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31 October 2010 @ 03:28 pm
October drabble dump, other & gen edition  

"OK, your turn, Anna."
"Um, OK. Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Ida who?"
"Ida rather be human. See ya!"

"Who's up next? Raphael?"
"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"The almighty righteous vengeance of Heaven."
"...Do you even know what a knock-knock joke is?"

"Castiel, you tell one."
"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Agrippa who?"
"Agrippa you tight and raise you from perdition."
"Hey now, that wasn't half bad!"

"Uriel, you have one, right?"
"Don't I always? Knock, knock,"
"Who's there?"
"Hayden who?"
"Hayden those mud monkeys so much right now. Can we smite them yet?"

Don't call Crowley a diva. He's willing to get his hands on your rotten old soul, of course he's particular about the rest of his things.

When the song came on Sam's iPod, Dean pulled over. "Get out and walk. You can be your own damn umbrella-brella-brella."


Dean doesn't know why Lisa is surprised he can cook. Never mind raising Sam, he's also spent years filleting monsters and roasting bodies.


Castiel still doesn't trust clouds. Cut off from Heaven, he has no way of knowing which are simply nature and which are omens of doom.


Little-known fact: The tower of Babel, the Hindenburg, and the Titanic were all angelic pranks. Gabriel thinks he's tame in comparison.


For some reason, Castiel stifles a giggle every time they pass a sign with a Q in it. When Dean asks, all Cas says is, "I can see its tail!"

Misha is a sucker for the damn puppy eyes. He tries to play against it, but for whatever reason, when Jared casts those eyes on him he's a goner. The last chicken wing at lunch? Puppy eyes; Misha will starve. The good room at the con hotel? Puppy eyes; he's got the one that smells like someone smoked in it last night. If Jared wants something, and Misha's got it, all he's got to do is look at him and Misha's giving it up. Grumbling the whole time, but still. The puppy eyes get results.

Jensen's immune, the little bastard. He's known Jared too long and he's too focused, Mr. Srs Bsns, to get sidetracked. Misha thinks Jared's just damn glad Misha joined the cast because now, finally, someone can't resist his charms. Well, put a stick in his ass and call him an all-day sucker, because Misha is just that far gone.

"Don't do that," he warns as they make their way offstage after another truly bizarre fan convention.

"Do what?" With a (O.O). Yeah, that.

"Don't give me your puppy eyes. I know your trick."

"What trick? Hey, Misha, what trick?" Jared lopes after him as Misha tries to racewalk away.

Damn the long legs. He keeps up. "That thing, with the big eyes, and the, you know what I mean!"

"No, I really don't! Mish--" But Misha's heading for the photo-ops and Jared's not going to see him for another few hours. Thank God. Misha never thought he'd be relieved to see a few thousand screaming fangirls.

He manages to be pretty much inaccessible until they've returned upstairs to the VIP suite. Jensen's got another gig, the whole reason he was able to show in the first place, and Misha is distressed to see Jared standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking more like his onscreen alter ego than himself. "So. About you avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you." Misha goes for the mini-fridge, but again with the long legs, Jared steps between them. "What?"

"Look, I'm sorry if I've done something to piss you off, Mish, I just wanted--"

"Of for fuck's sake, you're not pissing me off, I'm just sick of falling for it every time. Can I have a beer, please?"

"Falling for what?" (O.O). Again.

"For that, for you, I don't-- why are we having this conversation?" Because he's just realized how blank those puppy eyes are.

It takes Jared a minute. "For me?"

Misha reddens, looks at the floor. "You're kind of hard to resist when you're doing that puppy eyes thing--"

He looks up.



"That is kind of," and Jared's walking him backward until he hits a wall with an unsteady thump, "why I've been doing it."

Misha can't utter another exclamation before Jared's mouth is kissing it away.

They get undressed and get to bed in a hurry, clothes peeling away in a frenzy of puffs of breath and searing kisses, and even though Misha's a little afraid of being pulverized by those massive muscles he's never been this hot before in his life and he's never before laughed the way he does when Jared can't finagle his shirt off, when the two of them nearly miss the bed altogether and end up on the floor. Jared grabs him up like a greedy child and Misha thinks he'll be eaten alive, and the whole time they're both grinning like idiots. It feels so good, it feels perfect and like it was supposed to happen years ago, if they'd only ever looked up and seen that they were so much more than kindred spirits.

And then Jared rises up onto all fours, looks down at Misha, and whispers, "Want you, Mish. Really want you. Can I--?"

He's giving Misha the (O.O) again. Misha stifles a laugh and reaches up to close the gap between their lips. "You know you can."

He was typical all the way to the coastline. "Come on, guys! A little sun, a little sand. It won't kill you. Heck, if you're nice I won't try to rub suntan lotion over your backs." When they finally gave in, he was his usual rollicking six-year-old voice of glee. (Since Gabriel had joined the team, Dean had long since learned to tune him out; Sam had more of a problem.) Even when they set up their towels and settled down to do something along the lines of relaxation, Gabriel was quintessentially Gabriel. In that he made a ridiculously large inner tube appear from nowhere, hopped aboard it, and waved so-long as the waves carried him away.

That was ten, twenty minutes ago. Usually Gabriel didn't stay quiet for that long. And yet he was still drifting there, unmoving, head tilted back toward the sky.

"Maybe he's dead," offered Dean unceremoniously.

"Cut it out." Sam shot him a peeved look and got to his feet. "I'm gonna go check." He waded out into the water, shivering at the cold and ignoring the dozens of looks he received as muscles thick and toned from hunting muscled their way through the water.

Gabriel wasn't that far out; the water was only up to Sam's stomach where he was floating, a soft smile on his face, fingers and toes trailing over the ends of the inner tube into the water and creating soft wakes. Sam just stood and looked down at him for a minute. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't moving. Was he asleep? But angels didn't sleep. Sam couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with him.

Then Gabriel's eyes opened, and they were pale globes of green, full of life. "Oh, hi, Sam," he said in a drowsy, quiet voice. His lips quirked into a content smile, an expression far removed from his usual wicked-bordering-on-sadistic grin. "What are you doing out here?"

"What are you doing?" Sam shot back, reflexively defensive. He forced his nerves to calm. "I came to see if you were OK."

"I'm OK," Gabriel said. He really sounded like a guy who'd been put on tranquilizers. Sam had never seen or heard him like this.

"Are you sure? No offense, but you're acting... out of character."

"Maybe I am." Gabriel's eyes were slitting closed again, half-lidded and catlike, and for some reason Sam didn't want to see them go. He stood over Gabriel, forcing eye contact, casting a shadow over the angel's face.

Looking down at him like this, Sam couldn't help but laugh. "You look like a baby in a crib," he teased.

"I kind of am. Love the ocean," Gabriel said, his head lolling to the side. "You ever read your Bible? Before the world was created, the dark was upon the surface of the waters. Water's where we all come from, angel, human, God. And then He said, 'Let there be light.'"

His eyes met Sam's, and Gabriel smiled in a way he never had before. Sam felt it down to his toes.

"You should see your hair right now," Gabriel murmured. "The sun's catching it, and you look like you have a halo. You look like one of us." His eyes drifted closed. "Wonder if it'd be like holding the sun..."


But this time Gabriel really did look like he was asleep. The inner tube drifted slowly away, and Sam stood, bewildered, watching the sun cast his shadow on layers of pure, rippling sand.

Misha's the morning person of the bunch. He jumps up, jogs to the bathroom, brushes his teeth with the enthusiasm of a head cheerleader, waters the plants, straightens the kitchen, and happily changes into his jogging shorts and running shirt regardless of how much noise he makes. He's so sharp, so bright in the morning that he effortlessly dodges the pillows that are thrown at him.

Jared and Jensen are slower. Jared's the happy lazy sort. He wakes up and is instantly in cuddle mode. Sometimes he'll catch hold of Misha on his way out the door for his run. When he does, it's a fifty-fifty chance that he'll be able to pull him back down; sleepiness outweighs strength. Most of the time, he grabs but misses, or Misha slips out of his grasp. In those cases, still starving for attention and ridiculously grateful to be alive and with his loved ones another day, Jared just turns over and half-hugs, half-crushes Jensen.

This might be half the reason that Jensen's such a little bitch in the morning. Jared has described his morning personality as Oscar the Grouch with a hangover. He moves verrrrrry slowly, he doesn't make eye contact or talk, although he does mumble indistinctly to himself. It takes him forever to get out of bed, even without Jared's mountain of muscles heaped on top of him. And when he does, it's a beeline for the coffee maker and God forbid you should get between them. As Misha sometimes does when he's coming home from his run. Day-old coffee grounds do not mix well with Misha sweat, no matter how you try it. And they totally clog up the shower drain.

It's a wonder the three of them manage to wake up together every morning and still want to go to bed together that night. But once everyone's got their supply of exercise, coffee, and/or cuddles, it's remarkable how well they get along.

Ever since he came back, Sam has barely laughed. He's able to muster up a good-hearted smile, but the grin, the high and uncontrollable laughter, is just gone from his psyche. That's what being in the Cage will do to you, he figures. Dean probably figures as much, too. He doesn't push it, and if anything he wants to make Sam sit down and have an oh-so-serious chat. Talk about his feelings or something.

But Gabriel is singularly focused on making him laugh. And it's driving him nuts.

Dean doesn't know the bastard's still alive, but Sam can't avoid it. Every day, a knock-knock joke whispered into his dream, or a practical gag played on a total stranger. Someone sputters, covered with water or having slipped on a dozen sequential banana peels, and Sam watches, but he doesn't laugh.

Instead, he mutters into the darkness, or into the empty air where Dean can't hear, "Cut it out."

Gabriel doesn't.

After a while the tactics change and Sam ends up the butt of the practical jokes, slamming headfirst into a tree after a segment of rocky terrain abruptly turns into a skid of oil and carries him down the hill at breakneck speed. That just hurts. Another time, Sam opens a door and is pelted by a shower of gummy worms. Sam loves gummy worms, but not on his head, and he's not amused when Gabriel wanders by in the guise of a teenage girl, saying "Wow, nice highlights" and winking at him. Sam puts his hand on his hair and pulls back to see bright yellow fingers where the rain has bled the worms' neon-bright colors into his hair. He grumbles and steals a baseball cap to wear until he's safely under a shower's running water again.

Finally, enough is enough. Sam stands on the back porch of the motel at sunset and frowns at the sky. "Gabriel," he mutters, "I know you're watching. You need to cut it the hell out."

"Wait. I need to cut it out? Me? Moi?" There he is, one hand on the railing, swaying back and forth like a dancer on a barre. "Excuse you, you are the one who hasn't cracked a smile in a dog's age. What the hell is the point of coming back from the Inferno if you're going to act like you're still there?"

"That's all this is? You just want me to laugh? Right." Sam's eyebrows fly into his hairline, which given the size of his forehead is a feat. "Tell me the next one."

"Why shouldn't I want you to laugh?" Gabriel does a ballerina's high kick, and Sam has to dodge. "God knows you could use it. You do know you're not acting like yourself. Maybe a good chuckle's all you need to snap back into Deluxe Sammy mode. You know, the cute little schoolboy. Not the psycho depressed Hulk. I liked you better before the steroids, you know."

"I don't care if you like me or not," Sam says haughtily.

"Well, maybe I care." Gabriel drops the railing and stands arms akimbo, glaring Sam down. "Maybe I miss you, kiddo, you ever think of that?"

A thunk behind them as a maid drops a bottle of cleaning fluid. She's been staring at them, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Wet soapy film starts to spread on the ground. Gabriel turns to stare for a second, then dismisses the scene with a wave of his hand as unimportant.

"The point is," he goes on, "you ought to pay more attention to what other people think of you. I get it, you're a freak, you'll never be normal, but in case you noticed there are people around here who care about you." He's frowning harder than Sam ever does, and the look in his eyes is hard and insistent. He starts to advance on Sam. "So why don't you just take a good turn for what it is instead of yelling at me about it, because all I'm trying to do is--"

And Gabriel's feet slip.

The soapy liquid pushes his feet back and his torso forward, and with a yelp he ends up falling onto Sam, pushing him off his feet too. Together, they slide like a figure skating pair halfway down the wraparound porch and fall, in one spectacular thump and heap, to the ground.

Somewhere between midair and aching tailbone, Sam realizes Gabriel's mouth has come down squarely on his.

Gabriel's the first to pull back. His face has gone round all over, from eyes to lips. He covers his mouth with one hand and turns tomato-red.

"What the--" Sam blinks. "What was that?"

And then he's laughing, so hard it hurts, so hard he's doubling over. He hasn't laughed this much in years, centuries, it feels like, and it's good and cleansing and real. He feels real. And Gabriel, the annoying infuriating Trickster-cum-angel who's been making his life miserable, is the one he can thank for it.

When he looks up, his eyes are full of merry tears and his grin is huge. Gabriel opens his mouth to answer, but Sam grabs him and cuts him off. "Do it again."

"This is your fault," Dean says, scooping up a spare bit of mashed potato with the edge of a paper towel.

"My fault? You started it!" Gabriel slides across the wet table, damp rag beneath his ass sweeping up everything beneath him.

Dean watches him turn detention into a ride at Disney World, vaguely amused. "Sure. Because the lemon Jell-O launched itself at me."

"Speaking of which." Gabriel hops off the table and walks over, reaching over to pick at the crown of Dean's head. "You have some--"

Dean sucks in a breath that he's sure Gabriel can hear. "Yeah, well, you have some pudding still on your--" He points to Gabriel's mouth.

Which opens wide into a big grin. "Lick it off," Gabriel says. "I dare you."

Damn it. It was being unable to resist a dare that got Dean in this pickle to begin with.

He leans forward and licks off the spot of sweet chocolate, and Gabriel moves with the quickness of a bird, suddenly sucking Dean's tongue in through his lips and holding him there. Dean gives a surprised cry that turns quickly to a muffled groan as Gabriel grabs his ass and pulls him in tight. Holy fuck, Gabriel's hard. How long has he been that way? Had he been planning this the whole time?

The thought's more of a turn-on than it should be. Dean goes hard in an instant, and at once his hands are matching Gabriel's for anxious grabs, his mouth battling down Gabriel's nips and teases with his own assault of teeth and tongue. Together they sink down onto one of the just-wiped-clean tables, ten miles past the point where they could even think of stopping. And damn glad their detention isn't chaperoned.

Sam is a hell of a Hamlet. If nothing else, he's selling out the tickets. It's a surefire sell-out scheme to star a Winchester in a play -- Dean brought in enough money in last year's Bye Bye Birdie that the school was able to afford a new curtain for the auditorium.

Gabriel was a bit of a bitch when Sam got the part, but he's much better where he is, a deliciously ridiculous Rozencrantz to Dean's Guildenstern. The two of them together scare Sam, honestly... that is too much ridiculous in one package.

But he's never had an opportunity to talk that closely with Gabe, who's Dean's friend first and foremost and has never really taken much of an interest in the younger of the Winchester boys. This changes the minute he sees Sam laugh, and all of a sudden Sam's his favorite target.

He puts a rubber chicken inside Yorick's skull, he convinces Ophelia to do an entire scene with him in a fake Russian accent, he pops up on stage every time they rehearse the line "Rozencrantz and Guildenstern are dead" and does an elaborate fake death scene. But it takes until the Death by Heart Palpitations After Seeing Really Hot Guy before Sam finally realizes this is Gabriel's juvenile way of flirting.

Dean doesn't want to hear about it. He refuses to rein in his pet prankster in general, doubly so if he has to think about said pet prankster's motives. And of course there's not much you can do about these things before the production. So Sam waits until the cast party, or, rather, he waits until everyone else has left to go to the cast party. He sits in the wings, and he waits for Gabriel to see the note that Sam's left on his dashboard.

He hears the doors slam, hears the footsteps of Gabriel running down the aisle. Sam's all set to confront him, but then Gabriel's standing in front of him, winded, hands on hips, trying desperately to draw breath. He's run all the way from the parking lot. Sam's heart clenches in his chest.

"This," he says through wheezing breaths, "is Death by Asphyxiation After Running a Marathon Only to Get Shot Down. Rigor mortis has already started to set in. Look, my lips are already blue."

They are. But they warm right back up when Sam kisses them.