Shamrock prompt from Pryde23 – Seriously, I live in England and I'm not even sure why the Hell we love St. Paddy's day so much.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own the boys, I only own my imagination.

Sunset

There are many reasons why angels became enchanted with the lands their Father built for their distant human cousins.

Castiel is no different.

Only, he has many more reasons than his detached siblings.

Winchesters and their causes aside, the simple beauty of this small planet charms the Seraph. And few things more so than a warm, golden sunset. The angel once flew through the searing heat of the sun itself, coming through the other side of the star without a scratch for the effort taken, peering into it's burning heart and feeling how she works.

He decided long ago that it looks a thousand times more beautiful from the greater distance of the Earth. And if the Winchesters ever want to find him in the evening, first port of call is always the roof.

Crumbs

If there ever comes a day when Sam becomes overtired of his older brother's petulant actions, there is one sure fire way to piss Dean off faster than a demon before morning coffee.

The simplicity of it is what attracts Sam to it as a means of self preservation in the first place.

Getting crumbs all over the Impala.

Dean rages every time it happens. He'd forbidden the consumption of any crumb prone foods years ago within the precious confines of his Baby's interior. It drives him mad, spending literal hours sucking all of the little fuckers up.

Needless to say, whatever Dean's been doing to piss the younger Winchester off, abruptly stops.

Goose

"Dude, I think it likes you." Dean chortles out, snickering from his safe haven on top of the chicken coop.

Sam is off scouting the other side of the recently deserted farm. Hunting out the Rawhead supposedly prowling the lot.

Castiel continues to stare down at the fluffed up, hissing creature menacingly eyeing up the angel. It's wings spread out threateningly, the grating sibilant sound growing louder all the time. "I am not sure that's the case, Dean."

"Don't be a fucking baby, man. Get rid of it."

"I'm not the one sitting on top of a chicken house, Dean."

By the time Sam comes back, the pair are tucked up on the small wooden structure, eyeing the Goose warily as it stalks around them like a wolf hunting an injured lamb. Sam laughs for ten minutes straight.

Father

The Winchester brothers don't have all that much any more.

With their entire family dead, no roots anywhere, and everything they own able to fit easily in the Impala's trunk. Sometimes the brothers feel like they're drifting on a churning ocean of the supernatural, waves that keep tossing them adrift no matter how hard they try to focus on their horizons. The everyday darkness drilling down so deep, it becomes difficult to remember whose the monster and whose the hunter.

At times like these. The older Winchester will swing the Impala East, heading towards their only open door and the man who'll yell at them to suck it up, sort it out, and then cook them a full home made meal; because they're looking too peaky damnit.

Tourist

"I'll kill him!" Dean seethes blackly, squinting out across the ocean through the blinding rays of dazzling, roasting hot sunlight.

Sam sighs morosely as he takes in the khaki shorts and freaky yellow open Hawaiian shirt hanging off his own frame.

The colours are sickeningly happy.

If anything, Castiel looks the most disgusted the hunters have ever seen; dressed similarly to the humans, open deep blue shirt patterned with overly cheerful flamingos, topped off with sunglasses that are doing little to hide the blazing retribution scalding away in his piercing blue eyes.

The older Winchester whines at his red shirt. "I fucking hate shorts, man. Gabriel! You little bastard, just wait till I find my razor!"

Shamrock

St. Patrick's day is a weird ass holiday even by the Winchester's messed up standards, like how desperate for an excuse to drink does someone have to be to pluck up an Irish holiday.

Whatever the reason, Dean's damn grateful for it.

"I don't understand the reasoning, Sam. Saint Patrick's use of the shamrock was to illustrate the holy trinity of young Christianity. I fail to see how that message prompts twenty four hours of constant Western iniquity."

The younger Winchester snorts into his extortionately priced Guinness, rolling his eyes at the overly dramatic pistol Dean makes with his hands to silently murder himself. Dean beats him to an answer though, and Sam's not sure if he's relieved or not. "Christ, Cas. Who the hell cares why? People get to have fun, I get to get drunk and laid almost without fail every single year. It's like Valentine's day without all the moping women." The hunter ducks down enough to pull out a tall, green, overly stuffed hat. "Now shut up and put this on. I have a bet with an archangel to win."

A/N: Feel free to drop off single word prompts.