The blast of warm air ripped through the sky behind them as the other helicopter spiralled down to the ground in a screaming crash of burning metal, delivering three wanted terrorists right over the American border, where the FBI were waiting to pick them up. From their vantage point in the sky, the team hollered and cheered over the noise of the chopper.
Bobby slipped his customary Cuban cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it, exchanging grins with Sam as Dean threatened to kill Gabriel if he took his hands away from the controls once more.
"I love it when a plan comes together."
The US military base in Sinai was, to put it lightly, hot. Dean felt sorry for all the soldiers who were trekking around the desert base in full uniform, underneath layers of sand and sweat.
He debated whether he had the energy to even try and fix the van, given how much heat the metal picked up, even in the shade. No, it was much safer to just recline and relax; they could be called up for a job at any moment, so there was no sense risking heat stroke.
Their pilot may have already fallen to it, he thought, as he watched Gabriel perform an unorthodox puppet show using barbecue tongs and some poor fool's sunglasses. No, he reconsidered. Gabriel Murdock had always been completely mad, with or without desert heat.
Sam wandered over, looking a little lost.
"What's up with you, Bitch-Face?"
"Jerk."
"What? Everyone calls you Bitch-Face. Bobby introduced you to me as Bitch-Face."
"Yeah, I guess… I don't know, doesn't this all feel a little wrong to you?"
"What you talking about?"
"I don't know, something's…"
"B. A. Baracus?" The soldier carried a check-list, looking at each of the three men reclining in the shade. Dean raised his hand.
"That's me." Dean raised his hand, signing for the package the soldier handed over. Sam shook his head.
"What? No, your name's Dean."
"Uh… yeah… Dean "Bad-Ass" Baracus. Codename "B.A." The heat must be screwing with you, man."
"No…" Sam was living up to his codename, with a striking rendition of bitchface 37. "No, isn't B. A. Baracus a boxer? And… black?"
Dean stared at him.
"Sam… I think you've been spending too much time with Murdock over there."
Gabriel froze at the mention of his name, spun slowly on the spot, and stared at them with narrowed eyes, before sinking slowly to the floor and rolling behind a nearby observation deck, spying on them in the most obvious way possible.
"Alright, boys, time to get moving." Bobby approached them, accompanied by a portly, balding man with a red face and a lot of medals on his uniform. "We've got us a job to do."
"Yessir," the man drawled, in one of the thickest Texan accents Dean had ever heard, "your Mr. "Hannibal" here has convinced me I have need of your services."
"Wait a minute…"
"Bitch-face, fool, shut it. Where's the job?"
"Cape Town." Bobby grinned, a plan already formulating. "And we need to get there as soon as possible."
"Hang on…"
"Yee-haw!" Gabriel leapt from his not-at-all-hidden hiding place, saluting. "Alright, Hannibal, tell me you found me a new toy to fly!"
"No, whoah, hang on."
"I ain't getting on no plane…"
"Hold it!" Sam practically screamed. "This is not right. Stop, just for a minute, and look around. I'm not… I'm not Sam "Bitch-Face" Peck. Dean, you're definitely not B. A. Baracus. And Bobby… You're Bobby Singer, not Hannibal."
Everyone stood perfectly still for a moment. Dean closed his eyes, as vague memories flicked through his mind. All oddly connecting, and intensely vivid.
After a moment, he realised who was to blame for it. Sam and Dean turned to glare at Gabriel at exactly the same moment. Gabriel grinned sheepishly, and clicked his fingers. They were back in their motel room, back to their old selves, and about ready to kill the archangel turned trickster.
Bobby stood quietly as he watched the brothers threaten the archangel with fates worse than death, and thought that personally he hadn't minded the holiday, no matter how brief. That said, next time, they should probably just have let Gabriel go paintballing.