I. Hate. Frigging. Plot. Bunnies.
Just when I thought I might get a bit of leave from loony literary leporids, this miserable little thing was paddling around in a pot of soup, of all places. Even after I whizzed it all up with the blender, it was still there.
I think it's Plot Bunny #1 from TJNTPB. Le sigh - speak of the devil and he shall appear. Of course, the little mongrel still hasn't been forthcoming with anything useful, like details of a proper plot, but it would NOT shut up until I wrote this down. Sometimes, just getting something down encourages the little fornicators. I make no promises, but we'll see if this one goes anywhere...
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. If I did, Bobby would still be alive, Singer Salvage would be being rebuilt, an entire episode would be devoted to arguments about furnishing the boys' room, and I would enlist the help of the Denizens to sit on Sam and get rid of those frigging sideburns. Plus, I'd unpop Dean's collar and nail it down. Then there'd be a tornado that would tear their clothes off, because the Denizens love That Sort Of Thing.
WORKING TITLE (Which may change): Pack Up Your Troubles.
RATING: T. This fic may contain traces of Dean.
WORKING SUMMARY: God is more disappointed than angry with his wayward Archangels, and decides to send them to Earth to learn to behave more like brothers. Tearfully, they beg him not to turn them into humans. And so he doesn't... there will be Winchesters. And Castiel. And the word 'idjit'.
BLAME: As usual, I blame the Denizens, who breed plot bunnies and sikk them onto me. Curse you! Curse you! Darn you all to heck!
Prologue
What is Hell?
The answer to that is: it depends.
It depends on who you are, which particular cult of religious belief holds cultural sway where and when you are born and raised, and how many televangelists you are exposed to as a child. Country music may also be a factor. PowerPoint presentations cannot be ruled out.
The problem is that even within a single religious idiom, the men (and it's always men) in the funny outfits and ridiculous hats who take everything so seriously can't agree. Take Christianity. If you were a Christian born during the fifteenth century, Hell was the place of fire and brimstone where you were sent for not doing what you were told by your social betters. If you were a Puritan of the seventeenth century, Hell was a place of fire and brimstone where you were sent for smiling, thinking about smiling, or otherwise just on general principles. Catholics could expect to be sent to the fire and brimstone for thinking about sex, Lutherans could expect to be sent to the fire and brimstone for thinking about Catholics, and now the followers of televangelists can expect to be sent to the fire and brimstone for not sending enough money, even if these guys are more into loud suits rather than funny outfits and ludicrous hats; embezzlement, extra-marital sex and hypocrisy are all okay, though, if some of these guys are anything to judge by, because the ones giving the sermons ought to know, right?
(There is a school of thought that suggests that, if Heaven is going to be full of the sort of people who are convinced that they are going there, then spending eternity in their company would be entirely hellish, in which case, the argument starts to do your head in. I mean, let's face it, if the Almighty is going to have to spend forever putting up with Jimmy Swaggart, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, Ted Haggard, and their ilk, then He must've done something very naughty indeed in a previous existence.)
One way or another, the whole overarching theme of Christian Eternal Damnation can traditionally be summed up in the word: barbeque.
It's fiery pits, it's roasting, it's toasting, it's peeling, it's sealing, it's rotisseries and smoke and flame and endless suffocating heat. Anyone who's watched male members of the family stubbornly attempt to get the barbeque going on a particularly inauspicious day - either in the middle of a howling gale with horizontal rain and occasional small domestic animals, or while birds are falling from the skies with heat stroke while the sun is hot enough to melt small domestic animals – has an understanding of the connection between barbeque, and suffering. Especially if their male family members insist that the tribe join them outdoors to eat either mostly raw or mostly carbonised chunks of mammal flesh whilst either developing hypothermia or risking second degree burns simply by stepping out of doors.
(This has led some pundits to speculate that the architect of Hell, whoever that might have been, was an Australian or a Canadian. Until someone can come back from there with conclusive proof about what beer they drink, though, we can't make a judgement about this.)
To other religious belief systems, 'Hell' is something else. Jahannam of Muslim belief is a place of fiery torment, with Zamhareer being a place of coldness, howling blizzards and desolate ice fields. The Nakara of Hindu belief is a place of suffering where the sinful are purged. The ancient Greek Tartarus is a subset of Hades, the overarching Underworld which houses the virtuous and sinful alike, whereas the Norse realm of Niflheim was the final residence of those who did not die an 'heroic' death, which means pretty much anybody who wasn't sliced into enough pieces to fit under the door at Valhalla. (Given that Valhalla was therefore presumably occupied by largely men who enjoyed slicing each other into bits small enough to fit under the door, drinking until they puked, eating half-raw meat with their hands and sleeping on rushes and furs with the dogs, Niflheim may not be such a terrible option. At the very least, it's probably less noisy and smells much better.)
Jean-Paul Sartre famously wrote in his play 'Huis Clos' that "Hell is the others", exploring the idea that Hell is a variable, bespoke concept, tailored to the individual. Also, that the furniture is ugly.
For example, having to read 'Huis Clos' in French whilst learning the language at high school might reasonably be described by students as a working definition of Hell.
The idea of a tailored Hell is closer to the mark than a lot of people think. So is the idea of making your own Hell.
Especially if you aren't exactly human.
Especially especially if you were one of the earliest residents.
The idea seems to be that, once you have been sent to Hell, all other things being equal, you cannot get out of Hell.
It does seem odd that nobody has ever thought to ask "Well, what about visiting another Hell?", considering that the Damned purportedly have nothing else much to think about for eternity, except maybe how hot the brimstone is today, or did you see what beer those fiends were drinking, or can you tell what accent that was I can't even tell an Irishman from a Scot, or maybe even is it just me or can I hear banjos?
Yep, considering the number of lawyers they must have Down There, it does seem odd that nobody ever looked for that loophole.
Well, nobody human, anyway.
Lucifer wasn't human. He couldn't stand the things. But they did have a capacity to try to make the best of a bad situation that he found... amusing. From the earliest uses of language, they had sayings that went along the lines of: If life hands you mammoth turds, use them to pelt your enemies and steal their women. (Thousands of generations later, it had evolved along with its originators, and was rendered as 'If life gives you lemons, make lemonade', but there was something about the mental image of hurling overgrown elephant crap at those who'd annoyed him that appealed to him enormously). So, he looked for a loophole, and went visiting. After all, his Father had sent him to his room, but hadn't actually grounded him, right? (There's a reason one of his titles is the Father of Lawyers, although that one was left out of the Bible, on account of just because he's the Fallen One, the Prince of Darkness, the Evil One, The Most Unclean, The Abomination, The Beast of The Pit and the Son of Perdition, there's no need to be rude).
So, Lucifer's social life didn't suffer all that much. He kept in touch with his friend Iblis, fallen Jinn and Lord of Jahannam, with Hades and Persephone of the Underworld, with Lord Yama and Chitaguptra of Nakara, and Hel of Niflheim. He visited them, and they visited him. Skiing on the frozen bodies of the Damned in Zamhareer, water-skiing on the Styx, a spot of purging of the sinful, and a lazy roll in the furs with Hel, he took those metaphorical mammoth turds, and hurled them just as far as he could. Apparently, his Father never appeared to mind enough to pull down the ivy and nail the windows shut, so to speak.
Of course, that all changed when Michael had to go and ruin everything, by getting them both stuck in the Cage.
He was lucky in his friends, though. They were all terribly sympathetic, and when it became apparent that there was not much any of them could do to get him out, they at least made the effort to stay in touch. They even sent him snacks and treats to keep his spirits up, and encouraging postcards. While he was indisposed, that irritating little Crowley character made sure that his mail was stuffed under the door – probably a calculated move intended to curry favour when he got out (and eventually, he would get out), but he didn't care, as long as the snacks kept arriving. Hel apparently missed him a great deal. She sent him terribly racy letters, reminiscing fondly about the times they'd spent together, and what she'd like to do once he was out again.
Lucifer loved those letters. Not just because hey, he was the original practitioner of Lust, but because reading them aloud drove Michael absolutely nuts. Sometimes, the fiends who worked maintenance on the racks would take their lunches down to the Cage and sit and listen to them. Especially if Lucifer had been snacking on the onion and garlic roti that Chitaguptra sent him. If you sat quietly, and tried not to laugh too loudly, you might be able to follow the thread of conversation...
"I tell you, Michael, she is insatiable! Listen to this bit! 'Although it is cold and the snow flies outside, I lie awake and my loins burn for you, as I pant and moan into my furs'..."
"You are a depraved individual, you know that?"
"Know it? Brother, I invented depravity! You want some of this?"
"You are truly unrepentant, aren't you? What is that?"
"Roti. It's very good, Chitaguptra's devas make it."
"It's not the one with the chilli, is it? I don't like the ones with the chilli."
"No, there's no chilli. Garlic and onion. Mmmmm, here, take the box, so I can turn the page and see what else the lovely Hel has to say about my prowess..."
"Garlic and onion? Oh, no, don't you dare eat any more of that, you know what effect it has on you..."
Pppppp fffffff ththththth rrrrr pppppp
"Aaaaah. Sorry brother. Better out than in, though, yes?"
"Oh, Father, that is... you disgusting thing! How many times must I ask, do not eat any more of that until we figure out how to, I don't know, open a window or something..."
"Don't be so prissy, Golden Boy. I do not understand how Father's General could be so squeamish."
"Squeamish has nothing to do with it! I am offended by the stench of your corruption!"
"It's nothing to do with corruption, it's the sulphur compounds in allium vegetables. Hey, listen to this bit..."
"I have no wish to listen to your pornographic communications, Lucifer! You are the Father of Fornication, the Father of Filth, The Father of Fault, the Father of Flaws, the Father of... "
"Flatulence?"
"Well, I was going to say 'Falsehood', but since you mention it..."
Pppppp fffffff ththththth rrrrr pppppp
"Oh, for Father's sake! There are days, Lucifer, when I miss your vessel. At least I could have an intelligent conversation with him!'
"Right, right, like he never passed gas with a ferocity that frightened the imps in the lower Circles."
"At least he had the decency to apologise! AND I seem to recall, he never invited me to give it a mark out of ten..."
"All right, all right, calm down, Michael. Here, you can have the rest of the baklava that Persephone sent. To make it up to you. As a bonus, I'll throw in another paragraph from Hel. 'At night, you haunt my dreams, coming to me as favoured Prince of Darkness, your rod athrust as you plough my womanfield until I writhe as the salmon twists upon the spear'..."
"Oh, Father, I truly believe that I would cheerfully gnaw through my own left wing to get out of here if it means I don't have to listen to another word from that woman. If it was one of your Hindu friends I could understand it, what with the Kama Sutra, but seriously, who does she think she is? Aphrodite?"
"A moment, brother, the mail is here. Let's see... postcard from Iblis, postcard from Sojobo, junk mail, junk mail, letter... oh, it's addressed to both of us."
Lucifer turned the plain envelope over and opened it. His face drained of colour as he read it.
"What is it, brother?" Michael couldn't help the concern he felt. "What does it say?"
"You might want to grab you wing and start chewing," Lucifer told him, handing over the small card.
Michael took it, and read it.
Michael and Lucifer,
My office, now.
Father.
There will be Winchesters. And probably Castiel, too. There may or may not be chocolate involvement.
Reviews might encourage the bunny, so, encourage away!