Disclaimer:Absolutely nothing about Supernatural belongs to me. More's the pity.
A/N: Yes, I know: We could fill the Encyclopaedia Britannica with post AHBL2 stories! Hopefully, this is a somewhat lighter solution to the AHBL 2 problem. Please read and review.
Deal!
She ran toward the car parked under the trees. In the distance, she thought she could hear the baying of hounds. Hellhounds. Pawing through the large, extremely heavy shoulder bag—and why in the name of all that are Damned humans burden themselves with these thrice-cursed saddlebags, she had no idea—she came up with a set of car keys. Damn good thing her current host—may imps gnaw off the human's extremities, after she was out of the body, of course—had intended to welch on the deal and came ready to run.
She had one chance, and one chance only, of getting out of this mess. One she hated having to avail herself of, but nothing else had worked. Even now, she could see in her mind the expression on his face when she told him what had happened and asked for his help, and she knew this was going to cost her. Big time. But, as she had mockingly told humans in the past, beggars can't be choosers.
Not that she'd ever expected it to apply to her.
The car's engine roared to life and she peeled out from the grassy embankment onto the single-lane country road. She knew exactly where he and his brother were staying. Each and every one of her harvests-to-come were always on her radar. Fortunately, it wasn't very far; she wasn't sure how long she could outrun the Hounds. And since they weren't her Hounds, they weren't about to take any commands from her. Appealing to their mistress, even though they were kindred, would only lead to much laughter at her expense—and a refusal to cancel the deal.
All the way to her destination, she kept her eyes peeled for movement of the four-legged kind. Once, when she had to slow for a vehicle coming across her path, she thought she caught a glimpse of something closing in on the car, but she floored the accelerator and put distance between her and the beasts on her heels.
When she finally pulled into the parking lot of an extremely rundown motel—really, if she were a Winchester, she would be embarrassed at running so far below the poverty level. On the other hand, it was probably equally embarrassing that her kind kept getting outsmarted and outfought by social rejects—she was very happy to see the sleek black muscle car sitting in one of the parking stalls.
She screeched to a stop next to the Winchester version of a fiery steed and hurled herself out of her car and up to the motel room. With a closed fist, she banged furiously on the door. After a few seconds, she could hear the inhabitants rousing themselves and then a grumpy, sleep-laced voice called out, "Who are you and what the hell do you want at—" there was a moment of silence, then, "—four fucking o'clock in the morning?"
Ah, her thought carried a definite sarcastic note, Dean Winchester's dulcet tones.
"Open up, Dean. It's an old acquaintance."
There was silence again, then she heard movement toward the door, accompanied by the sound of a shotgun barrel being snapped shut. The door bolt was pulled back and the door opened slowly. The room was dark, keeping its inhabitants in shadow while she remained lit by the light over the room entrance.
Which would have been more useful for the Winchesters if she hadn't been a demon, capable of seeing in total darkness. Neither of the Winchesters had dressed up for their visitor: Each wore a T-shirt and briefs. She admired the view.
"And you are?" Dean growled, while Sam pointed the shotgun at her.
"Here, let me remind you." With that, she leaped forward, grabbed Dean's face and planted a kiss on his lips. Even she could hear the sizzle.
Damn, it's a shame this will probably be the last time I have any dealings with him. He's the best damn kisser I've come across in ten thousand years!
Dean responded for a moment, then caught himself and jumped back, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "You?" he asked incredulously. "What? You're not getting enough out of our deal?"
"Actually, I'm offering you the chance to re-negotiate."
Both of the brothers radiated suspicion. "Why?" Sam asked.
She glanced around, but so far she saw no trace of the Hounds. "Can we go in? I, uh, have a bit of a problem and I need your help."
The Winchesters glanced at each other and she wondered briefly if they had some telepathic connection, because they both stepped back simultaneously, letting her walk into the room.
She took the lone chair in the room. Dean stood in front of her, arms crossed. "Okay, now you get to explain."
She held out her arm. The binding mark was easy to see. "Someone—I have no idea who—spelled me into this host and bound me here."
"So? Not a hot enough form for you?"
"That's not the problem, though I admit I tend to choose females with a tad more allure to them. Thing is, this host has already made her own deal with one of my Kin. A deal that's come due." She jumped to her feet, then sat back down when Sam Winchester waved a flask at her. She knew without being told it contained that accursed blessed water. "I'm bound to the Damned form! If the Hounds drag her down to Hell, I go with her—and I'm trapped there as long as she is! Tortured for all eternity!"
"Aw, gee, that's so sad," Dean drawled. He glanced over his shoulder at his brother. "Sam, do you remember where I left the violin?"
Sam grinned and shook his head. "Naw. Would a kazoo do as well?"
"Funny," she said sourly, as Dean laughed at his brother's gibe.
Dean turned back to look at her. "So, why come to us? Why not just ask your sister, brother, cousin six times removed, to cancel the deal while you find a way to get unbound?"
"Are you kidding? As if one of us cares about what happens to anyone else! We're demons, remember? Watching another of our kind get screwed is always good for a laugh. And Malazil and I have been, um, competitors for some time now."
"And you don't think we feel like laughing at you right now?" His face hardened. "What do you think we're going to do?"
"What you always do: Protect someone from hellhounds and trap a demon. Hey, that trick of yours worked on me; trust me, it'll work on Malazil. She's not exactly the Einstein of Hell." She stood and walked over to Dean. "We could do something about the deal."
The Winchesters continued to stare at her impassively. "Why should we?" Sam asked at last. "If you're dead, the deal with Dean is automatically cancelled."
"But I won't be dead, only the host. I'll still be living unhappily ever after. And Dean goes to Hell in," she glanced over at a calendar the motel had thoughtfully provided, with a picture of what seemed to her to be a particularly edible kitten on it, "one hundred-and-twenty-seven days." She moved closer and desperation edged her voice. "Look, whatever you want, just tell me!"
She wondered again at that telepathy, as the brothers smiled wolfishly in unison.
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Dean Winchester settled himself on the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him and a satisfied cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on his face. Sam looked equally pleased, even with the bandage wrapped around his arm. A holy water acid bath and a few stitches was a small price to pay for what they ended up getting in trade.
Sam had held the fort, warding himself and the demon inside the room with holy water-laced salt, quickly drawn sigils and consecrated iron rounds. Dean had summoned the other crossroads demon—their newest customer had provided him with special symbol to place inside the box he would bury, one that would specifically summon Malazil and no one else—since he would presumably be someone looking to find a way out of his first deal.
"Damn good thing the demon newsletter didn't pass the word about the devil's-trap-on-the-water-tower thing," Dean said cheerfully. "And that Malazil's an idiot."
"Or that you actually looked at a book," Sam said sarcastically, "and stumbled across that particular exorcism."
"Hey!" Dean said in protest. "I read." His lips twitched. "Sometimes even stuff that doesn't have a lot of pictures of naked women." He shrugged. "It was something Bobby mentioned a few weeks ago—not really sure why, but he seemed insistent I check it out, so I looked it up."
Sam nodded. "Too bad that ritual requires a certain alignment of planets to work. Sending demons back to Hell for a thousand years would be great if we could use it all the time."
Dean placed his hands behind his head. "Can't say this hadn't worked out well. When your ass is on the line, guess everything's on the table." His grin widened. "First deal cancelled: No expiration date, no going to Hell, no being chased by any crossroads demon or its minions ever, and you get to stay here, perfectly healthy. Then there's the icing: Getting us out of our little difficulty with the law."
"Little difficulty? Being wanted as multiple serial killers, among other things, is a 'little difficulty'?" Sam asked sarcastically. He peered at the screen on the laptop then smiled. "I've checked the national database, the FBI database, the St. Louis database, the Milwaukee database, the Baltimore database--."
"I get the idea, Sam," Dean interrupted impatiently. "Get to the bottom line."
"We aren't anywhere. There's no mention of a John, Dean or Sam Winchester. No records. Nothing. And the 'face' and fingerprints on the body found in St. Louis that they believe is the serial killer is now someone neither of us have ever met." He sat back looking satisfied. "Seems she did everything she agreed to."
"She had to, Sam. If she failed to honor any part of the deal, she had to serve us as a slave for the rest of our lives and then had to spend ten thousand years being tormented in Hell." Dean smirked. "Too bad she came through. That slave part could have pretty good." A wicked gleam entered his eyes. "Maybe we should look Henriksen up and stick our tongues out at him, now that he won't remember who we are?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "What are you? Six?"
Dean just grinned, undaunted. He reached for his cell phone and flipped it open. "Gonna give Bobby a call. I know he's been worried about me and the deal. And I want to thank him for the incantation." His grin widened. "Let him know I'm gonna be around to plague him for a while longer yet."
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Bobby Singer nodded as he listened. "That's great news. Acted like a wuss when you burned off the binding mark? Yeah, demons ain't known for their great courage. You boys take care, you hear? I'll call you as soon as I get a lead on anymore of the demons that escaped through the hellmouth. And Dean...you ain't gonna be this stupid ever again, right? Good."
As he held the phone to one ear, he carefully--because the book was very old--pulled the marker out of page that displayed the summoning ritual and the binding mark, closed the ancient grimoire and placed it on a shelf.
"Good thing you mentioned that exorcism; it worked beautifully. Thanks, Bobby." Dean said from the other end of the connection.
"You're welcome, Dean." Bobby smiled to himself, patting the book's spine. "Anytime."
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A/N: I suspect Bobby will come up with some great idea to save Dean, because Bobby is all kinds of awesome. Hope you liked it!