Dean frowns, throwing the fabric he held onto the table in a disgusted rage. “I can’t do it, Sammy.”
“Dean,” his brother sighs. “It’s not that hard. Sewing is so basic, and I’m really surprised you don’t know how.”
“What? Why?”
His younger brother raises a brow at him. “Because it’s more convenient to stitch yourself up than to bleed to death?”
Dean blinks. “It’s the same?”
Sam stares blankly at him for a long minute, and then turns to Gabriel. “I’m going to kill him.”
The angel examines his own project casually, offering Sam a soft smirk. “Kinda defeats the purpose of everyone saving his ass all the time, huh?”
Sam groans. “I’m gonna go see what’s taking Castiel so long with the snacks.”
He forces the fabric and needle back into Dean’s possession before leaving to check on the status in the kitchen. For some reason he had had this strange delusion that Castiel could be trusted with simply getting a few bags of chips, and the sight he meets in the kitchen surprises him.
“Cas!” There are chips strewn around the counter and floor, what looks like dip splashed over the walls, and Castiel standing in the middle of it all, covered in grape soda and Dorito fragments, trying to mop up the mess with his tie. Sam takes a deep, calming breath, and yells, “DEAN!”
“OW!” Dean’s voice yelps, soon followed by running steps, and his brother bursts into the room, index finger jammed between his lips. “Dammit Sammy, you made me stab myself!”
Wordlessly, Sam gestures to the scene before them and raises both eyebrows as if to say, ‘what do you intend to do about this?’
“Cas!” Dean echoes Sam’s initial reaction, crossing the room. “What the ever-loving fuck happened here?”
Castiel blinks innocently. “Unlike grape juice, you should not shake grape soda before opening.”
Sam groans, turning toward the wall and smacking his head against the wallpaper. All he wanted to do was spend one Halloween doing normal things, instead of hunting monsters. Decorate the house, give out candy to kids, make some costumes for the party the neighbors down the street were throwing this weekend. But of course, it turns into this.
As if on cue, the doorbell bongs loudly, echoing through the house. Sam heaves a heavy sigh, pulls on his game face and leaves his brother to deal with the snack-coated angel in the kitchen. Someone needs to prevent Gabe from traumatizing five year olds.
True to form, Gabe is donning a grisly hellhound mask he created himself. Sam sighs. “How old are they, Gabe?”
“Twelve,” he responds automatically, and then looks pleadingly at Sam. “Can I?”
He sighs, always a sucker for the pouty lip. “Okay.”
Gabe bounces gleefully for a minute and pulls the door open, eliciting a scream from a duo of small princesses. Sam slaps himself in the forehead; he forgot to ask their gender. He’s grumbling to himself and massaging his temples when Gabe returns, cackling to himself, and the younger Winchester fixes his lover with a sharp glare. Gabriel grins, planting a kiss on Sam’s cheek before heading toward the kitchen to help with the mess. “I gave them double the candy for it,” he calls nonchalantly over his shoulder, and Sam finds himself smiling fondly despite the aggravation.
It’s turned into a fucking train wreck of an evening, and Sam is finding that he’s enjoying it more this way. They’re Winchesters, after all. If it went smoothly, it would be half the fun and half as rewarding.
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