Chapter Twelve

"Cas!" A general murmur of "Hiya, Cas," went around the room as Dean bounded over to the new arrival like an enthusiastic puppy, and gave him a hug. "Dude where have you been?"

Castiel gave Dean a long-suffering look. "Putting the fear of litigation into one of the nosier members of the Ohio justice system," he replied. "Dean, personal space," he sighed, "I'm going to tattoo it on the inside of your eyelids."

Dean backed off slightly. "Cas, this is my brother Sam," he beamed, "Sam, this is Castiel. He's totally cool."

"Hello, Sam," Castiel actually smiled, "It's something of a relief to meet another child of Mary and John's, to confirm that they are able to breed something other than this octopus."

"Don't mind them," Andy flapped a hand at Dean and Cas, "It's the most beautiful bromance I've ever seen they've got going on there."

"Yeah, don't be like that, Cas," Dean grabbed Cas around the shoulders and waggled him back and forth, pinching his cheek as Castiel rolled his eyes, "You're my best friend! In a totally manly way."

"Oh, er, that's... great," Sam smiled uncertainly. "So, er, how did you two meet?"

"Dean went shopping for a best friend," Cas told Sam, "And I was last to point to someone else. Nobody else wanted me anyway because I'm a lawyer."

"Castiel is the most cunning, ruthless, devious, scheming asshole who ever bent the law over and made it his bitch," Bobby informed Sam, "And after he got Dean out of a teeny tiny little spot of trouble in Tennessee a number of years ago..."

Castiel nodded in recollection. "I whipped an indict, and excused him from extradition," he confirmed.

"They just kind of hit it off," Bobby went on. "Just don't get stuck in the middle of one of their prank wars, is all I'm sayin'."

"If he offers to take you somewhere interesting for your birthday, don't listen to him, Sam," warned Dean.

Castiel actually sighed. "I cannot believe that you wouldn't take advantage of my generosity," he said, almost sadly. "As your friend, I thought it would do you good to broaden your horizons."

"I thought you were taking me to an interesting bar," complained Dean.

"It was an interesting bar," Castiel countered. "Very interesting indeed."

Sam looked shocked. "He didn't take you to some drug den?" he asked.

"He took me to a brothel," Dean glared at Castiel, who smirked back unrepentantly. "Then he got us thrown out."

"Cas, please tell me you didn't hit some poor unsuspecting ponytailed twat who was only trying to make a living," pleaded Crowley.

"He didn't hit anybody," Dean griped, as Castiel grinned even wider, "He tried to order off the menu."

"Sam's going to study law," John announced proudly. "He got a full ride to Stanford, and blew the LSAT into the weeds."

"A colleague would be most welcome," replied Castiel, "The workload in dealing with the legal aspects of Mr Singer's business matters can quite heavy. People just will not listen to reason – there are times when I think that I wasted my time getting an education, I should just have gone for a sharper blade to start with."

"How did it go in Ohio?" asked Bobby.

"The gentleman concerned was extremely unreasonable," replied Castiel.

"How unreasonable?" enquired Alistair solicitously.

"Three fingers and half an ear," said Castiel.

"Huh. Unreasonable, and stupid too," mused Crowley, "Thanks be that he's working for the opposition."

"Are you currently studying, Sam?" asked Castiel.

"I'm going to introduce him to some old friends at Cambridge," said Alistair.

"I'm going to show him around Oxford," Crowley piped up.

"He can minor in Classics at Cambridge," Alistair went on, "Which will be invaluable in this line of work."

"You just have sour grapes because Dean didn't want to follow you to your alma mater," Crowley snarked.

"You have sour grapes because he didn't want to study medicine," Alistair replied serenely, counting his matches.

"I shall have Gedda pass gas in your general direction," sniffed Doc Crowley.

"He's staying right here, and going to an Ivy League," John said firmly.

"How wonderful it must be to have your future all mapped out for you, Sam," observed Castiel wryly. "However, I will point out that it could be worse; my own parents wanted me to follow my grandfather and father into proctology."

"Well, that's kind of what you do, right?" Dean opined, "You bend people over and make 'em take it up the ass, only figuratively instead of literally."

"And I don't have to wear gloves unless things are going to get really messy," agreed Castiel. He peered at the table. "Are we playing poker?" he asked. "Matches are not a good idea if Dean is playing. Have you considered peanuts, or maybe getting some pasta shapes from the kitchen?"

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It was so... normal, in a bizarre way. Meg kept them supplied with drinks and snacks as, in line with Doc's prediction, Castiel slowly but surely depleted everybody else's matches.

Like vacationing at home, observed Sam's brain, With the Addams family. Or the Manson family. Hey, I signed up for water-skiing, can we water-ski or should I do the beginners' lesson?

"It's a hazard of playin' with a professional weasel, I suppose," sighed Bobby as he folded.

"Botox," suggested Crowley, "You could immobilise your face with botox, and maybe that would help."

"Next time, I might just wear a balaklava," commented Andy, eyeing his cards with barely concealed despair. "Or maybe a paper bag."

"Wouldn't botox be a bit drastic?" asked Sam dubiously, "I mean, injecting stuff that's essentially a lethal bacterial poison into your face, just to win a game of poker?"

"I have known individuals to resort to such measures prior to me speaking to them," Castiel raked in another pot.

"What do you do then?" asked John.

"Get a bigger blade," Castiel replied matter-of-factly. "Dean, stop trying to split that match."

"Your lady friend is a bit shy, isn't she?" commented John to Andy.

Andy smiled. "Well, it's all still pretty new to her," he explained. "She only got bitten a few months ago, and she's not confident with it yet."

"You think she'll learn enough to use it?" asked Bobby.

"I think so," nodded Andy, "And if she doesn't, it probably doesn't make much difference; she's damned good with her fists. Ex military. Medic background. Damned useful."

"Excellent!" beamed Doc Crowley, "Next time one of you pillocks gets shot, stabbed or otherwise anatomically discombobulated, I will have a capable assistant who can not only help me, but can punch you repeatedly with great force for insubordination."

I thought you disapproved of senseless violence?" commented John.

"I would far rather use the intellect that evolution has granted me to secure the co-operation of a patient," nodded Crowley, "But sometimes, when dealing with one of you lot, rational appeal to reason does not work, and in order to get the message across, I am forced to, how shall I put it..."

"Go for a bigger blade?" suggested Castiel.

"Exactly."

"So, how did you and Ronnie meet?" asked Sam without thinking.

Andy's face clouded. "Uh, don't call her that," he warned, "It's the nickname she had as a kid. She hates it. Says it's a boy's name, and she doesn't like to be reminded that she looks kind of, well, not terribly feminine." He smiled a little sadly. "She's so beautiful when she shifts, though, she's lithe, and graceful, really tall for a female."

"Do werewolves play basketball?" deadpanned Castiel, and they all laughed.

"I was tracking down a complete bastard who'd tried to pull a swifty on Bobby," Andy told Sam, "And he was after her. Wanted her pelt. Mongrel named Croydon. Worthless piece of shit."

"Actually, no," grinned Bobby, "Because in the end, after you bit him, his skin brought in more than three hundred grand." There were generalised snorts of laughter at that.

"Croydon?" Castiel looked mildly surprised. "I don't suppose you ran into his charming companion Burke?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Andy smiled.

"And?" prompted Dean.

"Well," Andy continued, "After she helped me skin Croydon, and I tell you what, she did most of the work without flinching, she's an artist and doesn't know it, I thought, 'Here's a woman I want to impress', so I said, 'I'd really like to take you out to dinner'..."

The company laughed out loud at that.

"...It's a terrible cliché, I know," Andy looked sheepish, "But it was like something out of a teen rom com. It was just going to be two new friends getting a bite to eat, then, well, we ran down Burke, our eyes met over his intestines, and she snarled and cuffed me on the ear, so I pulled out his heart and offered it to her, she devoured it without even chewing, then ran at me backwards..."

I had no idea that werewolves could be so tenderly amorous, mused Sam's brain, Offering your partner somebody else's heart as well as your own.

"That's so romantic," sighed Dean happily, "It's just wonderful when you meet the right girl, and you just know that she's the one. I'm so happy for you, Andy."

"Never picked you for the sentimental type, Andy," John smiled, "But I'm really glad."

"Me either," Andy grinned, "I'd read about the pair-bonding thing, but never knew how strong it would be. It's like every time I look at her, I wanna go kill someone and drag 'em back to the den for her. And watching her bring down some guy with a single swipe, it's like she's dancing. I'll never get tired of seeing that. She even makes disarticulating a rib cage sexy."

There were general murmurs of assent and congratulations for Andy's newfound pair-bonded bliss.

"It's something very primal," nodded Doc Crowley, "The sight of a woman eating and enjoying her food is actually very attractive to many men."

"Definitely," agreed John, "You don't want to go out with a woman, and see her picking at a salad, and going, 'Oh, I can't eat too much, I don't want to get fat', it's a mood killer."

"A woman who eats with gusto may do... other things with gusto," smiled Castiel.

It does raise an interesting point, mused Sam's brain, If you're a self-aware werewolf, and you eat somebody, does that make you a cannibal? Or just a carnivore? Werewolf, wendigo, they both start with 'w'. Sounds pretty romantic, doesn't it? 'Hey, do you like to eat Chinese?' 'Oh, yes, but the little red books disagree with me. Maybe I should go tubing instead. You like tubing? What about parasailing? I can still hold a drink and do that, right?

"So," Bobby went on casually, "Everything all right in the, er, kennel after dark?"

Andy wore a feral grin. "Yeah, provided I don't want to sleep," he chuckled, "She does this thing..."

Gah!" yelped Dean, "Too much information!"

"You might learn something," suggested Castiel. "I'll bet they leave the lights on."

"A gentleman would not discuss that sort of thing," sniffed Dean with disdain.

"I aint no gentleman, mate," Andy just grinned wider. "Just ask Doc, he'll tell you what an oik I am."

"There are not enough hours in a single day," muttered Crowley, frowning at his cards in disgust. "I swear, Singer, you are doing this to me on purpose."

"Do gamblers have a patron saint?" asked John. "Maybe you could try a heavenly petition."

"Saint Cayetano," Alistair said.

"Yeah?" John looked impressed. "Wish I'd known. How did he die, then?"

"No idea," replied Alistair, "Torn to pieces by a card shark, perhaps?"

"Broken on the roulette wheel?" wondered Castiel.

"He'll do," said Crowley, crossing himself. "Right. Dear Saint Cayetano, grant me succour, for miserable swindling arseholes do vex me mightily..."

"Yeah, language like that will really win him to your side," nodded Bobby.

"Ignore the miserable swindling arsehole, and hear my plea," Crowley waved his hands in the air. "Show me a sign, O Saint Cayetano!"

With that, the lights went out.

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

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It was quickly ascertained that it was a simple power failure, caused no doubt by freeze-thaw cycles in the electricity grid. Bobby ordered a dozen pizzas, seeing as Meg couldn't use the kitchen to cook dinner.

"What are we gonna do now?" Dean whined, with all the ennui of a ten-year-old whose gaming platform has run out of power.

"We'll have to huddle together for warmth," sniggered Jo, sneaking an arm around him as Ruby snorted with amusement.

"When I was your age, we had to make our own entertainment," declared Alistair.

"I vote for that!" trilled Jo. In the dim light, nobody saw exactly what she did, but Dean squawked.

Alistair pulled the cover off what proved to be an elderly upright piano of dubious tuning, and he and Crowley performed a selection of operetta female roles in the style of Hinge and Bracket, getting enormous applause for their interpretation of 'Three Little Maids' and receiving encore calls for Rossini's 'cat duet'.

"That right there," humphed John, "Is why my boy is not goin' to any Limey university."

"The university revue, and the persona of the panto dame, have a long and honourable history in Old Blighty," defended Alistair.

"There's nothing honourable about men wearing dresses," John griped.

"Tell that to the Scots," pointed out Mary.

After John called for a definite change of tone, a guitar was produced from somewhere, and Andy regaled them with a song called 'Rootin' in the back of the ute'.

"It appears that in his native dialect, the verb 'to root' has nothing to do with cheering a sporting favourite on to victory," observed Castiel dryly.

Songs to entertain the family during a power out, mused Sam's brain, It's all so happy and wholesome, I may just throw up. It's like 'The Partridge Family', but with the cast of 'Oz'. There's limbo on the beach tonight.

"Sam, honey?" Mary cut into his thoughts with a concerned voice. "Are you all right?"

"Er, yeah," he answered, "I guess I'm just tired."

"He's still recovering," Dean said, "And meeting so many people has probably been confronting for him. You should probably go to bed, Sam. You're looking a bit pale."

"No, I'm fine, really," Sam protested.

Dean was having none of it. "You still need to take it easy," he insisted. "Sam will be going to bed now, everybody." There was a chorus of 'Night, Sam's as Dean took him firmly by the elbow, and steered him towards the stairs. "But, nothing," he said firmly. "You look tired. You need to get laid down, Sam. Come on, our room's been redone since you saw it last."

Sam looked thoughtful as Dean propelled him upstairs. "Was there a water mark on one of the walls?" he asked, "It looked like a..."

"Yeah, that's been painted over," Dean told him hurriedly.

The room was in the same general location in Bobby's house, but...

"Er, was it always this... roomy?" Sam asked, eyeing the two king singles.

"Oh, the beds are new," sighed Dean. "Bobby insisted on having two in here. I think he believed that one day, you'd come back to us. And it made me feel better too, thinking that if you ever came back, there would be somewhere for you, and you'd know we hadn't forgotten about you. For years after... I used to tuck Gabriel into your bed whenever we were here..." he paused and wiped his eyes, as Sam saw that Gabriel was indeed waiting for him on the bed farther from the door. "Anyway, go have a shower, and go to bed," he instructed, "Remember what I said about towels on the floor." He gave Sam a shove in the direction of what he thought was a closet door, which turned out to lead to one of the most spectacular en suites Sam had ever seen.

He said as much to Dean twenty minutes later, when his big brother brought him cocoa and his pills, and then fussed around him, fluffing his pillow, arranging his bedclothes and tucking Gabriel in beside him. "Oh, that," Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll never get used to the glass shower screen – I wanted frosted panels at least. It's like getting dressed with the curtains open, or showering in a shop front. Anyway, I'll be up soon, too, it's been a long day," he yawned. "But Jimi will be here," he indicated the dog, who was making himself confortable on Dean's bed, "And you're completely safe. You need anything else?"

"Er, no, I'm good," Sam told him, snuggling obediently under the covers. The sheets were heavy cotton, and smelled of drying outside in the sun. The mattress was firm, and long enough for him to stretch out. The pillow was fluffy and soft. As conditioned to crappy motels as he was, he had no idea whether he'd actually be able to sleep in such a comfy bed.

But we'll give it the ol' college try, affirmed his brain. If crime doesn't pay, at the very least, it gets you a larger bathroom, an assisted flush toilet and a much better quality of linen. I think this might be Egyptian cotton. When was the last time you slept on anything with a thread count above room temperature?

"Okay, then," smiled Dean, actually reaching down to ruffle Sam's hair, "Just call if you do." He paused at the door to turn off the light. "I still can't believe that you're here with us," he smiled, "This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever! Goodnight, bro."

"Yeah, goodnight, Dean," replied Sam, wondering whether it was funny or tragic that he could quite possibly say the same thing.


If you are not familiar with those two venerable songstresses Dr Evadne Hinge and Dame Hilda Bracket, you can see a sampling of their work at:

httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=MT-aqZLBpQc

And indeed many other examples of their fine work are on YouChoob. Just imagine Alistair and Crowley doing that.

And for our Merkin cousins who are probably not familiar with the great Australian tradition of having sex in the bed of the pick-up (rootin' in the back of the ute) – I don't know whether it's a great Merkin tradition – the song in question can be viewed here:

httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=nb5MhX3cbsM

If you decide to follow any other links to Kevin Bloody Wilson songs, be warned – his lyrics are frequently not just extremely ripe, but on the turn; most of his stuff is not safe for work. Including the Santa Claus song. Especially the Santa Claus song.

Reviews are the Unexpectedly Luxurious En Suite In The Guest Room Of Life! (Oh, all right, with a bathing Winchester and a full length glass shower screen, if you must.)