I was more than happy to mingle with the locals, listening to absurd stories before trading my own with ease. So maybe another reason I kinda wanted to stick around the states was nostalgia. I’ve been wandering around this country for a good while now and there was something crass and unpredictable that drew me in like a moth to a flame. Plus…maybe I thought the females here were better endowed in the breast area, the cars had more ‘omph’, humor was more crude, and…well…a lot happened here. I made legitimate…connections — I still think ‘friends’ is a poorly used term because…I keep friendships brief and on the false pretense. What I had with those morons called Winchesters was just different. I came back. I never come back, and I certainly do not pull as many strings for anyone like I did for two morons and a baby pigeon — sorry, Cas.
I suppose I missed them. Liked how I didn’t have to lie about who I am with them. Kinda missed toying around with them. They didn’t even let me get to the crappy tween shows where the set is high school this and singing in the bathrooms that. Oh, and jazz hands. Why did all tween shows now have to be a musical? Do we really need to sing about fifth period math class? Is that necessary?
I snorted, perfect timing to for the flannel wearing and worn baseball cap patron who talking to him about crazy freak accident his cousin had with a faucet and a dog. Which probably would have been very interesting for moi but something ridiculously tall caught my eye. Eyes moved to examine what was in my peripheral and I nearly choked on my beer. Speak of the devil — pun kinda included — but there was Sam Winchester. Ever growing locks that will soon challenge Rapunzel, look of pure innocence that would make cute little puppies look feral, and an air of ‘I’m lost, please don’t kidnap me.’ I was bewildered because where was bowlegs? The one who honestly looked like he just had too much anal sex that he was now forever stuck in almost prepared squat of a sort. Eh, probably right. The fact is, one muttonhead never strays far from the other. Kinda like ducks waddling after each other — Dean obviously doing the heavy-duty waddling and why the hell was Dean not here to hear my taunts?
Honestly, I should just leave. Safer to be unseen but… Just… Urge to taunt, prank, and tease rising. So with a smirk hiding behind my beer, I snapped my fingers lightly underneath the bar and changed whatever sweet, innocent number Sam was dialing…to a sex hotline. Oh come on, for old time’s sake! I couldn’t just let Sam sit around here scotch free without getting all flustered and jostled. Something really amusing about watching a Transformer-sized human put in embarrassing situations that just made things like this hard to resist.
Sam dials Dean’s cell, poised to leave a message when a woman’s sultry automated voice answers the call, saying for Sam to press certain numbers for certain kinds of women for certain kinds of verbal fantasies. He pulls the receiver from his ear and looks at it as though it just grew two heads. He doesn’t need this shit now, and his face clearly conveys this opinion. Stressed, he drags a hand through his hair and hangs up, picking the phone up to dial Dean’s number again.
He holds his breath this time around, hoping that it’ll be Dean’s voicemail that answers this time, but… of course… sex hotline. What the hell was going on? He gives up on the third attempt and walks over to the bar to grab his beer that the bartender just put down for him. He glances at Gabriel, who looks like the canary that just smashed the cat’s head in with a giant mallet, then looks away to scowl at his beer.
This isn’t funny or fair, he thinks, because sometimes his hallucinations can hear his thinking well enough. I can’t even get a hold of Dean and I’m somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Nebraska. He shakes his head, taking a few swigs of his beer, just sitting at the bar broodingly and pretending that his “hallucination” isn’t sitting a mere two stools away from him.
At least this hallucination of Gabriel appeared to be jovial… Sam couldn’t stand it when his hallucination was disappointed or feeling betrayed. He’d stand there and remind Sam that he’d died for Sam and Dean. He’d mock how poorly Sam had handled the wall in his head coming down. He’d complain about the fact that Sam hallucinated Lucifer more than anyone. Sometimes it was annoying. Sometimes it was more guilt-inducing than Sam could bare.
Because while Gabriel was a factor in Sam’s saving grace in the Cage— one of the people he thought about in order to keep himself together— once he got out it was the opposite. He glares over at Gabriel expectantly, waiting for some kind of cold barb or witty remark in his direction.