I'm clearly mad, starting another fic already, but I had to fire this off because the idea won't leave me along. Basically? When angels die they get given new bodies and a place in 'angel-hell' which is (in my mind after watching 'free to be you and me') a strip joint. Will probably stay fairly low rating, just a cracky piece of fun.

Dean would have bet his life that angel-hell wasn't a strip joint.

Dean would have been a dead man...again.

As he and Sam make their way through the packed club, lit up red and gold like an old fashioned burlesque place, he still can't quite believe it.

They're here to recover a piece of Castiel's grace, a piece that wasn't, for some reason, included in his new and improved, God resurrected self. Wherever it is it's definitely in the club, some sort of angel-holding-place in itself, though angel-hell is more like it. What with the iniquity and all.

On the duskily lit stage a curvy blond in pink, frilled lingerie is dancing slowly, using the pole seductively, casting frequent glares out over the audience.

The way Cas explained it, the angels are aware, they just can't do anything about it. Even though the customers are illusions and part of the whole thing, Dean still thinks it's creepy.

"So...where do we start?" Sam asks hesitantly.

"uh..." Dean sweeps the club with a quick, practiced, glance. "You take the waitresses, bar staff, hostesses...I'll take the dressing room. I guess."

Sam agrees readily, it's not until Dean's actually half way to the dressing rooms that he realises he might see Zachariah naked. Sam's grinning at the bar, having realised the same thing. He orders a beer and questions the waitress who brings is, whose name badge proclaims her to be 'Seratiel'. After he's established that she either knows nothing, or just can't tell him anything, he gives up.

The blond from the stage is gone, and the lights dim. Suddenly a woman in a suit steps up to a mic at the side of the stage and announces that 'private performances' are now available, and that the girls on offer will be displayed momentarily.

Dean appears at his elbow, raising a hand to order a beer for himself.

"Anything?" Sam asks, without much hope.

"Nada, totally empty."

"I've got an idea" Sam darts off without explaining, finds the suited woman (name of Tertiel) and requests a private performance for him and his brother. At her strange look, he quickly corrects himself, requesting one performer each.

Dean joins him at the side of the stage just as the first of the women are trotted out. Interchangeable names and faces strut past in various costumes, then a familiar one – Raphael. A tall Indian woman with a proud jaw and deep purple bustier. The lights flicker ominously. Dean chuckles drily in the seat next to him but otherwise makes no comment, for which Sam is grateful. A few more angels circle the stage. Sam had no idea there were this many condemned angels.

They're both silent as Anna does her own circuit, beautiful in white, he pale skin luminous. Anna, he is fully aware, does not deserve to be here. How many others he wonders, how many more are here simply because they broke heavens rulings? Or were broken by them?

"Castiel" Tertiel announces.

A pair of black high heels walk calmly down the empty stage, the long trench coat swinging after them. It's belted, but at the end of her brief, delicate journey, she unties it. Underneath are black stockings, a short skirt and a white shirt, open most of the way, over a black bra. Slowly, with long, unnaturally pale fingers, she loosens her long pale blue tie, letting the fabric catch in her hand.

Castiel's eyes are, as usual, for Dean along. Sad and caged as they may be beneath the long feathered locks of dark hair.

She drops the tie, letting it fall lazily, into Dean's lap, then turns, trench coat removed and left on the floor, walking calmly back off stage.

Dean swallows a mouthful of saliva that seems to have come from nowhere. Sam pointedly ignores this.

The procession is apparently over, Dean is ushered away to a private room with the last remnant of Castiel's grace. Sam is guided to a separate room by the pink-frilled blonde, thankful that at least it's not Zachariah (who's currently entertaining some Japanese businessmen).

Although he isn't as used to this as Dean (who hopefully isn't getting the same kind of action) Sam quickly gets into the idea of having a woman and a room all to himself for once, allowing him to take his time. It's not until Sam's seated, with a lapful of warm, soft, stripper – that he notices the tattoo.

The very definite tattoo on the top of one of the woman's full breasts, just visible over the top of her bra.

The tattoo that says 'Gabriel' in curly, officially biblical, script.

The stripper grinds against him, dragging him down for a kiss that tastes like strawberry gum and burning sugar.

His startled eyes meet warm golden ones as he's allowed a few gasping breaths.

"Hello Sam" she breathes, twirling a long blond strand idly round her finger. "And what can I do for you?"

If he'd gotten laid even once in the last month, if Gabriel didn't make quite a pretty girl, if he wasn't already hard...

Well, 'if' a lot of things.

"Will you...strip, to...'Heat of the Moment'?" He can't help but ask.

He's rewarded with another kiss, deeper than the last, slick with cherry lip-gloss and tongue.

"Ahh Sammy, you were always my favourite." She smirks, trademark trickster smirk firmly in place."I will if you will"