Fit the Second: Excitement, adventure and Dean-related things.
There is a theory which states that, if anyone ever figures out exactly what the point of the universe is, it will instantly cease to exist and be replaced by something all together more confusing.
There is a second theory which states that this has already happened.
There is yet a third theory, which states that the first two theories are entirely too grim, and anyone who believes them should probably loosen up and have a beer or two. And if they should happen to want to know exactly where the best beers are served, they should buy a copy of the 'Bloody Invaluable Book: Lightyears of Entertainment', which will provide them with the answers to all their questions.
There is a fourth theory, which states that the third theory was put about as a subversive attempt at advertising by the book's editors to sell more copies. This fourth theory is now widely accepted as fact.
(-*-)
Ursa-Minor is, quite possibly, the most disgusting planet in the entire universe. Not only is it filled with sleazy, schmoozy, executive types who all have more wildly exciting lives than you, it is also hideously sunny, terrifyingly rich and, frankly, obscenely well run. It is a sleek, well-oiled corporate machine in which everyone looks devastatingly handsome thanks to the fact that they all wear suits, and so filled with executive treats and getaways that, when a recent edition of the gossip magazine "StarShout" published the article "If You're Tired of Working In Ursa-Minor, You Must Be Tired With Life", the planet's population halved overnight, and for once a stock market crash wasn't to blame.
"StarShout", a thoroughly useful journal which keeps people informed, opinionated and stocked on toilet paper, has much to answer for, in this respect. The most recent edition hosts (among new dietary regimes, gossip concerning the recent sightings of shamed celebrities at CelestiWays restaurant, and a seventeen page long horoscope in which one can cross-reference their prediction from the constellations of seven separate planets and still get an entirely vague and useless fortune) is a poll concerning the popularity of the now Ex-Prime Minister of the Universe, Gabriel Angeles. This poll was put about to commemorate the utterly unpredictable man, as he is missing, presumed dead after the Impala, which he famously stole, was incinerated by a Rhaptoor Streamlining and Efficiency Task Force. It is for this reason that the short man with a hat and dark glasses is really hoping no one notices him as he walks down one of the many sleek, white streets of Ursa-Minor.
"You look ridiculous." Balthazar said, glaring at his semi-cousin.
"Shh. If I can get people to think I'm dead for long enough, the charges against me will be dropped." He shot Balthazar a significant glance over the top of his glasses. "Sure, I won't be prime minister any more, but I've cooled on that job anyway."
Balthazar rolled his eyes and let Gabriel get on with whatever insanity he was fixed on. He scowled up at the streets upon streets of metal and glass high-rises.
"Doesn't it make you sick?"
"What?"
"This place… Look at that big one up there, with all the sculptures and pointy bits."
"You mean spires?"
"Loath as I am to call them that, yeah. You know what that is? It's the office of the Book."
"What book?"
"The Bloody Invaluable Book. It used to be about reliability, and guiding people. Helping them. I mean, if a book has "You Are Loved" written in arcing script on the front cover, you'd think they'd have some kind of integrity."
"So?" Gabriel shrugged. "This is the price of success, right?"
"Is it? Look around. This planet is populated by corporate douchebags. They've probably never hitched a lift in their lives; if they stuck their thumbs out, their hands would fall off."
"I say again, so?"
"You know they have their own virtual parallel universes in their offices? They can start up their own universe so they can research without ever having to leave the building. It's not right."
"Oh, you're just moping because you got the poorly paid field research job."
"Forget it." Balthazar shrugged, staring around at the corporate paradise. Dean probably would have loved it here. He wondered where they were, Dean and Castiel.
Gabriel punched him on the arm.
"C'mon, let's go see these fat-cats, if you're so bent out of shape about it."
"What?"
"Yeah, let's go see them."
Gabriel started off towards the imposing tower of glass and steel.
"No, wait… Gabriel, wait! If anyone sees me in there, they'll want to know why I haven't submitted an article in…"
"Biiiiiiitch, bitch-bitch-bitch. You're worse than Sam. Come on."
They wandered into the lobby of the offices for the Bloody Invaluable Book, heads low and trying not to look suspicious. Luckily, everyone else seemed to be nose down in a personal organiser, so that helped them a little. As they approached the reception desk, noise from a Sub-Ether news report trickled back to them.
"… and how are you, welcome to the around-the-clock, around the galaxy, Sub-Ether News Frequency. Remember, other frequencies may be more accurate, but no one else scares you shitless with such relentless passion!"
"Oh god," Gabriel groaned, rolling his eyes behind his dark glasses. "Listening to hack news in the offices of a hack rag… if my mother could see me now…"
"Which mother?" Balthazar hissed back. The news report continued.
"Reports have just reached us that Gabriel Angeles, ex-Prime Minister and professional conman, is missing, presumed dead. That's right folks, lock up your no doubt grief-stricken daughters, sons, and household appliances; the big G could be the big D-E-A-D. We speak with his brain-care specialist, Doctor Ash Bahdas. Ash?"
"Gabriel? He was just some dude who wanted to party."
"Could this have been a publicity stunt?"
"Could be, dude. Then again, who knows?"
"What about these reports that say his ship was incinerated by a Daemon task force?"
"Gabriel does what Gabriel wants, you know? If he wants to get killed, he won't do it by halves."
"And what of these reports that say he is, and I quote here, "one hundred percent utterly, bloody dead"?"
"Who knows, man? Who knows?"
"Thank you, Doctor Bahdas. Now for reports from the outer rim of the galaxy. Incoming from the western arm, we believe that…"
"Good to know my death has been treated tastefully and with due respect." Gabriel scowled, tapping on the desk. "Buddy, can you turn that off?"
The receptionist was a ball of octopus-shaped light, who did not appear too pleased to be addressed as anyone's "buddy". He looked oddly familiar to Gabriel.
"I'll thank you not to comment on my radio. Please take a number and sit down."
"I don't…"
"Sit, or you'll be forcibly ejected."
Gabriel scowled, took a number, and followed Balthazar over to the row of seats.
"God… blown up, presumed dead, stuck on this crappy planet with you and your bitching… this has not been a good day."
(-*-)
Being unhappy is, of course, perfectly natural. A scientist once theorised that, at any point in time, any given person at any point in the galaxy has an exactly fifty percent chance of being unhappy. When asked to prove this theory, he found that the exact number of beings throughout the galaxy who are unhappy at any given time was so phenomenally large that he killed himself through depression before he could publically release his results. Suffice to say, the odds are apparently pessimistically swayed.
Dean Winchester, of course, happens to be very unhappy.
He has many reasons for being unhappy, being the only human left alive after escaping from the planet Earth on the day of its "streamlining" (see article: Corporate demolition) with his good friend Balthazar Angel, who turned out to actually be from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. This was, really, only the start of Dean's troubles, as he was then taken to the ancient planet of Krippketha where he found out that his entire planet had been built as a computer program to determine the meaning of life, and was then made an enemy of the mice who had organised the program. After a brief period of being propelled through time and space, blown up and put in dangerous crash situations, he was stranded, ironically, on a prehistoric Earth with the alien yoga teacher and admittedly rather attractive being, Castiel Angel, Balthazar's brother.
Dean and Castiel, understandably, do not want to be stranded on the prehistoric planet Earth, and so we find them both in the numbers of the galaxy's unhappy people. However, they have found a way to deal with their unfortunate predicament.
They are drunk.
"Panda piss." Castiel slurred, curling up on the sandy ground beside Dean. "There's got to be a way off this planet that doesn't involve getting drunk. Or high. Or having sex."
"You've been saying that for a while now." Dean grumbled back, getting rather annoyed at the cheery sunlight that seemed to bathe their surroundings in a rather obnoxious manner. "Never thought I'd see you get sick of any of those things."
"Oh, I'm not getting sick of it." Castiel sighed. "Believe me. Took me two years to figure out how to ferment things, seventeen months to figure out what plants would get me high and not kill me…" He rolled over onto his front, crawling over Dean as he reached the gall bladder pouch they kept all their alcohol in, "and far too long to get you to fuck me. I'm not getting sick of it for a while yet, I just wish we weren't on this stupid planet any more."
He drained the remnants out of the drinking pouch, crawled back over Dean and half collapsed into his side.
"No offence."
"None taken." Dean sighed. "Two years is more than enough staying anywhere that isn't home."
Castiel sat up, eyes narrowed against the sun.
"I think I've got it."
"Shit…" Dean pushed himself up onto his eyes. "Could have told me that before we…"
"No, the answer. The… the way off the planet." He staggered to his feet, pulling Dean up beside him.
"Really? How?"
"It's…" Castiel stumbled a little, the alcohol still very present in his system. "It's lateral thinking. We have to creep up on the problem when it's not looking, and… and… grab it."
"Right…"
"We need to sit down and… and properly think about it. Because whenever we say we're going to, we just end up getting really high, and really drunk…"
"And really laid?"
"That too. But we need to properly figure out a way off this planet."
"Ok." Dean nodded, stepping away from Castiel and doing his shirt up properly. "I'm here."
"So we… What's that noise?"
They looked skyward and gasped, as they saw possibly the most beautiful sight they could have imagined.
There, hanging over their heads, only a few miles above the waterfront, was a spaceship.
"We're saved!" Castiel grinned, wrapping his arms around Dean. "Saved!" He pulled Dean down into a long, passionate kiss, which had them both gulping for air when they parted. Dean grinned at Castiel, hunger in his eyes.
"Wonder if they'd… Hey, where'd it go?"
"What?"
"The ship! It's gone!"
"What?" Castiel leapt away from Dean like he was on fire, scanning the skies desperately. "No, no, no no…"
Dean stared dejectedly at the sky, before resting a gentle hand on Castiel's back.
"You ok?"
"Yeah, I just…" Castiel shied away from Dean's touch, smiling sheepishly. "I'm kind of not in the mood now."
"Yeah. Me neither. But, I suppose we can plan."
"Yes. That's… planning." Castiel stood up straight, glancing out at the sky once more. "Hey, there it is again!"
Sure enough the ship was back. Dean gaped at it.
"How…"
"Hang on…" Castiel squinted at it, before turning to Dean. "Wait, let me try something."
He pulled Dean into another kiss, a deep, passionate kiss that demanded the kisser be taken in a manly fashion then and there, and made Dean's interest (and other things) perk with stimulation. Castiel broke away from the kiss, before looking out to the sky again.
"I knew it!"
"What?" Dean managed to whisper.
"The ship… what is this, some kind of intergalactic cock-block?"
"What…"
"Look. Every time we kiss, the ship goes away. Every time we decide we're not in the mood…" Castiel backed off, and Dean really wished he'd cut his crazy ramblings. The ship reappeared.
"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered. "What is it, an intelligence test?"
"No… No, a test would imply someone was doing it on purpose. It's a… a temporal anol… anonamy… a-nom-a-ly." Castiel sounded out the word, his drunken brain clearly not ready to deal with such an odd situation. "A parallel future paradox. Do you know what I mean?"
"No."
"No, I didn't think you would. Ok…" Castiel cleared his throat, and made efforts to seem more sober than he was. "We are currently at such a point in time where two very different futures lie ahead of us. One, where we sober up and figure out how to get that ship down here, and the other one…"
"Where we keep getting drunk and laid and get stuck here."
"Yeah."
"Damn." Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. "Ok. So let's sober up."
Castiel threw a brief, longing stare at Dean (and various parts of Dean's person) but dutifully looked away.
"We want to get to the first possible future, the one where we figure out how to signal that ship… And we know we need to figure it out, because every time we've decided not to bother, it's disappeared… I wonder what Rufus would do…"
"Rufus?"
"Old hitch-hiking buddy of mine. Very clever guy; gets things done. He's always got a light."
"Well…" Dean watched Castiel sink back to the ground in thought, and wondered whether this conversation would have made any more sense if he wasn't drunk. "That sounds nice."