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tikificTitle: A Body Is Stuffed in the Trunk of My Chevy Impala
Fandom: Metalocalypse/Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, Cas, Crowley, Bobby, Charles, Nathan, Pickles, Murderface
Warnings: Cursing, drug use, implied angel sechs, random slash all over the place.
Word Count: 3000
Summary: Mordhaus has a demon! Fortunately, some pouty-lipped demon hunters are here to help. They may or may not do the job, but they're both wearing really tight T shirts.
Notes: This one is total crack I wrote in about 15 minutes. Doesn't matter 'cause Z's the only one who's gonna read it anyway.
“Dude. What the fuck? Is that supposed to be a space dinosaur or something?” Sam asked as the weird, gloomy castle appeared looming like a bleak shadow on the horizon.
“Dragon boat,” said Dean, turning down the musical styling of Joe Walsh
“And what the fuck is a dragon boat?” asked Sam, who obviously hadn't listened during Viking class in school.
“I dunno, Sammy, but according to Bobby, these guys are a bunch of rich off their ass musicians.”
“What, they're a band?”
“Uh-huh,” said Dean.
“And they all live together?” sputtered Sam. “What? Like the Monkees? What are they, all 13 years old?”
Dean grinned and guided the Impala up the winding driveway towards Mordhaus. “All I know is, Bobby got a call from some guy with a weird name who said they had a demon infestation, and could he send someone? Dude first offered him lots of money, and then when Bobby told him to fuck off, threatened to send some guys to torch his house.”
“What did Bobby do?” grinned Sam, who knew the old hunter's probable reaction to intimidation.
“Bobby threatened to jam a sawed off down his throat and shoot his balls off.”
“That's Bobby. So how the hell did we end up drawing the short straw?” asked Sam.
“Oh, uh, I didn't tell you,” said Dean, who suddenly tried to look innocent.
“Didn't tell me what?”
“We kind of … volunteered?”
“WHAT?”
“Listen Sammy, calm your tits! These guys are fucking rock stars! They have all the good booze, and probably lots of cute, skanky chicks....”
“Dean! You signed us for this to get laid?” asked Sam.
“Well, I mean, not specifically....”
“That's what you wanted, why didn't you just call Cas?” snarked Sam, folding his arms.
“What?” asked Dean. But Sam just grinned at him. “I have no fucking idea what you're talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do!”
“I do not!” Dean irritably stopped the car in front of the massive main entrance and exited the car, still scowling at Sam.
“Dudesch, isch that Kanschasch? Schooooo weak!”
Dean turned to the weird frizzy-haired man and told him, “Blow me.”
“Hey, yeah, dude,” said Sam, who was still in the mood to annoy his brother. “But I can't get him to play something cool, like Vampire Weekend.”
“Vampire Weekend?” asked the fuzzy haired man. “Are you dudesch … gay or schomething?”
“Yeah, in fact, we're the Gay Squad, here to give it to you good,” grinned Sam.
“Sammy!” warned Dean, but the frizzy haired dude just emitted a girlie squeal and fled in terror.
“Hey!” growled another dude. Sam and Dean looked at this new guy. He was huge, and he had an even more terrifying voice than Castiel. “Are you the dudes who were playing Carry on Wayward Son in your car? Because that's like totally lame and not metal!”
“I knew your musical taste was gonna get us into trouble some day,” Sam laughed.
“Hey, we're here for the demon extraction,” Dean told him. “I'm Dean and laughing boy there is Sam.”
“I'm Nathan Explosion! And, you got DEMONS? Because that sounds pretty cool. We raised a lake troll once. Although he tried to kill us and also we needed to get new phones, so that kind of sucked. And also we destroyed Finland. Hey, that's an AWESOME CAR!” he noted, stepping forward to admire the Impala.
“Chevrolet Impala,” said Dean proudly. “And, you could get a body in the trunk.”
“You could.... Wait,” said Nathan, who pulled out a little recording device. He repeated into it, “Song idea, Body in the Trunk of My Chevrolet Impala. You guys are cool. Although your T shirts are too tight. Did you wash them in hot water or something? That's not a very metal way to DO LAUNDRY.”
“Uh. Somebody called us about a demon?” prompted Dean, who was unprepared for the glossolalia.
“That was, uh, me,” said a slight, older man in an ill-fitting suit. Dean wondered if the guy visited Cas' tailor. “Charles Ofdensen. You guys the, ah, Winchesters?”
“They're Sam and Dean and they brought DEMONS!” Nathan announced.
“Uh, no, Nathan, these boys are supposed to get rid of our demons,” explained Charles.
“Why would you wanna get rid of a demon?” wailed Nathan. “Charles! Demons are totally cool, and they work for SATAN!”
“You talked to Bobby?” Dean asked Charles.
“I talked to some guy who kept referring to me as an idiot, and threatening to shot me in the, uh, testicles,” said Charles, nervously pulling on his tie.
“Yeah. That's Bobby.”
“Charles, why would you take our DEMON AWAY?” persisted Nathan. “You never let us do ANYTHING!”
“Uh, Nathan, why aren't you in the living room? I've heard the National Cheerleading Championships are on?”
“Wait, what? Whoa!' said Nathan. “Uh, catch you dudes later!” he said as he suddenly barreled into Mordhaus.
Charles gestured for Sam and Dean to follow him inside as well. He took out a pack of Marlboros. “You guys mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Uh, no, dude, actually, you look like you need one,” observed Sam.
“So you got a demon issue?” asked Dean. He looked around the corridors, impressed. The place was huge. And the walls were bedecked with the most fantastic stuff: the ones that weren't stacked with amplifiers had gold records and classic guitars and concert posters and other cool rock paraphernalia. But there was also amazing stuff like antique weaponry and swords, and even a suit of armor!
Charles paused in front of the suit of armor. “Can you guys, ah, give me a minute?” he asked Sam and Dean.
“Yeah, I gues so,” said Dean.
“Toki?” Charles asked the armor.
“Ja, Charles!” it answered, to Sam and Dean's utter surprise.
“Toki, is there a, ah, reason why you're dressed in a suit of armor tonight?” inquired Charles, who sounds mildly exasperated.
“Da guys ams said dat we wants da recordings to sounds totalies metal!”
“This is Toki, our, uh, rhythm guitarist,” Charles explained to Sam and Dean, tapping ashes from his cigarette.
“Oh,” said Dean. “Cool suit, dude.”
“T'anks!” said Toki brightly.
“We're Sam and Dean,” said Dean, “demon hunters.”
“Oh, how can you ams fights whens da T shirts ams so tights?” inquired Toki.
“Uh,” said Dean.
“Seems constrictsing,” said Toki.
“Yeah, uh, Toki? I think the guys are not actually recording tonight,” Charles told him.
One of the gauntleted hands went up, fumbling with the visor. Charles leaned over and put it up for him.
“So, can I gets out of da suits now, Charles?” asked Toki, his pale blue eyes blinking. “My balls ams been itching for da past hours.”
“Uh, yeah, I'll, uh, send a couple guys. OK?”
The heavy helmet nodded, which nearly caused Toki and the heavy suit to topple over. Charles, along with Sam and Dean, managed to steady him, and with a final warning from Charles not to move, the three continued along the corridor.
“So, uh, how did that guy even get into a suit of armor?” asked Dean.
“And where did he get a full suit of armor that fits?” asked Sam. “That stuff's from the Middle Ages, and it's usually small as hell.”
“Guys, I have learned from long experience not to ask,” sighed Charles, taking a very long drag on his Marlboro. They ended up in his office, which Sam noticed was larger than his college apartment. Plus it had the ugliest light fixture he had ever seen.
“Dude, that is the best chandelier in existence!” said Dean. “So you got demon infiltration issues?”
“Yeah,” said Charles, sitting down behind his desk. “They have, ah, come into possession of our ticketing process.”
“Dude … what?” asked Sam. “There's no such thing as the demon of Ticketron!”
“Hey, Sammy, let's hear the man out,” urged Dean.
“Take a look at this,” said Charles. He turned around his laptop. “OK, this was the original PDF file for the tickets.” Sam and Dean leaned forward. The ticket said Dethklok Live in Concert, Flekkefjord, Norway, and had in image of a skull with a lot of supernatural looking snakes and crap crawling through it.
“That's pretty cool,” said Dean.
“Yeah, but look what printed,” said Charles, pulling some tickets from a file drawer and throwing them on his desk. The brothers took a look: instead of the cool skull, there was a line drawing of a grinning, very familiar face.
“Happens every time we try and do a print run,” complained Charles. “Now, I'm thinking Nathan or someone, ah, probably inadvertently called up a ticket demon or something.”
“Well, actually,” said Sam, “we know-”
“We know we'll need some expert consultation!” interrupted Dean, dialing his cell phone.
“What?” asked Sam. “Why?”
“For some, you know, consultation. And stuff.”
“So you guys can stare at each other all night,” sighed Sam. “Look, Dean, I got other things to do.”
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean was saying into the phone. “We were wondering if you could-”
“Hello, Sam. Hello, Dean,” said a deep voice.
“Hey, Cas!” said Dean brightly.
“Cas,” sighed Sam.
“Your T shirt is looking especially tight tonight, Dean,” said Cas.
“Do you think so, Cas?” asked Dean.
Cas and Dean then stared soulfully at each other for some minutes.
“OK, break it the fuck up,” sighed Sam. “We don't have all night to eyefuck.”
“I wasn't-” protested Dean.
The being in the trench coat was suddenly standing in back of Charles' desk, his nose inches' from the Dethklok manager's face. “Don't I know you?” he asked Charles, tilting his head.
“Ahhhhh...” said Charles.
“Cas, dude, personal space,” said Dean, taking ahold of the belt on Cas' overcoat and dragging him back a few feet.
“I'm sorry, ah, what is this supposed to be?” asked Charles.
“This is Castiel, our own angel of Thursday!' bragged Dean.
“Your … angel?” asked Charles, narrowing his eyes. “You guys got an angel.”
“Hey, don't say it like that!” said Dean. “You'll hurt his feelings!”
“Dude, you guys got a rhythm guitarist in a full suit of armor,” Sam noted.
“OK, point,” said Charles.
“Dood! It's Jawn Cawnstantine!” wailed a dreadlocked individual from the doorway. He ran up to Cas and told him. “Dood! I've read all yer comics! Yoo rawk!”
“Oh. Uh. Thank you,” said a puzzled Castiel. “Although I do not understand that reference.”
“This dude smells like an explosion at an incense factory,” complained Sam, waving a hand in front of his face.
“Pickles, I don't think, uh, Castiel is a comic book hero,” explained Charles. “He's, ah, an angel. In a trench coat.”
“Dood, yeah he is! He's da Hellblazer. Hey, yoo wanna smoke, Jawn?” urged Pickles, waving a joint at Castiel, who took it and stared at it, intrigued.
“Ah, I really wouldn't advise that, Mr. Castiel,” said Charles. “Pickles' stash of drugs are usually, ah, pretty potent.”
“Angels are not susceptible to earthly intoxicants,” Castiel sniffed at Charles. He took a drag. And immediately went cross-eyed.
“Uh, Cas, you OK?” asked Dean.
“Whoa, great shit,” Cas breathed. The angel's pupils were now approximately the size of Montana.
“Uhhhh,” said Dean. “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked Sam, who had pulled out his own cell phone.
“I've had enough. I'm gonna call him,” said Sam.
“Wait, you got his phone number? Why don't I have his phone number?”
“Because you probably filled up your address book with gymnasts and twins. And twin gymnasts,” muttered Sam.
“Well, that's probably true,” allowed Dean. “But those people are important.”
“Hey, yoo need t' introdooce dis dood t' Skwisger,” Pickles told Charles.
“I'm afraid that would probably bring down the Apocalypse,” sighed Charles.
“The Apocalypse? That's our specialty!” bragged Dean. Charles just put his head down on his desk.
“Crowley, is that you?” Sam said into his phone.
“Oh, yes, why are you interrupting me tonight?” sighed the demon Crowley, who had just appeared in Charles' office along with the distinct whiff of sulfur. “It's the men's Olympic diving finals on ITV.”
“Heyyyy!” said Pickles. “It's da dood from da Det'klawk tickets!”
Charles raised his head. “Yeah! It's him! Prepare to be tasered, asshole!”
“Wait!” said Sam. “Crowley, is there some reason why you've been fucking around with Dethklok tickets?” He held up the altered tickets.
“Oh, yes,” sighed the demon. “Actually-”
“WHERE'S THE DEMON?” bellowed Nathan Explosion who, along with Skwisgaar, had just arrived at Charles' office. “Pickles just texted me and I wanna see this 'cause it'll be BADASS. Hey,” he said, looking around, “Why didn't we get invited to the demon meeting. Charles, you don't invite us to ANYTHING!” he whined.
“This is your guy,” Sam told him, indicating Crowley.
“WHAT? Wait, that's not a demon.”
“I assure you, dear, I most assuredly am,” Crowley sighed to Nathan.
“But you're just some fat old dude!” complained Nathan.
“All right, all right,” said Crowley, snapping his fingers and rolling his eyes.
Suddenly, Nathan had a forked tail. “Oh my god, I HAVE A DEMON TAIL! LOOK CHARLES, look at my BADASS DEMON TAIL!”
“Hmm,” said Skwisgaar, “I ams not gots da use for da tail, but maybes...” he trailed off, whispering into Crowley's ear.
“Quite possible. I myself did something of the sort, when I was just a tad,” Crowley told him.
“Look,” said Sam, “I'm tired and I just wanna get home, so could we please put aside the bullshit-”
“Ams not da bullshits!” said Skwisgaar. “I ams got triplets coming laters!”
“Crowley, dude, why are you fucking around with the Dethklok tickets?” asked Dean.
“Sadly, my great- great- great- great- great- great- great-grandniece is, for reasons I do not fully comprehend, a Dethklok fan, and wished for comp tickets,” explained Crowley.
“No comp tickets. Ever,” growled Charles. “Prepare to be tasered!”
“Wait!” said Crowley. “Sir, I am a demon of the crossroads. I could get you anything.” He leaned forwards towards Charles. “Anything you desire!”
Charles heaved a sigh and sat back. “Look around you, you idiot! I'm, ah, unbelievably wealthy and powerful!”
“I bet there's something you want,” grinned Crowley, leaning forward.
“I wouldn't bet on it,” said Charles, narrowing his eyes.
Crowley's grin widened. “Are you familiar perhaps with the name, Huey Lewis.”
“I don't recognize that name,” supplied Castiel.
“Of course not, it's a pop cultural reference, and you've only been watching humans for like ten million years,” sighed Sam.
“Who ams dis dudes?” asked Skwisgaar. “He ams too talls, and hims T shirt ams too tight. I t'ink it ams cuts off his cockulations!”
“These are SAM AND DEAN and they hunt DEMONS, although they have questionable MUSICAL TASTES and SARTORIAL CHOICES,” explained Nathan. “Oh, and that's their little gay angel stoner buddy,” he added, indicating Castiel.
“Hello, Skwisgaar,” Castiel said to the same.
Charles, who had been silent for a long moment after the mention of Huey Lewis, pulled at the knot in his tie. “Uh, why would I be interested in an, ah, moderately successful 80s pop singer mentioned in the film classic, American Psycho?” he asked Crowley.
“No reason. No reason at all,” said Crowley.
Charles was silent a moment longer. He rose and inclined his head, indicating that Crowley follow him. They walked to Charles' office door. “So, ah, might I ask,” Charles told Crowley, “what is Mr. Lewis wearing tonight?”
“Dearest,” said Crowley, putting an arm over Charles' shoulders, “if that is what you desire, and it will mean loge seating for my niece and her bratty friends, he will be delivered clad in nothing but hundred dollar bills.” And the two exited the door.
“OK, I think this case is solved,” said Sam. “Should we get out of here?” he asked Dean, who was staring intently over at Castiel.
“Hey, why don't you weird pouty-lipped dudes hang out with us tonight?” proposed Nathan. “You seem cool and you have DEMONS on your speed dial, which is pretty metal, even though he was kind of a fat demon, but maybe he could try and work out some, and lose that gay British accent. And, my tail is pretty cool,” he added, switching it.
“I dunno, I'm pretty tired,” said Sam, emphasizing this with a stretch that strained the seams of his tight T shirt. “Dean?”
“Hey, Cas, how you doing?” Dean blinked in surprise as the angel suddenly leapt into his arms.
“Dean! You care about how I am doing?” asked Castiel, batting his large blue eyes at the demon hunter.
“Uh, yeah,” smiled Dean.
“Dean,” said Cas, tracing a finger across Dean's pouty lips, “were you aware that your aura resonates with the fire of ten thousand suns?” Castiel asked Dean.
“Uhhh,” said Dean, who now seemed a little out of it himself.
“C'mon, dude,” urged Nathan. “We got lots of guest rooms. And we'll get dinner. Someone call Jean Pierre to cook us some hot dogs and other SUSPICIOUSLY PHALLIC SHAPED FOOD.”
“Aw, Dean, I just wanna go home,” whined Sam.
“No, uh, Sammy, said Dean. “Cas is obviously … impaired. I need to, uh, attend to him. All night. Hopefully some place private!” said Dean. As a silent Klokateer pointed the way, Dean carried the stoned angel, who now had a tongue in Dean's ear, out of the room.
“Wait, Dean? Really? I mean, really?” Sam shouted after him. “Dean, there are implied consent issues here!” He sighed.
“Hey, dood, yoo c'n hang wit' us,” suggested Pickles. “We're cooler dan yer brudder, and we gaht sahm great shit.”
“Ands da groupies, though I do nots share,” said Skwisgaar.
“Look, thanks guys, but I'm not interested in groupies,” Sam told them.
“Oh, you got a girlfriend, dude? That's tough,” sympathized Nathan. “Try and get her in a coma, then they're easier to manage.”
“No, my fiancee was tragically killed in a demon ceiling fire,” said Sam.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” asked Nathan, who already had his recorder out. “Song idea: Girlfriend Killed in a Demon Ceiling Fire. Dude, you are totally staying for dinner!” announced Nathan.
“Deed someone say, dinner, my beloved mahsters?” asked Jean Pierre, who was at the doorway.
“Oh my god, zombie!” yelled Sam, pulling out his shotgun.
“Naw, dood, dat's jest our chef,” Pickles explained, patting Sam's back. He proffered another joint to the demon hunter. “Dood, yoo gahta relax!”
Unthinkingly, Sam took a pull from the joint. “Whoa,” he said, his eyes suddenly going blurry.
“So, uh, you haven't gone with another girlfriend since your fiancee got barbecued by the demon?” Nathan rudely asked Sam.
“Oh, well, then there was the girlfriend who turned into a werewolf and we had to shoot her with a silver bullet!” said Sam, big stoned grin on his face.
“Killed my werewolf girlfriend with a silver bullet,” Nathan told the tape recorder.
“And then another girlfriend was a demon!”
“Really?” asked Nathan, leaning forward with the tape recorder. “Dude, this is gonna be a concept album. My demon girlfriend. Go on!”
“I used to drink her blood. And then I stabbed her to death!” explained Sam.
“METAL!” breathed Nathan.
“We ams goings to be here all night, I t'inks,” said Skwisgaar.
“Dood, better order more pizza,” said Pickles. “Jean Pierre, dood?” The chef nodded politely and departed for the kitchens, and then Dethklok began to escort their new friend and muse, Sam, to the dining room.
“And then there was the time I lost my soul!” related Sam as they made for the door.
“Did yoo look behind da couch cushions? A lot o' stuff goes dere,” advised Pickles, patting Sam's shoulder.
“It was in Hell!” said Sam.
“I'm gonna have an INSPIRATION-GASM,” sighed Nathan.
“Don't ams do it here!” grumbled Skwisgaar as they exited the room and flicked off the lights in that terrible, terrible chandelier.
Fandom: Metalocalypse/Supernatural
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, Cas, Crowley, Bobby, Charles, Nathan, Pickles, Murderface
Warnings: Cursing, drug use, implied angel sechs, random slash all over the place.
Word Count: 3000
Summary: Mordhaus has a demon! Fortunately, some pouty-lipped demon hunters are here to help. They may or may not do the job, but they're both wearing really tight T shirts.
Notes: This one is total crack I wrote in about 15 minutes. Doesn't matter 'cause Z's the only one who's gonna read it anyway.
“Dude. What the fuck? Is that supposed to be a space dinosaur or something?” Sam asked as the weird, gloomy castle appeared looming like a bleak shadow on the horizon.
“Dragon boat,” said Dean, turning down the musical styling of Joe Walsh
“And what the fuck is a dragon boat?” asked Sam, who obviously hadn't listened during Viking class in school.
“I dunno, Sammy, but according to Bobby, these guys are a bunch of rich off their ass musicians.”
“What, they're a band?”
“Uh-huh,” said Dean.
“And they all live together?” sputtered Sam. “What? Like the Monkees? What are they, all 13 years old?”
Dean grinned and guided the Impala up the winding driveway towards Mordhaus. “All I know is, Bobby got a call from some guy with a weird name who said they had a demon infestation, and could he send someone? Dude first offered him lots of money, and then when Bobby told him to fuck off, threatened to send some guys to torch his house.”
“What did Bobby do?” grinned Sam, who knew the old hunter's probable reaction to intimidation.
“Bobby threatened to jam a sawed off down his throat and shoot his balls off.”
“That's Bobby. So how the hell did we end up drawing the short straw?” asked Sam.
“Oh, uh, I didn't tell you,” said Dean, who suddenly tried to look innocent.
“Didn't tell me what?”
“We kind of … volunteered?”
“WHAT?”
“Listen Sammy, calm your tits! These guys are fucking rock stars! They have all the good booze, and probably lots of cute, skanky chicks....”
“Dean! You signed us for this to get laid?” asked Sam.
“Well, I mean, not specifically....”
“That's what you wanted, why didn't you just call Cas?” snarked Sam, folding his arms.
“What?” asked Dean. But Sam just grinned at him. “I have no fucking idea what you're talking about.”
“Oh, yes you do!”
“I do not!” Dean irritably stopped the car in front of the massive main entrance and exited the car, still scowling at Sam.
“Dudesch, isch that Kanschasch? Schooooo weak!”
Dean turned to the weird frizzy-haired man and told him, “Blow me.”
“Hey, yeah, dude,” said Sam, who was still in the mood to annoy his brother. “But I can't get him to play something cool, like Vampire Weekend.”
“Vampire Weekend?” asked the fuzzy haired man. “Are you dudesch … gay or schomething?”
“Yeah, in fact, we're the Gay Squad, here to give it to you good,” grinned Sam.
“Sammy!” warned Dean, but the frizzy haired dude just emitted a girlie squeal and fled in terror.
“Hey!” growled another dude. Sam and Dean looked at this new guy. He was huge, and he had an even more terrifying voice than Castiel. “Are you the dudes who were playing Carry on Wayward Son in your car? Because that's like totally lame and not metal!”
“I knew your musical taste was gonna get us into trouble some day,” Sam laughed.
“Hey, we're here for the demon extraction,” Dean told him. “I'm Dean and laughing boy there is Sam.”
“I'm Nathan Explosion! And, you got DEMONS? Because that sounds pretty cool. We raised a lake troll once. Although he tried to kill us and also we needed to get new phones, so that kind of sucked. And also we destroyed Finland. Hey, that's an AWESOME CAR!” he noted, stepping forward to admire the Impala.
“Chevrolet Impala,” said Dean proudly. “And, you could get a body in the trunk.”
“You could.... Wait,” said Nathan, who pulled out a little recording device. He repeated into it, “Song idea, Body in the Trunk of My Chevrolet Impala. You guys are cool. Although your T shirts are too tight. Did you wash them in hot water or something? That's not a very metal way to DO LAUNDRY.”
“Uh. Somebody called us about a demon?” prompted Dean, who was unprepared for the glossolalia.
“That was, uh, me,” said a slight, older man in an ill-fitting suit. Dean wondered if the guy visited Cas' tailor. “Charles Ofdensen. You guys the, ah, Winchesters?”
“They're Sam and Dean and they brought DEMONS!” Nathan announced.
“Uh, no, Nathan, these boys are supposed to get rid of our demons,” explained Charles.
“Why would you wanna get rid of a demon?” wailed Nathan. “Charles! Demons are totally cool, and they work for SATAN!”
“You talked to Bobby?” Dean asked Charles.
“I talked to some guy who kept referring to me as an idiot, and threatening to shot me in the, uh, testicles,” said Charles, nervously pulling on his tie.
“Yeah. That's Bobby.”
“Charles, why would you take our DEMON AWAY?” persisted Nathan. “You never let us do ANYTHING!”
“Uh, Nathan, why aren't you in the living room? I've heard the National Cheerleading Championships are on?”
“Wait, what? Whoa!' said Nathan. “Uh, catch you dudes later!” he said as he suddenly barreled into Mordhaus.
Charles gestured for Sam and Dean to follow him inside as well. He took out a pack of Marlboros. “You guys mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Uh, no, dude, actually, you look like you need one,” observed Sam.
“So you got a demon issue?” asked Dean. He looked around the corridors, impressed. The place was huge. And the walls were bedecked with the most fantastic stuff: the ones that weren't stacked with amplifiers had gold records and classic guitars and concert posters and other cool rock paraphernalia. But there was also amazing stuff like antique weaponry and swords, and even a suit of armor!
Charles paused in front of the suit of armor. “Can you guys, ah, give me a minute?” he asked Sam and Dean.
“Yeah, I gues so,” said Dean.
“Toki?” Charles asked the armor.
“Ja, Charles!” it answered, to Sam and Dean's utter surprise.
“Toki, is there a, ah, reason why you're dressed in a suit of armor tonight?” inquired Charles, who sounds mildly exasperated.
“Da guys ams said dat we wants da recordings to sounds totalies metal!”
“This is Toki, our, uh, rhythm guitarist,” Charles explained to Sam and Dean, tapping ashes from his cigarette.
“Oh,” said Dean. “Cool suit, dude.”
“T'anks!” said Toki brightly.
“We're Sam and Dean,” said Dean, “demon hunters.”
“Oh, how can you ams fights whens da T shirts ams so tights?” inquired Toki.
“Uh,” said Dean.
“Seems constrictsing,” said Toki.
“Yeah, uh, Toki? I think the guys are not actually recording tonight,” Charles told him.
One of the gauntleted hands went up, fumbling with the visor. Charles leaned over and put it up for him.
“So, can I gets out of da suits now, Charles?” asked Toki, his pale blue eyes blinking. “My balls ams been itching for da past hours.”
“Uh, yeah, I'll, uh, send a couple guys. OK?”
The heavy helmet nodded, which nearly caused Toki and the heavy suit to topple over. Charles, along with Sam and Dean, managed to steady him, and with a final warning from Charles not to move, the three continued along the corridor.
“So, uh, how did that guy even get into a suit of armor?” asked Dean.
“And where did he get a full suit of armor that fits?” asked Sam. “That stuff's from the Middle Ages, and it's usually small as hell.”
“Guys, I have learned from long experience not to ask,” sighed Charles, taking a very long drag on his Marlboro. They ended up in his office, which Sam noticed was larger than his college apartment. Plus it had the ugliest light fixture he had ever seen.
“Dude, that is the best chandelier in existence!” said Dean. “So you got demon infiltration issues?”
“Yeah,” said Charles, sitting down behind his desk. “They have, ah, come into possession of our ticketing process.”
“Dude … what?” asked Sam. “There's no such thing as the demon of Ticketron!”
“Hey, Sammy, let's hear the man out,” urged Dean.
“Take a look at this,” said Charles. He turned around his laptop. “OK, this was the original PDF file for the tickets.” Sam and Dean leaned forward. The ticket said Dethklok Live in Concert, Flekkefjord, Norway, and had in image of a skull with a lot of supernatural looking snakes and crap crawling through it.
“That's pretty cool,” said Dean.
“Yeah, but look what printed,” said Charles, pulling some tickets from a file drawer and throwing them on his desk. The brothers took a look: instead of the cool skull, there was a line drawing of a grinning, very familiar face.
“Happens every time we try and do a print run,” complained Charles. “Now, I'm thinking Nathan or someone, ah, probably inadvertently called up a ticket demon or something.”
“Well, actually,” said Sam, “we know-”
“We know we'll need some expert consultation!” interrupted Dean, dialing his cell phone.
“What?” asked Sam. “Why?”
“For some, you know, consultation. And stuff.”
“So you guys can stare at each other all night,” sighed Sam. “Look, Dean, I got other things to do.”
“Yeah, Cas,” Dean was saying into the phone. “We were wondering if you could-”
“Hello, Sam. Hello, Dean,” said a deep voice.
“Hey, Cas!” said Dean brightly.
“Cas,” sighed Sam.
“Your T shirt is looking especially tight tonight, Dean,” said Cas.
“Do you think so, Cas?” asked Dean.
Cas and Dean then stared soulfully at each other for some minutes.
“OK, break it the fuck up,” sighed Sam. “We don't have all night to eyefuck.”
“I wasn't-” protested Dean.
The being in the trench coat was suddenly standing in back of Charles' desk, his nose inches' from the Dethklok manager's face. “Don't I know you?” he asked Charles, tilting his head.
“Ahhhhh...” said Charles.
“Cas, dude, personal space,” said Dean, taking ahold of the belt on Cas' overcoat and dragging him back a few feet.
“I'm sorry, ah, what is this supposed to be?” asked Charles.
“This is Castiel, our own angel of Thursday!' bragged Dean.
“Your … angel?” asked Charles, narrowing his eyes. “You guys got an angel.”
“Hey, don't say it like that!” said Dean. “You'll hurt his feelings!”
“Dude, you guys got a rhythm guitarist in a full suit of armor,” Sam noted.
“OK, point,” said Charles.
“Dood! It's Jawn Cawnstantine!” wailed a dreadlocked individual from the doorway. He ran up to Cas and told him. “Dood! I've read all yer comics! Yoo rawk!”
“Oh. Uh. Thank you,” said a puzzled Castiel. “Although I do not understand that reference.”
“This dude smells like an explosion at an incense factory,” complained Sam, waving a hand in front of his face.
“Pickles, I don't think, uh, Castiel is a comic book hero,” explained Charles. “He's, ah, an angel. In a trench coat.”
“Dood, yeah he is! He's da Hellblazer. Hey, yoo wanna smoke, Jawn?” urged Pickles, waving a joint at Castiel, who took it and stared at it, intrigued.
“Ah, I really wouldn't advise that, Mr. Castiel,” said Charles. “Pickles' stash of drugs are usually, ah, pretty potent.”
“Angels are not susceptible to earthly intoxicants,” Castiel sniffed at Charles. He took a drag. And immediately went cross-eyed.
“Uh, Cas, you OK?” asked Dean.
“Whoa, great shit,” Cas breathed. The angel's pupils were now approximately the size of Montana.
“Uhhhh,” said Dean. “Hey, what are you doing?” he asked Sam, who had pulled out his own cell phone.
“I've had enough. I'm gonna call him,” said Sam.
“Wait, you got his phone number? Why don't I have his phone number?”
“Because you probably filled up your address book with gymnasts and twins. And twin gymnasts,” muttered Sam.
“Well, that's probably true,” allowed Dean. “But those people are important.”
“Hey, yoo need t' introdooce dis dood t' Skwisger,” Pickles told Charles.
“I'm afraid that would probably bring down the Apocalypse,” sighed Charles.
“The Apocalypse? That's our specialty!” bragged Dean. Charles just put his head down on his desk.
“Crowley, is that you?” Sam said into his phone.
“Oh, yes, why are you interrupting me tonight?” sighed the demon Crowley, who had just appeared in Charles' office along with the distinct whiff of sulfur. “It's the men's Olympic diving finals on ITV.”
“Heyyyy!” said Pickles. “It's da dood from da Det'klawk tickets!”
Charles raised his head. “Yeah! It's him! Prepare to be tasered, asshole!”
“Wait!” said Sam. “Crowley, is there some reason why you've been fucking around with Dethklok tickets?” He held up the altered tickets.
“Oh, yes,” sighed the demon. “Actually-”
“WHERE'S THE DEMON?” bellowed Nathan Explosion who, along with Skwisgaar, had just arrived at Charles' office. “Pickles just texted me and I wanna see this 'cause it'll be BADASS. Hey,” he said, looking around, “Why didn't we get invited to the demon meeting. Charles, you don't invite us to ANYTHING!” he whined.
“This is your guy,” Sam told him, indicating Crowley.
“WHAT? Wait, that's not a demon.”
“I assure you, dear, I most assuredly am,” Crowley sighed to Nathan.
“But you're just some fat old dude!” complained Nathan.
“All right, all right,” said Crowley, snapping his fingers and rolling his eyes.
Suddenly, Nathan had a forked tail. “Oh my god, I HAVE A DEMON TAIL! LOOK CHARLES, look at my BADASS DEMON TAIL!”
“Hmm,” said Skwisgaar, “I ams not gots da use for da tail, but maybes...” he trailed off, whispering into Crowley's ear.
“Quite possible. I myself did something of the sort, when I was just a tad,” Crowley told him.
“Look,” said Sam, “I'm tired and I just wanna get home, so could we please put aside the bullshit-”
“Ams not da bullshits!” said Skwisgaar. “I ams got triplets coming laters!”
“Crowley, dude, why are you fucking around with the Dethklok tickets?” asked Dean.
“Sadly, my great- great- great- great- great- great- great-grandniece is, for reasons I do not fully comprehend, a Dethklok fan, and wished for comp tickets,” explained Crowley.
“No comp tickets. Ever,” growled Charles. “Prepare to be tasered!”
“Wait!” said Crowley. “Sir, I am a demon of the crossroads. I could get you anything.” He leaned forwards towards Charles. “Anything you desire!”
Charles heaved a sigh and sat back. “Look around you, you idiot! I'm, ah, unbelievably wealthy and powerful!”
“I bet there's something you want,” grinned Crowley, leaning forward.
“I wouldn't bet on it,” said Charles, narrowing his eyes.
Crowley's grin widened. “Are you familiar perhaps with the name, Huey Lewis.”
“I don't recognize that name,” supplied Castiel.
“Of course not, it's a pop cultural reference, and you've only been watching humans for like ten million years,” sighed Sam.
“Who ams dis dudes?” asked Skwisgaar. “He ams too talls, and hims T shirt ams too tight. I t'ink it ams cuts off his cockulations!”
“These are SAM AND DEAN and they hunt DEMONS, although they have questionable MUSICAL TASTES and SARTORIAL CHOICES,” explained Nathan. “Oh, and that's their little gay angel stoner buddy,” he added, indicating Castiel.
“Hello, Skwisgaar,” Castiel said to the same.
Charles, who had been silent for a long moment after the mention of Huey Lewis, pulled at the knot in his tie. “Uh, why would I be interested in an, ah, moderately successful 80s pop singer mentioned in the film classic, American Psycho?” he asked Crowley.
“No reason. No reason at all,” said Crowley.
Charles was silent a moment longer. He rose and inclined his head, indicating that Crowley follow him. They walked to Charles' office door. “So, ah, might I ask,” Charles told Crowley, “what is Mr. Lewis wearing tonight?”
“Dearest,” said Crowley, putting an arm over Charles' shoulders, “if that is what you desire, and it will mean loge seating for my niece and her bratty friends, he will be delivered clad in nothing but hundred dollar bills.” And the two exited the door.
“OK, I think this case is solved,” said Sam. “Should we get out of here?” he asked Dean, who was staring intently over at Castiel.
“Hey, why don't you weird pouty-lipped dudes hang out with us tonight?” proposed Nathan. “You seem cool and you have DEMONS on your speed dial, which is pretty metal, even though he was kind of a fat demon, but maybe he could try and work out some, and lose that gay British accent. And, my tail is pretty cool,” he added, switching it.
“I dunno, I'm pretty tired,” said Sam, emphasizing this with a stretch that strained the seams of his tight T shirt. “Dean?”
“Hey, Cas, how you doing?” Dean blinked in surprise as the angel suddenly leapt into his arms.
“Dean! You care about how I am doing?” asked Castiel, batting his large blue eyes at the demon hunter.
“Uh, yeah,” smiled Dean.
“Dean,” said Cas, tracing a finger across Dean's pouty lips, “were you aware that your aura resonates with the fire of ten thousand suns?” Castiel asked Dean.
“Uhhh,” said Dean, who now seemed a little out of it himself.
“C'mon, dude,” urged Nathan. “We got lots of guest rooms. And we'll get dinner. Someone call Jean Pierre to cook us some hot dogs and other SUSPICIOUSLY PHALLIC SHAPED FOOD.”
“Aw, Dean, I just wanna go home,” whined Sam.
“No, uh, Sammy, said Dean. “Cas is obviously … impaired. I need to, uh, attend to him. All night. Hopefully some place private!” said Dean. As a silent Klokateer pointed the way, Dean carried the stoned angel, who now had a tongue in Dean's ear, out of the room.
“Wait, Dean? Really? I mean, really?” Sam shouted after him. “Dean, there are implied consent issues here!” He sighed.
“Hey, dood, yoo c'n hang wit' us,” suggested Pickles. “We're cooler dan yer brudder, and we gaht sahm great shit.”
“Ands da groupies, though I do nots share,” said Skwisgaar.
“Look, thanks guys, but I'm not interested in groupies,” Sam told them.
“Oh, you got a girlfriend, dude? That's tough,” sympathized Nathan. “Try and get her in a coma, then they're easier to manage.”
“No, my fiancee was tragically killed in a demon ceiling fire,” said Sam.
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” asked Nathan, who already had his recorder out. “Song idea: Girlfriend Killed in a Demon Ceiling Fire. Dude, you are totally staying for dinner!” announced Nathan.
“Deed someone say, dinner, my beloved mahsters?” asked Jean Pierre, who was at the doorway.
“Oh my god, zombie!” yelled Sam, pulling out his shotgun.
“Naw, dood, dat's jest our chef,” Pickles explained, patting Sam's back. He proffered another joint to the demon hunter. “Dood, yoo gahta relax!”
Unthinkingly, Sam took a pull from the joint. “Whoa,” he said, his eyes suddenly going blurry.
“So, uh, you haven't gone with another girlfriend since your fiancee got barbecued by the demon?” Nathan rudely asked Sam.
“Oh, well, then there was the girlfriend who turned into a werewolf and we had to shoot her with a silver bullet!” said Sam, big stoned grin on his face.
“Killed my werewolf girlfriend with a silver bullet,” Nathan told the tape recorder.
“And then another girlfriend was a demon!”
“Really?” asked Nathan, leaning forward with the tape recorder. “Dude, this is gonna be a concept album. My demon girlfriend. Go on!”
“I used to drink her blood. And then I stabbed her to death!” explained Sam.
“METAL!” breathed Nathan.
“We ams goings to be here all night, I t'inks,” said Skwisgaar.
“Dood, better order more pizza,” said Pickles. “Jean Pierre, dood?” The chef nodded politely and departed for the kitchens, and then Dethklok began to escort their new friend and muse, Sam, to the dining room.
“And then there was the time I lost my soul!” related Sam as they made for the door.
“Did yoo look behind da couch cushions? A lot o' stuff goes dere,” advised Pickles, patting Sam's shoulder.
“It was in Hell!” said Sam.
“I'm gonna have an INSPIRATION-GASM,” sighed Nathan.
“Don't ams do it here!” grumbled Skwisgaar as they exited the room and flicked off the lights in that terrible, terrible chandelier.
