Author's Note: Since I was in a rut, writing little else but gutwrenching angst... here! Have some funnies!
"What the hell?"
Both Winchester brothers stared in muted horror at the unholy sight in front of them when they arrived back at their motel room.
Castiel, angel of the Lord, and Meg, demon spawn, were sitting at the rickety old table in the corner. Meg was fully clothed—which wasn't all that remarkable, really. The usual denim and leather combo, tight curls flung haphazardly over one shoulder. Castiel, however, was sitting on the opposite side of the dirty laminate, in only a pair of black boxer shorts and his blue necktie, looking bewildered and extremely frustrated. Meg was grinning wide and shamelessly, teeth forming a sharp crescent of white.
"Howdy boys," she drawled. She waved the playing cards she held in one hand at them.
Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Dean dropped his duffel on the floor with a heavy thud, breaking the silent and humiliating tension that came with walking in on such a scene. "Strip poker with an angel, Meg? Are you serious?" At least he hoped that's all it was. His friend was, after all, two losses away from one hell of a pay-up fee.
Sam coughed, averting his eyes. "Wow."
"Little Clarence is far from innocent, Deano. This is probably the least scandalous thing I've done with him all week. Although, he does lose a lot at cards. It's so sad."
"I don't like this game," said the angel grumpily.
He stared forlornly at the cards in his hands, looking ten shades of insulted. As if they'd personally slighted him. "That's too bad," Meg muttered cheekily to herself, wiggling her booted foot, which rested on Castiel's knee under the table. She was clearly enjoying the picture before her as much as the fact that she was winning.
Cas slid his eyes back to the still-gaping boys near the door, offering a sullen glare. "I think the demon cheats."
Dean snorted, finally trudging in. Though, by the wary hesitation in his steps, the carpet may as well have been lava. "Fair assumption."
Meg smirked; though, by her smile, there was no visible remorse to be found. "Rude."
"The tie, though?" ventured Sam, expression screwed up into something ranging between intrigue and disgust. He looked conflicted, as though he wasn't really sure whether he wanted to know or not.
"Meg said the tie was to be last," supplied the angel.
Dean approached the table carefully, as one did a surly bear. "What cards do you have?"
Castiel's eyes narrowed studiously at the slips of cardboard in front of him. "A two, an eight, a three, the letter A, and this man dressed as some kind of sovereign."
Dean saw the mix of black and red cards and their rank, stifling a facepalm. Sam winced.
Meg cackled loudly.
Cas sighed, obviously put out over another loss, but obedient to the rules of the game as the demon slapped down another royal flush. The angel got to his feet, reluctant resignation crossing his features.
"Ah…" Sam started, quickly adopting a panicked expression.
The larger hunter had nothing to fear, really, because Dean was already bellowing out a very passionate, "NO!" to the room.
He whirled on the angel.
"Cas, you take those drawers off, so help me God…" He turned to the demon next. "NO," he said again, like a parent scolding a particularly troublesome child. His finger rose to point at her accusingly, in punctuation of the forbiddance. Meg merely lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed and clearly not by any means intimidated.
Smug, too. She was always smug.
Impish bitch. Dean narrowed his eyes. "Both of you, get out. This room needs a holy cleansing, pronto, and—frankly—my head may explode if the reality of this situation sinks in any further. Sam?" The floppy haired hunter looked a little green, but the corners of his mouth twitched with some unintended amusement. Dean slumped, throwing up his hands. "I don't even know, dude."
His brother was surely as scarred as he was, so there was no sense sending him out on a pie run. Driving so soon after a trauma was inadvisable, saviors of the world or not.
"You," he said, pointing again at Meg, "are the devil."
The demon snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. Not even remotely offended.
"But Dean, Meg is not actually—"
"Stow it, Cas. And put some clothes on, man!" whined the older Winchester loudly, at long last.
Castiel sighed, crossing the room to retrieve his discarded wardrobe.
"Hey," Meg protested, stopping him in his tracks. She rose to her feet from the chair, delivering the boys a challenging look before turning her eyes on the angel. "You owe me, hot wings. No reneging on the rules just because Rocky and Bullwinkle break up the party."
There was silence.
Meg lifted a challenging eyebrow, lips twisting in quiet triumph.
Castiel's shoulders slumped, but there was a smirk hiding somewhere beneath his stony stoicism—which only looked ridiculous, given his current attire. He turned to the boys, dutiful. "Dean. Sam."
With a brisk nod, followed subsequently by the telltale flutter of wings, both angel and demon were gone.
The silence now seemed unnaturally loud.
"You gotta be friggin' kidding me."
Sam wrinkled up his nose, offering nothing in reply.
"Are we the only ones here not getting laid?" Dean asked, to the room or to his brother, Sam couldn't be sure. He only knew that Dean was defaulting to the absurd to try and erase what he'd just seen.
Instead, the younger of the two pointed a wary finger at the pile of clothes that remained behind; particularly the tan trenchcoat draped inevitably over the top. "You realize he'll eventually be back for those."
Back—while still one layer away from stark freaking naked, and probably with a horny little demon on his tail yet again.
"Son of a bitch."
Author's Note: You know what the say about reviews, don't you?
I'll leave it up to your imagination.
Also, I was gonna end it like this:
"At least we didn't walk in on them having sex."
"Like last time."
But it just didn't quite fit with the continuation and I liked it better with Dean's SOB line, so... there you go.