Author's Note:
I am not making light of any particular religion or faith here, just doing the old Tom Holt thing to be honest. I am not trying to offend anyone's religion or belief system. Trust me, I'm an atheist who believes everyone should just go with what they believe.
"Is that everything? What's left to do?" He asked, leaning back in His swivel chair and lifting His feet onto the desk to stretch His weary legs.
"Er… nothing awfully important, sir," Michael said gingerly, shifting the cardboard folder from one hand to the other in sheer nervousness.
"So there is something. What is it?" He asked, looking at the angel in the sharp suit, admiring the ingenuity that had been employed to get wings out the back without spoiling the smooth cut.
Michael sniffed to himself, letting his eyes flick guiltily at the folder in his hand before straightening his shoulders and putting both hands behind his back decisively.
"Really, it's nothing, sir. It can wait," he said quickly.
"Bollocks can it," He said irritably, taking His feet off the desk and sitting up straight, putting a hand out for the folder. "You don't create an entire universe without knowing a moment of indecision when you see one. Come on, what is it?"
Michael cleared his throat politely.
"It rather looks like, well, that we might have a..." he began, with an amount of trepidation his boss had not seen in an angel since the Dark Ages.
"Well? Come on, out with man," He prompted.
"It's these requests, sir. We started getting a few, and we didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary. I mean, this sort of thing always happens after a loved one comes up here to claim his space, after all. We thought the amount of prayers was… touching, sir. Cute, if you will. Something to file on the 'Odds and Sods' list, nothing more."
"And then?" He asked, waving His hand at him in a circular motion. Michael approached and lifted the folder with a slowness born of insecurity. He paused.
"And… well… They sort of snowballed, sir. They just kept coming and coming. I don't know who let the cat out of the bag, or who's been telling people what's going on in Department H, but I have to say it bears all the hallmarks of a leak." He stretched his hand out and let the folder fall into that of his boss.
He stepped back quickly as He opened the brown cardboard folder and let His eyes run over the first page.
"'Dear God, I know I haven't been a regular church-goer or a very good Christian so far, but I want to let you know that I will be your loyal follower for all eternity if you'd just…'" His voice trailed off as He read the rest of the prayer, His lips moving slowly. He huffed out of annoyance, then pulled the page up and read the next one. And the next one. And the next one.
"As I said, sir, not important. It can be seen to another time," Michael managed, trying to make light of it. But He was not amused.
"What in blue blazes is going on here?" He demanded angrily, looking up at Michael.
"Shall I call downstairs for a thunderbolt, sir?" he asked quickly. "Anyone pending on our Smite List?"
"Don't be ridiculous," He replied tartly. "It's hardly smiting time. Not yet, anyway." He looked back down and thought for a second. "And they're all the same?"
"Pretty much, sir. They're all asking for the same thing. And… well, we've noticed quite a worrying trend. The newest ones are… well, they're offering a trade, sir."
"A trade? A trade?" He demanded, astonished. "I'm the Supreme Being! The One Redeemer! The Puppy's Privates! What could they possibly offer Me?" He cried.
Michael mumbled something and He leaned forward.
"Pardon me?" He asked politely. But Michael recognised it masked an outraged anger about to erupt.
"Ah… someone on our Wanted List. Pretty high up, actually," he offered nervously.
"What number?" He asked cautiously.
"Er…" Michael flicked his gaze down to his wrist quickly, then back at his boss. "Currently? Number twelve."
"Hmm. So let me understand this…" He looked down at the file, and the first page, then back up at Michael speculatively. "All these requests, which appear to number in excess of eight hundred, and all from women-"
"And three men, sir."
"-and three men," He acknowledged, "are all asking for the same thing?"
"Ah… yes," he nodded.
"I don't understand. They want Me to personally intervene and release some…" He looked down at the file again, "some fellow called Dean Weechester from Department H?"
"Winchester, sir."
"Excuse me?"
"Dean Winchester, sir. I think that's a typo," he added quietly, pointing a finger at the paper needlessly.
He sighed, sitting back in His chair. "And for this divine intervention they're willing to…" He flicked through the pages quickly, absorbing all the information within. "...They're willing to… return to the church, be nice to their neighbours, make up with their gay sons, stop committing adultery with the milkman, stop coveting their sister's new house, sell their soul to Me - sell their soul?" He interrupted himself. "What do they think this is, the Bad Fire? Good Me, next they'll be offering goats and first-born sons as sacrifices!" He spluttered.
"Oh those requests are at the back, sir," Michael put in helpfully. "They're the most recent. Desperation, probably."
He looked up at Michael, then back at the paper for a long moment.
"Just who is this Declan person?" He asked, incredulous.
"Dean, sir. Dean Winchester. He's currently residing at our Fallen One's pleasure, in Department H. He's in the special wing, sir, Solitary."
"And just how do you know this?" He demanded.
Michael raised a hand and coughed politely, keeping his eyes on the carpet. "I ah… I know a few chaps down there, sir. Helps speed up the transfer of files and souls, in case of clerical error." He looked up at his boss slowly, expecting him to be angry.
"Well, makes sense, I suppose," He sighed, and Michael breathed out a small sigh of relief. "So this David boy, what do we know about him?"
"Dean, sir. Dean Winchester. Born 1979 to a good man and his wife. The man, John, did as we bade him sir, even fulfilling the 10:41 as planned. He's one of the three men who filed a request, sir, but a little bolshy, if you ask me, playing the 'doing your work without believing is still working' card a bit strong." He paused, watching his boss' reaction closely. "Wife's got something of a question mark over her file, sir. Apparently she was scheduled to get here around 2012, but due to some kind of intervention by Department H, she was on her way here in 1983. Then due to more entanglements with Downstairs, she never actually reached us, and then-"
"What was her name?"
"Mary, sir."
"Mary! Well, that's a rum'un, and no mistake," He mused, rubbing His chin. "John and Mary. Hmm... So Mary's gone to Dept. H, eh?" He asked.
"No, sir. She never reached there, either. It took us a while to track her down after she slipped through the system and re-appeared in 2006. She was wilfully withholding, pending protection of her family, sir."
"Ah. She's a Sacrificing Soul case, is she?"
"Yes sir, it appears so. Doesn't that go in her son's favour?"
"I suppose it does," He sighed. "She'd know him best of all. Although every mother thinks her son is an angel at heart, whether he is or not." He paused. "Any other family?" He asked.
"One brother, sir. Samuel."
"Nice name. Bit judgemental, is he?" He quipped.
"Very good, sir," Michael allowed with a barely-concealed eye-roll. "Actually, he's also a bit of a grey area, sir. He's supposed to have been marked for something to do with the re-ordering of Downstairs," he said. "Of course, the people I spoke to had no idea what - it all seems to be in rather a state of flux, sir. No-one seems to know what exactly this brother Samuel is supposed to be doing. However, word is that Dean was the guiding light for him, sir. In securing a release for him, we may be keeping this Samuel on the straight and narrow in his own terms."
"John, Mary, Samuel, Dean…" He muttered to Himself. "I get 'John', and I get 'Mary', and I get 'Samuel'. But what kind of name is 'Dean'?"
"Problem, sir?"
"Oh no, just thinking out loud, old man, not to worry," He said, but his voice still sounded pre-occupied. "Dean… as in Old English? Anglo-Saxon for 'valley'? Hmm… Didn't have that name around in my time. I don't know, these new-fangled names," He sighed to Himself.
He looked up and caught the angel watching Him with admiration and open curiosity.
"Anyway, have you checked the file on these two brothers? Believers, are they?"
"No, sir. Dean appears to be an apathetic or pragmatic agnostic, although he's always used the power of our best-selling book, whether he believes it himself or not - he seems the type to judge that it doesn't matter if he believes it, as long as it works because others do. And he's always had a firm belief in Dept. H, just not us Upstairs. Very curious. Samuel has always found time to send us a five-minute thanks a day, sir. He normally asks us to look after certain people; his brother, someone called Bobby, a few girls' names here and there, and has a constant unvoiced desire to reassure John that he and his brother are coping without him. Sometimes he adds in the hope that John found Mary at some point, too. Quite a good lad, by all accounts," Michael nodded faithfully.
"So… What do you think, Michael? Do we barter and get this Dougan-"
"Dean, sir."
"-Dean out? So he can be his brother's keeper?"
"It seems like a good idea, sir. It's a textbook 'want-to-believe-er looking after his yet-to-fulfill-God's-Will charge' deal."
"Are you sure?" He asked, almost amused.
"Well, wasn't it you who said 'one should never look into the eyes of one's own gods'?" Michael smiled.
"That was Kai Opaka and you know it, you wicked winged avenger," He chuckled. "Anyway, what's the rush with this Dennis?"
"Dean, sir."
"-Dean. What's the import of him being sent down to Dept. H?" He held up a hand to stop Michael answering for a second. "Was it his time?"
"It wasn't, sir - he wasn't due to come to us until at least 2062. It was a snaffoo, sir, by Downstairs."
"So he's not supposed to be there anyway?"
"Well… He did sell his soul, sir. Awful business, but it did skirt the edge of entrapment," he said firmly.
"Really?"
"Yes, sir. I was rather appalled at the lack of intervention by Dept. H's boss, in all truth. Shocking bit of subterfuge in order to secure a contract from a human soul. Haven't seen such tactics since Celine Dion's first record deal."
"Really?" He blurted in surprise. "Well, that changes things a little, doesn't it?"
"And to add to that, I did some checking and these two boys seems to have done us a few favours, clearing up a few of those rogue elements we talked about in last month's meeting of department heads. I believe we've seen a downturn in certain areas, such as Soul Corruption and Failing Faith. And they have managed to return a few lost souls to their rightful places," he added with a small smile.
"They repair demons to Dept. H?" He asked, prepared to be impressed but with due surprise and sufficient disbelief.
"They do, sir. Or at least, they did. Samuel doesn't seem to have done much of anything since his brother was sent down, sir. Truth be told, our boys in the Guardian Dept. say he's in a pretty bad way," he said apologetically.
"And likely to go to seed?"
"Very, sir. He's got a few friends trying to keep his chin up, but I really don't see it working for much longer," he said sadly. "Very attached to his brother, sir. He did more or less bring him up after their mother died."
"I see," He nodded seriously. "Hmm… So this Most Wanted number twelve. Who is it exactly?"
Michael's face became a little evasive suddenly, as he shifted his heavenly weight from one foot to the other. He sniffed slowly, then swallowed in a way that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else than his boss' office.
"One Bela Talbot, sir. Formerly Abby Morris."
"Wasn't she the one with the… family thing? And the deal and… and that little gun thing?" He asked vaguely.
Michael appeared to let out a tiny breath of relief, but the tension in his wings stayed.
"Ms Morris, sir. The lost one."
"Lost one?" He prompted, confused.
Michael's wings tensed further in alarm. He took a deep breath.
"She was the one supposed to be in Dept. H just six weeks ago, Earth time. She was never actually confirmed as having arrived though. Very worrying for Downstairs, as she had her own contract. It seems that either someone down there lied about the terms, or lied about the penance served according to the contract. Either way, it's a real headache, sir. We really need to track her down and ascertain which, before we make sure she gets head-counted in through the door down there."
"What! We can't have this!" He blurted, annoyed. "Why wasn't I told about this! What happens if they do this again? A contract is a contract!"
"I wasn't aware you hadn't been informed, sir," he said quickly. "I was told that Gabriel-"
"Alright, alright," he said quickly, waving his hands to quieten him. "Let's worry about the whole story later. Where is this Ms Morris now? Do we know?"
"Not at this time, sir, although I did put the word out that if any angel were to come across news, they were to apprise me immediately."
"Absolutely! This is simply not done!" He spluttered. "Of all the cheek! Lying about a contract, indeed!" He blustered to Himself for a moment, phrases like 'the very idea!' and 'what's the cosmos coming to?' muttered just loud enough to reach Michael's uncomfortable ears.
"I am most sorry, sir. I thought you had been informed of the situation regarding the wayward Ms Morris," he managed, his face slightly red at the thought of Him angry with anyone in The Office Upstairs.
He sat back and let out a long huff. "It's not your fault, Michael. I'll call on Gabriel later and check on the whereabouts of his report." He thought about it for a second, then looked up at Michael again, shaking His head slightly. "Can't see to every one of the six billion all the time, can we?"
"No, sir," Michael said, relieved. "So can I leave this Dean Winchester affair in your hands, sir?"
"I'll give it some thought," He allowed. "I'm quite undecided."
"Ah," Michael offered knowingly, then clamped his mouth shut. He waited, but nothing else seemed forthcoming.
He looked down at the folder under his hand, then up at the angel again. "Something else?"
"Well… no." Michael flicked his gaze down at the folder then made them dart away again guiltily. "Anything else you'd like me to do before I have the canteen close down for the evening, sir?"
He leaned back in his chair again, putting His elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling His fingers slowly. He let His head fall back and lean against the headrest as He pondered the ceiling, and why one of his best angels wanted a favour but was unable to voice it.
"When was the last time I intervened in Dept. H's affairs?" He asked.
"Er…" Michael glanced at his watch briefly. "24th November, 1991."
"Oh. Freddie, was it?"
"Yes sir, Freddie Mercury, sir. Re-patriated up here after he was abducted on his way up," he confirmed with a nod.
"And that turned out well," He mused. "But I'm not sure about this. There must have been a very good reason this Donald-"
"Dean, sir."
"-this Dean sold his soul in the first place. And he did do it of his own free will," He reminded him. "You're waiting for me to ask why he did it, aren't you?" He grinned suddenly.
"You know me too well, sir," Michael admitted.
"Well? Why did he do it?"
"I believe he was manipulated."
"By Downstairs?"
"By a certain rogue element from Downstairs, sir," he replied smoothly.
"Which one?"
"The one who used to be our Most Wanted number one," he grinned.
"No! Really? And I missed the report on that one - disasters in Thailand to sort out and what-not. What did happen to Trouble?"
Michael gave himself a moment to take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and letting himself enjoy the moment.
"Dean Winchester, sir. Dean Winchester happened to Trouble. We placed one of our retribution tools in the family's path a while ago. Dean Winchester shot him with it and sent him to That Place We Don't Talk About."
"Oh, really," He breathed, relaxing in His chair and smiling to Himself in a rather smug manner that only higher beings can really ever get away with. "So Trouble is stuck there, is he? For all eternity, perchance..? In torment..? Doing penance..?" He mused lightly, but the amusement in His eyes more than made up for His cool reception to the news.
"Oh yes," Michael replied with enough relish to cover five thousand hot dogs.
"Well then," He said, sitting up and reaching for the folder, opening His top drawer in the desk smartly.
Michael leaned forward slightly, watching Him pull out the red stamp and place it over the front of the file firmly. He stamped it with a snap and sat back, looking at Michael.
"Everything else in order, is it?" He asked politely. The tickled light in His eyes made Michael warm all over.
"Everything else is fine, sir. Shall I expedite the search for Ms Morris, sir?"
"I should think so, Michael," He said with withering disapproval. "I'd hate for her to turn up again. I wouldn't put it past Dept. H to pull a fast one."
Michael nodded before hesitating. "Ah… sir?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, Michael."
"Well… what if she does come floating to the surface, after all this gets shaken out?"
"Well then we do as you've outlined, Michael. We ask her politely where she's been all this time, and then hand her over to Dept. H. They have to be curious, after all," He smiled genially. "And then they'll owe us a favour. Might even get them to pay for their bar bill from last century's holiday office do, eh?"
Michael nodded and flicked his gaze down to the front of the folder. The wording of the stamp surprised him.
"'Pass go, collect one restored life'?" he prompted, looking up again at his boss. "No penance for his womanising ways, sir? No judgement on his life so far?"
"Well if all those requests have come from women he's met along the way, he can't have been too much of a cad, can he?" He reasoned. "A spurned, jilted, angered or hostile woman would not have offered the sort of prayers you have in those pages."
"Not to press the point, but he's not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow himself, sir. Just a yardstick for his brother, I fancy." He paused, but He did not respond, just watched, amused. "So no slight penance for his pragmatic agnostic ways?"
"Not yet," He said wisely, "not yet. All in good time. He still has a certain few things to do for us, don't forget. And there's Samuel to keep in check. That's penance enough for a brother, don't you think?"
"As always, I bow to your superior wisdom, sir," Michael said with a wide smile.
"Then be off with you Michael, get some work done. It seems you have to get a copy of that file Downstairs and verified so we can get this chap out, and I have to make a few calls to a few soul-restorers I know."
"Yes, sir," Michael nodded happily, nodding out of respect before backing away to the door.