The Winchesters liked Easter.
It had nothing to do with indecent amounts of chocolate or pastel-colored eggs; not even “Fluffy bunnies, Samantha! You wanna name one “Snowball” and keep it in your duffel?”
No, the Winchesters liked Easter because, usually, nothing happened on Easter. Sure, Sam theorized that a few tiny, fairly insignificant pagan gods got a little juice for their batteries to last another year, but the brothers had never encountered any on their hunter radar. On the grand scheme of “things going to shit because of the fucking APOCALYPSE,” a couple of pagan gods were barely on the list. Bigger fish, you know.
Sam and Dean usually spent the week leading to Easter and that day just holed up in some shitty motel. Dean, never one to pass up another go at rotting his teeth, would get himself a bag of small chocolate eggs and a box of marshmallow Peeps while Sam would do something girly, like laundry, or some shit. They had an unspoken agreement to not go looking for a hunt during Holy Week; it was just asking for trouble.
Well, more trouble.
That’s how the Winchesters usually spent Easter. But that was before the freaking angels.
“Dean.” Castiel is abruptly standing in the corner of the motel room, near the window, which has heavy, ugly green curtains. He flicks a wrist towards the shades and the fabric parts with a sswwsshh and blinding morning light.
“Ughh, piss off, Cas.” The large bundle of sheets on the left bed draws into itself, further away from the window. An answering groan sounds from the other bed. Sam’s shaggy mop of hair disappears under the blankets. “Go ‘way.”
Castiel’s mild expression doesn’t change. With another flick, Dean’s blankets are on the floor. Dean shoots up with a yelp. “What the hell, Cas?!”
“Today is a very important holiday,” Castiel says, seriously. “And several beings of lesser importance will endeavor to strip Easter of its sanctity for unholy gain.”
“Is this about the pagans?” Sam speaks up tiredly, “Cuz if it is, just let them be; Jesus, they’re not doing any serious harm.” Dean makes an intelligible noise of agreement, flopping back down on the mattress.
From where Sam’s half-sitting up in bed, hair still everywhere and mussed with sleep, Castiel seems to straighten minutely, square his shoulders and tuck his chin down, as if expecting a physical fight to break out. A sudden chills breaks out on Sam’s neck. Sometimes he forgets that quiet, small Cas is really Castiel, an immense, incomprehensible being whose mere existence is literally blinding. But before Sam can even begin to formulate an adequately apologetic response, there is an almighty CRACK! that wakes both Winchesters up for good. A storm of confetti promptly drowns the room in pastel strips of paper.
“Who’s up for some egg-dyeing!”
Sam groans and lies back down with a thump, throwing an arm over his eyes. Dean, on the other hand, swears colorfully, goes for his handgun, and squeezes off five shots in the general direction of the cheery shout.
The bullets turn into jellybeans on their way to Gabriel’s mouth.
“Tut, tut, Dean-o! Think of the neighbors!” the second angel reprimands, grinning. Castiel turns to his brother with a frown. “Cas! As much a Debbie-Downer as ever, eh?”
“Gabriel,” Castiel says gravely. “Assist me in rousing the Winchesters for Easter.”
“Interesting word choice,” the Archangel laughs, musingly. “I’ll let you get Dean up, if you know what I mean. He’s your chucklehead charge, not mine. I’m lucky I got the smart Winchester.”
“Fuck you,” Dean says, but there’s no real heat in it. Sam feels Gabriel bounce on the foot of his bed. “Up and at ‘em, Sammy.”
“Gabe, tell Cas that he’s disturbing our DAY OFF,” Sam tries to stress from under his arm. “You should know, best of all, that there’s no point in going after the tiniest sect of pagans on a day like this. The majority of the worship is, shocker, going to the Christian powers that be. The pagan birth and fertility gods are getting barely any devotion these days. It’s not worth it, man.”
Sam’s arm is lifted from his face. Gabriel smiles down at him. He seems different. “Oh, see, I get that, kiddo. Like you said, no one knows better than me. But I’m God’s Messenger, Sammy, and I am the one to announce when the party’s started!”
Sam glances over at Castiel, who looks like Gabriel’s just popped his life raft. “Celebration feast day, Cas! My pagan ways are behind me, and I say let’s party like Cana!”
That’s it. Sam peers at Gabriel again. He’s definitely glowing, just a tiny bit. He turns. So is Castiel. It’s Easter. Of course. Dean notices too, just a few seconds behind his brother. “Dude. Cas. Are you leveling up?”
“I… don’t unders-“
“Yes,” Gabriel interrupts. Six golden-brown wings explode of nowhere, clap Castiel around the shoulders and disappear again before Castiel can even stumble. “Little Bro here will be all powered up by the end of the day. Good thing, too.”
Dean breaks into a wide smile as his angel guardian sits heavily on his bed, off balance from an Archangel form of a hearty back slap. Dean slings an arm around Castiel’s thin shoulders.
“Cana, huh?” Dean says. “You wanna refresh our memory?”
Gabriel lights up like a freaking Christmas tree. Golden light spills into the room like food coloring in a glass of water. Sam grins and lets the light wash over him. Gabriel stands as Sam swings his long legs out of bed.
“Would I ever!”
A snap, and the Winchesters and their angels are gone, leaving only a flutter of confetti behind.