A/N: this is a colab with super awesome babybluecas!
Stories are in random order so don't worry about that.
Here's where you can find more demoning and it's complicated because ffnet kicked ffnet's ass with links, apparently also internal ones:
1. type in the regular ffnet address
2. add this immediately after: /s/12663519/1/Much-Ado-About-Not-Dean
3. ? ? ? ? ?
4. PROFIT
Thanks, storyhosting website fanfiction dot net, for making this weird and complicated and also for tryin to ration my usage of question marks. with love, your elderly patron, mgr tco
"Hey guys, I'm here!" Dean yells after slamming the bunker door closed, which wasn't all that easy peasy, since he had to manage both shopping bags and his precious strawberry milkshake that is so, so, so nicely devoid of salt.
"Dean!" he hears Sam's voice and just like that he knows it's not his name but an accusation (already). Cas reprises the word with something more wounded but equally as annoying in his gravel whine.
What is he even doing here, doesn't he have things to be and places to do?
"Bye, assholes, I'm gone," he mutters to himself and proceeds with the frustrating door and items ordeal again, ready as fuck to step out and leave, hopefully for good. Except that he can't.
Great, now he knows what the weirdly yet conveniently placed rug was for. He sighs. Doesn't turn around.
"You do realize this floor is very old, hard to scrub clean and that overall, this is vandalism."
"This needs to stop, Dean," Sam calls.
Dean turns around.
"You mean the grocery or the snacks?" he asks, pointing at his spoils of 7/11 war. "I'm really disinclined to give up these puppies, though, so you might wanna cut that shit of yours out," he takes a meaningful sip of his shake. "Starting now, you two can make your own grocery runs, assholes. Just sayin."
"I'm serious, Dean."
"That's nice because so am I." And he slurps on, because honestly, what else can he do stuck inside of a devil's trap?
"You have to let us help you!" Castiel begs, climbing up the stairs, towards him.
"We've been through this twelve times!" Dean mocks in the exact same begging tone. "I literally asked Charlie to write me an app for this."
"And?" Sam inquires.
"And I have an app for this."
Dean puts the grocery down and fishes the phone out of his pocket. Taps a few times, then ostentatiously shows the screen to Sam.
9 Days Since The Last Curecident.
Even more ostentatiously, he taps on the big, red "reset" button. And slurps. Castiel winces in the corner of Dean's vision which is win enough.
"Cas, this can help us calculate the average number of days before he snaps," Sam says, elated.
Castiel nods.
"Before I what?"
"Before you succumb to your sulfurious disease," Castiel explains.
Dean blinks slowly. Green, black, green, black. He shakes his head.
"What are you talking about?! I can't believe I'm saying this… but are you fucking possessed?!"
Charlie answers the phone but she knows she's not gonna like it.
"Is Dean there?" She can hear Sam breathing on the other end of the line. He sounds exactly like she imagined a horny weaboo creep would sound like.
She looks away to where Dean sits on the couch and cackles at infomercials, devouring bland, saltless pop-corn.
"Yeah," she sighs. Sam probably knows anyway since he calls here.
"TELL HIM HE'S A DEMON."
"Yeah, I think he kno—"
Sam already hung up.
"Sam, if you're calling to whine demon again, I swear to fuck, I'm blocking all of your numbers and changing mine," Charlie snarls and cuts the call, just in case Sam had anything else to add on that subject. Goes back to the living room, where Dean's face vaguely portrays pity and an apology for the repeated inconvenience.
Two hours later Dean passes by the abandoned phone and taps it to see how long their awesome homemade (but saltless) pizza still needs in the oven to ascend to perfection. He raises an eyebrow.
"You have an unread message," he informs.
"What's it say?" Charlie asks.
Dean checks, but he feels that he already knows: it's Sam, reminding them periodically that left to his own devices he's incapable of not being stupid.
"DEMNO!" Dean reads.
And also, he doesn't want to know what his brother must have been doing with his other hand.
He checks the oven.
"We can take it out in a few minutes, after Cas calls."
"After Cas calls?" Charlie echoes, kind of grimacing because it looks much, much more awkward in real life than in Dean's stories.
"He does that since I'm 'dead'. Barely crossed his mind before, some nerve he fucking has."
"What does he tell you?"
"I donno, I shoo him off," Dean shrugs.
Charlie sighs, resigned.
"And Sam? It was Sam, right?"
"Oh, he's just learning his ABCs."
"And?"
"And failing."
Charlie's face doesn't make it to bloom into full compassion yet when, as predicted by Dean, the phone in his pocket begins to vibrate angrily. With absolutely no surprise, the screen flashes "ASS" for caller ID and Charlie doesn't need her hacking skills to decode who that could possibly stand for.
"I'm getting the oven mittens, then," she decides.
Dean nods and gracefully answers the call.
"Apage," he says with the tone people normally save for hello.
"That's… that's not the phrase for angels, Dean," Castiel tries.
Unbeknownst to Cas, Dean does the universal grimace for 'I guess.'
"My bad. Holy apage, bye!"
He hangs up.