The French Mistake
God, they’re in Canada. They’re not even in America anymore and for whatever reason, that’s it. Dean’s so beyond done with it all he’s not even sure what his hands are doing anymore and his mouth is hanging open and he keeps saying, “dude, dude” like somehow that will get Sam to the same place he is, because of course his pie loathing, maple syrup loving, freedom hating little brother is not upset about this. Or at least, isn’t as upset as Dean is, but whatever, Dean isn’t thinking rationally, he’s breathing Canadian air.
The house they pull up at is pretty modest, all surrounded by trees, half of it completely covered in ivy. Their driver-guy drops them off with a nod –Cliff, Dean thinks, the thing I want to jump off of, right-and pulls away, leaving them standing in the dark in front of some strange house in the suburbs, in Canada, and Dean’s really just hearing a high-pitched ringing at this point. “Bet you picked those out,” Sam snickers and points to one of the overflowing flowerbeds.
“Fake me, fake me might have picked out some goddamn flowers, but I did not pick out any goddamn, Canadian, flowers.” Dean turns on his heel and marches up to the front door, tries to wrench it open and stares at it for a second when it won’t. Keys, right. He pats his pockets as Sam comes up behind him.
“I don’t know why you’re so stuck on the Canada thing, man, none of this is ours.” Dean lets out some kind of despairing growl as he jams a key into the lock, surprised and completely unsurprised when the thing turns and the door swings open, leading into a softly lit hall, a neat living room off to the side, a kitchen just visible towards the end.
“Sammy, if we get stuck here we are stuck, in Canada, without my baby, how are you not seeing the problem!” Dean turns to glare at Sam, who opens his mouth to retort, but whatever he says is lost as he looks over Dean’s shoulder.
“You know, I take issue with a couple of things in that sentence.”
“Cas?!” Dean whirls back around and there he is, the bastard, leaning in the doorway to the living room with his arms folded like this isn’t a giant shitfest. Cas rolls his eyes and sighs, and- Cas is wearing a sweater. Not the fucking creeper jacket, or the backwards tie, nope, he’s got some dapper little button up on with the sleeves all rolled up and a dark blue sweater and he’s got a bunch of flowers resting in the crook of one elbow and Jesus fuck what the hell do they put in Canadian air.
“Hilarious, as always, Jared.” Cas walks forward a bit and presses the bundle of blooms into Dean’s arms, and smiles. “I know you said flowers where cheesy, but you’ve been working so hard lately. How was your day, and who, might I ask, is baby, since I am most definitely right here.” Dean’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging wide open; the ringing is back.
“W-what the hell, Cas, what is-” Cas rolls his eyes again and turns away, walks towards the kitchen and flips on lights as he goes.
“No, really, you two are comedy geniuses. Need me to get out the marriage license to help your memory? Come on, say it with me, Mi-sha. Miiii-shaaaa. Swear to God if you keep this up later-”
Cas- no, Misha’s- exasperated voice carries from the kitchen, over the sound of a sink running. “Sex, Jen, sex is later, my God.” They can hear him puttering around in the kitchen, muttering something along the lines off Christ I married this guy, made my bed, dug my grave, whatever, he’s six feet of worth it but they’re both just standing in the hallway, Sam still half outside.
Dean finally turns to Sam, still gripping the bundle of flowers in both hands. “Dude, I married fake Cas. Dude I am banging fake Cas. Where the fucking hell on a tricycle are we.”
Sam shrugs, completely at a loss, and over the sound of whistling coming from the kitchen at the end of the hall he says, “Canada.”