Summary: When a demon-hating demon, a sort-of-but-not-really Fallen angel and a creature older than dirt walk into a bar, well, things can only be one bad punchline away from total disaster.
Warning(s): Language, innuendo, OOC all around, bad humour, violence
AN: PLEASE READ. Supernatural AU, partly because I can, mostly because my brain assaulted me with the summary and wouldn't tell me the punchline. Contains Demon!Dean, Angel!Sam (because I have yet to see this), and, of course, Leviathan!Cas later on. Because I love him. Also, this is supposed to be humorous, but will most likely not be very funny. My ability to write humour, well, doesn't actually exist so I'll apologize now and feel free to yell at me for the shitty quality of this whole thing. I probably shouldn't even be starting on this right now, but I couldn't help it, it won't leave me alone. On a side note, I'm using the last names from 'It's A Horrible Life'. Wesson and Smith, I think that's right, correct me if not.
I own nothing mildly related to Supernatural. Maybe just the AU a little bit.
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Contrary to popular belief, clawing ones way out of Hell is actually rather easy.
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Oh who was he trying to kid? It's hard as fuck, in case anyone wanted to know. Between the bipolar temperature changes (surface of the Sun to Pluto, every single time someone decides Hell isn't actually a hot place or vice versa), that one creepy looking guy who oversees the racks, the crazy hell-bitches from level three and the snarky crossroads asshole always lurking around the exit, he's lucky to get out in (mostly) one piece. He, being a demon, born as a human named Dean Smith, tossed into Hell after selling his soul.
There was a reason he wasn't big on the crossroads 'specialists'.
It had been a while since he'd been human; it certainly felt that way once you grab a calculator and converted to Hell-time. Still even in human (Earth?) years, it had been a while.
So once Dean Smith pulled himself out of Hell, he didn't look back.
Not even once.
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He'd been (more or less) happy with his human life. He'd had a kid (not actually his own, mind you, but still!), been sort of married to the kid's mother, Lisa (who was incredibly flexible, by the way) and it'd been okay.
Dean Smith, even now, wasn't entirely sure he'd actually been in love with Ben's mom. There was certainly the not-so-odd time he'd wished the woman would rot in Hell (which he realizes might actually have happened), but he stayed if only for the kid's sake and life had been good to them nonetheless. And then Ben had gotten sick. It hadn't seemed like anything at first, but he wouldn't get better, no matter what they did, no matter which doctor they employed with what little money they had. If anything, he got worse. Wasting away faster and faster before their eyes. Now, Dean wasn't (even when he'd been human) what anyone would call 'religious', but after so long and when it looked as though Ben would not be getting better, damn it, he'd prayed. For the first time since his mother had died in a fire, he prayed every night, asked, pleaded to whoever was listening that the child he'd come to think of as his own would just get better.
But he didn't. Of course Ben didn't get better, because why would anyone (God included) listen to a poor man, married to a woman he didn't really love, with a bastard child? A child who was nearing his death bed at the age of eleven? Of course not.
That was when he'd made his deal. As Ben hacked up his lungs in his last few hours, Dean Smith did the only thing he really could do at the time; sell his soul to a dark haired woman with black eyes on a crossroad in the middle of nowhere.
When he'd returned to their small home. He found Ben sitting up in his cot. Looking as alive as ever. The doctor hadn't said a word. Only stared at Dean with a knowing look in his eyes as he left the house. Lisa was too busy sobbing with relief into her sons hair to notice.
The rest of the details were a little fuzzy after all these years, but it hardly mattered now anyways. Ben and Lisa were dead. He was here. Back on the surface, breathing in the air he hadn't remembered missing. It was certainly nicer up here than back in Hell. He made his way through an unfamiliar field of green, bare feet relishing in the lack of third degree burns or severe frostbite, not one hundred percent sure of where in the Hell he was going (pun intended). There were a few moments of hazy thoughts mostly consisting of, holy shit, sonofabitch, and thank fuck.
His first coherent thought was that he really really needed a drink.
Like now.
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Sam Wesson was not exactly what you would call lucky.
He was abandoned at birth; found wrapped in a thin blanket with his name scribbled on his arm with marker for Gods sake. He made his way through three foster homes before being properly adopted by an older man named Bobby Singer and his on-and-off significant other, Ellen Harvelle, who had a daughter around his own age who very much enjoyed causing him problems.
When his first girlfriend (at the age of sixteen) had been hit by a bus and his second (at the age of twenty-one) had died in a fire, Sam had concluded that someone, somewhere, hated him with a passion and he would remain alone and unloved for his entire life. So he found some sort of distraction in the form of religion a few months after the fire. He would say he had spent a fair bit of time with his hands clasped in front of his face, speaking to something that either wasn't there at all, or had a very short attention span.
So when a voice erupted in his mind one night offering the twenty-three-year-old an eternal sleep in blissful unawareness, of course he'd said yes without listening to the last part of the voices offer.
Sam Wesson ceased to exist that night. In his place a creature that was in no way human blinked in the dark, taking in its (would it still be his now?) surroundings before disappearing in a flash with only the sound of ruffled feathers indicating what exactly had even been there.
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He reappeared some few hundred miles away, overshooting his destination by several thousand feet. Cursing in a colourful manner that would make a sailor blush (let alone an Angel of The Lord (yes, the capitals are necessary)), he glared towards the Heavens, wishing plague after plague on his brothers who had (in most senses of the words) cast him out. And honestly, if he thought about it enough, they hadn't even done a good job at it. Surely Micheal wasn't that out of practice, was he?
Yes, he was more powerful than your average mindless Angel Soldier, but he hardly counts that as an excuse. Not that he was going to try and head back up there (he rather liked being not-human) but he would have liked it if his brothers had lived up to reputation and done a right and proper job of tearing his Grace from his body and chucking him to the unforgiving Earth. Now he was stuck here limping about because someangel-who-will-remain-unnamed (coughMichealcough) had spent to much time moping in a corner and therefore was unpractised in the tearing out of wings-and-Grace-bits. Leaving this unfortunate angel with most of his left wing missing.
After a few tries, he (finally) appeared where he wanted. A dingy looking bar on the side of a road no one really drove on. Because he really wanted a drink.
Ridiculous alcohol tolerance be damned.
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Now, Dean was many things, and stupid (in some (most) senses) being one of those things. However, he was not oblivious. He could smell the angel before he could see it. The overbearing stench of Holiness permeated the air before it was overtaken with something much more human, much more... (what was a good word for it?) indignant? No, rebellious fit better.
Ah. Fallen angel, then? He sniffed the air again. Nope, well, sort of. The constant flickering between Righteous and not was starting to give him a headache. And, as stated earlier, Dean Smith would put mind-bendingly stupid under some of his greatest qualities, so with a single fuck it, he strode into the mostly empty bar house like a man (or demon in his case) with nothing to lose.
The moment he set foot through the doorway, his eyes snapped to a young man hunched over a solitary table, glaring sulkily into his drink. So this was the angel-boy? Smooth. He hadn't even looked up when Dean had entered, clearly too occupied with his thoughts to bother with a demon. So he sauntered over to the table (because sauntering is cool damn it), waving down a waitress for a beer, winking as she left. He sat his ass down in the chair opposite the angel.
'What's eating you, feathers?' he said. Almost getting smote was totally worth the way angel-boy jerked back in his chair, tilting dangerously to the left before he righted himself and levelled Dean with a glare.
'I'll kill you where you sit, demon.' the angel shot back. Dean clicked his tongue, grinning as the waitress from before swung by and left his beer in front of him. He took a long swig before answering the angel (because, seriously? He hadn't had a beer in like, a few hundred years).
'Uh huh. That's nice. Don't get your panties in a twist, I was just askin'.'
Suddenly to angel's face twisted into what Dean could only describe as an honest to God (pun intended) bitch-face. He just got silently bitched at by an Angel.
This would prove amusing.
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Sure enough, depressing tendencies aside, the angel (who refused to tell him his real name and only answered to his vessel's name, Sam Wesson) turned out to be alright when he wasn't off sulking and muttering about botched Banishments among other things.
The two of them spent most of their time together bar-hopping (with the occasional random hook-up if you get my drift (though that was more Dean than Sam)) or confusing the Hell out of nearby hunters.
It was the day they had returned to the bar they'd originally met at, that Dean first noticed him. At their usual table nearest a corner of the room, Dean smirked.
'Dibs.'
'What?' the angel said, snapping out of whatever weird, emo daydream he'd just been mulling over.
'That one, over there,' Dean pointed to the man in question. 'Dibs.' Sam rolled his eyes in what was quickly becoming a fan-favourite Dean liked to call bitch-face number 11. The 'I-don't-understand-how-your-tiny-brain-even-functions-half-the-time', which was currently the most used in Sam's itinerary of faces.
The man Dean was eye-raping at the moment was leaning against the bar counter, speaking with another man who also seemed way too interested. Dean new object of whatever he passed for 'affection' was clad in a ratty looking tan coat with dark, messy hair and a 5 o'clock shadow sweeping his jaw. His eyes were shrouded by the poor lighting of the bar, but it was easy to tell he was eyeing a pretty blonde woman in front of him like he was about to devour her on the spot. The mystery man leaned closer to the woman, whispering something in his ear that made the smaller, pale-haired woman giggle and her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. Dean pouted in a way only he could as the two stood slowly and made their way to the door.
'I called dibs.' he muttered sullenly, turning to the angel beside him. 'I called dibs, Sammy! That has to mean something!' the angel glowered at the procured nickname.
'Then by all means Dean, follow.' he muttered. Sam doesn't really know exactly why he puts up with this, but he knows the demon will whine about it until something happens. So it's Deans turn to light up as he springs from his seat and briskly pushes his way to the exit to find the couple who had just left. Sam huffed and reluctantly did the same.
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As soon as the two exited the building, they heard muffled voices coming from around the corner. Dean (who was a self-proclaimed master of espionage (which he couldn't spell, by the way)) peered around the corner of the building to see the mystery man pull back from the woman.
And then split his fucking head in half.
Or... not. Not really. His jaw unhinged and his head did bend in an unnatural manner, revealing a shit load of pointy teeth and a forked tongue that, had Dean not been in such a state of what-the-fuck, would have him making several bad sexual puns on the monsters behalf. The shark-toothed whatever-he-was lunged at the terrified blonde, tearing at her throat when Dean found his voice.
'Holy shit!' he shrieked- uh...shouted. Yes, shouted. In a very manly way and- and stuff. The scrawny man with the freaky dislocating jaw (of doom, Dean's mind silently added) did not flinch, only shut his mouth, teeth disappearing to who-knows-where, and turned his face from the gurgling, bloody body to stare at Dean and Sam. He was... sufficiently creepy to say the least. Creepy in weirdly hot kind of way. The man continued to stare in silence, piercing blue eyes slicing through angel and demon alike. They were very pretty, Dean thought in a totally not-girly way. As he was staring back at the man like an idiot, it was Sam, ramrod straight and tense as a wire who spoke first.
'What are you?' he said. Well, fuck, if Mr. Walking-Encyclopedia-of-Everything-Since-the-Dawn-of-Man didn't know, they were probably screwed. The (very attractive) thing frowned in a totally inappropriate manner.
'I don't understand. I was under the impression the phrase was 'who are you?'. Unless it has changed and no one had informed me?' he said. (Dean almost died as he listened. Holy shit.). The blonde girl choked once from where she lay in the dirt and went silent. Sam snarled.
'Don't play stupid with me. What. Are. You?'
The man/monster/object-of-Dean's-affection was still a moment before his face split into a terrifying smile, teeth (of the normal variety) bared, blood drying around his mouth. And don't even get him started on this guy's mouth.
'Ha ha! An angel! I knew it, I knew I smelt the tainted stench of Righteousness the moment I walked in!' he exclaimed. Ooh... he liked this voice as well. Gave him freaking chills. Sam's face remained void of humour.
'You caught me.' he deadpanned. 'Now talk.' he tugged something silvery from his sleeve. 'What are you? And don't try my patience.'
The man's grin never faltered.
'I'm... hm. I'm something different, let's say. And old. Let's say that too. In fact, I'd go as far to say the oldest thing on this thrice-damned rock. But, can't be to sure. Time passes so slowly in Purgatory. And most of that time was spent digging my way out of that Pit our Father was kind enough to toss me in.' he paused and Sam blanched. The demon remained pleasantly confused.
'Impossible. That- I- you can't be. It's a myth.'
'Oh, is it now? I'm flattered. Figured it out yet?' Dean was still very confused.
'I- Leviathan.'
'Ah, that me! Hello!' the man- er, Leviathan crowed. 'You,' he said to Sam. 'are being much to formal. Call me Cas.'
'Why would you be calling yourself that?' Sam hissed. The Leviathan- Cas now, snickered.
'You could say I... picked it up somewhere. A long time ago.'
Sam twitched but said nothing further, still tensed to either fight his way out or flee. 'We're leaving.'
'Hey, wanna come with me- go with us?' the demon at his side blurted out. Sam whipped his head around to glare at the shorter being with all the bitch-powered Holiness he could muster.
'Dean, if I could speak with you. Privately.' he said, not waiting for an answer and dragging the demon around the corner.
'What the hell are you doing?' he demanded as soon the the Leviathan was out of sight. Dean grinned stupidly at the sort-of-but-not-quite Fallen angel.
'Inviting him to join us, Sammy.' the 'duh' was very much implied.
'Are you kidding me?'
'Nope.'
'That thing is dangerous Dean.'
'Aw, c'mon Sammy. Cas wouldn't hurt anybody. He's too pretty.'
Sam spluttered at the demon's comment. 'He tore out that woman's throat!' Dean continued to stare forward, stupid smile still plastered on his face.
'Uh-huh. He looks really good in red, doesn't he?'
'Oh my G- for fucks sake, he eats people!' Sam shouted.
'Hm, yeah, he can eat me any time he wants.'
And Sam, angel that he was, may have just thrown up in his mouth a little bit.
'Oh. Oh. That is- that is just-. Ew. You know what? Fine. Fine! Take the damn thing with you. I-' he shuddered. 'Just never, ever say that again while I'm around, got it?' the demon nodded quickly before walking (read: skipping) to tell Cas the good news. Sam wavered behind until he heard the demon shouted.
'Aw, son of a bitch!'
Without wasting the time it would take to walk around the corner, Sam flew his way around and (once again) overshot his trajectory and narrowly missing a face-on collision with a tree.
'What? What is it? What are you shouting about?' the (somewhat) Fallen angel asked. The demon was glowering at the empty space in front of him.
'Cas is gone. Your pointless conversation of stupid took too long and he left!.' Dean scowled (pouted). 'And he took that blonde bitch with him too!' he gestured to the bloody patch of grass. 'I think he likes her more than me.'
'Of course he does.' Sam snarked, silently relieved the Leviathan was gone. 'She's dinner.'
'I could take him out to dinner too!'
'... That wasn't what I meant.'
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END (maybe).