Pairing: Sam/Dean, voyeur!Gabriel, annoyed!Castiel
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Crack!fic
Disclaimer: You test my sanity time and time again with this crap - THEY ARE NOT MINE AND THEY NEVER WILL BE. But given the opportunity, I am not above playing with them while no one is looking.
Warnings: Incest/Slash (Seriously, you're in this fandom and you consider this a warning? Seriously?), references to underage sex, attempted non-con bdsm, Voyeurism, Misuse of over-the-counter drugs, general wackyness with 4 quartz of angst, and Dean-humiliation at it's finest hour. And probably a whole lot more, I'll try and remember to add them all as I go along!
Spoilers: Everything up to 5x22
Authors Notes: In this I am assuming we've gotten past the whole Sam-is-alive, and that the brothers have hugged it out by now. Oh, and Gabriel has been resurrected. (Look it's gonna be awhile before we get a hint of what Season Six brings us ok? Go with it.)
Dedicated as always to my favorite Sammy-Lites: stangerine88 and elise_509 . And my deepest apologies for being AWOL, here is my gift to you as a make-up present.
[Black Screen - a boring classical symphony begins. The Screen opens to an opulent and stuffy library and the words "Tricked-Out Theatre" appear for five seconds on screen before dissolving. The camera pans over rows and rows of books that no one in their right mind would read, before stopping and focusing slowly on Gabriel in a tweed suit, hair combed back, and a fake pipe, flipping through a large leather bound text.
He looks up as if just noticing the camera, removes his pipe, and smirks.]
"Good evening. Welcome to Tricked-Out Theatre. Ok, everybody gather round, because I have one sweet treat for all of you folks in the Trickster business: the best and most original Winchester tale ever. I know, hard to believe considering this tale surprisingly has no body count - and by all rights it should have.
"But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"Now, kiddos, I've made a living as a trickster for longer than any of you can count. And you better believe this story tops all of my pranks, and not just because I'm the one that inspired it.
"How many of you are familiar with a pair of brothers who hunt demons? Can you guess who I'm referring to? I'll give you a hint, one's a pie-eating cry-baby with freckles - everywhere - and daddy issues, who clearly overcompensates and has seen the inside of more VD clinics than the milkman, the other is a demon blood whore, two inches away from being a diagnosed *giant,* that rocks the innocent puppy dog look with disturbing ease, and has an ass that's bullet-proof... *Ahem* Anyways - Oh! And they're the morons who were duped into starting the apocalypse.
"That's right children - the Brothers Grimm. Except, they're not writing the tales so much as they are living them. Eh, details...
"Before we began our tale, I should tell you that being a dick is genetic when you're a Winchester. Dean is a dick. However, when provoked long enough, Sam is a bigger dick. Dean really should have seen this one coming.
"It all started with a class two hunt job: your run-of-the-mill poltergeist. Sam, ever the good wife, is lovingly tending to Dean's wounds with such care..."
*****
"Would you hold still-"
"Ow! Motherf-"
"-and quit whining!"
"Lucky I can't get up off this bed, Bitch."
"Oh, let me get the crutches for you, Jerk."
"All we have for stitches is the lint out of our pockets, Sam, so I'd really love to see how you're gonna magically whip up a pair of crutches."
"It was your turn to stock up supplies, genius."
"And I'm paying for it! In blood! No Demerol, no ice," Dean shook the woefully inadequate damp cloth used in place of an ice bag for emphasis, "We had to pick the one motel with a broken ice machine. Christ, not even a fifth of Jack to help me ride out your Bitchface number 9: I have to do everything around here!"
"You do remember you're the one who raised me," Sam says with a raised eyebrow
Dean's expression is a cross between annoyed and duh, "What's that got to do with the remarkable number of bitchfaces you can make?" Dean snorted, throwing his hands up as if to say, 'where did I go wrong,' before continuing his tirade.
"I mean, who could forget with the amount of diapers you went through, and your copy-cat phase; man, I taught you everything-" and stopped at Sam's smile before realizing what he just walked into, "Oh, hell no!"
"Yeah, so babies learn everything from their caregivers, walking, talking, facial expressions...."
"Bullshit, you learned that shit from me planting you in front of Lifetime so I could go to bathroom alone."
"Oh right, your bubble bath phase."
"I *never* took those!"
"My ninja turtle bottle Dad got me for Christmas? Ring a bell?"
"Yeah, figures you liked the one in purple. And I hid it from you to get you back for stealing my army men. We still can't get the Lieutenant free from the ash tray."
"And smelling like bubblegum for two months, pure coincidence." Sam said smirking
"Did not." Dean muttered, childishly crossing his good arm over his chest and setting his jaw - Sam pouted, he manfully thrust his chin out - damn brat and his stupid lawyer schooling...
"All that time taking bubble baths when you could have been teaching me to be a man," Sam shook his head ruefully.
"I taught you plenty when you turned sixteen," Dean leered, but his swollen eyes and fat lip kinda ruined the effect. "I shoulda been teaching you how to respect your older brother."
"You could teach me by example now, like shutting it and. holding. still. I almost FUBAR'ed my favorite jacket to keep your pampered ass comfortable," Sam muttered, face screwing into bitchface 14: I bust my ass to keep you happy, and do I get a single thank you? Nooooo.
Dean's eyes turned glacial as he trained them on Sam, "You talking about before or after I nearly lost two pints of blood before you decided I was worth it?"
I've got another jacket in the car, I'm just gonna -
Jesus Christ, are you lit? The car's ten blocks from here! Gimme the freakin jacket!
You can wait two damn minutes while I get the other one!
You are not the one bleeding here, Sam! Quit being a selfish shit and gimme the fuckin' jacket.
Sam huffed, "You were not bleeding to death, I would've-"
"We're not talking about the last bowl of Lucky Charms, Sam. What do you want me to think?"
"Better of me!" Sam snapped, pacing towards the window.
Dean leveled him with a why-should-I look, "You walk back into my life, spewing your crap about brotherhood after everything that's happened, and this-" Dean snatched up the jacket, shaking it, "-piece of shit jacket is more important?!"
It was a stupid childish impulsive move, but Dean is allowed one after forty years in the pit and almost another forty years on earth being dicked around by angels. It takes it's toll. Every lie and visciously laid punch, physical and verbal, he and Sam had thrown at each other was flashing through his head, momentarily overwhelming the physical pain and exhaustion. With complete clarity and calm, he took his belt knife to the dingy threadbare jacket.
Horrified, Sam leaped from his spot near the window, "DEAN! WHAT THE- STOP!"
Several times Sam attempted to grab his jacket from Dean's hands, each time Dean lifted his injured leg between them, knowing Sam wouldn't risk further aggravating his injuries.
Sam gave up after the first major slices, but still unable to tear his eyes from the scene, helpless to watch as the cherished jacket was coldly destroyed.
Only when it was little more than shredded ribbons, did Dean quit, before tossing the shreds back to Sam.
//Now it's FUBAR,// Dean noted with dark satisfaction.
Eyes misting over, Sam gingerly held the remains of his jacket like a dead baby.
Dean felt a twinge of guilt before ruthlessly squashing it, his ire instead rising another ten degrees. "-cry like a fuckin' woman. It's a jacket, Samantha."
Without a word Sam rose shakily, grabbing for his wallet and keys to the Impala, and stumbling out the door. In 35 degree weather with no jacket.
Dean was not feeling an ounce of guilt.
Not at all.
He was the one that had a right to be hurt, he never would have picked a jacket over Sam.
Screw Sam, let him act like a girl.
******
Sam's tears have still not fallen, and he's in the car when Gabriel appears in the passenger seat, "Dean's time of the month?"
Sam very carefully does not move a muscle or react.
"What can I do for you?" He breathes out, proud that he can still manage a steady voice.
"Oh, formal are we? Huh, Ok, I guess it's true that menstrual cycles work in tandem when two women live together for so long."
"Is there anything I can help you with?" Sam continued in a monotonous tone.
"Wow," Gabriel snerked, "Two hours in a cage with Lucifer and you're already milking the titty of angst for all it's worth."
Fuck it.
Sam turned to glare at Gabriel, "Gabriel, if you're here on business, then get to it. Otherwise, get your feathered ass out of this car. I'm not in the mood to deal with you."
Gabriel affected an amused look, but the flash of gold hinted at his annoyance with Sam's belligerence, "Do I have to remind you that Saturn's fart cloud holds more interest to Heaven than you or your brother? You don't have that card anymore, Winchester, and it didn't much matter to me when you did."
Sam clenched his jaw and refused to break his gaze.
"So," Gabriel's tone brightened, "How about we start this conversation again?"
Sam drew his knife, slitting open his hand without one crack to his stony visage, before looking Gabriel dead in the eyes, "How about not. Your favorite Enochian symbol is carved several times over in this car. Think you can find 'em all before I slap one and send your sorry ass back to Bible Camp?"
Gabriel's eyes flashed gold again, before emitting a suffering sigh, "Fine! Yakko Wacko and Dot, you're even pissier than ever," Gabriel grumbled before tilting his head and looking at Sam in something akin to surprise, "And Dean didn't kill you for graffiting his mechanical love doll?"
At Sam's unamused look, he continued, "Look kid, it's hormones. When men's hormones are doing the macarena, they turn into cavemen. Understandably that's not something you'll ever get to experience, but in any case, allow me to clarify a little more."
Bright yellow captions appeared on the windshield, while cheesy background music you only heard in the 60's "educational" reels they forced you to watch in junior high played in the background.
"The criteria of symptoms for the over-production of testosterone in men are as follows:
1. Exaggerated or extreme behavior
Normal people are understandably upset when their vehicles are impounded. Vehicles are an expensive and necessary convenience in a capitalist society. They yell obscenities, pay the fines, or boost another car if they can't - life goes on. Dean had a full blown panic attack when Bela Talbot had the Impala towed and almost went for his glock before thinking better of it.
He also destroyed something very precious to him over his jealousy issues.
Check.
2. Troubled relationships, broken marriages and strained relationships with children
This one barely touched the tip of the iceberg when it came to a relationship with Dean. Other than Cassie and now Lisa, Dean never held on to anything long enough to be even remotely compared to a relationship. As for him, Dean was very much his parent growing up, so he guessed in a way he counted for two out of three. Their relationship was strained before leaving for Stanford - the easiest level of their relationship since - it's been bent and broken on and off for the last two years.
And as for John, for the last year Dean hasn't said his name, so much as he's spat it.
Bobby's taken to calling him first instead of Dean.
Check.
3. May smoke or drink more than men with lesser amounts of testosterone
Nah, too easy.
4. Engage in fights and combative behavior and participate in risky undertakings
OK, by any normal person's standards both of them engaged in outright insane undertakings, daily. But Dean had taken to dare-deviling long before his balls dropped, so not the hormones.
Hey, two out of four wasn't bad.
5. Tendency to commit acts of unfaithfulness and to mistreat their partners or spouses
He couldn't....technically...say either one was unfaithful.
They had agreed to seeing other people on the side, it was Dean's idea.
Actually, it was Dean's decision.
Sam, still feeling guilty over the self-esteem and abandonment issues the shapeshifter had happily divulged to him about Dean, had acquiesced even though the crack in his heart ran deeper each time Dean went home with another person from the bar or the case they worked. After a while, he just got used to it.
Once in a while though, Sam went home with a nice girl, ignoring the cold shoulder treatment Dean gave him the next morning. At some point, it just stopped registering.
It was subtle.
Before he knew it, he was well trained to come up with excuses and apologies for something he was told to do, things Dean did himself. He came up with excuses for why he wasn't good enough to commit to, why Dean's "sin" of incest wasn't as great as his, why it was ok for Dean to hold the position of authority in their relationship.
Forget the simple shit. He wasn't allowed to pick the music. He couldn't take the bed closest to the door. He found the hunts, but Dean made the decision to take it. He made sure to wait until he could tell Dean he was going to the restroom before doing so.
And when his visions started...
The real tragedy?
It took a demon to get him to fully realize and finally leave a situation that was unhealthy for both of them, and an apocalypse to demand the right to be treated as an equal.
Check. Check. Check.
"Other physical and mental symptoms include:
"The Physical: Fatigue, aches and pain, hypoglycemia, headaches/migraines. The Mental: insomnia, nervousness, anxiety, stress, mood swings/depression. Take your pick," Gabriel said as the captions and music faded out and the windshield returned to normal, "And consider yourself lucky I just focused on hormones, if I'd a touched on the DSM we'd be here for the next two years, your time.
"He just needs a little balance, I mean, imagine what the world would be like for all you women if men were so balanced out, so Zen...Oh and by the way, your car's been scrubbed clean - you're not sending me anywhere," The Archangel's smile was predatory as he rested his arm on the bench and leaned foward just a bit, just enough to push the boundaries of personal space, but not quite invade it.
Just enough to intimidate.
"You and I need to chat kiddo. I think I have to go with Dean that your attitude towards your elders needs an adjustment. Hell, I let Lucifer gut me for your sake and I have yet to hear a thank you. Bad manners, Sammy."
Gabriel snapped his fingers and a thick leather strap appeared in his lap, before singsonging, "Somebody's earned themselves a spanking."
So, eight months ago, Sam's reaction at the idea of being treated like a child, again, would have been radically different. So many attempts from his brother to keep him from growing up, the attempts by god, the devil, Azazel, etc. to control his destiny - and his pride definitely took a bruising. Except he never considered his self esteem a priority over the apocalypse or people's lives on a hunt. He wasn't a priority.
And that was the problem.
Knowing Gabriel's creative methods for tormenting and serving 'lessons' on humans first hand, there was no mistaking that at least part of this really was meant to be a punishment - or at the very least a show of dominance. In spite of the righteous indignation in Gabriel's eyes (he's the fucking Archangel of Judgment!), they still held their customary mischief, and the waggle of his eyebrows made obvious the entirely different intent on top if it.
Sam blinked, "Are you disciplining me, or coming on to me?"
The sudden appearance of his porn mustache and (purple?! seriously?) puffy cuffs told him this was indeed Gabriel's psychotic version of coming on to him.
Still, he was 99% sure his opinion was not going to be taken all that seriously. Gabriel was an Archangel used to doing whatever he pleased, however he pleased, and not having to take into account those pesky little things like someone's consent, their feelings - consequences.
Before, Sam would have let his anger, hurt and shame over take him; before Dean's training kicked in and his final reaction would have been to just let it happen.
That was eight months ago.
With a scoff, he dug into his jean pocket, "Nah, not in the mood," and produced a folded note, face down.
"Oh, and by the way," Sam smugly mimicked Gabriel's singsong tone while pressing the note against Gabriel's chest, "You missed one."
Gabriel had just enough time to look down at the enochian symbol drawn on the outer fold of the note pinned to his chest with Sam's left hand - and Sam discovered that not only did archangels make bitchfaces, they made them simultaneously (Frigid Ice Queen, no wonder you're not getting laid! and I would so respect you in the morning) - before Sam slapped his bloody palm over it, and Gabriel was sucker-punched back to Heaven, ass first.
A short laugh burst from Sam, as he realized he had just outsmarted an Archangel. The Archangel of Judgment.
Then, he had a good cry.
*****
An hour later, Sam managed to get himself to the local market to stock up and headed to the pain killer aisle.
The last at the very end of a mile long store.
And why the fuck are the cigarettes and lighters conveniently so close to the entrance, when you have to drag yourself aaaaaall the way to the back for sanity-preserving medication, and oh! They all come with childproof safety bullshit, so if by some miracle you're still alive by the time you reach the pharmacy section (and don't forget you still have to figure out the aisle set-up), there's a great possibility you could still die before you get the bottle open!
Finally he reached that damned place, but not before picking himself up a thirteen-dollar organic jar of his most coveted guilty pleasure - with more fat and enamel eating chemicals than any other sweet in the word, more heart-attack inducing than five of Dean's beloved cheeseburgers - peanut butter.
Look, Dean likes broad shoulders and a strong back and arms. Sam likes his flat abs, thank you very much. (Ok and his bullet proof-ass, but) He also likes a healthy mouth, and that means you can't eat shit like cheeseburgers and a six pack at every meal and expect a washboard stomach and a dentist who doesn't frown at you like, "You're gonna be a HELL of a lot longer than a check-up visit, buddy."
Peanut butter had this allure, he's happily eaten it straight from the jar with his fingers alone, much to Dean's surprise.
He fucking deserved some today of all days.
Right now he could picture Dean sniggering over him digging into a tub of peanut butter after a fight with his boyfriend.
His mind was already bombarding him with every snide comment Dean's thrown at him over the past year and half: slamming him with Bobby's classic line of weeping into a tub of Häagen-Dazs. Calling him Samantha, accusing him of withholding sex like a girl, how he can't hold liquor, how he can't grow chest or facial hair. That he drinks girly drinks, or that maybe it's time he see an ob/gyn about his hormone and demon blood issues.
When Dean is the one fan-girling over Dr. Sexless when he thinks Sam isn't looking? He snorts aloud, because he sure as fuck never got talked into wearing a pink satin pair of panties. Or sang an REO Speedwagon song. Or shaved his crotch. Dean is the one that oughta be seeing someone about-
Oh.
OH!
Sam stood blinking for two minutes straight as his head finally made the connection.
And then, Sam had a plan.
******
Once in the car, he cracked open the bottle of over-the-counter meds, and set about painstakingly scraping off the identifying print on each white oblong pill. All 64 of them.
He double checked the back of the box to make sure the active ingredients could be safely mixed with ibuprofen before dumping them into an emptied bottle of men's one-a-day.
Then he enjoyed a big spoonful of his peanut butter.
******
He picks up a couple of burgers (extra onions), a bottle of Jack, and a whole pie (blueberry, Dean's favorite) before heading back; if this was gonna work, he was gonna have to offer the olive branch.
Pie almost always put Dean in a good mood- scratch that, it almost always put him in a susceptible mood when mixed with liquor.
Before he knew it he was parking the Impala outside the motel room. Here goes....
Shoulders slumped, kicked puppy dog look in place (not that he had to work a whole lot to fake this one), deep breath.
It was like walking into a room with no air, even the inside of his ears tightened.
Dean is still on the bed where he left him, wash cloth tossed aside, watching him without laying eyes on him.
The (once) jacket still on the floor.
Later...
Setting the dinner and grocery bags on the table, he digs out the still frozen ice bag first, wrapping it in a fresh hand towel before placing it on the dinner tray. He sets out the burger and pie, before popping open the ibuprofen and faux-vitamins and putting two of each on the tray beside the ice bag and finally taking it over to Dean.
"It's blueberry," Sam says softly, nodding to the pie, for lack of anything better to say. "Eat first, ok?"
"Yeah," Dean muttered. He recognizes the ibuprofen, but fingers the white pills, "What are these?"
Sam holds up the men's vitamin bottle in response, before tossing it to Dean, "Pharmacy was a mom and pop store, all I could find; but those should do the trick with the ibuprofen."
"Well thanks, Sam, but I think I'd be better off taking Cialis," Dean snorts, eyebrow raised in amusement, "What made you pick these up anyway?"
"The article said something about them having a high concentration of B12, they're supposed to dilate the arteries to clear up aches and pains faster."
"What article?"
Hook...
Sam shrugged, and intoned I don't know, "Us Weekly was talking about how television shows propoganda all these over-the-counters. This one-" Sam threw a hand in the general direction of the bottle, "-was promoted on Dr. Sexy for, like, weeks."
Line...
Dean harumphed, before turning to him, "Wait, you read Us Weekly?"
Sam gave a little shrug and affected an innocent 'What can I say?' smile.
Dean spared the bottle a glance, then looked at it again a moment later.
Sinker...
Oh sweet revenge.
*****
The vitamins rock.
Naturally, he felt no need to share this with his know-it-all little brother, but the stuff was great.
He didn't have as much gas or bloating after his burger with extra onions, or greasy diner food in general. His head wasn't hurting as much, or as often. He had a little more energy than usual, even after the hunts coupled with lack of sleep. Sam was less irritating with...well, Sam was just less irritating.
At one point he'd faced eight bitchfaces from Sam, and his customary whine over the music in the space of one hour - nada. He was totally Zen.
He ought to think about buying Sam a bottle.
Maybe...
A Zen state of mind made it much easier to focus on and enjoy the mini-meltdowns Sam had on a daily basis.
All in all, life just seemed a little more mellow.
*****
It's a little over three weeks later, and they're at Bobby's house recuperating, when the Fat Man weeps.
Dean's running low on his vitamins and it turns out Bobby's got a few of the exact same bottles in his kitchen, so Dean asks if he can take one. Bobby 0ffhandedly tells him, "Yeah, sure."
The Fat Man was tearing up....
He's opening the new bottle to put the remaining few he has left inside, "Man, too bad I didn't start taking these three years ago, stuff's amazing-" Dean blinks in confusion at the radically different pills in the bottle, "Wait these aren't the pills."
Bobby looks at him oddly before making his way to Dean, "What are you- Nah, those are them."
"No no no, look," Dean reached for his bottle, dumping out the last three and giving them to Bobby for inspection.
Fat Man's breath was hitching...
Dean meanwhile grabs Bobby's to compare them, making sure there wasn't one stupid word like 'complete' or '50+' that you always missed and end up buying something you were so not looking for. "Did they change the pill?"
Bobby huffed, "Dean I've taken them for the past two years, they haven't changed. Those are the pills. Where'd you get these?"
Dean turns a baleful and suspicious glare to a blushing and guilt-laden Sam.
Bobby follows Dean's gaze and looks to the younger Winchester in surprise, "Sam?"
The Fat Man weepeth.
"Yeah, so, I've been meaning to have this conversation with you about those vitamins-"
Dean takes a menacing step closer, "What the fuck have you been slipping me, Sam?"
Sam gives him his customary eye roll, "Relax, Dean. It's acetaminophen, you take it everyday without a problem,"
"A-cedar what?" He didn't feel drugged as much as he felt mellow, like when they visited that mental hospital - son of a bitch he was giving him mental pills!
"What is this, some looney med, you trying to drug me so you can handle me better?!" Dean's face turned a shade of purple previously unknown to man.
Worse, Sam's expression was scarily downtrodden at the prospect of a missed opportunity, "Aw man, I can't believe I didn't think of that-"
"SAM!"
"Acetaminophen. Tylonel, Dean, you've taken it a million times. Even I'm not that mean."
"Oh... well, why the hell did you try to pass it off as a vitamin?"
"Well because you needed something after the poltergeist, and I didn't think you'd take it if you knew it's exact brand-"
"Which is?" And here Dean shelled out Bitchface 23: You answer me right now, young man! Or so help me...
"Midol," Sam chirped, grining wide.
Time stops for a long moment, before Bobby quickly barrels outside the room and loses it, deep straight-from-the-gut maniacal laughter - and it wasn't going to stop any time soon.
He was going to tear his little brother apart. He was going to give his ridiculously prissy hair a patch job worse than any blind barber could shell out. He'd give him a brazilian wax and leave him looking like a girl for real, if it wasn't for the fact he practically lacked any pubic hair anyways.
Except his brain couldn't function past his looming fear of growing a pair boobs in order to execute said plans.
By this time, a chuckling Bobby managed to get himself under some control and back inside the room before Dean truly made himself the last Winchester on Earth.
"You're not gonna grow boobs, Dean," Sam snickered, and yes he totally said that outloud. "It's perfectly safe for men to take."
Sam whipped out his iPhone and googled the Midol website, "You think about it, it's made for things you go through everyday: cramps, bloating, backache, headache and fatigue. So, according to this, 'hormones are extremely sensitive-"
"HORMONES?!" He squeaked in outrage.
"-to diet - told you to eat a vegetable once in a while -, exercise - you haven't been laid for a month, also a zero -, and sleep pattern - eh, that's gonna be erratic anyways, so you get a freebie. You're a full time hunter, Dean, it's not like you have time to keep up a healthy lifestyle, a supplement is always a good idea.
"You're not irritable, snappish, headachy... you've got less gas!....Hormonal balance made the biggest difference in you."
Sam's upbeat cheery smile was too much. Dean's purple face got darker, while his balls retracted in humiliation. What did he do to deserve this?
"Sooooo.... Dean's on hormone replacement therapy?" Bobby helpfully chimed in.
*****
He sent him home.
With a note.
He sent him home with a damned note, like a disobedient child, and not a powerful Angel that could curse Sam with a vagina and PMS for the rest of his life.
Then trap him in a one room dimension to watch reruns of Veronica's Closet!
Commercial free.
With nothing but tasteless nutrition bars and tap water to survive on.
The little bastard sent him home, with a note, which Castiel read, and raised one eyebrow before cruelly ordering Gabriel to Gardening duty without permission to ingest any of the mint leaves he loved more than any sugar (something else he wasn't allowed to eat) in Heaven or Earth. He was not ashamed to admit he shed a tear or two. If that wasn't bad enough, he was also to attend a men's awareness group therapy when he returned to Earth.
Sam Winchester sent an Archangel of Judgment home with a note and got him busted.
And he suckered his brother into eating Midol on a regular basis.
Gabriel was officially in love.
*****
The first thing Sam felt (and totally saw coming, noting it was eight seconds behind it's usual delivery) was the crack of Dean's fist against his jaw as they took it outside Bobby's house.
"You got a set o' balls you, kid, waltzing right through the door expecting me to trust you. Telling me it's time to treat you like an adult, with respect, and you pull this stunt?! Man, you are a piece of work," Dean spit out as he roughly told hold of Sam's shirt, shaking him, "You give me one good reason why I don't throw you out on your lying demon-infected ass!"
"How 'bout the apple never falls far from the tree, jackhole!" Sam shot back, shoving off Dean's grip.
"What did you say to me?" Dean pitched forward, shoulders squared, fists curling at his sides again. Sam refused to back down.
"What the hell have you done to deserve my respect? You've never shown me respect, you don't even show respect to my property-"
Dean scoffed, "I knew it, this is over your stupid jacket."
"YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT IT'S ABOUT THE JACKET. It belonged to Jessica's dad, you son-of-a-bitch! That's all she had left of him and she trusted me with it, because I didn't have enough money to buy a decent jacket for the winter. She could have loaned me the money, but she gave me his jacket. I promised her I'd never let anything happen to it," Sam scoffed, eyes brimming with tears held back through sheer will power, "What a goddamned joke. Couldn't keep her alive. I was too chickenshit to salt and burn it, in case she ended up like Mom - turns out all I had to do was ask you, huh? Knew I could count on you, big brother."
Sam stepped up closer, jaw set, "I've said I'm sorry too many times to count; you can't even apologize for one jacket. And you know how much it hurt me Dean; don't even try bullshitting me. Jus-, *one* apolo- Forget it." Sam's voice cracked before taking off towards the direction of Bobby's junkyard.
The quiet was disrupted only by the jackhammering of Dean's heart.
What the...
He'd never seen Sam salvage anything from his ruined apartment with Jess, not that there was a whole lot. No pictures, jewelry, her favorite book, or clothing - nothing. Sam had mentioned Jess' father died in a house fire fourteen years before meeting Sam, no details.
Details like the fact that her father had wrapped a then five-year-old Jess in his favorite suede hunter green jacket before shoving her out the only fire-free window to safety. Too small for an adult to squeeze through.
They lost everything except for that jacket.
What Dean did know was the day of Jess' funeral, Sam had oddly offered Jess' mom his jacket (his only jacket) with her kindly refusing, laying her hand on Sam's before gently guiding it back into his arms with a sad smile and a kiss to his cheek.
It was November and cold, he'd just assumed...
It barely fit Sam, and was falling apart. Still, Sam refused to get rid of it, even now its remains were still in Sam's duffel.
His mind took him back to a four-year-old Sam begging John to let him keep his beloved Cotton - the stuffed puppy made out of wool. Even though both its ears and a hind leg were missing, Sam considered him his best friend (after Dean!). The child's loyalty knew no bounds as he carefully snuck out of the motel to dig his poor Cotton out of the trash can after John insisted on throwing him out. He managed to hide it so ridiculously well, three solid weeks, that John let him keep it as a reward for stealth and effort - that and, well, Sam had one hell of a grip on it and could still reach octaves that shattered glass.
That shoulda been his first clue.
And finally his mind decided to take him back to the time he gave Cassie his pendant for luck to wear for a job interview, the third most valuable possession right after Sam and the Impala - cause he sure as hell couldn't offer the first two. It was the Dean Winchester way of indirectly telling her he loved and trusted her; hell, it was close as he was ever come to offering her an engagement ring-
Dean's chest implodes.
He holds it together just long enough to stumble towards a bush before dinner makes a second appearance, and praying Bobby, *anybody,* knew a damn good tailor.
*****
He calls Gabriel.
Castiel isn't answering his pleas, eight tailor shops laughed him out the door today (and one threatened to call security), and although he's got quite a bit of damage to make up for, he thinks he can be excused from the option of making a deal with Crowley.
No doubt Sam would show his appreciation by using the newly restored jacket to strangle him.
One person left to call and going to Crowley is really looking lucrative in comparison.
So he calls Gabriel, who made him stew for ten minutes before 'gracing' him with his presence.
Who then, predictably, made verbal jabs at his sexual prowess, daddy issues, and general cowardice when it comes to Sam.
And Dean doesn't like the way Gabriel says his brother's name. Like he's savoring the taste of the most expensive swiss chocolates melting on his tongue.
Before he can call him on it, the Archangel decides to drive the knife further into Dean's heart by explaining, in great detail, the significance and value of the jacket he so heartlessly destroyed.
Dean, predictably, questions why he's so willing to fix Sam's jacket.
Gabriel is not stupid enough to tell him the events that transpired in the Impala three weeks ago, or that Castiel agreed to cut his sentence in half, if Gabriel fixes the jacket.
He instead tells Dean, he understands his position. He, too, has some things to atone for when it comes to Sam.
And that he has to tap dance while singing the Oscar Meyer weiner song. Twice. In a kilt. Smiling. While Gabriel captures it on his iPhone.
And so it was.
Gabriel snapped his fingers before disappearing, and Dean looked down to see the rags in his hands had morphed into a durable, supple, dark green suede material with one obivous stich on the left front pocket, which he guesses was there when Jess gave it to Sam.
He thinks he even smells a faint hint of gardenia.
He closes his eyes and girlishly holds the one object that can spark the resurrection of his relationship with Sam to his chest in utter relief.
Time to go home and tell Sam he was sorry. And he could admit, considering what he'd taken from Sam, popping Midol and singing in a kilt were pretty light penalties to pay.
It's another two weeks before Dean finds out Gabriel forwarded the video to Sam's phone.
*****
He finds Sam sleeping in the Impala, where he's been huddling in the back seat since last night, with the totally inadequate hoodie he picked up at a GoodWill. Coming in only to use the bathroom once and refusing to make eye contact with Dean.
Bobby respectfully did not interfere, but drew the line when Sam didn't even come in to eat. Bobby was not the type to go a-chasing-after, but he was not about to let Sam starve himself sick because of either boy's stubborness, and instead brought out beer and meals wrapped in foil on a paper plate.
Dean would have to remember to thank Bobby for that.
Wordlessly, he opens the back door.
Sam's hunter's instincts thrust him into awareness, only his not-quite-dead bond with Dean keeping him from reaching for his closest weapon and going for the kill shot before becoming fully conscious.
Then Dean drapes the jacket over him.
For almost three minutes, Sam just silently and reassuringly runs his hands over the suede material, before lovingly coming to a stop over the stitched pocket.
"I'm sorry, Sammy."
And he means it. It's not enough, but it's all he's got and he's giving it everything he's got. Doesn't even bother rubbing away the tears spilling from his green eyes.
Sam's look of complete awe and love tell him it's enough right now.
And then Sam's nodding his head, beckoning Dean to him. Dean wastes no time settling himself against Sam and wrapping his arms tightly around his brother's torso.
Their lips seal over one another in unspoken promises of atonement and mutual affirmation of their bond. A soul searing kiss that burns away the guilt, the doubt, the anger, the lies, until all that is left is their unyielding love for the other.
The healing has started, and this time, they would both see to it that it finished for good.
The End
In case your curious, here is what the note Sam wrote to Castiel read:
Dear Castiel,
This note is to inform you that the appointed Archangel of Judgment known as Gabriel, also known as the Trickster Loki, has abused his position of power to partake in humanly pleasures and other behaviours unbecoming an Angel of his station
He has twice abducted myself and my brother on the premise of imparting a valuable lesson, but instead subjected us to cruel and unsual punishment for his benefit and amusement.
He has, as of this night, committed sexual harrassment, acts of intimidation, physical abuse, and general mischief against my person.
I, Sam Winchester, in regards to my personal safety, and that of my brother Dean Winchester, request that Gabriel be compelled to maintain a distance of one dimension and/or an earth distance equivalant to the size of the state of Texas from any location we are currently residing.
Beat his sorry ass!!!!
See you Thursday,
Sam