Dean found himself surrounded by white, bare walls flooded with hard light of merciless southern sun. There were only a few pieces of austere furniture: a bed with a simple metal frame, a shelf holding a heap of moto magazines and a small nightstand on which the damned black-and-red alarm clock was still buzzing. Having eyed it dubiously, the hunter turned the alarm off. Nothing exploded. It was a good sign.

His hopes to learn more by looking out of the window were forlorn: he saw nothing but a patch of perfectly trimmed lawn, a small palm tree and a tall hedge. None of this things looked particularly deadly. Years of brushing against the supernatural and being tossed about various freaky realms facilitated accepting situations such as this, perhaps even got Dean used to it; not to mention that he had been expecting Gabriel to pull one of his tasteless pranks anyway. As annoyed as he was, he had to admit that he could have wound up in a much worse situation. A shrug and a scratch on the back of his head was the only reaction Dean could muster.

It wasn't until he scratched his belly and buttocks, yawning widely, that he realized he was wearing nothing but briefs.

"Oh, come on..." he drawled out, sending a sour scowl towards the ceiling. For unknown reasons he still couldn't get rid of the silly belief that placed angels on some unspecified orbit above his head.

No matter how much he beefed, though, he was still half-naked. There was no other option but to search the built-in closet he'd just come out from for something wearable. What he found there made him utter an inarticulate growl. The closet held five identical sets of clothing: a cheap black polyester suit and a white shirt. A separate rack held a selection of identical maroon ties and white cotton gloves. On side shelves he found some white underwear, ridiculously shiny patent leather shoes and a black peaked cap with a maroon band and a gold-colored cord.

"Gabe, I always knew you were a sucker for shlock, but for Christ's sake..." Dean nagged, pulling the clothes on with sheer disgust written all over his face.

Driven by a sudden upsurge of hope, Winchester decided to check if - by any chance - Gabriel decided to show mercy and provide him with any weapon. There was nothing but an empty leather suitcase under the bed, so Dean checked under the pillow. Instead of a gun or at least a knife he found a worn-out and battered polaroid photo. It took him a while to recognize the tanned, smiling man in aviator sunglasses, leaning on a midnight blue 1966 Lamborghini Miura.

Cas?

Well, that was a novelty.

With the photo in one pocket and a pair of gloves in the other, Dean warily opened the door, passed a narrow corridor...

... and found himself in the middle of an architectonic abomination. The first thing he noticed was a double curved staircase that occupied nearly half of a hangar-sized marble-tiled hall. The staircase's throughput suggested it had been designed to allow for a rapid evacuation of a high school, but it led onto a narrow gallery that stretched along the hall's longer wall and connected to a series of doors and corridors that must have led to further parts of the mansion. Both the staircase and the gallery were framed by an elaborate metal railing of a really curious color.

Gold-plated? Dean thought to himself, cocking his head. He took a look around, then sneaked to the railing in order to surreptitiously scratch one of the yellow, metallic, shiny leaves. Damn sure the railing wasn't gold-plated; it emboldened Dean a little. He proceeded to check out rows of life-sized and oversized statues of naked nymphs or godesses or whatever, as well as heroes and gods. He assumed they wouldn't be made of real alabaster, but this time it was wrong.

He was just starting to wonder why the gods' junks were so tiny when he heard quick, thumping footsteps and before he had time to react he was assaulted with a rag by a huge, middle-aged gorgon.

"What do you think you are doing here, Dean Winchester?" she squawked, looking at him with an admonitory frown, "How many times do I tell you? Breakfast at quarter past six! And quit gawking at the statues. We don't need your weird deviation in this house. This is a respectable house!" she herded him towards a door at the end of the same corridor Dean had emerged from, accentuating every sentence with a blow of the wet rag, "Young master will be up in fifteen minutes! I am certainly not lying your sorry bum out of trouble again!"

The Winchester was forced to sit down by a chunky wooden table in what seemed to be a huge kitchen; his fleeting glances lurched from one face to another. There were two young girls dressed in a decent version of a french maid outfit he knew so well. None of them graced him with a glance. They kept spooning white-ish glop from their bowls. Dean had an impression that the girls seemed familiar, although he couldn't really put his finger on it. Perhaps... he had a vague reminiscence that included leather thigh high boots, ice cubes and hot chilli sauce... or maybe it was mustard?

His ruminations were interrupted when, to Dean's horror, a bowl of oatmeal was placed in front of him. His gaze followed a plump arm of the woman who had clobbered him and now apparently intended to continue the torture by force-feeding. He finally recognized her, though in a blue uniform, an apron and a white bonnet she hardly resembled herselt. The hunter almost choked on the oatmeal.

"Missouri?"

"What are you talking about, young man?"

The maids finished their breakfast and evacuated from the kitchen. Their rush spelled trouble. Dean didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

"Are you drunk?" the woman frowned, standing next to Dean with her arms akimbo.

"Missouri, what's going on here? Are you a part of this show or..."

"Blow," Missouri leaned in to bring her face close to Dean's.

"What? What the hell are you talking..."

"Blow!"

Having no choice Dean blew feebly; Missouri uttered a short, half-satisfied grunt.

"Sober..." she muttered to herself, pursing her lips.

Suddenly the hunter found himself being felt with her warm, large palms; his fever checked, his eyelids pulled fully open and his face turned towards light. Unable to find anything alarming she plopped down on a chair next to Dean.

"Are you sure you are good to drive today? Be honest with me!" she wagged her finger at the man, "I am not letting young master get hurt because of your vagaries."

Dean was about to blurt another question, but he bit his tongue in time. He had no craving for another round of folksy diagnosis, so he just nodded half-heartedly before finishing his breakfast in a few hastily swallowed spoonfuls. Missouri seemed content with the answer; she gestured him to leave, but as he was about to pass the door, she cleared her throat loudly.

"What?"

She eyed him meaningfully; Dean didn't decipher the meaning, though.

"What?" he repeated louder.

"Are you going to present yourself to young master in this condition?"

Having noticed Winchester's loss Missouri sighed, then proceeded to set his hair and rub remnants of oatmeal from the corners of his lips.

"You have always been a slob, boy, but today it takes the cake,"she grumped under her breath, adjusting Dean's tie and straightening up his jacket, "Why mister Singer hired you is beyond me."

She obviously failed to notice Dean's dumbfounded expression when he gaped at her.

"All right, now don't forget the gloves. And run along. What are you waiting for?" she shooed him out of the kitchen unceremoniously. Dean had no choice but to walk back to that Versaille-knockoff hall.

"Damn, what's going on here..." he murmured to the group of alabaster nakeys, "do you understand anything of it?"

His look glossed over the appalling gallery until it fell on a small figure clad in black, white and gold livery, leaning casually against one of the largest marble monstrosities and sucking on a lollipop. Dean immediately felt his blood boil.

"You sucker," he roared, starting up to Gabriel, "what's this crap supposed to mean?"

He groaned in rancor and confusion when an invisible force stopped him a couple of feet away from the archangel.

"Oh my..." he mocked Dean's futile attempts to punch him on the face, "Somebody help me!"

The hunter had to accept his defeat, though he was still steaming with anger when Gabriel approached him, smirking and gesturing widely with his heart-shaped lollipop.

"You mean this?"

"You know damn well what I mean, douche nozzle. Where's Cas?"

Gabriel clucked his tongue.

"Poor, poor alpha male. What are you gonna do when you can't just kick and yell your way to what you want? You see, there is one itsy bitsy hiccup. Your tantrums don't impress me."

The hunter was still glowering at Gabriel with no intention to chaffer. The archangel shrugged.

"You can have a fairy-tale tryst with your prince charming in a minute, but first, tell me Dean-o," he leaned in to whisper into Winchester's ear, "are you familiar with the term fanfiction?"

Dean's face went from livid to deadly pale in less than a second.