Disclaimer: They're not mine - the local Council won't let me have any more large pets.
Title: Let's Celebrate!
Rating: K+. Srsly. I excrement you not.
Summary: Sam returns to find Dean celebrating on behalf of Bobby. He doesn't think it's a very good idea, so Dean has to convince him with his awesome powers of persuasion. And a bottle of very expensive booze.
Blame: I think this one might be the fault of plot bunny Christopher, another brother of Petunia, who dictated 'Nun Of That'. Plus cheese before bedtime.
LET'S CELEBRATE!
Sam was still thinking about the research he'd completed at the library – they'd been pretty sure that they'd gotten every last member of the coven, but he'd wanted to be absolutely certain before they moved on – so he was even more startled when he opened the door to their motel room.
Being startled when he opened the door to the room he was sharing with his brother wasn't anything new, of course – Dean didn't always remember to put out a warning, and sometimes the wind blew the sock off the door – but the point was, he wasn't usually startled by having a party hooter tooted in his face.
FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
"Gah!" yelped Sam, almost dropping his laptop, "Dean, what the hell?..."
"Hey Sammy, you're back!" beamed Dean, giving his hooter another toot for good measure, "It's time to celebrate, little bro!"
"Well, yeah, okay," Sam said dubiously, eyeing the bottle of bourbon in which Dean had already made a dent, "Job's done, I'm glad too... " he picked up the bottle. "This is expensive stuff."
"I cleaned up at pool," Dean informed him smugly, "So we can celebrate properly!" His sweeping gesture took in the bottles, the cans, and two very large pizzas. "I got you a Vegie Lovers pizza. Plus, I got pie in the refrigerator!"
"Er, well, yeah, I guess it's okay occasionally to celebrate your achievements," Sam began cautiously.
"No, no, no!" Dean waved his hands around, "We're celebrating this for Bobby!" He handed Sam a party hooter.
"What?" Sam was totally confused. "It's not his birthday, Dean. What are we supposed to be celebrating?"
Dean told him.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, this is ridiculous, even for you!"
"Come on," wheedled Dean, "We're doing this for Bobby."
"Do you think Bobby is celebrating?"
"Nope," Dean grinned smugly, "So we're doing it for him! He's like a father to us, Sam, so it is our right, no, it is our duty to celebrate for him! Here, have a drink!" He poured his little brother a double. "And how can we possibly pass up this opportunity to party on his behalf?"
Sam accepted the drink, and told his brother it was a stupid idea.
Sam accepted another drink, and told his brother that it was a pathetic excuse for a party, and that if he wanted to stuff his face and get wasted, he should just say so without making up excuses for it.
Sam accepted another drink, and sighed that it really was good stuff, and it was something of a shame that they couldn't afford really top shelf booze more often.
Sam accepted another drink, and gave a little toot on his hooter, because Dean asked him to.
When he saw how happy it made his big brother, he accepted another drink, and tooted with more enthusiasm. Then he did it again, just to see Dean smile once more.
Sam accepted another drink as Dean dialled Bobby's number.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Bobby was perusing a manuscript he'd recently acquired. He was reading a lurid description of a kelpie. It had been written by a sixteenth century monk who'd clearly never seen one, and had gone into the Church very early in his life and subsequently didn't get out into the company of the opposite sex very much, but had an extremely vivid imagination. When his cell rang, he barked "Singer," into it, not taking his eyes from the text.
FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
"What the blazes...?" he pulled the phone away from his ear, and looked at the caller ID. "Dean! Is that you?"
FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
"Dean Winchester, if you're at some party, and you've butt-dialled me, boy, so help me I'll..."
"That wasn't me, that was Sam," Dean's cheerful voice informed him, as the tooting continued in the background. "This is me. Hiiiiiii!"
"Huh?" Bobby was perplexed. "You idjits piss off some witch who turned him into a kiddy car, or something?"
"No," came Sam's voice, "We're celebrating! Yaaaaaay!" FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
Bobby frowned. "Have you boys been drinkin'?" he demanded.
"Absolutely!" Dean told him brightly, whilst Sam agreed, then hiccupped loudly. "And we've called you to give you our congratulations! Congratulations, Bobby!"
"Congratulations!" echoed Sam, with another toot.
Bobby sighed, and shook his head in resignation. "I'm almost afraid to ask," he muttered. "No, scratch that, I am afraid to ask. But I just know I'm going to, so, you might as well tell me, what am I supposed to be celebratin, here?"
On the other end of the line, the drunken but happy singing made Bobby smile in spite of himself.
"Happy Pope Day to you,
Happy Pope Day to you,
Happy Pope Day dear Bobbyyyyyyy,
Happy Pope Day to you!"
FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!
A Pope called Francis; Dean is sure to have a field day with that.
This morning, when I read the news, I burst into the bedroom where my traddy Catholic husband was still nine-tenths asleep, and yelled "Happy Pope Day!". He swore at me. "Aren't you supposed to leap out of bed and pray joyfully, or something?" I asked. He suggested I perform a vulgar biological function upon myself. Then I sang Happy Pope Day to him. He threw a pillow at me. He's going to Hell, for sure.
To any Catholics out there, Happy Pope Day! FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!