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The Grenade Launcher, and Other Things the Network Forcefully Frowns Upon

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“Fffffff—” Dean cut himself off at Sam’s frown. “Crap,” he said instead, giving his brother a deadpan look in return.

Sam shrugged helplessly, returning his gaze to watch another approaching tide of zombies, and Dean couldn’t really find in it himself to be mad. He was just as unhappy about the weird limits on things like language, too. Though he was glad the censoring didn’t hack into his brain and mess around there, too, because that would be really fucking annoying.

Cas had explained it to them after the whole “our lives are a TV show” fiasco, popped up in a motel room and started talking before either of them could begin demanding answers as to why their more colorful vocabulary was suddenly dumbed down to more family-friendly levels. Apparently their little trip to another universe had somehow messed with their ‘personal laws of nature,’ as Cas put it. Basically, it meant whatever the TV world deemed inappropriate would be censored, averted, or really really painful to attempt. It wasn’t like they flat out couldn’t curse. If Dean really wanted to drop a motherfucker he could, it just took a lot more effort than it really ought to have. And pain. There was a lot of that before they eventually adapted. Like a fucking shock collar or something. Needless to say, Dean hated it.

It didn’t take long to realize that certain actions were frowned upon as well. Certain situations would happen and then never be mentioned again. (Which was really fucking awful sometimes, especially when Sammy got the short end of that stick.) Some cures or weapons or solutions would work one time and then be pushed aside. (The grenade launcher was apparently a running gag. Every time he reached for it, he got a sharp pang in his head.) Sometimes they weren’t even allowed to ask certain people for help. He’d dial up Bobby and get a pizza parlor in Flagstaff, Arizona. He’d start to pray to Cas only to find his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Worst of all, his usual flirting with Cas was forced to go from winks and comments and the occasional ass slap to something painfully heterosexual and somewhat oblivious. And that? Made him really fucking pissed. Mostly he and Cas contented themselves with subtext (and, depressingly, no buttsex).

Right now he was horny and hungry and covered in blood and so fucking tired of the fucking zombie apocalypse that some fucking idiot had thought would fun to try to bring to fucking life with a fucking tulpa and the network wouldn’t even let them fucking pray to Cas. And thinking about whatever stupid TV show physics that kept him from fucking Cas or even just picking up a damn dude in a bar was pissing him off even more.

He didn’t even realize how hard his gaze had gotten until Sam gave him a worried look. “Uh, Dean?” he asked uncertainly.

Dean turned to face him, all the fury and emotion boiling their way to the surface. He glared with so much unexpected venom that Sam took a step back. “You know what?” he said after a moment. “Fuck it.” The expected twinge to his temples didn’t even faze him as he turned on his heel and marched back to the Impala.

He ignored Sam’s calls and rummaged through the arsenal in the trunk until his fingers hit cool metal and sharp pain. The grenade launcher nestled into his hand like it belonged, despite the tingling discomfort it caused. He gave Sam a smirk at his incredulity, and yelled at the top of his lungs. “CAS! FUCKING CAS, GET DOWN HERE AND FUCKING HELP US FUCK UP THESE FUCKERS!” With each progressive word, his mouth and throat got drier, and the headache ratcheted up another level. He couldn’t bring himself to fucking care. “CAS, YOU FUCKING ASSBUTT!” he shouted.

Sam’s wide eyed expression suddenly melted into comprehension, but Dean wasn’t expecting him to get a determined set to his jaw and start cursing a blue streak at the sky. “CAS! THESE BASTARDS ARE FUCKING ANNOYING AS SHIT, AND I’M PRETTY FUCKING SURE DEAN WANTS TO FUCK YOU!” Dean considered protesting the accusation, but honestly, it was true, and he was done fucking around with the whole thing.

Cas appeared, looking powerful and bewildered and gorgeous, and Dean grinned dangerously. “About fucking time,” he said, grabbing him by the lapels of his trenchcoat and kissing him full on the mouth. And damnshitfuck, if Cas wasn’t an amazing kisser. Dean hoped those TV fuckers were getting a good eyeful of lips and tongue and teeth, because damn if he didn’t want them to know exactly where they could shove their family-friendly repression shit.

“Guys, the zombies,” Sam warned with a note of urgency.

Dean only lifted the grenade launcher and fired it without breaking the kiss. As the air filled with splatters of blood and guts, Cas smiled against his mouth, pulling away to put a hand over Dean’s eyes.

Sam got the memo just in time, covering his face as the world turned white. When he looked up again, the rest of the zombies were burnt to a crisp.
“Fuck this shit,” the angel said.

“Damn fucking straight,” Dean growled, and realized it didn’t hurt to curse anymore.

“You mean damn fucking gay,” Sam corrected with a shit-eating grin.

“Shut the fuck up, Sammy,” he said, and attacked Cas’ mouth again.