I Dreamed a Fic. What?
They almost have Castiel agreeing to wear the pants they have when the porter walks by their window.
“See!” Castiel insists. “His duties are entirely ceremonial, yet she demands he dress in a Victorian style. Surely we, upon whom lives depend, must be held to a much higher standard?”
“Look,” says Dean, losing patience. “If we staple them a few times, they’ll hold out until we can get you to a Wal-Mart or something.” Sam privately knows that denim doesn’t staple, but he doesn’t say anything because they’re already going to be late.
They’re sneaking around outside the building when a flashlight beams waves aimlessly through the air above them. They crouch, relieved when it goes away. Until a window slides open.
“Hah! You sure are thorough! Glad you’re here.” It’s the owner, and she sounds pleased. Dean and Sam exchange a look, and Dean mutters something about “knew Cas was right about more black clothing,” and then they walk over, looking up at her leaning out to talk to them. Her hair is out of its bun, and she’s wearing an old-fashioned dressing gown to bed.
“I’ve got three to upgrade already, and I got rid of that dreadful couple. I swear, this is the best idea I’ve ever had!”
Frowns all around. “This is a con?” Dean asks.
She shoots them a puzzled (but still gleeful) look. “Well, of course. There’s no such thing as demons.”
Sam nods resignedly. “Ah.”
“You know, you two are great. You should take this on the road - I think I could get you more work, if you need it.” (Dean’s smile is grim, and she doesn’t catch on.) “Oh, but I think you ought to lose that Sam fellow, though. He’s dead weight.”
Dean chokes down a laugh. Next to him his brother clears his throat. “Actually,” he manages through gritted teeth, “I’m Sam.”
Castiel is trying to keep the few evening mass-goers inside. “No, you don’t understand,” he tries again. “It is not safe outside.”
“Sure,” one irritated young husband responds. “Because we might lose our souls, right? We get it.”
“Oh,” Castiel says, confused. “Yes. How did you know?”
“See!” Castiel insists. “His duties are entirely ceremonial, yet she demands he dress in a Victorian style. Surely we, upon whom lives depend, must be held to a much higher standard?”
“Look,” says Dean, losing patience. “If we staple them a few times, they’ll hold out until we can get you to a Wal-Mart or something.” Sam privately knows that denim doesn’t staple, but he doesn’t say anything because they’re already going to be late.
They’re sneaking around outside the building when a flashlight beams waves aimlessly through the air above them. They crouch, relieved when it goes away. Until a window slides open.
“Hah! You sure are thorough! Glad you’re here.” It’s the owner, and she sounds pleased. Dean and Sam exchange a look, and Dean mutters something about “knew Cas was right about more black clothing,” and then they walk over, looking up at her leaning out to talk to them. Her hair is out of its bun, and she’s wearing an old-fashioned dressing gown to bed.
“I’ve got three to upgrade already, and I got rid of that dreadful couple. I swear, this is the best idea I’ve ever had!”
Frowns all around. “This is a con?” Dean asks.
She shoots them a puzzled (but still gleeful) look. “Well, of course. There’s no such thing as demons.”
Sam nods resignedly. “Ah.”
“You know, you two are great. You should take this on the road - I think I could get you more work, if you need it.” (Dean’s smile is grim, and she doesn’t catch on.) “Oh, but I think you ought to lose that Sam fellow, though. He’s dead weight.”
Dean chokes down a laugh. Next to him his brother clears his throat. “Actually,” he manages through gritted teeth, “I’m Sam.”
Castiel is trying to keep the few evening mass-goers inside. “No, you don’t understand,” he tries again. “It is not safe outside.”
“Sure,” one irritated young husband responds. “Because we might lose our souls, right? We get it.”
“Oh,” Castiel says, confused. “Yes. How did you know?”