Chapter 9: It's a Pirate's Life for Us

Author's Note: Thank you everyone who wished me a better week, that means a lot to me. Thanks so much, guys!

Orcastle Oregon was one of those relatively small, picturesque towns that sat proudly in what could easily be mistaken for the middle of nowhere by a casual observer or a lost city person. Orcastlians were absurdly proud of this bit of status. There were even t-shirts declaring the benefits of living in a place tourists required GPS to locate. Benny made the shirts as a joke for the staff at his restaurant. Originally they cost five bucks a piece. Now they could be purchased for a dignified sum of twenty-two dollars plus tax at the local gift shop.

However, beyond suddenly over-priced t-shirts, there was one drawback to being a town both picturesque and relatively out of the way. Film crews. It was as if no one really realized that people actually did live in the tiny slice of Oregon they were trying desperately to capture on camera. No, obviously the shooting of the latest soppy romcom or stuffy historical drama superseded all notions of propriety and general good manners. It was very annoying.

Now, it wasn't Orcastle's fault that it made such a good backdrop. Nor was it the residents' fault that they happened to live in the middle of said good backdrop. However, it most definitely was the damned film crews' faults for being offensive gits about the whole ordeal.

Normally it wasn't so horrid. The filmmakers would often be decent enough to politely email the residents of whatever block they needed on screen to let them know what was going on and what they needed to do. Frequently only public areas were used anyway so no one was too horridly inconvenienced. However, every now and then there was that one producer or that one director who was just so damn nit-picky about everything and so abrasively demanding about getting it that not only did their crew want to kill them, the entire town was contemplating mass murder.

It was really no surprise to Castiel, after surviving a 'they're filming in town square' fiasco or two, and subsequently having met several film producers, that his brother Zachariah was a film producer on the more obnoxious end of the spectrum. Castiel was fairly sure that slime ran in that Zach's veins instead of blood.

However, it was a surprise to Castiel when he awoke to someone banging on his door at four in the morning the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Actually, if one was to be a stickler for details, the rude door-knocker was banging on the door to Sam's clinic. Loudly. Castiel could hear it. He supposed Sam and Dean could hear it too, seeing as their respective apartments shared the space above the clinic. And yet it was Castiel that actually bothered to do something.

Sticking his head out one of the front windows, he peered down at the man standing on the porch. Smirking wickedly Castiel shouted, "Hello, and welcome to Burger King. The Burger King speaking. How may you help me this fine morning?"

The man, he must be an intern of some sort, he didn't look older than eighteen, glanced up nervously. "Umm…hi, your majesty…?"

"Hello random citizen."

There was silence as Castiel waited for the kid to dredge up the nerve to say anything to him or at least confront him on the bizarre direction he had taken this conversation. Finally the intern cleared his throat and said in what must be his best attempt at gradiosity, "Hello, my name is Alfie Sammandriel and I am here on behalf of Z. Novak productions. We are pleased to inform you that this block will be closed off today and the four days afterward for the filming of the newest hit teen vampire film, Midnight. We are sure you understand the implications of the use of this section of street. All residents of this building must remove their cars from the vicinity and refrain from leaving their homes or disrupting the film shooting in any way. Thank you for your patience and enthusiasm for this new project. We at Z. Novak Productions are all very excited about it."

The kid had to have memorized that spiel from a script, there was no way other human beings actually talked like that… oh, wait. Z. Novak… The one person Castiel had ever known who actually would talk like that and ice every word with a healthy layer of condensation and general smugness.

Gritting his teeth, Castiel barked out one word, "ZACHARIAH!" before slamming his window shut. He marched across the living room, Claire groggily watching his progress, and ripped open the apartment's front door, only to reveal an irate Gabriel standing on his doormat.

"Why is your sleaze of a brother's fucking film crew kicking me out of my fucking bakery?!" Gabe's vocabulary tended to get more colorful the more sleep-deprived and/or angry he was.

Castiel opened his mouth, about to say something, anything, before his cousin cut him off again.

"Do you have any idea what day it is, Jamie? Huh? It's the fucking day before Thanksgiving! I've been awake since two am baking and baking and baking for the last-minute shoppers. I make a killing the day before Thanksgiving. And right now, it's looking like the only thing with any chance of being killed is your asshat brother."

Castiel huffed out a sigh, the air buzzing against his lips like sullen bees. At a loss for what else to say, Castiel decided it was healthier to just agree with the furious midget. "I concur on the topic of my brother's general asshattery. It is appalling. He should really see a specialist for a condition like that."

Gabriel's mouth twitched at the dead-pan humor, like he was seriously resisting the urge to at least smirk. He managed to stay straight-faced long enough to snap, "Fix this, Jamie. Now," before turning on his heel and sweeping away with more dignity than Castiel thought he possessed.

Castiel ran a hand down his face and closed his door. He glanced at the clock. 4:17 am. He could sleep for a few more minutes before dealing with irritating family members. He threw a chastising glance at Claire, the sort that very clearly said 'I will turn a blind eye on the fact that you're up far too late/early so long as you get your butt back to bed in the next five seconds.' Claire raised a sleepy eyebrow at him but still trudged back to her room, closing the door behind her. Castiel eyed the apartment, gaze drifting over to his bedroom door and then back to the couch in front of him. Should he go back to his room and have to move paintings off of his bed or just crash on the couch…? Sleeping next to all those paintings had been very uncomfortable…and his thoughts were getting slow…and groggy…what a pearl-gray sort of feeling…

Castiel crumpled into the rough orange fabric of their ancient couch and curled up into a ball. He slept fitfully until 5:03. That was when the Winchesters each realized what exactly was happening in front of their building.

Dean didn't knock like a normal person. No, he just snatch Gabriel's key (the man needed to stop leaving it laying around, today it was stuck in the fake plant sitting in the hallway in front of the four apartments) and unlocked Castiel's door, wandering into the apartment, a sleepy Sam trailing after him. Dean did not go into battle against his sleep-deprived neighbor unarmed. No, the elder Winchester carried a set of portable ipod speakers and the perfect electronic device to go with them.

By 5:04 the apartment was filled with the harsh jangle of eighties rock. Claire stumbled out of her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes, muttering "What the hell, is that Asia…?"

Castiel, realizing that Dean was not going to stop the irritating noise, and that the longer he pretended to sleep the more determined Dean was to make the noise even louder, sat up on the couch. "What do you two want?" Castiel growled, glaring at the Winchester brothers over the back of the couch.

"I want Dean to TURN OFF THE DAMN MUSIC!" Sam snapped, hands over his ears as he tried to find a corner of the room free of blaring guitar riffs.

"This right here is culture, Sammy," Dean reminded him before turning back to Castiel, "And I want to be able to go to my freaking job. Some dicks won't let me leave the building, keep saying some crap about a movie shoot and how we're all stuck inside until they're done filming. Personally, I'm cool with skipping school, but I'm not so cool with getting my pay docked cuz I played hooky from my job."

Castiel, coffee-less, irate and sleep-deprived, couldn't muster any response more intelligent than: "Please go away," before flopping back down on the couch cushions.

"No, no sleeping, J," Dean flicked Castiel's ear, sending the other man bolting upright again.

"What do you aggravatingly orange people want?!" Castiel groaned.

"You're related to the producer, get them to stop filming or let us out of the building or something," Dean grumped.

"My brothers and I are not on speaking terms," Castiel grumbled right back.

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. Dean grimaced, and said, quieter, "Sorry, man."

Castiel shrugged, "Zachariah, the one with the film crew outside, is a pus-colored personality. He always has been. I suspect he always will be. It is unfortunate. He does not like me." Or 'me' when I was 'alive', Castiel added silently.

"I don't care if Zachariah is a polka-dotted poodle with a pathological fear of trenchcoated booksellers, make him go away or make him suffer," Gabriel grumbled from the doorframe. The Winchesters produced a vague growl of agreement.

Castiel stared blankly at the wall in front of him and counted slowly to twenty before turning back to the other occupants of the room. "Oh, how tangerine. You're all still here. Fine. I will do something about this nonsense. But first, coffee. Now."

And that was the last coherent sentence they dragged out of Castiel Novak until after his second cup of thick, dark liquid more similar in consistency to diesel than coffee as most knew it.

He eyed the other people in his kitchen, wondering why they were still here. All had refused his offer of coffee, some with more nauseated faces than others. After all, only some had managed to sample the delicious sludge his kitchen produced. At least Claire had gone back to bed after Castiel refused to provide her with her own caffeinated beverage.

He sighed, realizing that he would not be getting any time to himself this morning. "Negotiation is out. Zachariah thrives on it; he would prolong it as much as possible and get him way in the interim."

"Zachie's a bit of a dick," Gabriel clarified for the benefit of the non-family members of this discussion.

"…Yes…" Castiel slowly concurred, not sure what else he could have said, distracted by the glorious plan taking shape in the back of his mind, "But I have an idea for how to deal with him…"

Dean never did learn where the pirate flag came from. But it was there. At eight am sharp, the very instant the cameras began rolling for Midnight's filming, it unfurled. With a soft, slithering whisper of canvas, gravity unfolded the black, white and red banner. As soon as the flag was completely exposed, hanging from the front window of James' apartment, smack in the middle of Zachariah's shot, a trilling whisper of sound tripped and tumbled out of Gabriel's bakery. The noise expanded, resolving into a simple, shrill tune. Dean could have sworn it was a pennywhistle. And that pirate flag was a perfect replica of Blackbeard's iconic flag. Skeleton, spear, hourglass and bleeding heart shone hot and bright in the November sun.

And then Gabe began singing and all hell broke loose.

All of Zachariah's filming was ruined that morning. No matter where he took the cameras around the apartment/shop building the flag, the singing, and the piercing pennywhistle followed him. As the day wore on the disruptions only got more outrageous. Sam managed to hook up the sound systems of his clinic, Gabe's bakery, and the bookstore to Dean's laptop where the history teacher was conveniently watching documentaries he was considering showing his classes. Documentaries about pirates. Complete with cannon noises and multi-actor voice-over narration.

Claire's performance on the pennywhistle was incredible and Gabriel's knowledge of old (incredibly dirty-minded) sea shanties terrifyingly impressive. When the performers grew tired, Sam designated the speakers in his clinic to play GarageBand recordings of their little show. The visual-audio assault to the senses, like any pirate attack, was relentless and cruel. A take-no-prisoners campaign, none were spared the indignity and aggravation of their antics.

Zachariah broke by noon.

Castiel answered the door in his bathrobe. He didn't need to wear the robe. He had on normal clothes beneath it. He could have answered the door fully dressed. Possibly even thrown a tie and jacket over the ensemble lurking beneath the bathrobe and made an appearance at one of the nicer restaurants in town. But no, Castiel answered the door dressed in an offensively purple, paint-splattered robe he had bought on clearance at Target for the sole purpose of wearing whenever he wanted people to go away.

It appeared to be working. Zacariah's smarmy smile never left his face, but all of his features spasmed at once in order to execute the muscular directive not to be nonplussed by one's odd younger brother. "James," the single word slithered across the elder Novak's lips, slipping out like a piece of gristle from an expensive steak. Mildly gross, incongruous, and extremely unwelcome.

Castiel tipped his head to the side and regarded his brother with furrowed brows. He remembered when they were children how that disquieted the smug bastard. Castiel and Jimmy used to be able to do it perfectly in sync. It was a beautiful thing.

The silence stretched onward and outward, filling the room like helium in a balloon. The fingers of Zachariah's left hand began to twitch and dance as his discomfort slowly but surely manifested itself. Zach had hoped that Castiel would have responded by now. A response would pass the conversational power back to the elder brother, allowing him to take charge. Castiel knew Zachariah, knew him very well, too well to allow himself to be conned as he had when they were children and it was all relatively harmless.

"James," ah, the teeth were grinding now. Castiel could hear the sweet crunch of molar crushing into molar.

Resisting the urge to smirk, knowing that would ruin the effect, Castiel slowly reached behind him, toward the table by the front door. There it was. His fingers danced across the box resting there, nails hooking under the cardboard lid, pulling the lid up and swinging it around until it was flush against his chest, facing outward.

Zachariah Novak blinked once, twice, thrice. His face turned a lovely shade of puce. His prematurely white hair seemed to stand on end.

As Zachariah's mouth worked swiftly, no sound managing to escape beyond the occasional whimper-whisper-squeak, Castiel clutched the cardboard lid even tighter. He slowly, inexorably, reached forward and pressed it into Zachariah's fluttering hands. Then, as his brother's fluttering fingers finally slowed down enough to take hold of the box lid, Castiel stepped back and softly closed the door.

With a sigh he turned and faced the room at large, scanning the assembled faces of Dean, Sam, Claire and Gabriel. "I'm going to need a new lid for 'Sorry'. I seem to have presented mine to Zachariah."

Gabe snorted, "More than he deserved."

Castiel blinked slowly, and then said, deadpan, "But my apology was so sincere."

Dean laughed, long and loud and grinned at Castiel, "Perfect. Just too perfect, man."

A sleek, smug smile slunk across Castiel's face. He bowed; a small little proper bow of the courtly sort no one really saw anymore. Then he rose and glided across the room to settle on the couch between Dean and Claire and continue watching documentaries over his friend's shoulder.

As soon as the film crew came off lunch the sound affects began again. The pirate flag still flew. No footage from that day was salvageable, and the incessant pennywhistle had managed to send two interns, one high strung makeup artist, and both the leading lady and male love interest into mild hysterics.

Thanksgiving morning the next day dawned perfect. Just nippy enough to be properly fall and just sunny enough to make the yellow leaves still clinging to branches glow gold. And there was no one banging on the door to Sam's clinic demanding their patience during the movie shoot from hell. Instead Castiel found a very arrogant note (on monogrammed stationary, with a coat of arms, how pompous was his brother?) taped to his door.

The note, once all of the unnecessary posturing and semantics taken out, was actually quite simple. It explained, in offensively polite terms, that Z. Novak Productions would be filming at their location at a later date and that someone from their office would inform them ahead of time in order to give the 'residents' ample opportunity to leave the area.

Castiel smirked quietly to himself as he handed the note off to Gabriel, Dean and Sam. The three of them laughed their heads off. Sighing softly, Castiel sent an ironic look up to the heavens. "Why, God, did those turquoise morons not bother to return the lid to my game of 'Sorry'?" This only incited more laughter. It was one of the few truly good mornings.

Of course there always has to be a mood-ruiner. It's the way life works. Because at that very moment, Gabriel's cellphone rang.

"Hello?"

Gabriel's face grew steadily paler and paler as he listened to the gabble of voices on the other end of the line. Finally, after a very short eternity, he hung up and turned to face his friends.

"My parents are in town for Thanksgiving. They're staying at Mary Winchester's bed and breakfast. I am so royally screwed."

Author's Note: Aaaannnddd, it's a cliffhanger. Sorry (heh, get it, 'Sorry', I know, I'm not all that funny, but at least I've got the pun thing down) but this is a fun sort of cliffhanger! If any of you lovely readers remember, a few chapters ago I mentioned that Chuck and Becky were Gabe's parents, so there should be some lovely chaos there. I do apologize that there was a bit of a delay getting this chapter posted. Last week was extremely chaotic for me here in the real world, but things have calmed down and I should be back to updating regularly (for this story, anyways, I can't promise anything on my other fics…).

Just so you know, Orcastle, Oregon is NOT a real place. I made it up. It's modeled a little bit on the Bend/Redmond area at least in style but Orcastle is a fictional town. And Midnight is also NOT a real movie. I was just (kindly) spoofing on Twilight and how it's set in Washington State. (I say these things largely to make it clear that I am not infringing on any sort of copyright, ah, formalities...)

Blackbeard's pirate flag did look like the flag I described, though. Look it up, it's pretty gruesome/cool.

And I'm out of trivia, so with that thought, please do review if you have the time.

See ya next chapter!