To: E-dot-Montgomery-at-foryourfuture-dot-gov
From: M-dot-Milton-at-chonaeoil-dot-org
Subject: Re:Gabriel
Raphael,
GPS and Balthazar have informed us all that Gabriel is in Lawrence, Kansas. Unfortunately, business requires me to remain in my present location – pulling those satellites back into orbit is apparently not the straightforward task that I had imagined it was. I hope that you understand what this means? In terms of brotherly duty, filial piety, the obligation to prevent Gabe from making more of an ass out of himself than he already does in front of millions on a regular basis, etc.?
Phone me from the plane when you touch down. I don't suppose I even have to tell you which flight I've had booked for you.
Be punctual,
Mike
To: borntorun-at-roadside-dot-org
From: U-dot-Milton-at-americanstorageandrental-dot-net
Subject: Las Vegas
Anna,
I had wandered the smog-laden roads of this city for at least two hours by the time Balthazar felt it necessary to contact us. Strings of candy necklaces garrotted my throat; great bags of designer MnMs weighed down my wrists. I shall have to spend at least a week detoxifying myself in the waterfalls of Nebraska, despite not a single sugar crystal having passed my lips (it's the visual exposure, you see – my skiing instructor was very clear about this). However, it will all be worthwhile.
You see, whilst searching for my wayward cousin, I discovered something about myself. I have a passion for this city. From its dusty, cochroach-riddled streets, decked in neon and trimmed in the glittering shards of fractured beer bottles, to its velvet night skies, choked with light pollution and puce as a diseased kidney, every aspect of this place is one with which I am in love. I experienced but a glimpse of the wonders of a Vegas casino, and yet, in but a moment, I lost over ten thousand dollars and gained a platinum edition membership card.
Much as I hate to admit it, I have been changed. Believe me, I am exactly as surprised as you are.
No longer will I attempt to straggle after Lucifer, stumbling in his wake and lapping up every second of attention that he deigns to foist upon me. No more will I strive to follow orders from a shady and dubiously affiliated organisation, to which I only belong by way of my tenuous connections with Uncle Zachariah and certain other enigmatic, mildly incompetent informants.
In other words, screw it. I'm out. Sorry, Anna, but I'm staying here, in the longterm. I know that you'll miss my nominally living on the same coast as you. Nevertheless, it was set to happen eventually.
Of course, before I relocate to my new penthouse apartment (it has two storeys and a guest room, so perhaps you can visit one day?), I'll be flying out to Lawrence to reunite with the rest of the family – specifically Castiel, the only person I know to be capable of understanding my epiphany. Apparently, there's a tent, so I don't see how this will constitute much of a strain on the place's resources.
Yours,
Uriel
To: canyousayawesome-at-dontshootstageshow-dot-com
From: RMilton-at-onestep-dot-gov
Subject: your presence
Gabriel,
I don't suppose you realise how much you scared all of us? Or, most of us, at any rate – Bobby and I were of the opinion that you were simply off enjoying your last moments of freedom as a relatively minor celebrity, by skydiving off the Eiffel Tower, or visiting the second largest ball of twine in the continental US, or somesuch.
Nonetheless, the fact remains that you greatly upset Anna, at the very least, and maybe some other people as well. Do come 'out back' (as the boys call it) so that I can lecture you. I have to do so quickly, you see, before other family members start scheduling their own appointments. I'm playing Luce's advocate when I say this, so please refrain from taking it to heart, but utilizing this rare opportunity to yell at your infuriatingly smug face will be immensely cathartic for the vast majority of Miltons.
If it helps, I've also taken the opportunity to spare you a little psycological damage – by providing brownies! Mike's old team doesn't have much to do now that Castiel's decided to stay here, so they baked me something to thank me for covering their tab at Turner's, a bar just down the street from Winchesters (and far more liberal in its use of punctuation). I'm on a carbon-free diet right now, so I figured you'd appreciate the peace offering.
I may only have learnt how to hit a tin can at twenty paces yesterday, Gabriel, but I am a politician. I can only hope that you know what you're doing.
Regards,
Rachel
P.S. Sam asks if you can maybe clear the empty ice cream tubs out of the living room, seeing as you're the one who left them there.
P.P.S. Also, Dean says that if Doctor Sexy's season 12 finale is on again, he wants you to tape it.
To: borntorun-at-roadside-dot-org
From: canyousayawesome-at-dontshootstageshow-dot-com
Subject: The Prestige
Even you gotta admit, I fooled you – right, Annie? Seriously, if Balth weren't such a paranoid little shit, I'm reasonably sure I could have stayed in that cellar until the end times. Bet you want my half of that story. You sure? Fine, whatever, I guess that I'll have to oblige you. Maybe in a couple weeks, when this whole thing's over with.
Just kidding! You get to hear the whole, saddening tale right now, before it gets convoluted by my brothers' deluded ramblings, or my ex-producer's raging tirades against my character, or whatever the hell else looks set to besmirch the Milton name. I'll just tell the bare facts; no embellishments. No mention of the showgirl in Detroit, or even that one dude with the nosering, who drove me twelve miles down the freeway before I realised that it wasn't a small terrier making all that noise in the backseat. I'll come clean, Annie. You sitting comfortably? Let's get this show on the road.
Basically, I stopped being funny.
So, having worked that out, I got my current favourite intern to stage a distraction (good thing we kept all those feathers, huh?), ditched my show and hitchhiked down to Kansas like there's no mañana! From there, I geared up my laptop at a Starbucks in Wichita, making sure to keep my face hidden behind a grande strawberry cheesecake frappuchino (extra shots almond and vanilla syrup – I usually take a straight banana, but I had to spice it up for the whole 'incognito' act), just in case the odd raving lunatic of a fangirl/boy/misc. saw me and decided to go enlighten the press as to my whereabouts. Google maps showed me the way to a certain small town just off Lawrence, so I used my last ten dollars to purchase a pair of rollarblades, and made it there in time for nightfall. I gotta say, though, at that point I would've been lost, if not for the timely intervention of a certain aging barkeep, who knew exactly the diner to which I sought directions. Apparently, the sight of a guy attempting to balance on a pair of rollerblades whilst alternating between checking his laptop and iPhone for internet connection was more than enough proof that I was "one of them crazy cultist snobs of Bobby Singer's".
From there, I kinda chickened out of seeing Cassie face-to-face for the first time in a quarter decade, so I picked the lock on a window near ground level and spent the night attempting to sleep on a range of mouldering vegetables and a selection of tins of preserve. For some reason, there were a couple of trenchcoats down there, too, so it was actually pretty darned comfortable. Until I got woken up by Balthie squealing, of course. The guy sounded almost exactly like you did that one time I stuck a mixture of blue food colouring and baking soda in your hair dye. How's that for a coincidence?
Seriously, though, Anna. If there's one thing I learned from this, it's that the more time I spend running, the easier it gets. I'm the ex-star of an irreverent freaking Biblical comedy; I know when it's not cool to risk a backwards glance. Ten years ago, I stormed out the house and vowed never to come back until I had experience as a deeply successful standup comedian in LA. And you know what? Best decision I ever made. And no matter how many family members decide to saunter down to Winchesters to squint down their noses and pontificate at me, I reckon this one's even better.
Yours,
Gabe
To: canyousayawesome-at-dontshootstageshow-dot-com
From: RMilton-at-onestep-dot-gov
Subject: Gabriel?
You have to get off the couch eventually. You realise that you're running out of ice cream?
To: M-dot-Milton-at-chonaeoil-dot-org
From: E-dot-Montgomery-at-foryourfuture-dot-gov
Subject: Re:Gabriel
Mike,
The plane touched down a few seconds ago. The flight attendants refused to let me use my phone until we had already landed – the very cheek of it! That's what you get for booking me a seat on a public airline, I suppose. At any rate, it's no matter: barring extenuating circumstances, I'll be at Winchesters before you've finished negotiating the pending two week sick leave that I assume you'll be taking.
Raphael
To: menageadouze-at-fluffyclouds-dot-net
From: Z-Milton195-at-americanstorageandrental-dot-net
Subject: [No Subject]
Tick tock, Balthie.
To: Cas-at-winchestersdiner-dot-net
From: switchbladegirl-at-roadside-dot-org
Subject: Hey Cas
Just a heads up – Anna and I are scheduled to be in Kansas within the next six and a half hours or so. Not half bad for the cheapest, quickest one-way flights we could rustle up at short notice, eh?
… Yeah, I know. I really wish I was joking, too. But Anna's been on the warpath since this Gabe debacle took hold, and it was all I could do to prevent her from swimming to Lawrence. Lawrence isn't even overseas! She'd make the effort regardless.
Whatever. I need a beer. Or, failing that, functional in-laws.
Jo
To: canyousayawesome-at-dontshootstageshow-dot-com
From: borntorun-at-roadside-dot-org
Subject: Gabe, I'm headed over to Kansas
Assuming you haven't catapulted yourself to Maine in a giant slingshot since your last check-in, or swam to Peru with only a packet of Twizzlers for sustenance and a pocket snorkel for when the sharks converge, or eloped to Vegas with Sam Winchester –which actually wouldn't be so bad; we've got Vegas pretty much covered – I'll see you in a few hours. The fact that these are all somewhat risky assumptions is an apt illustration of exactly how bad my week has been.
Tell Cas sorry in advance. In fact, better yet, just –don't tell Cas. I'm a little chary of the reaction. Here's to hoping the Winchesters are as liberal and laid back as everyone else who's invaded their house and home seem to think. Actually, aren't there like four of us there already? That is a truly preposterous number of Miltons.
Eh. They'll deal. They'd better. You're not going to be there too long anyway. You're going back to Vancouver. I'm giving you two days of bed rest, snivelling self-absorption and limitless Hershey's – then you're going to scrounge up whatever shred of courage you've got left and go turn the fuck around. For once in your life, Gabe. You're not a little kid; snap fame and a TV contract is worth at least a second glance. It might even be worth a little risk.
Think about it. Idiot.
Anna
To: canyousayawesome-at-dontshootstageshow-dot-com
From: menageadouze-at-fluffyclouds-dot-net
Subject: Just so we're clear, I still despise you
And yet, I find myself writing this email regardless. Not for want of an alternative, mind. Just due to lack of resolve. I tried to confess to Castiel, and I couldn't see it through; inexplicably, he trusts me, Gabriel, and I simply couldn't destroy that. Consider it testament to the deep, abiding love I hold for my little brother that I'm willing to admit to the fact that I need your help, you stupid, arrogant, self-aggrandising twit.
Here's the thing, Gabriel. Here is the sordid, disastrous, deeply uncomfortable thing. I need you to go to American Storage and Rental in order to get the damn briefcase, okay? I've tried broaching the subject in person, but you make communication a constant battle. Is there really any need to persist in singing Beach Boys songs at the top of your voice every time I attempt to speak with you? Everyone tries to be patient, Gabriel, but even Rachel was beginning to tireround about the fifteenth rendition of Surfin' USA. Personally, it irritated me from the outset, but then, I never bothered being patient.
Hence this plea, in email format. I'd go fetch the infernal baggage myself, but quite frankly I'm terrified. God only knows who they've got stationed there. Zachariah is out for my blood, Gabriel – in addition to other less visceral, yet nonetheless crucial things, including my job (such as it is), my welfare (such as that is) and my sanity (well). In order to salvage all, I need you to do me this one, infinitesimal favour. I know you dislike me almost as much as I you, but I'm sure you don't dislike me enough to want me to die. You don't have the energy for that.
Save me from this fate worse than tax accountancy, Gabriel. I wouldn't ask if it were frivolous. Do this, and I'll never ask for anything besides family gossip and the occasional cash loan again.
Balthazar
To: [Import contacts list: "egregious dicks – deluxe Milton edition"]
From: Cas-at-winchestersdiner-dot-net
Subject: impromptu stopovers
So a lot of you seem to be booking flights to Kansas. Given the steadfast, even studied apathy you've shown before, I'm finding this incongruous. Whilst I honestly don't know what you expect from me, I wouldn't care if it weren't for the fact that we're running out of floor space. And also tent space. And also Dean says that, whilst one freeloader is acceptable, a freeloader's entire entourage of pet freeloaders is pushing it. In fairness, one can see his point.
I'm happily surprised at this sudden welter of concern for mine and Gabriel's wellbeing, but the fact remains that we are running out of patience, and the bathroom is – possibly with some degree of correlation –running out of shampoo. There must be somewhere else that you can stay. Dean suggests the local zoo. I'm disinclined to argue.
I realise the gradual undermining of any and all agency I've managed to collect for myself isn't a pressing concern for most of you, but I figured I'd step in before the entire extended Milton family shows up at my doorstep. Anna, obviously you're welcome to visit, we're happy to have you here, but I draw the line at Zachariah. I think that most of you will agree this is a fair place to draw it.
On the off-chance that any of you skimmed past the first paragraph of this email: the novel's going well. In fact, it's finished. I honestly don't understand why Uncle was so tortured over this – writing is easy. All you need are the requisite tools, basic literacy, and a strong disinclination to leave your room. That, and roughly seventy decibels of indeterminate background noise, intermittently applied over intervals of approximately eighty two seconds. Some of Dean's old Metallica cassettes make for an appropriate substitute.
Anyway. I'm leaving to help make dinner for nine. (Gabriel doesn't count because he is currently surviving on pop tarts and ice cream sandwiches. Not that actually he likes pop tarts, but we've run out of red vines, and so apparently sacrifices had to be made.)
- from Castiel
To: switchbladegirl-at-roadside-dot-org
From: menageadouze-at-fluffyclouds-dot-net
Subject: the living room door
… Is currently slammed shut. And has been so for the past twenty minutes. How is it that he manages to be about twice as elusive when we're sleeping under the same roof, rather than quietly ignoring each other at opposite ends of the country?
Well, anyway. If you can shed any light on why the entrance to his makeshift grotto of woe is quite so insistently sealed, I'd be grateful.
Incidentally, nice to see you here. Hope the flight wasn't too awful. We must get a drink together sometime.
Balthazar
To: menageadouze-at-fluffyclouds-dot-net
From: switchbladegirl-at-roadside-dot-org
CC: [Import contacts list = "less annoying Miltons"]
Subject: Yeah, about that
Okay, so here's what happened.
Anna and I arrive about mid-afternoon. Soon as she gets through the door, she throws both our overnight bags at Raphael and makes a beeline for the living room, where Gabe is sprawled over the couch like it's an antique chaise-longue. She walks sort of stiffly towards him, hesitates in the entrance, and says - exactly how she rehearsed for about an hour and a half at the airport - "Hey Gabriel. How's things?" All gentle, blinking and Bambi-eyed.
He turns round. Looks a little ruffled, for all of about a second. Then he shrugs, smiles and says: "Oh hi there, Annie. Get me a glass of water, would you? Turns out singing all day is absolute murder onthe throat."And turns back towards the TV.
Anna doesn't say a thing, but her face goes dark. She nods. Then she heads into the kitchen without a word. Few minutes later she's back – and, lo and behold, she's carrying a mug of water. She steps quietly over to him till she's standing in front of the TV, and he looks a little put out, like she's blocking his view. She gives this tight, thin-lipped smile.
Then she dashes the water straight in his face.
He – well. He doesn't move for about five seconds. Then, slowly, he spits out some of the water, looking really, really unimpressed.
After that, all hell breaks loose.
Seriously. They just both started screaming at each other, all at once. I ran for it. Few minutes after I evacuated to the kitchen, I heard the door slam.
It's been twenty minutes, Balth. I don't think they're coming out of there. Like – potentially ever.
… How about that drink? How about several?
Jo
