Fic: Once Upon A Time (or whatever that means)
Title: Once Upon A Time (or whatever that means).
Author: opheliahyde
Recipient: spn_summergen*
Rating: PG-13 for Language.
Warnings: Crack.
Author's Notes: For the prompt: Here's an apple: you eat it, your brother dies, you don't eat it, you die. Bonus point if you include Castiel in it. 2,800 words.
Summary: So, fairytales, huh? Yeah, I think so. Man, I hate fairytales.
* Mod note: Where the original recipient has withdrawn from the challenge, stories will be posted for the community as a whole.
Sam figures they should have guessed something was up when everyone they encountered in this town had a friendly smile just for them. But Sam was tired from the case they just closed and was not about to go suspecting the sweet, older waitress who brought Dean a free slice of key lime pie without any proof. She waved at them as they pulled away, and when they reached the highway, heading towards their motel, the car started shaking and lifting up from the ground.
Sam thinks, why can’t people be nice without having to be secretly evil as well?, as he tries to yank Dean from his precious car as they rise higher.
Dean’s fingers cling to the steering wheel like the jaws of life, muttering over and over again how this is not happening. Sam manages to get his door open, and throws a duffle, of what he hopes to be weapons or at the very least something useful, over his shoulder. All that’s left to do is pry his brother free. That’s when his world tilts on its axis, and he’s slip sliding out of the car, falling in a heap on grass where hard, unforgiving concrete of the highway should be.
Then Dean drops out of the car, and nearly lands on Sam’s head, but he successfully rolls out of the way in time.
Sam watches Dean stare mournfully up at the Impala, green vines wrapping, twisting, and curling around her sleek black frame, and then cheekily throwing the door closed as they carry her away towards the sky and out of sight.
“I thought you were never letting go, Rose,” Sam quips. Stupidly, he thinks, when Dean turns blazing eyes on him.
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” he yells, jumping to his feet and glaring up at his brother. “My freakin’ car’s just been kidnapped by a-” He pauses, peering at the giant green plant that’s still visibly growing. “What the hell is that?”
Sam stares up at the pulsing, green plant and scratches the back of his neck. “Um, I think it might be a beanstalk?”
Dean turns incredulous eyes upon him. “A beanstalk? Like a Jack and the Beanstalk beanstalk?”
“Yeah…”
“This is a beanstalk, so some giant could be munching on my car right this minute?” Dean asks, his voice becoming more high-pitched and squeaky as he struggles for breath.
“Possibly…” Dean rushes over to the beanstalk at his answer and starts climbing the vines. Sam runs after him, and tries to tug him back down. “But I don’t know, man. It might not even be like the story! Besides-” he says, taking a look around at their surroundings. “-We’ve got bigger problems.”
“Bigger how, Sam?!” Dean says, trying to tug himself up on the ever moving vines and getting nowhere. “How is some giant using my car as a chew toy not the biggest issue at the moment?” He slips and nearly falls, but scrambles quickly and latches onto a surprisingly stable vine. “She’s American!” he screams at the sky. “You hear me, you bastard? She’s American!”
Sam tugs on his jacket harder. “Take a look around, Dean! Does this look like a highway to you?”
Sam watches Dean look, and finally see what he saw: they were in the middle of a dense forest, no road in sight. Dean slides off the beanstalk and lands with a muffled thump on the grass. “Shit, Sam. What’s going on?” he asks, glancing around again, like he was making sure this was real and not some kind of mirage.
“I haven’t got a clue, but I think we need to go into the forest,” Sam says matter-of-factly.
“What?” Dean squints at his brother. “Why?”
“We’re not going to get any answers just sitting here,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders, letting his arms hang limply at his sides. “And I, for one, don’t want to be here if a freakin’ giant climbs down.”
“So, into the woods we go?”
“Looks like.”
“Great.”
- - - - -
After they rid themselves of the murderous, axe wielding, frilly nightgown wearing wolf chasing them through the woods, Dean turns to Sam and Sam turns to Dean, a realization written clear on their features.
“So, fairytales, huh?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Man, I hate fairytales.”
- - - - -
“Are you shorter?” Sam asks, stopping to catch his breath, hands on knees, and scrutinizing his brother.
Dean’s gaze shifts back and forth, searching for some way to tell and coming up with nothing. “I don’t feel shorter,” he answers helpfully.
Sam rolls his eyes in frustration and walks over to him. He stands behind him, measuring Dean against him like he used to do to Dean when he was a kid, and still shorter than his big brother. “Dude,” he groans. “You come up just under my shoulder. You’re shorter. You ran through the flowers when I told you not to!”
Dean looks indignant, tilting his head further back, and glaring up at Sam. “And leave you alone with fairies attacking you? I don’t think so.”
“Then go around and avoid the field of cursed flowers!”
“Would’ve taken too long and you know it.”
Sam kicks a tree, screaming in frustration through clenched teeth. “I hope you enjoy being the size of a field mouse.”
After they discover the curse, Dean’s shrinking rapidly picks up speed, until Dean’s three feet tall in under an hour. He’s whining about his legs being tired and sounds so much like a little kid with his high, angelic voice when he asks for a piggyback ride, Sam very nearly considers he’s been hit with a de-aging curse. But then he gets smaller and smaller, but still stays generally Dean-shaped, foul-mouthed and cranky.
“No, Sam, I will not fucking ride in your fucking pocket, thank you very fucking much,” Dean squeaks from his hand, the very size Sam predicted. He wants to measure him up against his thumb, but Sam thinks it’s not worth the risk of getting bitten.
“It’ll be more comfortable,” Sam says with a hopeful sort of grin. “And you’ll be less likely to get lost.”
“No.” Little Dean stubbornly crosses his little arms, and Sam almost calls him adorable, but Sam quite enjoys life, so that would be happening in, oh say, never.
“Dean. Come on.”
“No, Sam, I am not going to be the kangaroo baby in your kangaroo pouch. You can count me out.”
Sam sighs. Then lifts his hand anyway. “Too bad. You’ve got no choice.”
“Wait! This is not fair! Sam! Sammy!” The squeaks are muffled by the layer of hoodie fabric between them, and Sam can feel Dean moving around in his pocket, until he finally settles. Then he hears him squeak. “This is humiliating.”
Sam laughs. “Well, maybe you’ll learn to not be so gung-ho about things. And go around the field of cursed flowers. You’re lucky I didn’t put you in the duffle bag.”
- - - - -
When Dean wakes up, he’s normal-sized and Sam’s gone. He knew they shouldn’t have rested, he knew they’d fall asleep, but no, Sam was running the show and he wanted to sit down and rest in the freaky, fairy-tale riddled forest.
“Great,” he grumbles, grabbing the duffle up off the ground and hoisting it over his shoulder. He figures following the trail of long strands of hair as a good enough lead to wherever Sam is now.
- - - - -
“Hey, Sam! You really need to stop getting kidnapped. Little old ladies too much for you? Seriously, how big was she to get the drop on you?”
“Go away, Dean! I’ll get myself down.”
“I bet you’re regretting that mop now. Whoever’s doing this totally thought you were a girl. Which is great.”
“Ha. ha.”
“No need to get testy. Come on, let down the hair.”
“And what? Have you rip my scalp off mid-climb? No thanks.”
“Sammy, Sammy, let down your hair.”
“No.”
“Okay, then. You see, I have these scissors, and- oof. Brace yourself, I’m coming up.”
- - - - -
When they came upon the gingerbread house, Sam sighed while Dean smirked, flicking his Zippo lighter open. They stand back to watch the blaze, the cloying scent of burnt sugar coating the backs of their throats, and Sam thinks they’ll taste it for days. He tries not to flinch when the witch inside starts burning, her shrieks rising higher than the roar of the fire. He looks over at his brother, and there’s a wistful look in his eyes.
“You know, she probably had pie.”
“Dean.”
Dean looks stricken. “What?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ve had enough of cages to last me a lifetime. I’m not about to be put in another one for pie.” He turns and heads back into the forest, leaving Dean to follow slack-jawed behind him.
- - - - -
“Why’d you have to touch the apple, Sammy?”
He shrugs, looking down at the shiny red apple in his hand. “I thought maybe if I did something ridiculously stupid and crazy, whoever’s doing this will take pity on me, and maybe let us go?” He stares morosely at the wall that used to be a door, and their only exit from this whitewashed room.
“What did I tell you about thinking?” Dean asks, shaking his head. “Please don’t eat it. We’re a little low on Prince Charmings.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s likely. Besides-,” he says, picking up a card from the marble pedestal that held the apple, then flicking it between his fingers before holding it out to Dean. “-I’m not exactly too keen on letting you die.”
Dean grabs the card, and reads:
An eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.
Any who pick up the apple have a choice: your life or theirs.
Eat and live, don’t and sacrifice.
Dean tosses the card back on the pedestal, and they both disappear with a puff of smoke. He scratches his head, giving up reacting to the display, then settling in for the long haul on the floor. Sam follows suit, rolling the apple between his hands. Dean catches his gaze. “So you choose death?”
Sam starts tossing the apple back and forth. “Duh.”
“And there’s no way I can change your mind?”
Sam gives Dean a pointed look that says everything he needs to know.
“Fuck,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do we keep getting ourselves into these situations?”
Sam offers him a wry half-smile. “I dunno,” he says, then winds up the apple in his hand. “Hey, catch!”
- - - - -
“So how long do you think it’s gonna take you to die?” Dean asks, then rolls the apple back towards his brother.
Sam just heads it off with his foot, then bunts it back towards Dean. “I have no idea. How long do you think we’ve been in here?”
Dean sits up and leans forward. “For-ev-er,” he says, enunciating each syllable as if he’s in slo-mo.
Sam laughs. “Good to see you still remember The Sandlot. I was worried being stuck in this room might take away your endless movie trivia and witty banter.”
“Never.” He smirks, then his face falls serious. “You sure you don’t want to take a bite out of this?” he asks, holding up the apple, now dusty and encrusted with dirt and any other unmentionables from the floor. “You could say it was putting me out of my misery.”
“Ew, gross!” Sam exclaims, making a disgusted face. “I know where that thing’s been, dude, and I don’t want it anywhere near my mouth.” He smiles, satisfied, and crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall.
Dean contemplates the apple for a few minutes, twirling it around in his fingers, before chucking it across the room. “I guess we’re both going to die of starvation then,” he says with a small smile.
“I think I can live with that.”
A crack of thunder, a flash of lightening, and then there’s an eruption of smoke between them, followed by a snap of fingers that clears the air, and a familiar voice says, “God, you guys break my heart. Not a single ounce self-preservation in your bodies.”
Sam shoots up, body a taut, angry mass heading straight for their captor, and Dean has to act quickly and catch his brother’s arms and pin them to his sides before he claws the trickster’s face off on principle alone. “You!” Sam all but snarls in his face.
“Sheesh,” the trickster remarks, stepping back with a smug smile. “Kill you a few times and he’s like a rabid dog.” He spreads his hands out in a don’t-you-see kind of expression.
Sam’s still struggling against Dean’s hold, when Dean asks, “Why’d you do this for? Don’t you have someone else you can bother?”
“Bored,” he replies nonchalantly, huffing on his fingernails and buffing them against his shirt. “And you two are just so easy. Why pass up free entertainment?” He laughs.
“And this last little obstacle?” Sam grits out between his teeth. “Entertaining enough for you?”
“Well, yes.” He gins. “You two are like your own little co-dependent Spanish tele-novella. You with your brave face with certain death on the horizon. So adorable.” He pinches Sam’s cheek and ruffles his hair. “And you,” he says, turning towards Dean with a wink. “The martyr act is so classic. Way to go.” He gives him a thumbs up, which Dean returns with the middle finger. “But the fun’s over. At least, for now.”
“One of these days, I’m gonna stake you,” Sam promises.
The trickster raises an eyebrow. “That’s a trick I’d like to see.”
- - - - -
After he snaps his fingers, there’s sudden feeling of wind rushing past their ears, and then they’re standing outside their motel room like no time had past at all. The Impala is parked in her spot right outside their door. Dean plasters himself to her side upon first sight.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I promise, next time anything bad happens to you, we’re done. You hear me, done, over, retired,” he whispers, petting her hood soothingly. “Fucking trickster, fucking beanstalk. Never again.”
Sam shuffles past him without batting an eye, and let’s himself into their room. The sight that greets him is Castiel clicking away at his laptop, tie askew, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his trench coat folded neatly over the back of the chair he’s currently occupying. Sam sighs, letting his shoulders droop exhaustedly.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Castiel clicks a few more times, eyes scanning the screen in front of him. “I’m trying find a way to rescue-” Then realization hits. Sam didn’t think his eyes couldn’t get any bigger until this moment. “Oh! Oh! You’re back! And alive! I’m glad to see you alive.” He pauses, looking around worriedly, wringing his hands. Sam knows immediately who he’s looking for, and points Dean out by the car. Castiel visibly relaxes, if just a little, before starting in again. “I was going to save you both, but I didn’t know what from and I couldn’t get to you my way because something was blocking me, and then I remembered that you research when you don’t know things, so I was trying to do that, but-”
“Wait.” Sam holds a hand up, trying to calm the overly stressed angel, who then breathed deeply and ran a hand through his normally mussed hair, mussing it up further, reaching a new height of mussiness. Sam thinks he might need some sleep. “You were researching?”
“Cas was researching?” Dean asks, slamming the door shut behind him. “Like, researching researching?”
Castiel looks like he might start pouting. “You two were gone for hours, and I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t get to you. I didn’t know how to find you,” he says. Then he blinks, tilting his head in consideration. “What was it?”
“Trickster,” they say in unison, with matching eye rolls.
Castiel suddenly huffs, then shrugs his coat on rather roughly, his mouth a firm line. “Figures,” he mutters darkly, and then just like that, he’s gone.
Dean points at the air where Castiel was just a few moments before, his jaw hanging loosely. “Do you, uh, think he hates tricksters more than us?” he asks, as if not quite believing himself.
“Not more than me,” Sam whispers, low and edgy.
Dean grins up at him sheepishly, and Sam feels the sudden spike of anger recede. They both kick off their shoes and settle on their respective beds; Sam flopping across his unceremoniously, ready to pass out on top of the covers, Dean sitting first, scratching at the back of his head and running a hand down his face.
“Freakin’ fairytales, man. I never want to talk about fairy tales again.”
Sam raises a hand. “Seconded.”
Author: opheliahyde
Recipient: spn_summergen*
Rating: PG-13 for Language.
Warnings: Crack.
Author's Notes: For the prompt: Here's an apple: you eat it, your brother dies, you don't eat it, you die. Bonus point if you include Castiel in it. 2,800 words.
Summary: So, fairytales, huh? Yeah, I think so. Man, I hate fairytales.
* Mod note: Where the original recipient has withdrawn from the challenge, stories will be posted for the community as a whole.
Sam figures they should have guessed something was up when everyone they encountered in this town had a friendly smile just for them. But Sam was tired from the case they just closed and was not about to go suspecting the sweet, older waitress who brought Dean a free slice of key lime pie without any proof. She waved at them as they pulled away, and when they reached the highway, heading towards their motel, the car started shaking and lifting up from the ground.
Sam thinks, why can’t people be nice without having to be secretly evil as well?, as he tries to yank Dean from his precious car as they rise higher.
Dean’s fingers cling to the steering wheel like the jaws of life, muttering over and over again how this is not happening. Sam manages to get his door open, and throws a duffle, of what he hopes to be weapons or at the very least something useful, over his shoulder. All that’s left to do is pry his brother free. That’s when his world tilts on its axis, and he’s slip sliding out of the car, falling in a heap on grass where hard, unforgiving concrete of the highway should be.
Then Dean drops out of the car, and nearly lands on Sam’s head, but he successfully rolls out of the way in time.
Sam watches Dean stare mournfully up at the Impala, green vines wrapping, twisting, and curling around her sleek black frame, and then cheekily throwing the door closed as they carry her away towards the sky and out of sight.
“I thought you were never letting go, Rose,” Sam quips. Stupidly, he thinks, when Dean turns blazing eyes on him.
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” he yells, jumping to his feet and glaring up at his brother. “My freakin’ car’s just been kidnapped by a-” He pauses, peering at the giant green plant that’s still visibly growing. “What the hell is that?”
Sam stares up at the pulsing, green plant and scratches the back of his neck. “Um, I think it might be a beanstalk?”
Dean turns incredulous eyes upon him. “A beanstalk? Like a Jack and the Beanstalk beanstalk?”
“Yeah…”
“This is a beanstalk, so some giant could be munching on my car right this minute?” Dean asks, his voice becoming more high-pitched and squeaky as he struggles for breath.
“Possibly…” Dean rushes over to the beanstalk at his answer and starts climbing the vines. Sam runs after him, and tries to tug him back down. “But I don’t know, man. It might not even be like the story! Besides-” he says, taking a look around at their surroundings. “-We’ve got bigger problems.”
“Bigger how, Sam?!” Dean says, trying to tug himself up on the ever moving vines and getting nowhere. “How is some giant using my car as a chew toy not the biggest issue at the moment?” He slips and nearly falls, but scrambles quickly and latches onto a surprisingly stable vine. “She’s American!” he screams at the sky. “You hear me, you bastard? She’s American!”
Sam tugs on his jacket harder. “Take a look around, Dean! Does this look like a highway to you?”
Sam watches Dean look, and finally see what he saw: they were in the middle of a dense forest, no road in sight. Dean slides off the beanstalk and lands with a muffled thump on the grass. “Shit, Sam. What’s going on?” he asks, glancing around again, like he was making sure this was real and not some kind of mirage.
“I haven’t got a clue, but I think we need to go into the forest,” Sam says matter-of-factly.
“What?” Dean squints at his brother. “Why?”
“We’re not going to get any answers just sitting here,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders, letting his arms hang limply at his sides. “And I, for one, don’t want to be here if a freakin’ giant climbs down.”
“So, into the woods we go?”
“Looks like.”
“Great.”
- - - - -
After they rid themselves of the murderous, axe wielding, frilly nightgown wearing wolf chasing them through the woods, Dean turns to Sam and Sam turns to Dean, a realization written clear on their features.
“So, fairytales, huh?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Man, I hate fairytales.”
- - - - -
“Are you shorter?” Sam asks, stopping to catch his breath, hands on knees, and scrutinizing his brother.
Dean’s gaze shifts back and forth, searching for some way to tell and coming up with nothing. “I don’t feel shorter,” he answers helpfully.
Sam rolls his eyes in frustration and walks over to him. He stands behind him, measuring Dean against him like he used to do to Dean when he was a kid, and still shorter than his big brother. “Dude,” he groans. “You come up just under my shoulder. You’re shorter. You ran through the flowers when I told you not to!”
Dean looks indignant, tilting his head further back, and glaring up at Sam. “And leave you alone with fairies attacking you? I don’t think so.”
“Then go around and avoid the field of cursed flowers!”
“Would’ve taken too long and you know it.”
Sam kicks a tree, screaming in frustration through clenched teeth. “I hope you enjoy being the size of a field mouse.”
After they discover the curse, Dean’s shrinking rapidly picks up speed, until Dean’s three feet tall in under an hour. He’s whining about his legs being tired and sounds so much like a little kid with his high, angelic voice when he asks for a piggyback ride, Sam very nearly considers he’s been hit with a de-aging curse. But then he gets smaller and smaller, but still stays generally Dean-shaped, foul-mouthed and cranky.
“No, Sam, I will not fucking ride in your fucking pocket, thank you very fucking much,” Dean squeaks from his hand, the very size Sam predicted. He wants to measure him up against his thumb, but Sam thinks it’s not worth the risk of getting bitten.
“It’ll be more comfortable,” Sam says with a hopeful sort of grin. “And you’ll be less likely to get lost.”
“No.” Little Dean stubbornly crosses his little arms, and Sam almost calls him adorable, but Sam quite enjoys life, so that would be happening in, oh say, never.
“Dean. Come on.”
“No, Sam, I am not going to be the kangaroo baby in your kangaroo pouch. You can count me out.”
Sam sighs. Then lifts his hand anyway. “Too bad. You’ve got no choice.”
“Wait! This is not fair! Sam! Sammy!” The squeaks are muffled by the layer of hoodie fabric between them, and Sam can feel Dean moving around in his pocket, until he finally settles. Then he hears him squeak. “This is humiliating.”
Sam laughs. “Well, maybe you’ll learn to not be so gung-ho about things. And go around the field of cursed flowers. You’re lucky I didn’t put you in the duffle bag.”
- - - - -
When Dean wakes up, he’s normal-sized and Sam’s gone. He knew they shouldn’t have rested, he knew they’d fall asleep, but no, Sam was running the show and he wanted to sit down and rest in the freaky, fairy-tale riddled forest.
“Great,” he grumbles, grabbing the duffle up off the ground and hoisting it over his shoulder. He figures following the trail of long strands of hair as a good enough lead to wherever Sam is now.
- - - - -
“Hey, Sam! You really need to stop getting kidnapped. Little old ladies too much for you? Seriously, how big was she to get the drop on you?”
“Go away, Dean! I’ll get myself down.”
“I bet you’re regretting that mop now. Whoever’s doing this totally thought you were a girl. Which is great.”
“Ha. ha.”
“No need to get testy. Come on, let down the hair.”
“And what? Have you rip my scalp off mid-climb? No thanks.”
“Sammy, Sammy, let down your hair.”
“No.”
“Okay, then. You see, I have these scissors, and- oof. Brace yourself, I’m coming up.”
- - - - -
When they came upon the gingerbread house, Sam sighed while Dean smirked, flicking his Zippo lighter open. They stand back to watch the blaze, the cloying scent of burnt sugar coating the backs of their throats, and Sam thinks they’ll taste it for days. He tries not to flinch when the witch inside starts burning, her shrieks rising higher than the roar of the fire. He looks over at his brother, and there’s a wistful look in his eyes.
“You know, she probably had pie.”
“Dean.”
Dean looks stricken. “What?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ve had enough of cages to last me a lifetime. I’m not about to be put in another one for pie.” He turns and heads back into the forest, leaving Dean to follow slack-jawed behind him.
- - - - -
“Why’d you have to touch the apple, Sammy?”
He shrugs, looking down at the shiny red apple in his hand. “I thought maybe if I did something ridiculously stupid and crazy, whoever’s doing this will take pity on me, and maybe let us go?” He stares morosely at the wall that used to be a door, and their only exit from this whitewashed room.
“What did I tell you about thinking?” Dean asks, shaking his head. “Please don’t eat it. We’re a little low on Prince Charmings.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s likely. Besides-,” he says, picking up a card from the marble pedestal that held the apple, then flicking it between his fingers before holding it out to Dean. “-I’m not exactly too keen on letting you die.”
Dean grabs the card, and reads:
An eye for an eye. Tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.
Any who pick up the apple have a choice: your life or theirs.
Eat and live, don’t and sacrifice.
Dean tosses the card back on the pedestal, and they both disappear with a puff of smoke. He scratches his head, giving up reacting to the display, then settling in for the long haul on the floor. Sam follows suit, rolling the apple between his hands. Dean catches his gaze. “So you choose death?”
Sam starts tossing the apple back and forth. “Duh.”
“And there’s no way I can change your mind?”
Sam gives Dean a pointed look that says everything he needs to know.
“Fuck,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do we keep getting ourselves into these situations?”
Sam offers him a wry half-smile. “I dunno,” he says, then winds up the apple in his hand. “Hey, catch!”
- - - - -
“So how long do you think it’s gonna take you to die?” Dean asks, then rolls the apple back towards his brother.
Sam just heads it off with his foot, then bunts it back towards Dean. “I have no idea. How long do you think we’ve been in here?”
Dean sits up and leans forward. “For-ev-er,” he says, enunciating each syllable as if he’s in slo-mo.
Sam laughs. “Good to see you still remember The Sandlot. I was worried being stuck in this room might take away your endless movie trivia and witty banter.”
“Never.” He smirks, then his face falls serious. “You sure you don’t want to take a bite out of this?” he asks, holding up the apple, now dusty and encrusted with dirt and any other unmentionables from the floor. “You could say it was putting me out of my misery.”
“Ew, gross!” Sam exclaims, making a disgusted face. “I know where that thing’s been, dude, and I don’t want it anywhere near my mouth.” He smiles, satisfied, and crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall.
Dean contemplates the apple for a few minutes, twirling it around in his fingers, before chucking it across the room. “I guess we’re both going to die of starvation then,” he says with a small smile.
“I think I can live with that.”
A crack of thunder, a flash of lightening, and then there’s an eruption of smoke between them, followed by a snap of fingers that clears the air, and a familiar voice says, “God, you guys break my heart. Not a single ounce self-preservation in your bodies.”
Sam shoots up, body a taut, angry mass heading straight for their captor, and Dean has to act quickly and catch his brother’s arms and pin them to his sides before he claws the trickster’s face off on principle alone. “You!” Sam all but snarls in his face.
“Sheesh,” the trickster remarks, stepping back with a smug smile. “Kill you a few times and he’s like a rabid dog.” He spreads his hands out in a don’t-you-see kind of expression.
Sam’s still struggling against Dean’s hold, when Dean asks, “Why’d you do this for? Don’t you have someone else you can bother?”
“Bored,” he replies nonchalantly, huffing on his fingernails and buffing them against his shirt. “And you two are just so easy. Why pass up free entertainment?” He laughs.
“And this last little obstacle?” Sam grits out between his teeth. “Entertaining enough for you?”
“Well, yes.” He gins. “You two are like your own little co-dependent Spanish tele-novella. You with your brave face with certain death on the horizon. So adorable.” He pinches Sam’s cheek and ruffles his hair. “And you,” he says, turning towards Dean with a wink. “The martyr act is so classic. Way to go.” He gives him a thumbs up, which Dean returns with the middle finger. “But the fun’s over. At least, for now.”
“One of these days, I’m gonna stake you,” Sam promises.
The trickster raises an eyebrow. “That’s a trick I’d like to see.”
- - - - -
After he snaps his fingers, there’s sudden feeling of wind rushing past their ears, and then they’re standing outside their motel room like no time had past at all. The Impala is parked in her spot right outside their door. Dean plasters himself to her side upon first sight.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I promise, next time anything bad happens to you, we’re done. You hear me, done, over, retired,” he whispers, petting her hood soothingly. “Fucking trickster, fucking beanstalk. Never again.”
Sam shuffles past him without batting an eye, and let’s himself into their room. The sight that greets him is Castiel clicking away at his laptop, tie askew, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his trench coat folded neatly over the back of the chair he’s currently occupying. Sam sighs, letting his shoulders droop exhaustedly.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
Castiel clicks a few more times, eyes scanning the screen in front of him. “I’m trying find a way to rescue-” Then realization hits. Sam didn’t think his eyes couldn’t get any bigger until this moment. “Oh! Oh! You’re back! And alive! I’m glad to see you alive.” He pauses, looking around worriedly, wringing his hands. Sam knows immediately who he’s looking for, and points Dean out by the car. Castiel visibly relaxes, if just a little, before starting in again. “I was going to save you both, but I didn’t know what from and I couldn’t get to you my way because something was blocking me, and then I remembered that you research when you don’t know things, so I was trying to do that, but-”
“Wait.” Sam holds a hand up, trying to calm the overly stressed angel, who then breathed deeply and ran a hand through his normally mussed hair, mussing it up further, reaching a new height of mussiness. Sam thinks he might need some sleep. “You were researching?”
“Cas was researching?” Dean asks, slamming the door shut behind him. “Like, researching researching?”
Castiel looks like he might start pouting. “You two were gone for hours, and I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t get to you. I didn’t know how to find you,” he says. Then he blinks, tilting his head in consideration. “What was it?”
“Trickster,” they say in unison, with matching eye rolls.
Castiel suddenly huffs, then shrugs his coat on rather roughly, his mouth a firm line. “Figures,” he mutters darkly, and then just like that, he’s gone.
Dean points at the air where Castiel was just a few moments before, his jaw hanging loosely. “Do you, uh, think he hates tricksters more than us?” he asks, as if not quite believing himself.
“Not more than me,” Sam whispers, low and edgy.
Dean grins up at him sheepishly, and Sam feels the sudden spike of anger recede. They both kick off their shoes and settle on their respective beds; Sam flopping across his unceremoniously, ready to pass out on top of the covers, Dean sitting first, scratching at the back of his head and running a hand down his face.
“Freakin’ fairytales, man. I never want to talk about fairy tales again.”
Sam raises a hand. “Seconded.”