Seven Hells, Part 5 of ?
Jan. 13th, 2013 10:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Seven Hells, Part 5 of ?
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali
Warnings: Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.
Word Count: 80,000
Summary: Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.
Notes: I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, always remember, every rose has its thorn.
“Report!” Crowley barked at the Assistant Demon, Second Class who stood at the head of the seemingly endless queue of damned souls that stretched down the labyrinthine main corridor. It was time for His Majesty’s Grand Rounds of Hell, his second favorite part of the week (after his Monopoly game with Ken Lay).
“Sire, wait time this month has increased by eleven minutes per soul,” the demon reported.
“See?” asked Crowley, casting his eye around the small crowd of apprentice demons who had been trailing him like ducklings of the damned. “A success story! Carry on!” he told the Assistant Demon. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, pausing for a brief moment underneath the oil portrait of himself in uniform mounted on the wall so his interns could take cell phone pictures of their glorious leader. Then the party continued down the hallway, pausing outside a door that was covered in warding marks.
“Now,” he said, gesturing at the guard stationed outside the doorway, “this is our top priority, so everybody look sharp.” They all crowded into the room.
An excited murmur went up from the demons who had been following around the King of Hell as they espied the broken object sitting in the middle of the table. “This,” said Crowley, as if it were not obvious, “is the Word of God.” There was more muttering, and cell phones came out once again as Crowley cooperatively posed in front of the tablet. “We are attempting a translation with these magical objects,” he explained, pointing around the seemingly random crap strewn around the table.
“Translation, and the location of the other tablets, is our highest priority!” Crowley continued.
“How will we achieve this, sire?” asked one of the interns.
“It’s very simple, lad,” said Crowley, coming over and putting an affectionate arm around the boy’s shoulders. He smiled indulgently, and then, as the apprentice squirmed, bellowed, “Kill the Winchesters! Kill the Winchesters! Oh, and yes, KILL THE WINCHESTERS!”
“Your Majesty, aren’t the angels also seeking the tablet?” asked another apprentice as the first demon attempted to dab off His Majesty's spittle from all over his face with a handkerchief.
“The angels?” mocked Crowley. “The angels couldn’t find their own feathery arses with a flashlight. Believe me, we find a permanent solution to the plaid-draped Hardy Boys and the world will be ours. Now! Who wants to see hellhound feeding time? Let’s get over to the arena! There will be donuts, but NO COFFEE!”
There were smiles and nods, and some whispered comments as to how this King of Hell had really thought of everything, and then the room cleared, the door quietly closed and locked.
One of the party, who had somehow gotten left behind, emerged from an especially dark corner. He was wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up, so his features were lost in the shadows. He approached the table, extending a hand towards an object that looked for all the world like a throwing disk.
He placed two fingers on the discus.
The tablet, sitting a few feet away, suddenly emitted a strange hum.
“It’s not for translation, you know,” said a female demon who had also evidently been left behind.
The hooded figure turned to face her. “No?” he asked.
“It’s for tablet location. But the King of Hell doesn’t know that.”
“Interesting.” Their locked eyes for a moment. “May I ask why you’re telling me this?”
“May I ask what the fuck your feathery ass is doing down in hell?” retorted the demon, arching an eyebrow. She extended her arms. “Can’t you tell? I’m a lady in distress. I want out, Mr. Jordan, and I want out now.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t really interested in the tablet, to be honest. I’m here looking for someone.”
“And you found me,” she told him. “Ain’t you a lucky ducky? And let me tell you, you want a bargaining chip, they’re all obsessed with these freaking tablets.”
He tilted his head. “So, I raise you from perdition….”
“And get your hands on the Frisbee of Doom,” she chortled.
“And I should believe you because….?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You shouldn’t, idiot. I’m a demon. Duh!”
“OK, Benny’s parked out back for the night,” said Dean, slamming into the motel room.
Sam was seated at the room’s only table, hunched over his laptop. “Did he, uh, wanna come in?” he asked, though he looked a little grudging about the invitation, especially given it was not even his hotel room.
Dean got a sour look on his face. “He’s feeding. Believe me, you don’t wanna let him come in. That slurping sound!” He shuddered.
Cas, who was back to wearing his customary rumpled suit, was sitting on a bed rooting around in the duffel bag Dean had given him for his collection of extra clothes. “We should take care with Benny,” he said, holding up a T-shirt to stare at it. “Among other things, Nergal is a sun god.”
“We’ll bring some Coppertone,” grunted Dean. “How many jobs does this Nergal dude have, anyway?”
“Sun, fire, destruction, war, the underworld…” said Sam, ticking off on his fingers. “Oh, and he also guides the planet Mars. You sure this is gonna be worth it, Dean?”
Dean looked stubborn. “If Crowley doesn’t want us to go enough that he’d throw an entire thrift store at us, then, yeah, worth it.” Cas had pulled out the tin angel he had found on the floor of the thrift store and was holding it up, turning it over and over. “Don’t let us interrupt you with your friend, Cas,” Dean snarked.
“I have never had … possessions before,” said Cas. He carefully stroked the angel’s wings. “It’s … an odd experience.”
Dean, who was going to let forth with some more snark, paused instead. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Hey Cas, let me do that,” said Sam, walking over to Cas. He held out his hands, and Cas, somewhat reluctantly, offered over the angel. Sam carefully turned the tin toy over and ever so gently wound the little lever in back and let it go. With a mechanical whirr, the angel began to flap its tiny wings.
Cas watched, open-mouthed. “It’s a miracle!” he whispered.
“It’s a wind-up toy, Cas,” said Dean, shaking his head.
Sam grinned as if he had just revealed the secret of the ages. He turned the tin angel over once again when it wound down, and pointed to the little crank. “You have to be careful not to over-wind it. That could break it,” he said, depositing it back in Cas’s trembling hands. While Sam stood over him, nodding in approval, Cas reverently wound the angel again, and then literally let out a small whoop when it once again began to flap and whirr.
“Great, Sam,” grumbled Dean. “Now we’ve lost him for the evening.”
“You didn’t have anything planned with him did you?” grinned Sam, who headed back to his laptop while Dean glared. “Oh, and one last thing: I’ve been reading about our friend Nergal. He’s kind of an usurper down there in Hell.”
“Who did he surp, and why?” asked Dean, wandering over to kibitz on the laptop.
“That’s not a proper verb form,” Cas answered, “and it was his consort, Ereshkigal.”
Sam pointed to the laptop. “See, she was sole ruler down there, and then she somehow pissed off some of the other gods-“
“Those fertile crescent deities were all too thin-skinned, if you ask me,” grumbled Cas, once again winding up his angel toy.
“-And they sent the war god down to kill her, but then he ended up staying and becoming co-ruler.”
Dean squinted at Sam. “So she’s sort of his captive?”
Sam gnawed on a fingernail and stared at his laptop. “Well, it’s not like she’s a shrinking violet. She once imprisoned her own sister.”
“Babylonian Hell is Melrose Place? That’s just dandy.” Dean looked over to Cas, who was still playing with the tin toy. “Hey, don’t wear it out,” he scolded.
Cas reverently wrapped the little toy in a T-shirt and then carefully made a place for it in the duffel bag, which he then zipped up and set on the floor. Dean went and sat beside him. Cas looked up and beamed at Dean. “Those are my possessions,” Cas told him.
“Yeah,” said Dean. His voice had taken on a funny quaver.
“You know what?” said Sam, loudly banging the laptop shut and then clattering up in his seat. “I think Benny is not the only one who’s hungry. Why don’t I go grab some takeout? You know, go out for an hour? Or so?”
Dean, who seemed distracted, pulled the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them Sam’s way without taking his eyes off Cas. Sam caught them one-handed.
“Any requests?” asked Sam, one hand already on the doorknob.
“Uh,” said Dean. He blinked at Cas, and then turned around to Sam. “Don’t forget the pie.”
“When have I ever forgotten pie?” laughed Sam, giving the door a firm slam on his way out.
“You always forget pie!” groused Dean to the back of the door. He glowered, and then turned back to Cas. “Hey, this bed has a headboard.”
“Is that relevant, Dean?” asked Cas.
Some time later, Cas’s hand was gripping the headboard, white-knuckle tight, as the angel shuddered and moaned.
Dean paused what he was doing long enough to send two hands lightly over the gorgeous tromp l'oeil wings inked on Cas's pale back. “So beautiful,” he murmured. His personal angel, he thought.
The angel whispered his name. Dean lowered his hands, and forced Cas's thighs further apart. His angel. His own glorious divine being.
Dean began to thrust again, keeping everything slow as hell.
“Yes, I'm yours,” Cas muttered.
Dean paused again and wrapped his arms tightly around the angel's chest. “Are you reading my mind?”
“Yes. Don't stop. Yes! It was … unintentional.”
Dean tightened his grip and put his head down in the middle of Cas's back. He closed his eyes. “Read this,” he muttered.
The only sound was Cas breathing, and then suddenly, he arched his back and let out a terrific moan.
“Like that?” chuckled Dean, kissing Cas between the wings. “Well do that next time. When we have more time....”
“We all ready to beam down?” asked Dean as they assembled in the parking lot the next morning. Sam yawned in answer. Dean imagined that his brother had fallen asleep over the laptop again last night. They had stayed up a little later than he had intended, first Sam bustling in with a tubs of Chinese – and no pie, just fortune cookies. Dean already knew his damn fortune: you will never get pie, Dean Winchester. Cas of course dawdled forever as he was supposedly exercising free will to decide between the chow fun and the kung pao, and then Sam made it worse by trying to show him how moo shoo worked and how to use chopsticks, both at the same time, resulting in a plum-sauce-and-cabbage-coated angel. And then Benny somehow invited himself in, and they were going to teach the angel to play poker, only at first he refused to bluff and kept losing, but then there was more beer and suddenly he was kicking their mortal and undead asses.
And now here they were today, still half asleep (except for Cas of course who didn't sleep) hauling gym bags full of ratty used clothing and supplies they were gonna use to bribe their way into some half-assed Babylonian Hell, on the slim chance that the management might agree to form an alliance against the King of that other, Judeo-Christian, version of Hell.
“We are going to the site of Ereshkigal’s main temple, in Babylon,” said Cas.
“Oh. And where is that on an actual map?” asked Dean.
“Iraq,” yawned Sam.
“Wait, what?” asked Dean.
And then, with the beat of wings, they were there no more.
“Come on, Cas, you’re just gonna trade this stuff away anyway,” groused Dean.
Cas looked up from the bag of costume jewelry Sam had toted along. He was grasping a necklace of puka shells. “These are marvelous, Dean. An entire string of miracles. Why don’t all humans wear them?”
Dean rolled his eyes, grabbed the necklace, and draped it over Cas's head. “There. Good.”
“I seen rag dolls that had more style,” laughed Benny. Dean nodded. It held for all four of them, standing in the middle of the fucking desert near a crumbling mud brick wall, all arrayed in as many layers of clothing as they could bear, as well as sporting some ridiculous pendants and baubles Sam had grabbed from the Salvation Army before it got overrun with demons. Benny, who somehow still managed a modicum of dignity (it may have been the wraparound sunglasses) was sporting a still-working mood ring on one pinkie finger. Sam had somehow topped his look with a fringed jacket that had seen better days and a purple cowboy hat, making him look like a thrift shop Hendrix. Dean had left his own beloved leather jacket back at the motel, and far out of the clutches of greedy gate guards, instead wore a battered jean jacket with “Sweet Dreams” lettered out in rhinestones on the back. He had grabbed at the jewelry bag kind of at random. He noticed now that he was wearing a big rainbow-colored peace symbol around his neck. Guess what he planned to give away first?
“It should be this cave,” said Cas as Sam grabbed a knit cap sporting a friendly teddy bear face and ears out of his bag and pulled it over the angel’s head. “Thank you, Sam,” said Cas. Dean wondered why every single item of clothing the Cas had picked was somehow at least a size too big: he looked like he was borrowing his big brother’s hand-me-downs.
“Seven gates. I think we’re set,” said Dean, who did not at all think they were set, nor would the ever be set, but he sighed and checked to see if everyone else (maybe save Cas) was ready to stow their bags and get going.
The Winchesters grabbed flashlights, their friends having no need of such things, and then bags were zipped and hidden as best they could, and the little group started off into the cave, Cas striding confidently in the lead, Sam behind him, and Dean and Benny taking up the rear.
The cave turned out to be a maze with junctions a-plenty. They would have to rely on Cas’s mojo to get them through this section, so all was quiet while he paused at each new passageway, squinted, and did whatever the hell it was he did to sense where they were going.
“You get the distinct impression Winnie the Pooh is leadin' us around in circles?” Benny whispered to Dean after about half an hour of this slow progress.
“We are definitely going in circles,” said Cas, who had turned around. “Can’t you feel it? We are gradually descending deeper into the earth.”
“Yeah, it’s been getting warmer,” said Sam, doffing the ridiculous cowboy hat and wiping sweat from his brow with a big red and white bandana.
“You sure that ain’t wishful thinkin’?” countered Benny.
“Do vampires even get hot?” Dean asked Benny.
Cas had gotten into Benny’s personal space. “We could leave you here, vampire.”
Benny glowered. “If you were lost, would you even admit it?”
“The point is moot, as I am not lost.”
Dean got between the two feuding supernaturals and pushed them apart, to little or no effect. “OK, enough bitching. Cas, you keep leading, Benny, back with me.” The two exchanged one more dark look, and then Cas walked away. Sam clapped him on the shoulder and walked abreast with him, as the tunnel was rather large and high in this area.
Dean made damned sure Benny caught his look of disapproval, and then the two followed Cas and Sam.
“I got a bad feelin' about this, brother,” said Benny.
“Well, thanks for that, Princess Leia,” said Dean, “but for now we follow the angel.”
Benny grunted, something about not wearing his hair in any space buns, and they continued for a time in silence.
A few minutes later, Cas stopped dead at a junction. “What's that up ahead?” asked Sam, waving the flashlight.
“Stay here,” Cas ordered. “Turn off the light.” Sam obeyed. Cas walked down into the dark tunnel.
“What the hell is he doing?” whispered Dean, who had come up alongside Sam.
“There was something up ahead in that tunnel,” Sam told him. “He'd going to check it.”
“Alone?”
Benny peered ahead. “I don't think you need to worry.”
“Damn right I'm worried,” said Dean. But just at that moment, Cas walked back.
“It's all right. They're all dead.”
“Who is dead?” demanded Dean.
“Demons,” said Cas. “I have been sensing them nearby, as we've walked. Those were the first near enough to see. I believe Crowley sent them, but they lost their way and died. But this group appears to have died in combat.”
“Combat?” asked Dean. “You mean Crowley’s attempted invarsion?”
“Yes, Nergal’s forces and Crowley’s appear to have slaughtered each other. This way.” Cas pointed down the other direction of the tunnel and set off without waiting for a reply.
“So, lost or killed? That's pretty fucking encouraging,” said Benny.
About ten minutes later, Cas paused for a long moment at yet another junction. “We are near. This way!” Sam hastened after him, so Dean and Benny, who had fallen a little behind (Dean had thought it prudent to keep the vampire’s continued grumbling out of earshot), lost them around the bend. They looked at each other, and broke in to a run. “Hey, Cas, wait up!” Dean shouted. They ran around a bend with no angel in sight, and then another bend, and then another and then….
Dean slammed to a halt, and nearly got knocked over when Benny rear-ended him. The vampire gripped his shoulder, and Dean stayed upright.
“Holy mother of fuck,” said Benny.
They had come to the mouth a huge underground chamber: how large was impossible to say, as there was a high wall spanning all the way across it. Dean clicked off his flashlight, as there were lanterns arrayed up on the wall.
The wall itself looked a lot like the ones at the archaeological site up topside, with one great difference: the mud bricks here had been scrupulously maintained, and there wasn’t so much as a single crack visible anywhere.
Sam and Cas were standing nearby, surveying the wall. “Which way to the gate?” asked Dean, hastening over to them. Sam was the one who pointed it out: it was visible from where they stood, though it looked to be maybe half a mile away. “OK,” said Dean, “everybody got your baseball cards ready for a trading session?”
“They trade clothing and jewelry, not sports memorabilia, Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Literal,” grinned Dean, putting a hand to the small of Cas’s back and leading him on the charge. Cas winced, as his tattoo still smarted, but went along with Dean.
Sam and Benny looked at each other. The vampire grinned and shrugged, and they followed Cas and Dean down to the gate, which shown golden even in the dimness. Dean goggled as he came nearer. Why would a bunch of guys who had enough precious metals to gold-leaf an entire massive city gate need a bunch of pit-stained T-shirts?
And then he beheld the guard. And decided he knew why. “Did we get here on cosplay night?” he asked Cas, sotto voce.
The guard wore an elaborate feathered headdress. He was clad from neck down to about mid-thigh in more feathers. And nothing but feathers. As the guard was quite tall – even taller than Sam – the effect was not unlike a Vegas showgirl drag queen.
Cas spoke to the guard in a strange, squawking language Dean guessed was ancient Babylonian. The guard studied them for a moment, and then said, in perfect English, “Enter now the realm of Irkalla.” He posed like Carol Merrill displaying the Price is Right final showcase, and the gate magically opened for them.
“Uh, you don’t want anything?” asked Dean, who paused before the gate. The guard stared at him, but didn’t speak. Dean nodded to the others, and they made their way through.
“Welcome to the place from which no one ever returns,” said the guard once they were all through. And then the gate closed behind them with a bang.
“Well,” said Benny, “that was right friendly.”
“Is Irkalla like the Vegas of Hells or something?” asked Sam.
“I thought Saturday night in Las Vegas was Hell,” muttered Dean.
“The departed spirits wear feathers here,” Cas told them.
“Sounds itchy,” said Dean. “So, we’ve got gate one of seven. You see the next gate, Paddington?” he asked Cas. They were now standing in a narrow corridor between two walls.
The next gate actually was actually in sight, and the guard was making it easier by jumping up and down and waving at them. “Yo!” he shouted, waving his arms around.
“They must not get a lot of visitors these days,” Dean mumbled. As Team Free Irkalla neared this guard, it became apparent that the second guy was a lot different from the first gate guard. He was much shorter for one thing, and for another, was not visibly wearing feathers, although a few stray feathers did drift off of him when he hopped up and down. He was instead clad in even more layers of clothing than Dean’s group: it looked like bits and pieces from every era. On the very top was a lady’s silk gown, and he also had a long string of opera pearls. He had long dress slacks on under that, but also visible was a pair of pantaloons.
“I need an article of clothing. THEM’S THE RULES!” the second gate guard hollered as they approached. He reached out and snatched Sam’s purple cowboy hat off his head and affixed it to his own, over the golden tiara he was already wearing.
“Hey,” said Sam. “I liked that hat.”
“You did?” said Dean.
The guard was already snatching at Benny’s shades, but the vampire pushed him away, stating, “I need these.” Instead he pulled off his mood pinkie ring and gave it to the guard. The guard hungrily grabbed it and pushed it on his middle finger. Dean noticed he was already decked out like Ringo Starr, with rings, and sometimes multiples, on every finger. Some were simple, like wedding bands, and some held precious jewels.
Dean offered up his Sweet Dreams jean jacket, as it was making him sweat. And Sam grabbed off Cas’s knit teddy bear cap and tossed it to the guard. It looked a little awkward over the cowboy hat.
“Enter then Irkalla,” said the guard, opening the gate.
“Yeah, we know, the place you never return from,” Dean told him. The guard flashed a grin at Dean, and he noticed the guy had a gold tooth.
“Two for seven!” said Dean as the gate closed. “We’re making record time. Hey, there’s the next guard. The elder Winchester boldly led the way to the next golden gate.
The next guard dude was all business. “Three questions travelers. First, identify yourself,” he barked at Dean.
“I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam, Castiel the, uh, angel, and Benny Lafitte.”
“Second, what is your purpose here?” asked the guard.
“We’d like to see Nergal,” said Sam, who got a finger pointed in his face for his efforts.
“ONE spokesman per group, if you please,” the guard scolded.
“We’re here to see Nergal,” said Dean.
“Third question: what is the terminal velocity of a an ACP cartridge fired from a Colt semi-automatic pistol into a ten mile per hour head wind.”
“What? I don’t know-“ said Dean.
“Wait, it’s-“ said Cas.
There was a whooshing sound, somewhat akin to the beat of Castiel’s wings. Dean felt rushing air, and then a thump as he went sprawling on the ground. He sat up and whipped his head around, just in time to feel something being snatched from around his neck. He looked over to see the second gate guard, dancing around with his rainbow peace symbol necklace.
“Three hundred meters per second, depending on the manufacturer,” said Cas, who was seated, nearby, also on the bare ground.
“Fucking son of a bitch,” muttered Dean as he stumbled to his feet. “Is this some kind of freaking video game?”
“I need an article of clothing,” the gate guard was singing. “THEM’S THE RULES.”
“We already gave you stuff,” groused Sam, rubbing his bruised posterior. The guard was already grabbing at his threadbare fringed jacket, so Sam gave it up.
Dean felt a clap on his shoulder. “Maybe if we have a little pow-wow before we answer the question next time?” Benny asked Dean. “Seems like angel knew the answer.”
“OK, OK, I’ll consult with our small arms physics expert next time. Come on, let’s give over our crap and go.”
So, one layer lighter, the boys returned to the third gate. Dean identified himself and repeated their quest.
The gate guard grinned. Dean felt his stomach sinking.
“Third question: who was the American League batting champion in 1941?”
Dean muttered, “Oh shit” and turned to his consultants.
“DiMaggio?” proposed Sam. “Williams?”
Dean looked at Benny, who shrugged. “I assume Ty Cobb weren’t playin’ no more.”
Dean looked at Cas, who simply shrugged. “OK. Joltin' Joe DiMaggio,” he guessed.
A whooshing sound told him he’d guessed wrong.
“Son of a bitch! I knew I should have chosen Ted Williams.” Still on his ass, he shrugged out of a flannel shirt and handed it to the gleeful second gate guard.
Dean’s patience was wearing thin after a few more rounds of being foiled by the trivia-loving third gate guard. There had been questions about opera, Olympic tennis, the cultivation of sorghum, big band trumpet players, the history of Argentina, classical ballet, aerial navigation, and puppeteering, none of which the collective brain trust had any knowledge about. What was most distressing was that the second gate guard had started to pick them clean. Cas was down to shoes with no socks, his baggy jeans and the string of puka shells, to which he seemed oddly attached. Benny was barefoot, which he didn’t seem to mind at all, and besides that had his slacks, suspenders, an undershirt and his treasured sunglasses. Sam was down to just his jeans and boots. Dean himself wore just the Poison T-shirt with his jeans, though he had managed to keep both shoes and socks.
“OK,” said Dean once they made it through the second gate yet again., “We gotta get through this time, or else we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other,” he sighed. The others nodded, Benny and Cas looking relatively serene, but Sam pulled a major bitchface to make up for it. “I liked that hat,” he grumbled.
The third gate guard’s grin was wide and shifty this time.
“This don’t look good, friend,” Benny muttered to Dean.
The guard looked straight at Cas this time, and asked, “Third question: how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”
Cas glowered and suddenly strode up to the guard so he was nearly nose to nose. The startled gate guard took a step back.
“Cas!” warned Dean, who was afraid they would get sent back before they even got a try.
“Do you mean … Seraphim, Ophanim, Elohim, Malakhim, Cherubim, Kingdoms, Thrones or Dominions?” Cas demanded.
“Uh. I don’t know?” said the gate guard.
There was a whooshing sound.
And now the four men stood alone at the third gate, which slowly swung open.
Dean strode forward and grabbed Cas by the shoulder. “This is my angel, everybody!” Benny hooted and clapped.
“Now, let’s see what else we gotta deal with,” sighed Sam.
“No, I think I got the hang of this now,” said Dean. Ignoring calls from his brother, he stormed through the third golden gate, and marched right up to the fourth guard beyond. This guy was clad in feathers and a raggedy robe, and frankly looked surprised to see anyone.
“Who the fuck are you and why should we put up with your crap?” Dean demanded of him.
“Uhhhh,” muttered the guy.
And then there was a whooshing sound. The guard disappeared.
“Fourth gate! We’re halfway there, gentlemen!” announced Dean as another golden gate opened.
The guard at the fifth gate was a big, barrel-chested dude who didn’t talk much. He decided he wanted to fight. Cas made short work of him with the angel blade.
“I always thought you kept that thing in your coat sleeve,” said Dean as the fifth gate opened.
“Of course I don’t,” said Cas as the blade disappeared from his hand.
Dean squinted at him. “OK, I’m not gonna ask you where you keep it,” he said. “Two more gates,” he told everyone.
The guard at the sixth gate was another pushover. “WelcometoIrkallathosewhoenternevermayleave,” he muttered as he ducked his head and opened the gate.
“I think our reputation precedes us, boys,” laughed Benny as he watched the guard skitter away.
“Last gate,” said Dean, though he was getting nervous. He suspected that visitors rarely got past the third guard, so they were probably panicking in the inner circles. That meant you didn’t know what to expect. Which sometimes was no good.
The last gate guard stood calmly at his post. This one had a distinct Obi-Wan Kenobi look to him: he had a grey beard, and was wearing a hooded robe instead of the feathers. He held up a hand to Dean and his friends.
“What is your name?” he asked in a voice weathered by the ages. Dean made the introductions. “What is your purpose here?” the guard asked.
“We wanna meet with Nergal.”
The guard nodded. “And … what is your philosophy?”
Dean grinned. “I got this!” he announced happily. And then he recited, to everyone else’s dismay, “Every rose has its thorn/Every night has its dawn/Every cowboy sings a sad sad song.”
The guard did not speak, though Sam emitted a small moan. “Hey, it worked in the movies,” Dean whispered to him.
The guard flipped down his hood. He didn’t look quite as ancient without it, although his hair was as grey as his beard. “You’re a … hair metal fan?” he asked incredulously, pointing at Dean’s T-shirt.
Dean shrugged. “Naw, I’m actually a classic rock fan. But hair metal was better than grunge.”
“WHAT?” interjected Sam. “How can anybody not like grunge?”
“It had its moments. But too much whining,” grumbled Dean. “I prefer thrash to glam,” Dean told the guard.
Benny leaned over towards Cas. “What are those boys jawin’ about now?”
“Have you ever gotten a chance to ride in Dean’s car?” inquired Cas.
Benny nodded, and Cas cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the noisy crap he plays over the speaker system? Hurts my ears, what they’re doin’ to them guitars. Now, gimme a little zydeco or some blues: that’s music.”
“I prefer the music of the spheres myself,” noted Cas. “Although Metallica is not bad. On occasion.”
“I can’t belieeeeve you don’t admit Nevermind was a cultural landmark!” Sam was whining.
“I you wanna spend your time listening to a spoiled millionaire kid whine, then go ahead,” said Dean. Dean and Sam both looked up at the sound of creaking.
The last golden gate had opened.
“You are clearly in possession of a philosophy, Dean Winchester,” said the guard smiling down on them. “Welcome to Irkalla.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Garth, Kevin, Linda Tran, Benny, Crowley, Meg, Inias, Naomi, Metatron, Odin, Kali
Warnings: Cursing. Sexual situations. Spoilers up to 8.08, and then we veer off into an AU and never return. There are some OCs here: they don’t slash the Winchesters, but if that’s the kind of thing you hate, you should go read something else.
Word Count: 80,000
Summary: Sam, Dean and Cas, along with some very unlikely allies, battle with Crowley over the Word of God. But the boys soon discover there is another, more malignant threat looming in the shadows.
Notes: I’m not usually not insane enough to write stuff set during the current season as it’s liable to get borked by the next episode, but here I go. Glad to have it out of my system. Also, always remember, every rose has its thorn.
“Report!” Crowley barked at the Assistant Demon, Second Class who stood at the head of the seemingly endless queue of damned souls that stretched down the labyrinthine main corridor. It was time for His Majesty’s Grand Rounds of Hell, his second favorite part of the week (after his Monopoly game with Ken Lay).
“Sire, wait time this month has increased by eleven minutes per soul,” the demon reported.
“See?” asked Crowley, casting his eye around the small crowd of apprentice demons who had been trailing him like ducklings of the damned. “A success story! Carry on!” he told the Assistant Demon. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, pausing for a brief moment underneath the oil portrait of himself in uniform mounted on the wall so his interns could take cell phone pictures of their glorious leader. Then the party continued down the hallway, pausing outside a door that was covered in warding marks.
“Now,” he said, gesturing at the guard stationed outside the doorway, “this is our top priority, so everybody look sharp.” They all crowded into the room.
An excited murmur went up from the demons who had been following around the King of Hell as they espied the broken object sitting in the middle of the table. “This,” said Crowley, as if it were not obvious, “is the Word of God.” There was more muttering, and cell phones came out once again as Crowley cooperatively posed in front of the tablet. “We are attempting a translation with these magical objects,” he explained, pointing around the seemingly random crap strewn around the table.
“Translation, and the location of the other tablets, is our highest priority!” Crowley continued.
“How will we achieve this, sire?” asked one of the interns.
“It’s very simple, lad,” said Crowley, coming over and putting an affectionate arm around the boy’s shoulders. He smiled indulgently, and then, as the apprentice squirmed, bellowed, “Kill the Winchesters! Kill the Winchesters! Oh, and yes, KILL THE WINCHESTERS!”
“Your Majesty, aren’t the angels also seeking the tablet?” asked another apprentice as the first demon attempted to dab off His Majesty's spittle from all over his face with a handkerchief.
“The angels?” mocked Crowley. “The angels couldn’t find their own feathery arses with a flashlight. Believe me, we find a permanent solution to the plaid-draped Hardy Boys and the world will be ours. Now! Who wants to see hellhound feeding time? Let’s get over to the arena! There will be donuts, but NO COFFEE!”
There were smiles and nods, and some whispered comments as to how this King of Hell had really thought of everything, and then the room cleared, the door quietly closed and locked.
One of the party, who had somehow gotten left behind, emerged from an especially dark corner. He was wearing a jacket with the hood pulled up, so his features were lost in the shadows. He approached the table, extending a hand towards an object that looked for all the world like a throwing disk.
He placed two fingers on the discus.
The tablet, sitting a few feet away, suddenly emitted a strange hum.
“It’s not for translation, you know,” said a female demon who had also evidently been left behind.
The hooded figure turned to face her. “No?” he asked.
“It’s for tablet location. But the King of Hell doesn’t know that.”
“Interesting.” Their locked eyes for a moment. “May I ask why you’re telling me this?”
“May I ask what the fuck your feathery ass is doing down in hell?” retorted the demon, arching an eyebrow. She extended her arms. “Can’t you tell? I’m a lady in distress. I want out, Mr. Jordan, and I want out now.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t really interested in the tablet, to be honest. I’m here looking for someone.”
“And you found me,” she told him. “Ain’t you a lucky ducky? And let me tell you, you want a bargaining chip, they’re all obsessed with these freaking tablets.”
He tilted his head. “So, I raise you from perdition….”
“And get your hands on the Frisbee of Doom,” she chortled.
“And I should believe you because….?”
She put her hands on her hips. “You shouldn’t, idiot. I’m a demon. Duh!”
“OK, Benny’s parked out back for the night,” said Dean, slamming into the motel room.
Sam was seated at the room’s only table, hunched over his laptop. “Did he, uh, wanna come in?” he asked, though he looked a little grudging about the invitation, especially given it was not even his hotel room.
Dean got a sour look on his face. “He’s feeding. Believe me, you don’t wanna let him come in. That slurping sound!” He shuddered.
Cas, who was back to wearing his customary rumpled suit, was sitting on a bed rooting around in the duffel bag Dean had given him for his collection of extra clothes. “We should take care with Benny,” he said, holding up a T-shirt to stare at it. “Among other things, Nergal is a sun god.”
“We’ll bring some Coppertone,” grunted Dean. “How many jobs does this Nergal dude have, anyway?”
“Sun, fire, destruction, war, the underworld…” said Sam, ticking off on his fingers. “Oh, and he also guides the planet Mars. You sure this is gonna be worth it, Dean?”
Dean looked stubborn. “If Crowley doesn’t want us to go enough that he’d throw an entire thrift store at us, then, yeah, worth it.” Cas had pulled out the tin angel he had found on the floor of the thrift store and was holding it up, turning it over and over. “Don’t let us interrupt you with your friend, Cas,” Dean snarked.
“I have never had … possessions before,” said Cas. He carefully stroked the angel’s wings. “It’s … an odd experience.”
Dean, who was going to let forth with some more snark, paused instead. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Hey Cas, let me do that,” said Sam, walking over to Cas. He held out his hands, and Cas, somewhat reluctantly, offered over the angel. Sam carefully turned the tin toy over and ever so gently wound the little lever in back and let it go. With a mechanical whirr, the angel began to flap its tiny wings.
Cas watched, open-mouthed. “It’s a miracle!” he whispered.
“It’s a wind-up toy, Cas,” said Dean, shaking his head.
Sam grinned as if he had just revealed the secret of the ages. He turned the tin angel over once again when it wound down, and pointed to the little crank. “You have to be careful not to over-wind it. That could break it,” he said, depositing it back in Cas’s trembling hands. While Sam stood over him, nodding in approval, Cas reverently wound the angel again, and then literally let out a small whoop when it once again began to flap and whirr.
“Great, Sam,” grumbled Dean. “Now we’ve lost him for the evening.”
“You didn’t have anything planned with him did you?” grinned Sam, who headed back to his laptop while Dean glared. “Oh, and one last thing: I’ve been reading about our friend Nergal. He’s kind of an usurper down there in Hell.”
“Who did he surp, and why?” asked Dean, wandering over to kibitz on the laptop.
“That’s not a proper verb form,” Cas answered, “and it was his consort, Ereshkigal.”
Sam pointed to the laptop. “See, she was sole ruler down there, and then she somehow pissed off some of the other gods-“
“Those fertile crescent deities were all too thin-skinned, if you ask me,” grumbled Cas, once again winding up his angel toy.
“-And they sent the war god down to kill her, but then he ended up staying and becoming co-ruler.”
Dean squinted at Sam. “So she’s sort of his captive?”
Sam gnawed on a fingernail and stared at his laptop. “Well, it’s not like she’s a shrinking violet. She once imprisoned her own sister.”
“Babylonian Hell is Melrose Place? That’s just dandy.” Dean looked over to Cas, who was still playing with the tin toy. “Hey, don’t wear it out,” he scolded.
Cas reverently wrapped the little toy in a T-shirt and then carefully made a place for it in the duffel bag, which he then zipped up and set on the floor. Dean went and sat beside him. Cas looked up and beamed at Dean. “Those are my possessions,” Cas told him.
“Yeah,” said Dean. His voice had taken on a funny quaver.
“You know what?” said Sam, loudly banging the laptop shut and then clattering up in his seat. “I think Benny is not the only one who’s hungry. Why don’t I go grab some takeout? You know, go out for an hour? Or so?”
Dean, who seemed distracted, pulled the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them Sam’s way without taking his eyes off Cas. Sam caught them one-handed.
“Any requests?” asked Sam, one hand already on the doorknob.
“Uh,” said Dean. He blinked at Cas, and then turned around to Sam. “Don’t forget the pie.”
“When have I ever forgotten pie?” laughed Sam, giving the door a firm slam on his way out.
“You always forget pie!” groused Dean to the back of the door. He glowered, and then turned back to Cas. “Hey, this bed has a headboard.”
“Is that relevant, Dean?” asked Cas.
Some time later, Cas’s hand was gripping the headboard, white-knuckle tight, as the angel shuddered and moaned.
Dean paused what he was doing long enough to send two hands lightly over the gorgeous tromp l'oeil wings inked on Cas's pale back. “So beautiful,” he murmured. His personal angel, he thought.
The angel whispered his name. Dean lowered his hands, and forced Cas's thighs further apart. His angel. His own glorious divine being.
Dean began to thrust again, keeping everything slow as hell.
“Yes, I'm yours,” Cas muttered.
Dean paused again and wrapped his arms tightly around the angel's chest. “Are you reading my mind?”
“Yes. Don't stop. Yes! It was … unintentional.”
Dean tightened his grip and put his head down in the middle of Cas's back. He closed his eyes. “Read this,” he muttered.
The only sound was Cas breathing, and then suddenly, he arched his back and let out a terrific moan.
“Like that?” chuckled Dean, kissing Cas between the wings. “Well do that next time. When we have more time....”
“We all ready to beam down?” asked Dean as they assembled in the parking lot the next morning. Sam yawned in answer. Dean imagined that his brother had fallen asleep over the laptop again last night. They had stayed up a little later than he had intended, first Sam bustling in with a tubs of Chinese – and no pie, just fortune cookies. Dean already knew his damn fortune: you will never get pie, Dean Winchester. Cas of course dawdled forever as he was supposedly exercising free will to decide between the chow fun and the kung pao, and then Sam made it worse by trying to show him how moo shoo worked and how to use chopsticks, both at the same time, resulting in a plum-sauce-and-cabbage-coated angel. And then Benny somehow invited himself in, and they were going to teach the angel to play poker, only at first he refused to bluff and kept losing, but then there was more beer and suddenly he was kicking their mortal and undead asses.
And now here they were today, still half asleep (except for Cas of course who didn't sleep) hauling gym bags full of ratty used clothing and supplies they were gonna use to bribe their way into some half-assed Babylonian Hell, on the slim chance that the management might agree to form an alliance against the King of that other, Judeo-Christian, version of Hell.
“We are going to the site of Ereshkigal’s main temple, in Babylon,” said Cas.
“Oh. And where is that on an actual map?” asked Dean.
“Iraq,” yawned Sam.
“Wait, what?” asked Dean.
And then, with the beat of wings, they were there no more.
“Come on, Cas, you’re just gonna trade this stuff away anyway,” groused Dean.
Cas looked up from the bag of costume jewelry Sam had toted along. He was grasping a necklace of puka shells. “These are marvelous, Dean. An entire string of miracles. Why don’t all humans wear them?”
Dean rolled his eyes, grabbed the necklace, and draped it over Cas's head. “There. Good.”
“I seen rag dolls that had more style,” laughed Benny. Dean nodded. It held for all four of them, standing in the middle of the fucking desert near a crumbling mud brick wall, all arrayed in as many layers of clothing as they could bear, as well as sporting some ridiculous pendants and baubles Sam had grabbed from the Salvation Army before it got overrun with demons. Benny, who somehow still managed a modicum of dignity (it may have been the wraparound sunglasses) was sporting a still-working mood ring on one pinkie finger. Sam had somehow topped his look with a fringed jacket that had seen better days and a purple cowboy hat, making him look like a thrift shop Hendrix. Dean had left his own beloved leather jacket back at the motel, and far out of the clutches of greedy gate guards, instead wore a battered jean jacket with “Sweet Dreams” lettered out in rhinestones on the back. He had grabbed at the jewelry bag kind of at random. He noticed now that he was wearing a big rainbow-colored peace symbol around his neck. Guess what he planned to give away first?
“It should be this cave,” said Cas as Sam grabbed a knit cap sporting a friendly teddy bear face and ears out of his bag and pulled it over the angel’s head. “Thank you, Sam,” said Cas. Dean wondered why every single item of clothing the Cas had picked was somehow at least a size too big: he looked like he was borrowing his big brother’s hand-me-downs.
“Seven gates. I think we’re set,” said Dean, who did not at all think they were set, nor would the ever be set, but he sighed and checked to see if everyone else (maybe save Cas) was ready to stow their bags and get going.
The Winchesters grabbed flashlights, their friends having no need of such things, and then bags were zipped and hidden as best they could, and the little group started off into the cave, Cas striding confidently in the lead, Sam behind him, and Dean and Benny taking up the rear.
The cave turned out to be a maze with junctions a-plenty. They would have to rely on Cas’s mojo to get them through this section, so all was quiet while he paused at each new passageway, squinted, and did whatever the hell it was he did to sense where they were going.
“You get the distinct impression Winnie the Pooh is leadin' us around in circles?” Benny whispered to Dean after about half an hour of this slow progress.
“We are definitely going in circles,” said Cas, who had turned around. “Can’t you feel it? We are gradually descending deeper into the earth.”
“Yeah, it’s been getting warmer,” said Sam, doffing the ridiculous cowboy hat and wiping sweat from his brow with a big red and white bandana.
“You sure that ain’t wishful thinkin’?” countered Benny.
“Do vampires even get hot?” Dean asked Benny.
Cas had gotten into Benny’s personal space. “We could leave you here, vampire.”
Benny glowered. “If you were lost, would you even admit it?”
“The point is moot, as I am not lost.”
Dean got between the two feuding supernaturals and pushed them apart, to little or no effect. “OK, enough bitching. Cas, you keep leading, Benny, back with me.” The two exchanged one more dark look, and then Cas walked away. Sam clapped him on the shoulder and walked abreast with him, as the tunnel was rather large and high in this area.
Dean made damned sure Benny caught his look of disapproval, and then the two followed Cas and Sam.
“I got a bad feelin' about this, brother,” said Benny.
“Well, thanks for that, Princess Leia,” said Dean, “but for now we follow the angel.”
Benny grunted, something about not wearing his hair in any space buns, and they continued for a time in silence.
A few minutes later, Cas stopped dead at a junction. “What's that up ahead?” asked Sam, waving the flashlight.
“Stay here,” Cas ordered. “Turn off the light.” Sam obeyed. Cas walked down into the dark tunnel.
“What the hell is he doing?” whispered Dean, who had come up alongside Sam.
“There was something up ahead in that tunnel,” Sam told him. “He'd going to check it.”
“Alone?”
Benny peered ahead. “I don't think you need to worry.”
“Damn right I'm worried,” said Dean. But just at that moment, Cas walked back.
“It's all right. They're all dead.”
“Who is dead?” demanded Dean.
“Demons,” said Cas. “I have been sensing them nearby, as we've walked. Those were the first near enough to see. I believe Crowley sent them, but they lost their way and died. But this group appears to have died in combat.”
“Combat?” asked Dean. “You mean Crowley’s attempted invarsion?”
“Yes, Nergal’s forces and Crowley’s appear to have slaughtered each other. This way.” Cas pointed down the other direction of the tunnel and set off without waiting for a reply.
“So, lost or killed? That's pretty fucking encouraging,” said Benny.
About ten minutes later, Cas paused for a long moment at yet another junction. “We are near. This way!” Sam hastened after him, so Dean and Benny, who had fallen a little behind (Dean had thought it prudent to keep the vampire’s continued grumbling out of earshot), lost them around the bend. They looked at each other, and broke in to a run. “Hey, Cas, wait up!” Dean shouted. They ran around a bend with no angel in sight, and then another bend, and then another and then….
Dean slammed to a halt, and nearly got knocked over when Benny rear-ended him. The vampire gripped his shoulder, and Dean stayed upright.
“Holy mother of fuck,” said Benny.
They had come to the mouth a huge underground chamber: how large was impossible to say, as there was a high wall spanning all the way across it. Dean clicked off his flashlight, as there were lanterns arrayed up on the wall.
The wall itself looked a lot like the ones at the archaeological site up topside, with one great difference: the mud bricks here had been scrupulously maintained, and there wasn’t so much as a single crack visible anywhere.
Sam and Cas were standing nearby, surveying the wall. “Which way to the gate?” asked Dean, hastening over to them. Sam was the one who pointed it out: it was visible from where they stood, though it looked to be maybe half a mile away. “OK,” said Dean, “everybody got your baseball cards ready for a trading session?”
“They trade clothing and jewelry, not sports memorabilia, Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Literal,” grinned Dean, putting a hand to the small of Cas’s back and leading him on the charge. Cas winced, as his tattoo still smarted, but went along with Dean.
Sam and Benny looked at each other. The vampire grinned and shrugged, and they followed Cas and Dean down to the gate, which shown golden even in the dimness. Dean goggled as he came nearer. Why would a bunch of guys who had enough precious metals to gold-leaf an entire massive city gate need a bunch of pit-stained T-shirts?
And then he beheld the guard. And decided he knew why. “Did we get here on cosplay night?” he asked Cas, sotto voce.
The guard wore an elaborate feathered headdress. He was clad from neck down to about mid-thigh in more feathers. And nothing but feathers. As the guard was quite tall – even taller than Sam – the effect was not unlike a Vegas showgirl drag queen.
Cas spoke to the guard in a strange, squawking language Dean guessed was ancient Babylonian. The guard studied them for a moment, and then said, in perfect English, “Enter now the realm of Irkalla.” He posed like Carol Merrill displaying the Price is Right final showcase, and the gate magically opened for them.
“Uh, you don’t want anything?” asked Dean, who paused before the gate. The guard stared at him, but didn’t speak. Dean nodded to the others, and they made their way through.
“Welcome to the place from which no one ever returns,” said the guard once they were all through. And then the gate closed behind them with a bang.
“Well,” said Benny, “that was right friendly.”
“Is Irkalla like the Vegas of Hells or something?” asked Sam.
“I thought Saturday night in Las Vegas was Hell,” muttered Dean.
“The departed spirits wear feathers here,” Cas told them.
“Sounds itchy,” said Dean. “So, we’ve got gate one of seven. You see the next gate, Paddington?” he asked Cas. They were now standing in a narrow corridor between two walls.
The next gate actually was actually in sight, and the guard was making it easier by jumping up and down and waving at them. “Yo!” he shouted, waving his arms around.
“They must not get a lot of visitors these days,” Dean mumbled. As Team Free Irkalla neared this guard, it became apparent that the second guy was a lot different from the first gate guard. He was much shorter for one thing, and for another, was not visibly wearing feathers, although a few stray feathers did drift off of him when he hopped up and down. He was instead clad in even more layers of clothing than Dean’s group: it looked like bits and pieces from every era. On the very top was a lady’s silk gown, and he also had a long string of opera pearls. He had long dress slacks on under that, but also visible was a pair of pantaloons.
“I need an article of clothing. THEM’S THE RULES!” the second gate guard hollered as they approached. He reached out and snatched Sam’s purple cowboy hat off his head and affixed it to his own, over the golden tiara he was already wearing.
“Hey,” said Sam. “I liked that hat.”
“You did?” said Dean.
The guard was already snatching at Benny’s shades, but the vampire pushed him away, stating, “I need these.” Instead he pulled off his mood pinkie ring and gave it to the guard. The guard hungrily grabbed it and pushed it on his middle finger. Dean noticed he was already decked out like Ringo Starr, with rings, and sometimes multiples, on every finger. Some were simple, like wedding bands, and some held precious jewels.
Dean offered up his Sweet Dreams jean jacket, as it was making him sweat. And Sam grabbed off Cas’s knit teddy bear cap and tossed it to the guard. It looked a little awkward over the cowboy hat.
“Enter then Irkalla,” said the guard, opening the gate.
“Yeah, we know, the place you never return from,” Dean told him. The guard flashed a grin at Dean, and he noticed the guy had a gold tooth.
“Two for seven!” said Dean as the gate closed. “We’re making record time. Hey, there’s the next guard. The elder Winchester boldly led the way to the next golden gate.
The next guard dude was all business. “Three questions travelers. First, identify yourself,” he barked at Dean.
“I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam, Castiel the, uh, angel, and Benny Lafitte.”
“Second, what is your purpose here?” asked the guard.
“We’d like to see Nergal,” said Sam, who got a finger pointed in his face for his efforts.
“ONE spokesman per group, if you please,” the guard scolded.
“We’re here to see Nergal,” said Dean.
“Third question: what is the terminal velocity of a an ACP cartridge fired from a Colt semi-automatic pistol into a ten mile per hour head wind.”
“What? I don’t know-“ said Dean.
“Wait, it’s-“ said Cas.
There was a whooshing sound, somewhat akin to the beat of Castiel’s wings. Dean felt rushing air, and then a thump as he went sprawling on the ground. He sat up and whipped his head around, just in time to feel something being snatched from around his neck. He looked over to see the second gate guard, dancing around with his rainbow peace symbol necklace.
“Three hundred meters per second, depending on the manufacturer,” said Cas, who was seated, nearby, also on the bare ground.
“Fucking son of a bitch,” muttered Dean as he stumbled to his feet. “Is this some kind of freaking video game?”
“I need an article of clothing,” the gate guard was singing. “THEM’S THE RULES.”
“We already gave you stuff,” groused Sam, rubbing his bruised posterior. The guard was already grabbing at his threadbare fringed jacket, so Sam gave it up.
Dean felt a clap on his shoulder. “Maybe if we have a little pow-wow before we answer the question next time?” Benny asked Dean. “Seems like angel knew the answer.”
“OK, OK, I’ll consult with our small arms physics expert next time. Come on, let’s give over our crap and go.”
So, one layer lighter, the boys returned to the third gate. Dean identified himself and repeated their quest.
The gate guard grinned. Dean felt his stomach sinking.
“Third question: who was the American League batting champion in 1941?”
Dean muttered, “Oh shit” and turned to his consultants.
“DiMaggio?” proposed Sam. “Williams?”
Dean looked at Benny, who shrugged. “I assume Ty Cobb weren’t playin’ no more.”
Dean looked at Cas, who simply shrugged. “OK. Joltin' Joe DiMaggio,” he guessed.
A whooshing sound told him he’d guessed wrong.
“Son of a bitch! I knew I should have chosen Ted Williams.” Still on his ass, he shrugged out of a flannel shirt and handed it to the gleeful second gate guard.
Dean’s patience was wearing thin after a few more rounds of being foiled by the trivia-loving third gate guard. There had been questions about opera, Olympic tennis, the cultivation of sorghum, big band trumpet players, the history of Argentina, classical ballet, aerial navigation, and puppeteering, none of which the collective brain trust had any knowledge about. What was most distressing was that the second gate guard had started to pick them clean. Cas was down to shoes with no socks, his baggy jeans and the string of puka shells, to which he seemed oddly attached. Benny was barefoot, which he didn’t seem to mind at all, and besides that had his slacks, suspenders, an undershirt and his treasured sunglasses. Sam was down to just his jeans and boots. Dean himself wore just the Poison T-shirt with his jeans, though he had managed to keep both shoes and socks.
“OK,” said Dean once they made it through the second gate yet again., “We gotta get through this time, or else we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other,” he sighed. The others nodded, Benny and Cas looking relatively serene, but Sam pulled a major bitchface to make up for it. “I liked that hat,” he grumbled.
The third gate guard’s grin was wide and shifty this time.
“This don’t look good, friend,” Benny muttered to Dean.
The guard looked straight at Cas this time, and asked, “Third question: how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”
Cas glowered and suddenly strode up to the guard so he was nearly nose to nose. The startled gate guard took a step back.
“Cas!” warned Dean, who was afraid they would get sent back before they even got a try.
“Do you mean … Seraphim, Ophanim, Elohim, Malakhim, Cherubim, Kingdoms, Thrones or Dominions?” Cas demanded.
“Uh. I don’t know?” said the gate guard.
There was a whooshing sound.
And now the four men stood alone at the third gate, which slowly swung open.
Dean strode forward and grabbed Cas by the shoulder. “This is my angel, everybody!” Benny hooted and clapped.
“Now, let’s see what else we gotta deal with,” sighed Sam.
“No, I think I got the hang of this now,” said Dean. Ignoring calls from his brother, he stormed through the third golden gate, and marched right up to the fourth guard beyond. This guy was clad in feathers and a raggedy robe, and frankly looked surprised to see anyone.
“Who the fuck are you and why should we put up with your crap?” Dean demanded of him.
“Uhhhh,” muttered the guy.
And then there was a whooshing sound. The guard disappeared.
“Fourth gate! We’re halfway there, gentlemen!” announced Dean as another golden gate opened.
The guard at the fifth gate was a big, barrel-chested dude who didn’t talk much. He decided he wanted to fight. Cas made short work of him with the angel blade.
“I always thought you kept that thing in your coat sleeve,” said Dean as the fifth gate opened.
“Of course I don’t,” said Cas as the blade disappeared from his hand.
Dean squinted at him. “OK, I’m not gonna ask you where you keep it,” he said. “Two more gates,” he told everyone.
The guard at the sixth gate was another pushover. “WelcometoIrkallathosewhoenternevermayleave,” he muttered as he ducked his head and opened the gate.
“I think our reputation precedes us, boys,” laughed Benny as he watched the guard skitter away.
“Last gate,” said Dean, though he was getting nervous. He suspected that visitors rarely got past the third guard, so they were probably panicking in the inner circles. That meant you didn’t know what to expect. Which sometimes was no good.
The last gate guard stood calmly at his post. This one had a distinct Obi-Wan Kenobi look to him: he had a grey beard, and was wearing a hooded robe instead of the feathers. He held up a hand to Dean and his friends.
“What is your name?” he asked in a voice weathered by the ages. Dean made the introductions. “What is your purpose here?” the guard asked.
“We wanna meet with Nergal.”
The guard nodded. “And … what is your philosophy?”
Dean grinned. “I got this!” he announced happily. And then he recited, to everyone else’s dismay, “Every rose has its thorn/Every night has its dawn/Every cowboy sings a sad sad song.”
The guard did not speak, though Sam emitted a small moan. “Hey, it worked in the movies,” Dean whispered to him.
The guard flipped down his hood. He didn’t look quite as ancient without it, although his hair was as grey as his beard. “You’re a … hair metal fan?” he asked incredulously, pointing at Dean’s T-shirt.
Dean shrugged. “Naw, I’m actually a classic rock fan. But hair metal was better than grunge.”
“WHAT?” interjected Sam. “How can anybody not like grunge?”
“It had its moments. But too much whining,” grumbled Dean. “I prefer thrash to glam,” Dean told the guard.
Benny leaned over towards Cas. “What are those boys jawin’ about now?”
“Have you ever gotten a chance to ride in Dean’s car?” inquired Cas.
Benny nodded, and Cas cocked an eyebrow. “You mean the noisy crap he plays over the speaker system? Hurts my ears, what they’re doin’ to them guitars. Now, gimme a little zydeco or some blues: that’s music.”
“I prefer the music of the spheres myself,” noted Cas. “Although Metallica is not bad. On occasion.”
“I can’t belieeeeve you don’t admit Nevermind was a cultural landmark!” Sam was whining.
“I you wanna spend your time listening to a spoiled millionaire kid whine, then go ahead,” said Dean. Dean and Sam both looked up at the sound of creaking.
The last golden gate had opened.
“You are clearly in possession of a philosophy, Dean Winchester,” said the guard smiling down on them. “Welcome to Irkalla.”
