A/N: I am so pissed at you don't even know. I edited this chapter with Author's Notes, long ones at that, click Save, and it just spazzes and dumps all my edits. *growly noise of frustration*

Anyway, enjoy the update.

IMPORTANT A/N AT BOTTOM.

"What the hell is this thing?" Dean asks, holding the device up in front of his face for examination.

Sam really doesn't want to answer, for various reasons, (1- If Dean finds out he know what these are, he'll laugh so hard his lungs might explode. 2- Sam doesn't want to believe what he knows is true. 3- It's so wrong.)

He holds one in his hands too, staring at it like it carries the plague.

"We're in an infomercial aren't we." Dean says tiredly, not even really asking a question.

Sam sighs. "Yep."

He holds his Shake Weight with one hand and throws it into a corner.

Sam pointedly glares at the ceiling, imagining the Trickster is watching. (He knows the Trickster is watching, and Sam flat out refuses to take part in this.. this abomination of a commercial.)

"What is the point of this thing?" Dean says from the other side of the sickeningly bare house they're in.

Obviously an infomercial house, large and roomy with only a few fake plants on short tables, and a pool in the background. He can even hear that annoying pseudo-elevator music tinkling in from nowhere.

Sam scrunches up his nose at it all. (And Dean is still staring at the Shake Weight like it's the blueprint to a space shuttle.)

He pleads in his mind with the Trickster, This is getting so old. Please let us out. Please. I swear I won't try to stake you agai-

Sam's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of sand, (Or beads, who knows,) swishing around. He turns slowly.

Very slowly.

And is horrified to see his brother using the Shake Weight. Just like in the commercials. (Legit.)

It's just so wrong looking. Sam buried his face in his hands and ignores the clicking of a disposable camera.

"So far I've got Sam stuffing a Teletubbie full of lead, Dean pointing a gun at Evil-Oprah, Dean getting hit with a golf ball, Sam smashing his face into a window, and now Dean, using the Shake Weight like a pro."

The Trickster laughs, somehow degrading them and laughing with them (Regardless of how not-laughing they are,) at the same time.

"I can't wait to get these developed, kiddos." The Trickster says.

Dean lunges for the tiny Kodak disposable, but only ends up tripping over nothing and falling on face. (Because all The Trickster had to do was snap his fingers.)

"Why Dean," Mock care seeping through The Trickster's unnaturally high voice. "Are you alright?"

Dean mumbles into the floor, too exhausted to move. (Sam knows he said 'Fuck you'. He's just awesome like that.)

Sam's shoulders slump dejectedly.

He admits defeat in this, but there's still no way in Hell (However literal that may turn out to be,) that he is saying yes to Lucifer.

He hopes his brother is ditto with him on that front. (He better be.)

The Trickster frowns and sighs angrily. "It's just not fun anymore, you moronic imbeciles." He's peeved at them more taking away his fun (Don't Tricksters have better things to do?) and Sam almost expects another Channel Change.

Just more torture coming their way, is what he expects. Almost.

IMPORTANT A/N: There's a reason I kinda jipped you guys with this short chapter.

I'm getting stuck on this fic. Not a stuck "out of ideas", but a stuck "too many ideas".

It's turning a mite serious, when my original intentions were to keep it cracktastically fun. And now...the tiny fangirl in my brain keep screaming at me.

"Sam/Gabriel. Do it. Do It. DO IT NOW."

Problem is, I know that's not everyone's cup of pairing/ship tea, but lately it's become sort of my OTP. Maybe. (Theshameforgivemewincest)

And. I just don't know. I don't want to dissapoint you guys or scare you off the fic. If it was Sam/Gabe, it would only be slight. Nothing graphic. Maybe just some pining and crushing.

My solution?

I PUT UP A POLL. GO ANSWER.

PLEASE.

(It only takes three clicks.)