It's the latest in the line of uncountable shabby diners somewhere in the middle of Arkansas; Sam and Dean are here following a string of deaths that all seem to be connected to an old Greek pithos, which would be fine by them -- hey, haunted artifacts are easy compared to what they've been through -- if the Leviathan front hadn't been so oddly silent lately. Yeah, watching and waiting is the only strategy that doesn't get people killed, at least so far, and it isn't as if they can just run up and toss buckets of industrial-strength cleaning solution over every up-and-coming political leader. Even if they could, it didn't work on Dick and there's no reason it should work on any of the other high-ranking nasties. But still… it feels strange to not be doing anything. Back to the hunt it is, then.
So Sam is sitting in this run-down diner on this run-down street in run-down Small Town, U.S.A. at six o' clock in the morning, waiting for his coffee (black, two sugars) so he can get to the library and see if he can find any matches to the paintings on that urn. Dean is presumably still snoring and Sam curses him silently. He tried to wake him, but Dean had just muttered "Cass" in a horribly forlorn sort of way, and so Sam had left him.
The waitress returns with the coffee and hands it to him, giving him a cheerful grin as she does so. Sam scowls at her retreating back. What business does she have looking so cheerful when it's six in the morning and a piece of ancient pottery keeps killing otherwise random civilians?
It's then that Sam notices the businessman sitting in the booth opposite. There's nothing particularly striking about the man -- gray suit, red tie, briefcase -- but Sam gets an uncomfortable chill when he realizes that the guy's been watching him for at least the past ten minutes. When the businessman catches Sam staring back, he winks and grins in a way that Sam can only describe as sleazy.
Sam glares into his coffee. It's too early for this shit.
He's probably a Leviathan.
A shadow falls across the table, and Sam glances up: the businessman has approached him.
"Mind if I join you?"
Yes, Sam thinks about saying, but gestures mutely to the other side of the booth. The businessman chooses instead to squeeze himself in next to Sam. There's barely enough room.
"Dude, what--?" Sam says, but the businessman cuts him off.
"Don't want to be overheard, do we, Sammy?"
Okay, one, what the hell. Two, only Dean gets to call him Sammy.
Three, what the hell?
"Who are you?" Sam demands.
"A friend," says the businessman, which does nothing to comfort Sam.
"Look, Sam," says the businessman. "I've got a problem, and I think you have too. I want to help."
"--a demon? Nah. Pretty much the opposite, actually."
That feels like it should mean something, but Sam hasn't managed to ingest enough caffeine yet to properly work it out. He just shakes his head and stares down at his unwelcome new "friend".
"So what do you want?"
"Oh, a lot of things. World peace. A new Rolls. The usual. But, in relevance to you--" he jabs a finger further into Sam's personal space, nearly taking an eye out-- "the eradication of the Leviathans. Not the imprisonment, mind. Why the Big Guy didn't do away with them in the first place is one of many questions I'd like to ask him."
Sam sputters and chokes on his mouthful of (mediocre) coffee. "How do you know about the Leviathans?"
"Please. I told you, I'm a friend. In fact, to prove my good will, I'm going to do something nice for you. I think there's a certain angel on your mind that could do with a bit of, hmm… drying out?"
"Seriously, who are you?" Sam says again, and the guy gives him this sad, pitying smile, like he's questioning Sam's intelligence.
"Really, Sam! Use that big head of yours! I'll bring Castiel back for you free of charge, and you'll stay out of the Leviathan business and let the professionals take care of them. Everyone wins. What do you say?"
"No," Sam says. "We've done everything. We've tried everything. Nothing we do can kill those things. What makes you think you're any different?"
As he's talking, the guy is pulling something rectangular and shiny out of his suit pocket. He tsks disapprovingly and says, "c'mon, man, do your research! I thought you were the brains of the operation."
Sam doesn't quite know what to make of this, so he ignores the crinkling sounds the businessman is making and says, "even so, what's in it for you?"
"Me? Oh, not much. I mean, I get to fulfill my destiny, and, oh yeah, save the world. For, you know, the second time. You still haven't thanked me for the tipoff about the rings, by the way."
It's a candy bar. The crinkly thing is a Mars bar and there is a definitively familiar smirk on the businessman's face.
Sam stares uncomprehendingly for at least thirty seconds. The businessman eats his candy and waggles his eyebrows suggestively at him.
Finally, Sam manages to force out, "Gabriel?"
And the man next to him is laughing and his face is changing and yes, it's the Trickster, all right. "What are you doing here?" Sam says, once he's found his voice. He feels a bit light-headed. "How are you here? Didn't you die?"
Gabriel gives him another one of those pitying looks. "Sam, Sam, you didn't think I don't know how to fake my own death, did you? Didn't I prove it to you the first time we met?"
And yeah, he did. Sam stares blankly at him for a full minute longer, just for good measure. "All right," he says, beginning to smile, because finally, finally, it looks like something might just go right. "What's your plan, then?"