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Dean manages to get in three days of solid, uninterrupted rest before he starts going stir-crazy.
It's something he's always had a problem with – his dad had called it 'wanderlust' and attributed it to Dean's abilities as a hunter. A hunter, after all, was the ultimate pick-up-and-go personality, and had to be ready to give chase to whatever needed chasing at the drop of a dime. As a result, Dean's never really tried to curb the anxiety that sets in when he's stayed in one place for too long. It's useful, it provides driving energy, and it's handy when he needs to recognize that he and Sam have overstayed their welcome.
Except the fourth day finds him in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton, swearing at the door because it's refusing to open, and every time he tries to slip out alongside or behind other guests he's repelled by some invisible forcefield that smells overwhelmingly of snickerdoodle cookies.
Castiel joins him at some point; he stands there looking intense until Dean finally gives up (for the moment) and lets himself collapse into one of the convenient armchairs the hotel keeps in their lobby. Castiel takes the seat across from him and stares until Dean cracks open one eye and grunts, "What."
Castiel blinks serenely. "You should not consider your lack of progress as a personal failure. Even cut off from the rest of the Host, my brother's power is far greater than ours."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cas."
"It is not a matter of confidence, but of truth. Gabriel has abilities that you or I cannot even fathom."
Dean rests his head back, scowling even though he knows it doesn't help. Castiel's gaze doesn't waver, and Dean would be unnerved if he didn't know that it was interest, not scrutiny, that motivated such a powerful look. If he closes his eyes he can still feel it.
"We need to be back out there," he says softly. "Figuring out a way to kill Lucifer, not…fucking around in a hotel. And I don't like what your brother is pulling with mine. I've seen Sam like, what, four times in the past couple days? And you can hear them talking, Cas, so I know that sonofabitch is in there."
"Mind yourself," Castiel warns. "Gabriel is not my favorite brother, but he is still, as you would say, family."
"Now's a fine time to develop a soft spot for the guy."
Castiel leans back, looking uncomfortable, a surprisingly human gesture that automatically makes Dean feel a little bad for him. After all, Cas has been stuck in here with them, and Gabriel might have healed his burns, but being locked up makes him about as happy as it makes Dean. Which is to say, not very.
"He has to let us out sometime," Dean presses, but when Castiel says nothing in response he feels a very real seed of worry take root in his chest.
"Cas," he prompts, and is startled by the acute blue of his eyes as the angel looks back at him, steady, unwavering. A few days of rest have done him (or maybe just his vessel) some good, because there's color in his cheeks now, and a rouged tint to his lips that Dean can't recall seeing before. Then again, he never really had much occasion to look.
"Gabriel is…capricious," Cas hedges, and Dean snorts in response. 'Capricious' is the kindest way of putting it. 'Complete douchebag,' on the other hand, is Dean's personal favorite. "He is perfectly capable of keeping us here indefinitely."
"If he's thinking he can bore me into being Michael's bitch, then he's got another thing coming," Dean mutters. Castiel looks disapproving, but not as much as he might have when they first met. Dean considers this to be an improvement.
"I do not believe that is his intent. I am no expert on my brother's irrational behavior, but…"
Castiel looks uncertain, which is hardly a first, but this is family they're talking about. If nothing else, you should know your family. Especially when you're a freaking angel, and family is really the only thing you have. Dean leans forward, trying to look encouraging and sympathetic, which is normally the sort of thing that Sam does, except it's not too hard to manage, with Cas.
"I think he is lonely," Castiel finally admits, like it's some sort of shameful stain on their family tapestry. Dean squints.
"Lonely? Lonely is going out and buying a dog, Cas, not locking people in a hotel."
"His definition of 'lonely' is…flexible," Castiel says slowly, and Dean snorts. 'Flexible' isn't really the right word. 'Chaotic' is infinitely better. Castiel either doesn't hear him or is choosing to ignore him, because his only response is a slow, awkward shrug. Over the past few weeks he has begun to imitate human gestures – the info is there, in his vessel's brain, it's just that Castiel had never thought to access it for anything beyond 'how do I use a cell phone' before. Dean wonders if it's sort of like remembering all your limbs, after waking up from a deep sleep.
"There's got to be a way you can convince him to let us out," he mutters. Castiel cocks his head, less like a curious puppy and more like a bird, precise and quick. He examines Dean with unblinking sternness.
"I may have an…idea," he says. "But I cannot tell if it will be effective."
Any idea is better than none at all; Dean slaps his palms down on his knees and leans forward.
"Hit me with it," he says, and Castiel mimics him, until their foreheads almost touch, and their breath connects them, and Dean can feel, distantly, the shadow of wings.
***
Sam has been lounging on silk sheets for the past three days and it's starting to get boring.
He's not about to complain about the room service – if he even thinks about having a craving, five minutes later a busty African-American woman in a black suit shows up at the room door (not the suite door, the room door, and Sam can only imagine how Dean is handling that) with a tray piled with everything Sam could ever want. So far he's had corn dogs (baked instead of fried, and with fancy sausages in them instead of hot dogs), a Caesar salad the likes of which he will probably never encounter again, some sort of fruity alcoholic drink that left the room smelling strongly of coconut for almost an hour, and steamed clams with melted butter for dipping. And this is all stuff that hasn't been specifically scheduled. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are equally as complicated, and Sam is feeling kinda weirded out by it – though not unappreciative.
He never thought there would ever come a day where he actually missed eating diner food with Dean, but hey, the apocalypse has already started, so he supposes this isn't so far-fetched in comparison.
The other thing he's getting tired of is Gabriel. Even disregarding the fact that the guy once killed Dean over a hundred times in the course of what was basically a single day, he's not really a people-person, not the way Sam is. He's more like a used-car salesman: he's really good at looking and sounding appealing when he wants something, but the second Sam points out what he's doing, the façade drops, and Gabriel goes back to being a smartass. This has happened more times than Sam can count – most of them have involved Gabriel trying to surreptitiously grab his ass. Which is also getting pretty tiring.
Sam has yet to actually freak out over the ass-grabbage, which he has decided is a testament to his maturity and inherently peaceful personality, rather than…anything else. 'Anything else' doesn't even bear thinking about, at this point.
Speaking of 'anything else'…
"Don't even think about it," he mutters, and, promptly after the last syllable has left his lips, there's a whoosh from right behind him, and the crackle of ozone (although that part, he's sure, is not intended to be sensed). No one has tried to explain this to him yet – why he can now sense angels. He would think that it would be demons, considering…what he's done. But instead he now seems to come with a built-in asshole detector.
"Consider, Sammy, that the majority of what you know as demons are, in fact, humans – or they were. Real demons are…significantly closer to angels. More than you would even think."
This is how they are positioned: the bed stands with the headboard against the north wall, pretty much directly in the middle of the room. To its left is a nightstand that Sam has put his hand in exactly once, and then never again, because he isn't a prude by anyone's definition, but he would rather not be grabbing any more vibrators in the near future. In the southwest corner of the room, just before the door to the bathroom, there is a fine mahogany desk and a comfy, padded chair that Sam has claimed as his. Currently, Sam is seated at the desk, in front of his laptop, trying to determine whether Wikipedia will be a valid source of insight into Gabriel (and all Heavenly and non-Heavenly beings, really). The angel in question is lounging on the bed, probably wallowing in the sheets like a pig in mud. Sam doesn't know how he knows this, since his back is very nearly to the bed, but when he turns around, just to check, he sees that it's true.
He also sees that Gabriel looks…worried. No, not worried. Vulnerable? It's an expression that Sam sees on Dean, sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking. Sam grumbles, and then turns his chair around so he can face Gabriel properly.
"What," he says. It's more of a statement than anything else, since he isn't expecting an answer, but to his surprise Gabriel sighs and sits up, scooting himself backwards until he can rest his back against the headboard and wall. All the pictures and paintings that Sam has been looking at depict Gabriel as having blue eyes, ethereal blonde hair floating about his head like a halo, flowing robes, a horn in his hand. The being sitting in front of him, watching him, has brown hair with a few blondish highlights; he has eyes that are muddy-green, like trying to look down through a slow-moving river. He is dressed in jeans and a white button-up shirt, and his feet are bare, the arches high and delicate-looking.
He looks…rather sadly human, and Sam isn't sure how to respond to that.
"…You look tired," is what he finally goes with, and for the longest time he doesn't even get an acknowledgement, let alone a response. Then, Gabriel nods, and glances away. Sam has never been the gambling type, but now he guesses, suspecting that he's right.
"Because you've been holding us here."
Another pause, and then he nods again. Gabriel's hair falls around his face, and Sam notices for the first time that it's not as smooth and slick as he's used to seeing – it looks more like Gabriel has forgotten to brush it for a day or so. And once he's noticed that, it's easy to pick out everything else that seems off: how Gabriel's eyes flick away from Sam, avoiding scrutiny, and how his hands are kept folded in his lap, or held firm against the bed – it's something an older (or sicker) human might do, to prevent their hands from shaking. Sam takes it all in, and then turns back to the desk, laying his fingers against the keyboard of his laptop.
"Then let us go," he says softly, and he imagines Gabriel's head shaking – 'no.' But when he glances back again, the archangel is gone.
***
It's taken four separate phone calls and a prolonged discussion with a guy that Dean suspects was probably high out of his mind, but he's finally managed to stock up on everything that Castiel said he would need (namely, a truly heroic amount of alcohol), as well as adding his own, personal, touches: a bottle of Tylenol and one of Excedrin (just in case), as well as a couple packs of breath mints.
The alcohol, for the record, is Everclear. A hundred and ninety proof. Illegal in Michigan and about fifteen other states, which is what prompted the phone call to Pothead McStonerson in the first place – he knew a guy, who knew a guy, who happens to know Dean and owe him a favor. It takes a couple of hours, but eventually a chick shows up with the back of her Prius loaded down with cardboard boxes. She strong-arms a couple of hotel employees into helping her carry the boxes up to the Presidential suite, then leaves again in a flurry of pot fumes and faux-blonde hair. Dean doesn't even have time to offer to help, let alone to thank her. Then again, she'd seemed pretty intent on getting back to her Prius – maybe letting her get back to her weed as expediently as possible was the best kind of thanks Dean could have given her.
Which leaves him with five boxes, each containing four seven hundred and fifty milliliter bottles of Everclear. That makes twenty bottles in all, and Dean is out three hundred dollars for the booze, fifty for the speedy delivery.
He would feel jealous of angelic alcohol tolerance if he didn't have a pretty good idea of exactly how fucked up Castiel and Gabriel are going to get.
He spends the day stashing Everclear in every conceivably reachable place he can think of; Gabriel has vanished for the day (though Dean is painfully aware of the fact that he could come back at any time), and Sam is sleeping, only stirring briefly when Dean lifts his little brother's pillow and slips a bottle underneath. He can't resist the urge to smooth Sammy's hair back, to gently lift his shirt and check on his burns. Gabriel had been able to heal the worst of them, but he had taken care of Castiel before he had ever taken care of Sam, so there are still a few easily irritated patches along Sam's spine. Dean makes sure they aren't weeping, and that they don't smell funky, before he finishes turning Sam's room into an alcoholic's paradise.
Castiel's plan is a two-parter: item one is that they need to get Sam out of the room, and away from Gabriel's influence. It had been Dean's concern – just because he hasn't seen or heard any signs of violence doesn't mean they haven't been there, and they're dealing with a being that can rewind time, heal wounds, and almost certainly erase memories. Castiel might have faith in his brother, but Dean doesn't.
And then item two is to get Gabriel very, very drunk.
Castiel tried to explain it to him: how angels are celestial beings, bodiless, and so are resistant to the effects of drugs, alcohol, endorphins and hormones. How angels, when they take a vessel, are basically forcing themselves to inhabit the earthly plane – how, after a time, angels can become accustomed to the feeling of having a human body. How they can let themselves go, and allow themselves to feel what their vessel feels.
What Dean has taken from it is that the vessel that an angel inhabits still gets drunk, or high, or horny, but celestial trumps earthly when it comes to mind over matter. It's the reason why Castiel has never gotten drunk, not even when Jo plied him with a couple dozen shots. He hasn't allowed himself to.
Gabriel, on the other hand, has apparently been spending the last thousand years or so eating, drinking, snorting, smoking, inhaling and injecting every mind-altering substance known to man. It's made him, in Castiel's words, 'complacent.'
Dean places the last bottle of Everclear on the nightstand next to Sam's bed, then gently curls his fingers around his sleeping brother's shoulder, shaking him.
"Sammy," he murmurs. "Time to get up."
"Nnn," Sam groans, and shoves his face deeper into his pillow. His hair looks like something a bird would happily build a nest in, and Dean grins, then lightly flicks Sam's exposed ear. He snorts, sitting up and brushing away imaginary insects, squinting at Dean. Not really seeing his brother, for a second, and then his eyes focus, and Sam blinks.
"What," he says, interrupted halfway through by a yawn that practically lets Dean see his little brother's tonsils. Sam twists his spine, and rubs the sleep from his eyes with his fists, and he looks so much like the little boy he used to be that Dean's heart aches for him, for everything he's gone through, and everything that's yet to come.
"Time to get up," he says, and grabs hold of Sam's shoulder, hauling him up and off the bed. Sam stumbles over his own feet before managing to right his too-long legs, and he glares at Dean as he straightens his shirt and jeans out, but he also follows Dean out of the room.
"What's this about, Dean?"
"I checked your back. Looks good – almost all the sores are healed. Should be good as new by the end of the week."
Sam's mouth purses, his brows pulled tight. "Okay, disregarding for a moment how weird it is that you look at my injuries while I'm asleep, how about you answer my question. What's this about?"
Sam pauses, eyeing the stacked cardboard boxes in the middle of the Presidential suite. Dean hasn't gotten around to getting rid of them yet, and he doubts he ever will – the hotel is already footing their entire bill, and he doesn't see how adding a little trash to the mix will make things any worse.
"Statistically, what are the chances that you've woken me up to help you build a box fort?"
Dean picks up his duffle from beside the bed, checking to make sure everything that should be there, is. Guns, stakes of various woods and metals, sheathed knives (silver and iron), and boxes of ammo, both bullets and rock salt pellets. Everything is where it should be, and he moves the bag to the door, where it'll be easier to grab. "Slim to none. But I'm sure it can be arranged, you know, once we've killed Satan and dealt with the apocalypse. Get your stuff, we might be getting out of here pretty soon."
"Wait, you mean…Gabriel's going to let us go? That's great, when did you convince him?
Dean gnaws on his bottom lip. "Uh…we're in the process of convincing him. It's an ongoing thing."
Sam's expression…falls. Not into disappointment, but rather, into suspicion. He glances at the stacked boxes with renewed interest. "Dean," he says, and there's a note of warning in his voice that Dean has heard countless times before, usually when Sam thinks he's about to do something he's going to regret.
It's a valid concern – inevitably, whatever Dean regrets, Sam grows to regret, too.
"We're not setting anything on fire," he says quickly, because that's one of the things that gets Sam annoyed – things that are on fire when they shouldn't be. Sam doesn't look relieved, though. If anything, he looks even more suspicious.
"You keep saying 'we,'" he says slowly. "Either you've dragged some other poor person into this, or else you've dragged Castiel into this."
"Hey, Cas is people."
"Dean, just…shut up. Seriously? You've convinced an angel to help you get another angel drunk? I'm pretty sure that's blasphemy, Dean."
Dean shrugs, because, hey, he's not going to disagree. His concept of blasphemy is probably fuzzier than Sam's, but it's still there. "Would it help if I said it was Castiel's idea in the first place?"
Sam throws up his hands in a gesture that's both dramatic and unnecessary, but seems to make him feel better, so Dean doesn't say anything. "No! No, that makes it worse! It means you've already corrupted him! God, Dean, he's turning into you."
"And that's a bad thing, I get it. But can we put aside your moral outrage for a second and focus on getting out of here?"
Sam's arms drop, and then his shoulders sort of round forwards, not quite a hunch, but a definite sign of giving in. And then, the clincher: he takes a seat at the desk in Dean's room, instead of heading back into the glorified cage Gabriel has been keeping him in.
"Alright," he says, resigned but, thankfully, not angry. "Tell me about your master plan."
***
Dean's master plan (or maybe Castiel's, Sam isn't even sure anymore) is this: challenge Gabriel to a drinking contest.
Challenge Gabriel. To a drinking contest. A drinking contest. Gabriel, who has delighted in informing Sam, during their few short days together, about all the different countries he's visited, the gods he's impersonated, and, most importantly, the massive parties he's attended. Bacchanals with Dionysus in Greece, festivals to celebrate the Nile in Egypt, massive quantities of vodka consumed with fur-draped witches in Siberia, drunken orgies with Aztec rabbit gods, and any number of other events that had ended with Gabriel imbibing copious amounts of alcohol and still coming out on top – no puking his guts out at two in the morning, no blurred vision, no hangover, nothing.
Trying to beat Gabriel in a drinking contest is, in Sam's head, comparable to trying to outrun your own shadow. He's pretty sure it's physically impossible, even for Castiel, who's got the whole angelic constitution thing going on for him.
This, of course, isn't going to stop Castiel from trying.
It's been half an hour since the two angels locked themselves in the second bedroom, leaving Dean and Sam alone in the massive Presidential suite, with a mysteriously full mini bar and an unattended room service cart full of good food – lots of bacon-stuffed things for Dean, and cuts of roasted, herb-rubbed turkey for Sam. They're both too anxious to be eating anything (Sam doesn't think he'd be able to keep a cracker down, let alone a full meal), but every so often Dean drifts towards the cart, looks at the food longingly, and then drifts back to the bed, or the window, or the desk where Sam has parked himself.
Occasionally they can hear talking from the other room, but it's too muffled to make out.
"This sucks," Dean says (it's about the fourth time he's said it), and kicks uselessly at the wall he's been leaning against for the past ten minutes or so. Sam agrees, but there's little point in voicing it – it will continue to suck, whether he complains about it or not.
"Should have killed the asshole when we had the chance."
Sam snorts. "Which time, Dean? Before or after we knew he was an archangel? Give it up, Dean. We couldn't have killed him, even if we'd known. He would have wiped the floor with us."
Sam can feel Dean's scowl from all the way across the room. He hunches his shoulders, then realizes what he's doing and forces himself to stop, straightening his spine but not turning around to face his brother. His laptop is closed in front of him, within reach, but he can't bring himself to open it and ignore Dean completely.
"You've spent three days pretty much locked in a room with this guy. Alone," Dean tacks on, as if that means something. "Should I be worried?"
"Are you worried about him corrupting me, or me corrupting myself for him?"
"Either. Both."
"Then you can calm the fuck down, Dean. The worst he's done is watched me while I was asleep. Which, I might add, you also have a habit of doing. Should I be worried?"
Dean snarls, but it's more embarrassed than angry. He kicks the wall again, and Sam can feel the force of his scowl lessening on his back. "No! No, that's not…I worry, Sammy. This guy killed me, and now he's trying to be your special angel pen pal. Forgive me if I'm kind of suspicious."
"I'm not saying you shouldn't be suspicious," Sam murmurs. "Just…he's been through a lot."
"He's been through a lot?"
"More than he's been telling us, at least. He's tired all the time, now. He admitted it, last night. Keeping us here is wearing him out. Does that sound like an all-powerful archangel to you?"
"No, but it does sound like you want us to go easy on him. What gives, Sam? You hated him as much as I did a couple days ago."
Sam rubs his thumb along the edge of his laptop. The whole situation is a lot more complicated than Dean wants to believe it is – it's a lot more complicated than Sam wants to believe it is, and if he were less self-aware he would dismiss Gabriel's attentions as just another one of his jokes. But Sam isn't that stupid, even if he sometimes wishes he were, and he's perfectly capable of telling when someone is pinching his ass to get a rise out of him (pun totally not intended), and when someone is pinching his ass because they just want an excuse to touch him.
It's fitting that Gabriel seems to have never grown beyond the 'pulling pigtails' stage of flirting.
"It's complicated," he sighs. "And you know that. Stop acting like he's done something heinous, Dean. He's messed with our heads, yeah, but he's never hurt us. Just…tried to convince us that he was right in the worst way possible."
Dean's fuming is almost palpable, he's so wound up, but Sam knows he's won this argument. They can't raise their voices too much, lest they alert the angels to their fighting, and Dean knows this as well as Sam does. He has to swallow whatever shouting he wants to do and sit on it for a while, and Dean is as good as anyone else when it comes to holding a grudge, but compared to all the other shit they've gone through? This isn't worth staying angry over.
"You're way too forgiving," Dean says, after a long moment of silence. He sounds more resigned than anything else, now. "I'll never understand it."
"That's okay," Sam breathes, relief spreading through him with surprising speed. They're okay. Or they're going to be okay. "You don't need to understand it to know that I'm right."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
And just like that, things are familiar again.
***
Gabriel shows up about a half-hour later, Castiel in tow, and Dean realizes with painful suddenness that things aren't going to go the way they had planned. Castiel's expression is pinched, nervous, while Gabriel's is darkly amused. Sam sits up and takes notice while Dean automatically slumps down and tries to smush himself back into the desk chair. He'll consider that, later, turn it over and examine it, because his reaction to a pissed off archangel is fear, and rightly so. But Sam's? Sam looks interested. Maybe a little anxious, but it's readily trumped by the eager way he leans forward, swaying toward Gabriel like vine toward sunlight.
"There has been a change in the plan," Castiel hedges. Gabriel snorts, and releases Castiel – Dean sees, now, that Gabriel had been holding him by the scruff of his neck, like a kitten. He's not sure how he feels about that – everything's a confusing mix of anxiety and anger and fear.
"Damn straight there's been a change. It's come to my attention that you boys were planning on challenging me to a drinking contest. Let me see if I remember the stakes right…You lose, I continue to keep you here for as long as I like, and…Oh wait! No, looks like 'you losing' is the only option. Guess you're just gonna have to call the whole thing off."
"It is my challenge to make," Castiel murmurs, and shakes his trench coat out like a ruffled pair of wings before taking a cautious step away from Gabriel, like he's wary of being scruffed again. Dean doesn't blame him. From what Sam has told him, Gabriel's the grabby type. "Dean and Sam have done nothing but provide the medium. This is between you and me, Gabriel."
"Bro, you're gonna give your vessel alcohol poisoning before you beat me in a drinking contest."
"Please don't tell the story about the Bacchanal again," Sam moans quietly. He sounds like he's considering whether or not throwing up is worth the time and effort of getting up off the bed and scuttling to the bathroom. "I had nightmares about body parts. They had teeth."
Dean doesn't want to know. He leans back, the waves of Gabriel's power (and never mind that Sam said the guy is tired, he still feels strong) washing over him and giving him a headache, a stomachache. His heart is pounding like he's run a mile.
He is pissed the fuck off.
"So up the ante," he says softly, and Gabriel and Castiel both turn to look at him, Gabriel with narrow skepticism and Castiel with his usual inscrutable, intense expression. "You're saying there's no way you can possibly lose, so put your money where your mouth is. We win, and not only do you let us go, but you have to help us."
"Help you find God, kill Lucifer, and save the world. Pretty steep bet. What do I get when I win?"
Dean gnaws on his bottom lip. What's a better offer than 'you get to keep us here as long as you want?' It's not like Gabriel wants money, or information, or anything that could be used as a bargaining chip in a normal situation. He opens his mouth, ready to make a stupid offer – something like 'you get ten years of servitude from yours truly,' hopefully with the addendum 'after the apocalypse is over and we've killed Satan,' but he's interrupted.
By Sam.
"You get me," his little brother says, and whatever he'd been about to say dries up in his throat.
Gabriel goes from 'suspicious' to 'elated' in the span of a few seconds.
"Really," he says, and Dean has to restrain himself from launching out of the desk chair and trying to strangle the archangel right there, and fuck the consequences. Sam isn't looking at him – he's looking at Gabriel, with this severe, almost angry look on his face. Dean isn't sure what to think of it, because a minute ago Sam had been hanging off of Gabriel's every move.
"Really. For a year, you'll get to do whatever you want to me."
"Ten years."
"One."
Gabriel throws his head back, barking laughter. His teeth look sharper than usual, whiter. "Well, can't blame a guy for trying. One year. And I get your consent?"
Sam swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You get my consent, yes. Not Lucifer, not…anyone else. Just you."
"I can live with that. It was never my intention in the first place." Gabriel takes a step to the side, throwing an arm around Castiel's shoulders. The guy doesn't flinch, but Dean can tell he's uncomfortable. He seems to be tuning in to Cas a lot more lately, like a radio set to only catch one station. Everything else – Bobby, the Colt, even Sam – seems to be getting more and more distant. He wonders what he's supposed to make of that.
"Alright then, boys," Gabriel says, and there's an unearthly glee in his tone that sends shivers running up and down Dean's spine. "Let's get this over with."
***
Sam thinks he has never seen anything more interesting than an archangel who's had too much to drink.
They're three hours into the most impressive drinking contest Sam has ever personally seen, and Castiel is, surprisingly enough, holding his own. Sam remembers Jo and Ellen with a small pang of regret, and then pushes the unwanted feeling away. Castiel has never had anything as strong as Everclear, but so far he's managed to hold everything down. This is the rule: the first angel to purge their body of alcohol loses. This means no puking, no pissing, and no, as Gabriel put it, 'cleansing.' Dean tried to explain it – something about locking themselves in their vessels, and then leaving the vessel behind like a shell…Sam understands it on a level that he can't really comprehend, but he doesn't tell Dean that. He gives his brother a blank look and lets him think what he wants.
It turns out that Dean hid all those bottles for nothing. Sam imagines that, if they hadn't been found out, he and Castiel, that maybe that plan might have gone somewhere. Now, though, it's just Gabriel and Castiel sitting on opposite sides of the catering cart, lines of shot glasses standing like soldiers in front of them - some are fallen, some are still standing. Sam watches Gabriel down another shot, and then clumsily flip the glass over. He has drunk about five bottles, and Castiel, roughly, about five and a half. Their angel is winning and Sam can tell, even if no one else can, that Gabriel is confused.
"You're cheating," Gabriel slurs. Castiel rolls an empty glass between his fingers, then starts, and seems to come back to himself. He picks up a full glass with his other hand and drinks, then turns it over, slamming it back down on the cart with careless force. The glass splinters like spun sugar.
"I do not cheat." He enunciates his words carefully, to the point that he sounds almost comical. This is how Sam knows that Castiel is drunk. He would never sound funny on purpose.
During all of this, Dean is laying on the bed while Sam occupies the desk chair. Dean looks like he's sleeping, but Sam knows better. His brother is wide awake and listening to everything that's going on, but he won't let on that he's aware until he's sure that Castiel is either going to win or lose. And there are still ten bottles left. It's far too early to tell.
"Awful quiet over there, Sammy." Another glass, another drink, another 'clink' as the shot is finished. Sam shrugs, and watches Castiel fumble with the neck of their latest bottle of Everclear. Gabriel takes it from him with a tenderness that Sam hadn't expected – he has trouble remembering that, when all else is said and done, the two are still brothers. More shots are poured, previously empty glasses being turned over and reused. This has happened so many times that Sam has honestly lost count. He shrugs, knowing that Gabriel, even the depths of inebriation, will catch the movement and note it.
"There isn't much to talk about," he murmurs. "Either we win or we lose. Talking isn't going to change anything."
"Lighten up, Winchesters. Either you talk, or I talk about all the things I'm gonna have you do once I win." When Sam doesn't answer immediately, Gabriel downs another shot and then says (with disturbing relish), "The first item on the agenda is going to be foot massages."
"Jesus Christ," Dean groans, and pulls one of the hotel pillows over his head. Sam doubts it blocks out much noise.
"Consider what you wish to do once we have won," Castiel says. "Defeating Lucifer will require a plan."
"Hard to come up with a foolproof plan for killing the devil," Sam replies. For the moment there appears to be a ceasefire – both angels are leaning back in their chairs, not touching their drinks, but not puking, either. "We already know the Colt doesn't work. What else is there? It's not like asking nicely is going to work."
Sam bows his head, and runs his fingers back through his hair. His back aches; the skin there feels too tight, too hot. Gabriel runs his finger around the rim of a full glass and says, "It's not like the Colt is the only evil-smiting weapon out there, you know."
And then he pauses. It's the pause that attracts Sam's attention – even Dean has moved the pillow in order to hear better, and Castiel peers blearily at Gabriel. Wary. Hopeful.
"Shit," Gabriel says, and very carefully pushes his chair back from the cart, and just as carefully stands up (wobbling slightly as he goes)…and vanishes.
There isn't even the sound of air rushing in to fill his place. He's just…gone. Castiel blinks, his eyes huge and luminous, confused. There's a brief rush of air or electricity, something that Sam feels across his skin but Dean very obviously doesn't, and he knows that Castiel is sober again. Seeing as how 'no cleansing' had been a rule, Sam takes this to mean that the contest is over. He takes it to mean that Gabriel…ran.
He forfeited.
Which means they've won by default.
The only thing is…it doesn't feel like winning. It feels like they've lost their chance to learn something incredibly helpful – something that might actually give them the advantage, for once.
"I am assuming that Gabriel was making a reference to another weapon such as the Colt," Castiel says. He doesn't sound like he's trying too hard to speak any more – Sam's suspicion has been verified. "Perhaps one that will be more effective."
"Fuck," Dean says, and slides off the bed. He yanks the catering cart closer and grabs a shot glass, tipping it back and downing the whole of it. Sam watches Castiel watching his brother – it's like an Escher painting. Castiel's eyes follow the bob of Dean's throat as he swallows. Sam looks away. It feels like he's interrupting something. It was different, in the hospital, but he isn't quite sure what's changed. He's afraid to look closer at it.
He's worried that, if he looks closer, he might end up seeing something about himself, and not just something about Dean.
"Maybe we should leave," he says quietly. "Before Gabriel changes his mind."
It's a good idea. Gabriel has never proved himself to be trustworthy in the past – it makes sense that he might try to renege on their agreement.
So why does Sam feel like such an asshole for suggesting it?
***
It takes less time to pack than Dean thought it would. They've basically been living off of Gabriel's whims for the past few days anyways – it's not like they've needed to bring out any weapons, and the only thing that Sam needs to pack up is his laptop. Dean grabs a couple bottles of leftover Everclear (ignoring a disapproving scowl from his brother), and they get the hell out of dodge while they still can. The Impala is still parked outside; the tank is full, and Sam climbs into the front seat without commenting on the fact that, every time they looked outside the hotel windows, it was sunny, but now it's grey and drizzling.
Dean checks his cell phone and isn't surprised when he sees that the date hasn't changed, even though it's definitely been a couple of days. They stop by a gas station (even though they don't need any gas) and ask the attendant what day it is, just in case.
It's Thursday. Same day they checked into the hotel and fell under Gabriel's thrall. Dean buys Sam an iced tea, and buys himself a Slim Jim, and then they hit the road again.
There's no sign of Gabriel. No sign of Castiel either, for that matter. Castiel vanished shortly after he'd made sure that neither of them was unnecessarily traumatized by their experiences in captivity.
They drive for a while. Sam drinks his iced tea and keeps his eyes trained out the window. Dean forgets he bought the Slim Jim entirely and tries to find a cassette tape that will express exactly how little he is affected by everything that's gone down. He settles on some Joe Walsh mixtape he made, back when mixtapes were still cool. Sam doesn't complain, or respond at all, which is how Dean knows something is wrong.
Damned if he can figure it out, though.
They find a hotel that's nothing like the Ritz Carlton and check in under the names Thomas Ward and Rob Crane. The wallpaper is yellowed and the television only picks up the Discovery channel and pay-per-view porn. Everything should feel exactly as it had before.
Except it doesn't.
They take turns in the shower. Dean kind of misses the whirlpool bath, but a gilded cage is still a cage, right? And food has probably never tasted so sweet as it will now. Dean orders Chinese takeout while Sam conditions his hair or exfoliates his skin or whatever the fuck he does in there that requires a twenty-minute shower.
Bath bombs, he remembers. Shit.
The television (it's Shark Week, but turned on mute, because sharks are disturbing enough without having to hear about their dietary habits; Sam likes this shit, so he puts up with it) fizzles, the screen turning to snow for a moment. When Dean turns around, Castiel is standing there. He would look immaculate, except for his bloody lip and black eye.
Dean probably shouldn't. Sam's in the shower. His twenty minutes are almost up.
He goes and grabs a shirt from his 'to be washed at a later date' pile and approaches Castiel with it. The angel stands there, silent, as he uses a corner of a sleeve to swipe the blood from his mouth. He could be mistaken for a statue, if it weren't for the warmth he gives off, the texture of his upper lip where it grazes against Dean's thumb. It's chapped, kind of dry. Angels probably don't have a lot of time for moisturizing.
"I have learned of disturbing news," Castiel intones. He doesn't flinch, not even when Dean mops up a fresh trickle of blood, pressing the cotton hard against his lip.
"If I had a nickel for every time you brought us bad news…"
Castiel's brow furrows. "You require monetary recompense for tidings of misfortune?"
"Cas. Tell me the bad news."
"I have spoken with Gabriel."
Dean resists the urge to poke at Castiel's black eye. It looks painful. "I'm guessing it didn't go too well."
"On the contrary. He was very forthcoming, after he struck me. He informed me that the forces of Heaven are amassing."
Dean wads his shirt up, then tosses it back into his 'to wash' pile. It goes on the top, now. Blood congeals and gets gross if you let it sit for too long. Without the blood on his mouth and chin, Castiel looks slightly more human. Dean wonders if blood from an angel's vessel is the same as blood from any other Joe Schmoe. Maybe it turns into gold if you pour holy water on it. That would be pretty cool.
"Tell me something we don't already know, Cas."
"They are being led by the Gatekeeper, Hadraniel. We have encountered him before."
Heat lightning. Sam freezing like a stunned rabbit. Electricity. Yes, Dean remembers. "What does that mean for us?"
"It means that we will require the help of one strong enough to fend him off."
Dean feels something in him sort of…sink. He's pretty it's his stomach. And his sense of hope.
"Let me guess. We need an archangel."
Castiel's hesitance is the only answer he needs. They need to find Gabriel.
At least Sam will be happy.