Title: The Only Cure for Cabin Fever
Disclaimer: Don't own any of them – if I did, that would be another fic. *Giggles evilly*
Drabble Challenge Word: "Blanket"
Word Count: 400 words. Because this much goofiness needs room to run free.
Players: Go to Enkidu07's page, and you'll find all the usual suspects. Resistance is futile – you will be drabbleized. We're like the Borg, only cuter.
Spoiler Alert: None.
When Castiel appeared in the center of the motel room, his first thought was that a bomb had gone off. The chairs were overturned, the beds were knocked askew, and the air was full of pillow stuffing. The white material fluttered down onto his coat, settled in his dark hair.
He glanced out the window, at the snow blanketing the parking lot, making travel impossible.
"So you got bored and tore up your room?" He turned and regarded the two (allegedly) grown men, now standing shoulder to shoulder.
The Winchesters at least had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. Well, Sam did anyway. He shuffled his feet and stared at the carpet, all six foot plus of him suddenly seeming to shrink to a child of eight. "We were just having a little fun…" he mumbled softly.
Dean puffed away a stray bit of fluff that had landed on his nose. He grinned at the angel. "It's called a 'pillow fight', Cas. Great way to get rid of stress. And Sam started it, anyway."
"I did NOT!"
"Yes, you did."
"Me calling you 'immature' is 'starting it'? Says who?" Sam retorted.
"Says m-" Dean never finished the sentence as a pillow that lay on the floor suddenly shot up and walloped him in the face.
Castiel smirked faintly. "You're correct, Dean" he said as Dean spit stuffing, "I do feel a certain… lightness now."
Sam's chuckles were cut short by a flying pillow shot to the gut. He gaped at Castiel, who shrugged elegantly. Sam turned and gave his brother a look. "I think we've been challenged, Dean."
Dean growled, "I KNOW we have been, Sammy." He advanced on the angel, pillowy weapon raised.
Castiel cocked his head, and that faint grin became a little wider. "I believe the correct phrase is 'Just bring it, bitches.'"
Ten minutes later the snow outside had nothing on the blizzard of pillow guts covering the room, which now looked like a half dozen bombs had gone off, along with an elephant stampede and a football game.
Dean was sprawled on his bed, Sam had collapsed on the floor, breathless from laughter, and Castiel was leaning against the door.
He looked at the brothers, and his smile was like the sun piercing the clouds. "T-thank you," he said.
"For what, Castiel?" Sam asked.
"Reminding me what it feels like to be with your brothers."