Perception

The Next Macaulay Culkin

Warning: priest jokes.

It was getting progressively colder as the trio crossed the Canadian border (with fake passports and a carefully placed blanket). Dean had stopped over just before they reached Washington, buying a few heavy coats and a good four days worth of whiskey. Those mounties were easier to trick than Dean had originally thought.

Castiel was taking the whole "near-death experince by tiny badger-demon" thing quite well, for all of his innocence and frailtality. He was clutching the flask like Sam had said he would and sleeping peacefully in the backseat, trench coat pulled over his body. He deserved a real bed, thought Dean, rubbing his thumb over the steering wheel. He needed a home, not a car seat. But that wasn't something Dean could give him.

"Watch the road," said Sam, jerking Dean from his thoughts and the car from the other lane. "You can't worry about Cas if you're dead."

"Shut up, bitch," Dean snapped back, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Jerk," muttered Sam quietly, pushing his girl hair behind his ears.

Dean finally pulled over in Whitehorse after a good day of driving. All three men needed some proper sleep, even if it was only three hours. The little inn was rustic and positively covered in snow. Castiel was bundled up in two jackets, but he was still shivering and clutching at the two giant sources of warmth walking next to him. Sam pulled away, muttering about being too tall for this. He was, too. Much too tall.

The lady behind the check-in desk kept telling Dean how he and Castiel were "such an adorable couple, oh my god, can I get a picture?" Dean tried to give halting explinations of "goddamnit, we're not, lady shut the hell up" with a bit more tact than he usually would. But the message was still the same.

Castiel just asked how the heating in the room was.

...

Michael glared at Orias, his crocodile face's lips pursed as much as they could be. "Alaska, really?"

Orias shrugged, twisted features moving to make an expression that resembled Whatcha gonna do, call my dad?

"It couldn't have been somewhere with a bigger population? Like New York, or LA? Memphis, even!"

"Boss' orders," said Orias, inspecting his fingernails. Claw-like and covered in gore - perfect. "Said it was something to do with Salpsan's birth place. Center o' Hell's cold."

Michael paced. "How will he cause mayhem if he can't find people to terrorize? There isn't even one person per mile in that place!"

"The Down Low already gave them nine months of winter and wolves, guy; he doesn't need to cause mayhem."

Michael's zebra face huffed. "My brother is an idiot. That's not true suffering."

"And coffee stands on every corner is Heaven?" Orias shfted around, swirling black form swaying and expanding momentarily. "Us demon's don't need to do much. The humans make their own suffering."

...

Salpsan stretched out on Bryce Wallace's bed, grinning a little evil grin that looked bizarre on a child's face. Bryce's parents were loaded, it seemed, politicians of some kind. They were idiots of the highest degree, too.

Orias got rid of little Bryce for him. Salpsan couldn't find it in himself to care. What he did care about, however, was that the maids wouldn't leave him alone, oh my someone. They coddled him and tried to play with him, and constantly offered food. Finally, Salpsan influenced them away. If the head maid was hit by a car as she left, it was unimportant.

He hopped off the bed, shrugging on a heavy jacket and making his way down the stairs, stubby legs stretching far to reach the steps. Having such a small stature was so tedious. How did Seth Green do it?

After he conquered the stairs, he made his way to the back gardens, where his contact was waiting for him in the dark (as it typically was in the Alaskan winter). Zachariah was waiting by the snowy pine trees, scowling in disdain at the ground. His vessel was that of an older man, in a suit.

"You look like a pedophile," said Salpsan as he reached the angel. His six year old body only reached Zachariah's waist, but he was still intimidating.

Zachariah glared down. "We've gotten word that the Winchesters are after you. Be prepared."

"You think I can't take them?" scoffed Salpsan. "Have some faith in me, Gacy." It was ironic, coming from The Son of Satan.

"Hey!" Zachariah said hautily. "He was your fault!"

"And your guys gave them priests."

...

In the end, Salpsan cast the thoughts of the Winchesters out of his mind and set little traps around the house. He was going to start small, then move up to terrorizing the entirety of Anchorage. He hd marbles at the enterance to the kitchen, behind the swinging doors. There was a skateboard at the bottom of the stairs, and he put Christmas ornaments under the window.

The maids had him watching Home Alone two days ago.

Bryce's parents were due to arrive home in a week's time, and then would start influencing their important political decisions. Until then, he settled on making the house staffs' lives Hell, and he knew a lot about that.

...

The food at the inn was fantastic. The elk burger (who knew there were elk burgers?) were juicy and delicious and this was how Dean wanted to die. Sam - of course - was eating a salad, to which even the waiter gave him a Look. Castiel was just picking fries off of Dean's plate. He had shed one layer, but was still wrapped up in his trench coat. Sam had bitched about it for a few minutes ("How can you stand that thing right now? It's a million degrees in here!") but was ultimately ignored.

"So," Dean said after some time, swallowing the last of his burger. He missed it already. "What're we going to do once we get to Anchorage?"

"We'll get the information we need, find out who's planning what, then we'll gank it." Sam shrugged. "Isn't that what we always do?"

"But when I called Bobby a few minutes ago," Dean protested, "he sounded pretty overwhelmed. Said we lost a hunter to the 'increased demon activity'."

Sam nodded. "So we'll interrogate a few demons. You have the demon knife?"

"When do I not, bitch?" When Sam's little escapade had ended with Ruby just a few weeks before they found Castiel, the bitch had left Sam her demon knife as a "Sorry We Couldn't Screw Around Forever" gift, and Sam - being the wimp that he was - gave it to Dean and pouted for a week. Bitch.

"Touché, jerk." Sam shoved the last of his salad in his mouth and stood up. By now, Castiel had fallen asleep on the table, arm cushioning his head. Dean almost cooed. But he didn't, because he's not Sam, who really was cooing.

Dean nudged Castiel softly. "Hey buddy, wake up. Time to go."

Castiel shifted and yawned, looking at the brothers with hooded eyes. He nodded and ran a hand through his hair, and let Dean drag him back to the room to retrieve their things. When they reached the car, he stretched out across the back seat and was out in an instant.

Dean frowned. "What's up with him?"

"Probably trying to work through the ketamine withdrawl. Sleeping is the best way to avoid the worst of it."

"Alright," said Dean. He flipped on his Black Sabbath tape, turning the volume down for the angel in the back seat, and pulled away from the inn. Next stop: Anchorage.