Sadly, I don't own these wonderful boys!
Genre: Family and friendship
Characters: Dean, Castiel, mention of Sam
Word Count: 200
Castiel hurried down to the bunker's vaults on hearing Dean's outburst to find his friend kneeling before a heavy metal door, angrily rattling the lock.
"What is wrong Dean?"
"It's freakin' Sam," Dean snorted; "he changed the lock's combination, and now he's gone out, and I don't know what it is!"
"Oh," Castiel replied unhelpfully.
"I've tried odd numbers, even numbers, prime numbers, birth dates, pi, the Fibonacci sequence, our ages, and nothing works. How the hell am I supposed to finish this incantation we need?"
Castiel pondered silently for a moment. "Try 4, 5, 1, 14," he eventually suggested.
Dean hesitated before turning back to the lock and punching in the numbers.
Both man and angel stood back and watched in awe as the lock smoothly clicked, and the door swung open with a pained creak.
"But, When did … How did …?" Dean muttered, confused. "Did Sam tell you what it was?"
"Not in word, but in deed, Dean," Castiel replied with a smile; "every day, ever since I've known you both."
Dean shrugged, uncomprehending.
"Everyone sets a combination that is important to them; something unforgettable, and Sam is no different."
"The numbers represent letters. The letters spell 'D-E-A-N'."
Characters: Dean, Sam and Castiel
Word Count: 300
“I’m going to friggin’ kill Gabriel,” Dean mumbled to no-one in particular.
“Get in line,” snorted Sam.
“I can’t believe what that freakin’ dick has done to us this time!”
“Apparently it is the 18th century in the highlands of Scotland,” Castiel pointed out.
“Yes, we know,” growled Dean.
“And you are wearing kilts,” the angel added unhelpfully.
“YES, WE KNOW!”
“It is the Campbell tartan,” Castiel added meekly; “just in case you were interested …”
Dean’s glare shot an unspoken warning to the cringing angel.
“Cas,” Dean hissed, “zap us out of here – NOW!”
“I cannot undo Gabriel’s magic,” Castiel sighed; “the only way to undo it is for you to play your part in his game.”
“What part?” Dean snapped, fidgeting miserably as he tried to cover his bare knees with the acres of dark blue and green tartan that flapped so uncomfortably around them.
“You will have to lead the Hogmanay parade through the village,” Castiel announced solemnly, pointing to a growing crowd of people around them. He handed something that looked suspiciously like a set of bagpipes to Sam.
“Kill me now,” groaned Dean, ignoring Sam who was wrestling furiously with the bagpipes and producing a series of dissonant wailing squeaks that sounded like the all-America cat-wringing championships.
“Dean, I think …” Castiel reached out to adjust the crumpled fabric encircling Dean's waist, only to be slapped away.
"Touch my sporran Cas, and I'll hurt you."
"But Dean, I believe your kilt is ..."
Moments later, at the head of the parade, Sam and Castiel watched helplessly as Dean's improperly-fastened kilt suddenly unravelled and dropped to the ground, accompanied by the gasps of the scandalised townsfolk and the melancholy yowl of Sam's deflating bagpipes.
"Well," Castiel stated blankly; "that answers that question, then!"