"Cas," Dean called out. "Job for you." Sam quirked an eyebrow at his brother's uppity manner. Dean bent low and patronisingly patted his knees as if to encourage a dog, "C'mon boy, we haven't got all day." With a whisper of flurrying wings, Cas appeared behind Dean, who swivelled and gave a self-important smirk.
"I don't appreciate being summoned in that manner," he said waspishly and low, the usual gravel-in-your-throat kind of hoarseness that Dean took kindly to. Instead of disregarding the matter, Cas continued to brood. "I'm not the house pet at your beck and call."
Dean's brow shot up. "I beg to differ," he replied capriciously and ruffled the angel's dark hair. "I think you're on a pretty tight leash, angel-face. And I also believe we'd get a damn good game of fetch 'outta that stick up your ass."
Cas attempted a sardonic smile, though he hadn't quite grasped the concept of sarcasm wholly, and it looked more genuine and teethy than satirical. It was somewhat endearing. "If you two boyfriends have quite finished…" Sam reproached impatiently.
"Cas isn't my boyfriend," Dean snapped instinctively. Their 'profound bond' had been pointed out so frequently that it had become a sort of second-nature-answer. Sam laughed, now clearly amused. Cas even looked disconcertingly at the older Winchester. "…As such. He's just over-analytical about the affection I show him."
"Really?" Cas questioned. "Was I just misinterpreting signals when you pinned me against the fridge last night and told me to drop my-" Dean kicked Cas in both shins and he responded by rolling his eyes at Dean's immaturity. The smile on Sam's face disappeared quicker than it had appeared, and he plugged his ears with his index fingers, a dismayed expression on his face.
"Cas, you over-share." Cas was about respond accusingly. "Look, there are more important topics at hand. We need you to do a background check on this…Randall Fallon; we think he might be the 'perp that killed our ghost." Cas took the piece of paper Sam offered him. It included the sparse details that Google had managed to find them. Name, address, current girlfriend, past girlfriends, a couple of his old high school buddies; your basic facebook-creep database.
"And why can't you get Bobby to do it?" Cas asked dubiously, scanning the information.
Sam looked unwilling to tell, but Dean spoke up before he could consider his answer. "Bobby's on his all-week Christmas bender. Ho ho ho and a bottle of malt whiskey," he chuckled.
"Nice, Dean. Real nice," Sam frowned.
Cas nodded and continued to examine the piece of paper. "So, you're suggesting Randall Fallon killed your ghost?"
"Yes," Dean replied with a ironic grin, giving the angel a pat on the back. "You successfully repeated what we just said." Cas rolled his eyes, brushing Dean's hand away from him.
"It says here he's just left college," Cas scrutinised.
"Yep, just out. Still wet behind the ears," Dean replied. "It's a fair cop though, we heard on the grapevine that he has quite the criminal record. Local disturbances, breaking and entering, vandalism. But we need you, my little trench coat munchkin, to wave your angel wand and find out the dirty details."
"Alright," Cas responded, scornful at Dean's naïve comments. "And I don't have a wand."
"Don't you?" Dean retorted with a raised brow. "Now, get back here as soon as. I will see you…" he wagged a finger and smirked when Sam left before he heard too much "…naked as a jaybird, in the room, at eight sharp."
I flail over reviews. Fact.