This plot bunny suddenly appeared clinging to one of the mirrors on my bike as I rode home last night, its little ears flapping in the breeze. This is a terrifying new development: para-bunnies that drop out of the sky, and can land on a moving motorcycle. Are you lot sending them via unmanned drones, now?
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, I just roll them in chocolate sprinkles for the depraved delectation of others.
Title: Johnathan Livingstone Angel
Rating: T. This story produced on equipment that also processes Dean Winchester.
Summary: The Winchesters have finished a job at the seaside, they're unhurt, they're enjoying the sun, the surf, the bikini babes, the ice-cream... why is that frightened demon attempting to attract their attention?
Blame: Lies, no doubt, with whichever of the Denizens shooed this particular plot bunny in my direction. I know you breed them, you relentless wretches.
Johnathan Livingstone Angel
It wasn't often that they got to do a job in a peasant seaside town and escaped unscathed to enjoy some time afterwards, mused Dean, happily inspecting the ice-cream cone he held and deciding on the best place for the next delicious chocolate-chip lick. Even Sam was getting into the spirit with a cone of frozen yoghurt. The weather was fine, the bikini-clad women were frolicking, the gently lapping waves called cheerily to be swum through. Damn the freckles and full speed ahead, he thought, they should look for jobs like this more often...
Dean stopped in his tracks, suddenly alert, as Sam did the same beside him.
"Did you hear that?" asked Dean.
"Yeah," replied Sam, looking around.
"Psssssst!" came the noise again.
Dean frowned. "It sounds like a tyre going flat," he remarked.
"They all look okay here," shrugged Sam, inspecting the cars parked along the side of the road.
"Pssssssst!" they heard it again. "Oi! Rocky and Bullwinkle!"
The Winchesters looked behind them. A pale, round, worried face peeked out of an alley, eyeing the sky with trepidation, and a hand emerged from the shadows to wave to them.
"Pssssssst bloody pssssssst!" hissed Crowley, flapping his hand frantically, "Yes, you two! Well done! Oh, the highly developed senses of the Hunter, how they do amaze us all..."
"Damn, and here I was thinking that this was going to be some me-time," growled Dean, "What are you doing, Crowley?"
"Trying to attract your attention, obviously, you pillock!" Crowley snapped, still eyeing the blue sky warily.
"Well, now you have it," Dean snapped back just as grumpily, "So, what do you want? This had better be important. I have an ice-cream to eat."
"It is important!" Crowley defended urgently, as Sam followed the line of his sight. "I need your help!"
"With what? I don't see anything," Sam sounded confused, "Except some clouds, and a light aircraft well out over the water, and maybe a couple of seagulls..."
"Where?" shrieked Crowley, eyes bugging as he darted back into the shadows.
Dean sighed. "Look," he began, "Either state your business, or fuck off, and keep fucking off until you get to the fabled country of Fuckoffia, then when you arrive, fuck off from there, too."
"I need your help," repeated Crowley, emerging partway into the light again, "I need you to call off your pet angel!"
"Pet angel?" queried Dean.
"He means Cas," translated Sam. "Why do you want us to 'call off' Castiel?"
"Because he's persecuting me!" whined Crowley, eyes turned Heavenward again.
"He's not actually 'up there', you know," Sam reminded the King of Hell, "Heaven is not actually..."
"I know that!" Crowley retorted snippily, "In fact I'd say that my grasp of metaphysical geography is probably better than yours!"
"Cas is Sheriff of Heaven, Crowley, whilst you are King of Hell," Dean pointed out. "It's kind of his job to persecute you."
"Not like this!" complained Crowley.
"Well, why exactly is Cas persecuting you more than he's supposed to?" asked Sam.
"Because he has no sense of humour," grumbled Crowley, moving out of the alley and onto the street, then dabbing at one of several light, splodgy stains on his suit with an expensive silk handkerchief. "You'd think he'd have gotten at least an intellectual understanding of what pranking is, the amount of time he's spent hanging around with you two Special Needs children..."
"What did you do, Crowley?" asked Sam with a put-upon sigh.
"He needs to loosen up," explained Crowley, "He takes everything so seriously. He needs to spread his wings, and just fly for the fun of it. You know, consider the lilies of the field, how they neither toil nor spin..."
"Crowley, what did you do?" repeated Sam, with an expression that suggested he was ready to deploy a Bitchface™ if the demon didn't get to the point.
"Right, right," Crowley continued hurriedly, still dabbing, "Well, I told him as much, and he said he was too busy, had too much to do, so I decided to help things along a little..."
"Crowley," growled Sam.
"I'm getting there! I'm getting there! Anyway, I sent him a scroll, said I'd taken it from a he-witch who'd tried to double-cross a demon on a deal, said I didn't know what it was, could be a dangerous occult artefact, UXO probably best left to the disposal experts before it did any damage..."
"What sort of a scroll?" demanded Dean.
"Well, it had this teensy weensy, harmless little curse on it," Crowley beamed, "Barely even a curse. A curselette, really, not even actually a curse, an anti-curse, really, because it was for his own good..."
"What sort of curse?" pressed Sam.
"A very short-lived one!" Crowley yelped. "Lasting for no more than a few hours! Just to let him have some fun! Get out and enjoy the sunshine! Spread his wings, and just fly! And what's more relaxing that a pleasant day at the seaside? Look, even Pitbull Winchester is eating ice-cream!"
Before either Winchester could press for further details, they heard a raucous, angry screech descending from the sky above them.
"It's him!" shrieked Crowley in terror, "It's him!"
The King of Hell set off at a wailing run along the street. The angry sound swooped low overhead, and followed him.
The Winchesters watched as Crowley ran, waving his arms around over his head, then let out a squeal as a large white splat hit him squarely in the back of the head.
Dean grinned, and went back to eating his ice-cream. He wasn't surprised. Castiel was an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven, who had fought his way through Hell to rescue Dean, righteously smiting hordes of demons with his angel sword, his Grace, and his determination to do what he believed was what his Father wanted.
So it wasn't terribly unexpected that, even as a cursed seagull, when smiting a demon he was a crack shot.
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