The first thing that Sam did the next morning was give Ruby's old knife to Lisa, explaining that it could kill demons, and would help her, Barnes, and Damien keep Becky safe. The second thing he did was appoint himself the driver. Not even twenty miles into their move westward, toward where the last signs of Luciferian omens had been, Sam regretted making any decision that involved traveling in a car with Dean and Cas.

"Can't this thing go any faster?" Cas complained from the backseat (which he had stretched out on, claiming that sitting up straight in the Impala had made him feel confined, the last few times he'd ridden in it).

"Excuse us for not being able to zap around at fucking light speed," Dean snapped.

"All I am saying is that, for having such a reputation for being special, this car has yet to live up to my expectations in the slightest."

Dean reached back and smacked Cas in the side, hard enough to get his attention (and a disgruntled huff, which Sam suspected had been Dean's intention). "Maybe she's not a damn cloud chariot, or whatever you've been riding up in Heaven, but you keep your junk-less mouth shut about my baby."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Of all people, Dean, you ought to know that I am far from, as you say, junk-less."

A pinkish twinge rose to Sam's cheeks, and only subsided once Dean and Cas had shut up and stopped picking on each other for a few minutes. All things considered, the younger Winchester still didn't understand why the angel had agreed to Dean's conditions against flying places, or why Dean had made them in the first place; all he knew was that he wished he'd kept Ruby's knife or stolen Cas's sword before they'd left. Those were probably the only things capable of cutting through the tension in the car.

Putting on his favorite They Might Be Giants cassette did nothing to help matters either.

"I don't understand," Cas complained about halfway through a song. "Why do these men wish for the construction of a birdhouse in their souls? That would be immensely uncomfortable for all involved, and the birds would be unable to reach it."

"It's a metaphor for being in love and dedicating yourself wholly—" Sam started to explain, only for Dean to eject the tape and shove in his copy of Alice Cooper's Trash, which picked up right in the middle of 'Poison.' Completely ignoring the Impala's other two passengers, Dean started singing along and banging on the air as if keeping up with the drumming. Head tilted in bemusement, Cas sat up and slumped against the driver's side front seat; he watched Dean as though he were watching a piece of performance art and politely trying (but failing) to understand. "…He does this sometimes," Sam eventually muttered, his apology for Dean's behavior and the angel's confusion unspoken.

Cas only nodded. "Your voice bothers me so much less when you don't use it to say redundant things."

In retaliation, Dean cranked the volume and belted: "I hear you callin' and it's needles and pins! I wanna hurt you just to hear you screamin' my name! Don't wanna love you but you're under my skin—"

"Is this a reference to what you people call sadomasochism?" Cas asked, his voice audible over the noise even without any apparent effort on his part. What he had to say paled, in Sam's opinion, to the fact that, ever so briefly, the angel's lips curled into the first smile Sam had seen on his face since before he'd gone to tussle with Lucifer.

Face a deep scarlet, Sam ejected the tape and replaced it with Alanis Morissette, at which Dean groaned: "Oh, come on, Sammy. This is chick music." Snapping more than he meant to, Sam reminded Dean of the golden rule: driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cake-hole — and, halfway through his protest, Dean was too distracted by glaring at Cas in the rearview mirror to protest. The hunter and the angel locked eyes for all of 'You Oughta Know,' and from what Sam let himself see of their faces, both of them had something to say to the other about… whatever not-relationship-because-both-of-them-said-it-wasn't they'd had.

And a while later down the road, after Dean got sick of Jagged Little Pill and agreed to compromise with Bon Jovi, since Sam liked their stuff and Cas didn't know enough about them to really care but found 'Living On A Prayer' acceptable enough: "Cas, pass me the Twizzlers."

"Did you know that there isn't anything even remotely resembling natural food in these?"

"Yeah, I did. Now pass them."

"You shouldn't be eating these at all, Dean. They have a high chance of contributing to the cancer you're already courting."

"Sam, make Cas pass me the Twizzlers."

Before Sam could say anything, the passenger side backseat window rolled down and the Twizzlers went flying out it. Dean's eyes widened and his face flushed red in frustration. "What the Hell, Cas?" he barked. "I paid money for those."

"Money from a stolen wallet," Sam sighed.

Cas shrugged. "I'm just trying to protect you from your bad choices."

As Jon Bon Jovi screamed about his lover giving love a bad name, Sam suspected that the only reason Cas wasn't getting a face-full of gas station coffee was that Dean wouldn't hurt his car just to piss off his ex.

This was going to be a longer drive than necessary. Sam chided himself for not putting that together as soon as they'd left Lisa's.

After a long day of traveling, the trio finally pulled into a state highway motel called The Mockingbird, where, unbeknownst to them, three separate parties were already waiting for them. Having seen his plot rejuvenated by Castiel's interest in the Virgin Fangirl, Gabriel had jaunted back down to Earth, complete with Barachiel's reassurance that, "oh, the couples you want to see always have some trouble at first. Some bickering is pretty standard, really. It keeps the story interesting and strengthens the emotional impact of the ending," and hidden himself in a shield that used his angelic mojo to emulate a chameleon. By the time the Impala pulled into a parking space, he'd already been following them for most of the night, and his perch in the nearest tree was almost comfortable enough on its own without him abusing his powers.

From that spot, Gabriel watched as the Wonder Brothers and their sidekick, Nerd Angel, climbed out of the car and made way for a room, all three having the hunched shoulders that could only come from spending too much time in a car with disagreeable parties… and almost as soon as his shoes hit the ground, Castiel started griping: "You really shouldn't still be upset about the Twizzlers, Dean. I already apologized and you got the money back from that game of pool—"

"Yeah, which almost didn't work, thanks to you—"

"You shouldn't have tried to make your brother seem so incompetent after all he's done — and, besides, you know how I feel about lying."

"So just call it manipulating the truth for Christ's sake! All the other angels do!"

"Would you two cram a sock in it and… just agree to disagree already?"

In unison, Castiel and Dean snapped: "Shut up, Sam!"

For a moment, the squawking lovebirds paused, and each one looked at the other — not their first mistake, in Gabriel's opinion, but certainly the worst they'd made so far. They seemed to recognize this tragic faux pas, at least, and Castiel grumbled, "Your voice is exceptionally more grating when you're patronizing us." (Gabriel rolled his eyes, just barely managing to silence the groan in his throat. Seriously: he loved his brother, in his own way, but referring to himself and Dean as an "us" just made Castiel sound desperate.)

With which the three of them disappeared into room 26. Gabriel sighed, leaning back against the branch he'd taken to resting on; he really didn't understand Sam's devotion to that idiot brother and trying to put his love life back in order. Oh, sure, Gabriel had his own purposes in getting the most emotionally oblivious angel ever and his green-eyed paramour together again, but those were entirely selfish: he wanted Castiel the Hell and gone out of his hair and his and Dean's relationship provided an effective means to an end. The only real outcome the archangel could see Sam wanting from this was getting Dean to be less of a jackass, but sex had never fixed that irritating personality trait before and Gabriel saw no reason why it would start.

Shrugging (and banishing the thought that, really, for all his voice wanted for some smoothing over, Sam got truly adorable), Gabriel figured he could just ask Sam about it the next time he stopped in for a visit; sighing, he snapped his fingers and magicked himself up a mai-tai. He had a social experiment to keep tabs on — and judging by Dean's audible-from-out-here scream, things were about to get good.

Crowley had waited in the Winchesters' motel room ever since he'd had Bela make a reservation for "three men, two beds; one will be exceedingly tall, one will be very grouchy, and one will look like a grown up choir boy." Patient as a bloody saint, she'd stayed with him, sitting at his side, on the bed they'd purposefully mussed up; she'd artfully tousled her hair and scattered her meat-suit's clothes around the floor with care that rivaled Michelangelo Buonarotti's. The gasp and subsequent shout of, "You're sleeping in that bed, Sam!" warmed the cockles of the space where Crowley's wicked little heart had once been. (He hadn't had a heart of his own for centuries — millennia, in Hell time — but sometimes, it felt ever so nice to play pretend.)

"Oh, please, do get over yourselves." He smirked at the Winchesters and their pet angel once the door had closed; his eyes glittered, and he added on, "No, really. Be our guest to it. My poppet and I just wanted to have some cheap thrills in getting your attention."

The angel's brow furrowed, and, leaning against the wall, he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "…She isn't a member of the family Papaveraceae, or the plant kingdom, or a puppet of any ki—"

"It's a term of endearment, genius." Turning her gaze toward Dean, Bela chuckled. "Honestly, where did you find this one? He's adorable — you know, the whole of Creation doesn't hold that many humanoid creatures who rival your obtuseness."

"He climbed my hair and saved me from a doorless tower, what's it to you?" Dean's bag fell to the floor with a dull thud, but at least he showed them the courtesy of not whipping out a gun. "You two have five seconds to tell me what the Hell you're doing here or I'm exorcising your asses."

"Funny you should mention that," Crowley chimed in with a dry chuckle. "Exorcism's why we've come calling on you in the first place." Although he watched everyone's reactions (vigilance learned while under a rock, hiding from self-destruction took some time to unlearn, he figured), but in particular, the Crossroads King turned his focus on the younger Winchester most of all, watching as he almost flinched. Standing and pointing at his mark, Crowley explained, "Gigantor over here has a gift, one that everyone — myself and Bela, included — has just been ignoring—"

Dean looked from Crowley to Sam, and Sam just stood there, his unfathomably enormous self, trying his best to look innocently oblivious (a doomed endeavor, in Crowley's opinion; even with the widened eyes, childish pout, and even mix of shrugging and shaking his head, the ex-Boy King looked guiltier than Jack the Ripper amidst a pile of harlots' corpses). Finally, with a nod and an expression of grim acceptance, Castiel broke the uncomfortable silence: "Crowley and Bela mean for Sam to use his power over demons to kill or exorcise the Luciferians."

True to his close-minded form, Dean threw out every denial in his admittedly limited book: "But… Sam hasn't had his hands on demons lately unless he's been gankin' them — blood drinking's… it won't work and just…" He stampeded over to the bedside and, with an uncharacteristic limpness, tried to shove Crowley to the mattress; the demon stayed in place and shrugged, as if to ask what Dean thought he'd accomplish, carrying on like this. Instead of just answering and making everyone's lives easier, Dean grabbed Crowley by his suit's lapels and grunted, "You red-eyed son of a… You can't… What're you gonna do? Feed him any demon who disagrees with you and the Ice Princess over here?"

"That's a terribly gross oversimplification—" In an instant, Dean had a knife drawn and at Crowley's throat — not the infamous, demon-killing one, but a silver one that had been salted and sanctified, and that was enough to make Crowley pause, give the boy an apologetic smile. "In a manner of speaking—" Dean leaned further toward him, pressing the knife in enough to burn, if not enough to pierce the skin. "Fine! Fine! …No, we do not want him drinking demon blood — but we need him killing them. And when he and Lucifer separated, some terribly convenient abilities hung around."

"We'd be fools not to use them for the greater good," Bela added on, leaving the bed to relocate her panties. "It's all very simple: Sam kills or exorcises the Luciferians, we dismantle the movement and save Becky's Christ-daughter, and everyone but the one with child takes a weekend off for martinis and self-congratulation. …She can join us for the fun times, naturally. Just not the alcohol. Wouldn't want any—"

"He's not doing it!"

Turning to face Dean, Bela wormed into her top without bothering to put on the bra. "Your devotion is touching — have you even asked for Sam's opinion on this?"

Crowley smirked and tilted his head. "The lady raises an excellent point. …Weren't we, in this charming, post-Apocalyptic wonderland, meant to see a Dean Winchester who treats his brother like an adult instead of like a five-year-old who's pissed the bed?"

"I treat Sam fine, but why would you even think that—"

"Dean," Castiel interjected, "they have a point." The knife not only dropped from Crowley's throat, it hit the floor altogether; Dean turned on the angel just as quickly as he'd turned on Crowley — and before he could start rambling in inanities, the angel continued: "Lucifer's not a demon. Any residual powers from his presence in Sam's body would be angelic in nature. He could easily use them for good, rather than for—" Castiel cut himself off as Dean stormed out the door, and then concluded: "I'll just… go and get him back."

Once the self-righteous moron and his winged ex-lover had left the adults to their business, Crowley shut the door with a flick of his wrist. He looked up at Sam and said, without adornment, "It's a win-win situation, Sam. And you wouldn't even need to chug your go-juice. The malingering remains of Lucifer's grace would do the trick on their own."

Sam nodded, muttering that he'd think about it and could Crowley and Bela please leave now. Although he kept it to himself, he had to admit: it didn't sound as bad as Dean clearly wanted to think it was.

Castiel paid no attention to the door slamming behind him, or to the conversation that accompanied it, or to the archangel lurking in the tree; all he did was follow Dean. "What's the matter?"

"Fuck you, I'm taking a walk."

Castiel paused, both in the conversation and in his steps. He kept his voice low and his face serious, whispering: "…It is not for nothing, Dean, but I would prefer you not use that phrase unless you mean it."

Dean's eyes flashed like a flare gun shot as he turned on his heel. "What makes you think I don't?" he hissed, advancing on Cas. His scowl would have been the stuff of legends, had he or Castiel cared to record it for them, and had Gabriel not been downing his drinks as though eating popcorn at the movies.

Sighing, Castiel rubbed his lips together. His hands clenched into fists and, for a moment, it looked like he might give up and punch Dean. Much to Gabriel's disappointment, Castiel only snapped: "…You know what I mean."

"So what if I do?" Another opportunity for violence — Dean glared daggers at the angel before locking eyes with him and saying, "You know, who even gives a damn about fucking? Sam's gonna go back to playing The Exorcist, it's your fault that he's doing it, you soul-less son of a bitch."

(Gabriel shook his head and groaned, slumping back in his arboreal seat. For as much as he did enjoy watching the two of them go at each other like they couldn't decide whether to fight or fuck, some part of him wished that someone would just snog the other or throw a punch already. Preferably Castiel — little angel blue eyes could be vicious, when he put his mind to it.)

"My fault." Castiel repeated Dean's words with an incredulous huff, and the way his eyes darkened dared Dean to take a swing at him. As the two of them closed the space between their bodies, Gabriel leaned forward — they should've just made out already, he thought; they were practically grinding on each other as it was. …As much as they could while still having a few inches between them, anyway.

"You heard me," Dean snapped. For a moment, his brow furrowed in contemplation, rather than in fury, and he wordlessly grunted, just to keep things from getting quiet. "If you hadn't gone and stood behind him on that—"

"It was the only way—"

"—then Sam wouldn't have gone down there, Bela and Crowley would be off trading souls to get some pathetic Star Trek virgins laid, and I—"

"The world would have ended, Dean. Even without Sam, Lucifer would have had no trouble defeating Michael when he was inside of Adam—" Castiel stopped himself abruptly, at the sound of rustling wings and branches. Holding up a hand to silence Dean, he crept across the parking lot — only to be knocked on his back as a diminutive archangel lunged out of the bushes, aimed at his chest. "…Get off me, Gabriel," Castiel huffed, rolling his eyes.

Gabriel did so, fumbling more than a bit, and snapping on the way up, "You're not nice." So, instead, Gabriel slunk his arms around Dean's waist, yanked the man into his own chest, and nuzzled his cheek against Dean's chest; Dean wrinkled his nose and held his hands up in surrender, but remained silent (a fact that did not escape Castiel's notice, or take away the bright red flush that rose to his cheeks). "Oh yeah, see… I like Dean. He's not an asshole about… stuff. And junk."

Although he tried to worm out of Gabriel's hold, Dean could only stand by, helplessly mouthing, Cas! Help! Castiel sighed. He still didn't understand why a hunter of Dean's caliber needed saving, but he also didn't see a point in wasting any time. As he grabbed the collar of Gabriel's shirt, Castiel snapped, "We should talk to Bobby."

While Cas and Dean went outside to have their (ex-)lovers' quarrel, Sam just took up a seat on his bed, leaning against the headboard and reading a book, one of the Doctor Sexy novels he'd found kicking around the back of the Impala shortly after his brother and Lisa had broken things off between them.

Before he could even think about what was going on (much less what he'd need to do if he ever wanted to get Dean and Cas off his nerves, or why some sexy, but neurotic, doctor was making out with a patient's ghost), Sam had an archangel getting thrown through the open door, curling up behind him, and awkwardly turning him into the little spoon. He wriggled as Gabriel nuzzled at the back of his neck, trying as best he could to worm out of this position… and getting absolutely nowhere.

"You're warm," Gabriel announced, and immediately, Sam picked up the scent of at least five different liquors, the freshest of which smelled like apple schnapps. He sighed. "I like you," Gabriel continued.

"…Is this really necessary?" Sam asked.

Gabriel nodded and one of his hands stroked down Sam's chest. "Dean says you're supposed to keep an eye on me. I prefer this."

Sam generally tried to keep from hating his life unless it was truly desperate, and while being a handsy archangel's space heater paled in comparison to being a creepy archangel's meat-suit, Sam still stared at the wall as though asking if it might be so kind as to beat him into unconsciousness. Outside, quite unbeknownst to anything, Barachiel had taken up Gabriel's former seat in the tree, and as he watched the Impala head off into the night, he shook his head. Nothing could ever just go according to plan, could it?