Story Notes: As the title suggests, this fic is composed of two connected but independent stories which can be read separately. They are both AU after season three and have the same premise. The first is a comedy, the second, a tragedy. Neither are part of my ongoing Boy King series.
Chapter Notes: Title comes from the song I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters.
Chapter Warnings: language, irreverence.
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You'd Probably Go to Heaven
Summary: The way Dean sees it, there are two kind of comedies: good ones, and ones that pretend to be comedies and then get all emotional.
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They didn't know who he was. They didn't know what he was. No one did. (Or, at least, no one who would talk to them about it, which meant all of Heaven could have been in the loop and they'd still be out of it.) He had turned up after Sam tossed Michael and Raphael into the Pit with their brother. He looked human, or at least could when he wanted to. He had really blue eyes and a tan trench coat and a tie which was always backwards.
He claimed to be God.
Sam said that he wasn't, and Dean believed him. Still, nameless trench coat had a few points of evidence in his favor. He was impossibly powerful, for one. He had little to no sense of humor. He was incredibly sanctimonious.
Honestly, Dean didn't know how they hadn't been smited yet. Smote? Smitten? Whatever. The point was, they definitely should have been carbon silhouettes on the wall of some cheap-ass motel by now, what with Sam being the King of Hell and everything. Yet, somehow, they weren't. Maybe it was some yin and yang, universal balance thing: no good without evil. Maybe it was just that Sam was more or less un-smiteable.
At this point, Dean didn't really care about the hows and whys of the two supernatural beings who flanked him. He just wanted both of them to shut up already.
"Clearly, leading people to such institutions should not be of the same consequence."
"Right," Sam agreed easily. "They should be worth more, because their practices are actually closer to the biblical teachings."
Dean really, really wished he trusted these two enough to leave them alone together. They had been arguing about their stupid point system for the past half hour, and all because Sam had to go and claim that more people went to church for fear of Hell than love of Heaven. Now they were neck-deep in negotiations about the rules of their fucking pissing contest, with Sam scribbling notes on the back of a porn magazine the last patron left behind and arguing like the almost-lawyer he was.
At the moment, the subject of discussion was liberal protestant churches.
"Their doctrines are vague to the point of self-evident truths. Essentially, their only commands are that humans be kind to one another and praise God."
"Aren't those the only commands of the Bible, essentially?" Sam challenged. "'Love the Lord with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your strength. And the second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself.'"
Trench Coat, like always when Sam quoted scripture, looked constipated and a little turned on.
Dean cursed his life.
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The rules ended up being so complicated that Trench Coat appointed one of his angels to keep track.
"I want to meet him," said Sam immediately.
Trench Coat raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment on the blatant display of distrust. Instead, he nodded, tilted his head to the side, and an angel appeared in a flutter of wings. He was small and young-looking, wearing a stupid uniform from Weiner Hut.
His eyes flickered from Trench Coat to Sam and back again, and he went the shade of gas-station milk. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and did a fairly good impression of a mouse caught between a cobra and a tiger.
"Take it easy, kid," said Dean, taking pity. "No one's gonna hurt you. We just wanna make sure that the Good Lord Almighty here is shooting straight."
"What's your name?" Sam inquired kindly, shifting his expression and posture to look as nonthreatening as possible. He had always been good at that, despite his height, and Dean could never figure out if he did it consciously or not.
"S-Samandriel," the angle stuttered out. He swallowed and added, "Sir," with a sideways glance at Trench Coat, who gave a tiny nod of assent.
"Okay, Samandriel," said Sam evenly. "Like my brother said, I just want to make sure everything's in order. Could you repeat the rules back to me, please? Whenever you're ready."
Samandriel licked his lips, and nervously, haltingly, began to speak.
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"This is wrong on so many levels."
Dean glared at the large, whitewashed suburban house as if it was its fault that his brother had some sort of weird unresolved sexual tension thing going on with a guy claiming to be God.
"You didn't have to come."
Dean refused to dignify that with a response, and after a moment Sam rolled his eyes and climbed out of the car, grabbing his brand new clipboard as he went.
"I'll only be a minute."
Dean watched his long legs (khaki-clad, for authenticity, and let it never be said that Sam did anything halfway) carry him up the path to the front door. He was close enough that he could see the frown on the face of the graying, well-dressed white guy who opened the door. He could also see the way the guy tried to close the door on Sam, and he could hear the bang when Sam's hand shot out to stop him.
He couldn't see Sam's face, but given the look of terror on well-dressed-white-guy's face, he'd be willing to bet money that his brother's ingratiating smile had turned demented, his hazel eyes snapped to black. The kid was getting really, really good at that part, which was one of the reasons Dean hadn't joined him up at the door (besides the fact that this whole thing was really fucking stupid). He'd seen enough crazy in his brother's face for one lifetime, thank you very much.
He tapped a drum solo on the steering wheel.
"Alright," said Sam as he slid back into the passenger seat. "Just one more thing."
He pulled out his cell phone as Dean pulled away. When he spoke, it was with the southern drawl he sometimes put on when he needed to sound particularly trustworthy.
"Hello, Father McKinney? Hi Father. Yeah, I was just wonderin' if y'all had anyone in the church who can make housecalls. . . . I was thinkin' somethin' more sorta preacher-like, if ya got somethin' like that. See, I've got this friend, an' he's not what you'd call a believer. . . . 'Course, 'course, I hear ya, Father, but see, he's been actin' sorta strange lately, see, an' I really feel the Lord is callin' on me to help him out, but nothin' outa my mouth is gonna get in his ears, if ya know what I'm sayin'. . . . Really? Thank you, Father. Thank you kindly. Y'all are doin' something real good."
Sam hung up the phone with a self-satisfied expression.
"The Lord is calling you to help this guy out, huh, Sammy? Would that be actual God, or the one who can't figure out how to wear a tie?"
"Bite me."
When Trench Coat realized that Sam had converted a prominent officer of the American Atheists to Catholicism, the look he gave him could have melted lead. It was the first time in Dean's life he had spontaneously thought the word 'smolder.' He immediately wanted the rinse his mind out with bleach.
Sam smirked, and Trench Coat's eyes fell to his mouth. Unconsciously, the Not-God licked his lips.
Now Dean wanted to take a shower in bleach.
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Things were okay. As long as Sam was at odds with Heaven, however fucking stupid the rivalry was, none of the demons grumbled too much. And as long as none of the demons grumbled too much, Sam didn't feel the need to smite anyone. And as long as Sam didn't feel the need to smite anyone, he also didn't feel the need to put the Colt between his teeth and pull the trigger.
So, yeah. Things were okay. Things were completely, Planters-factory-explosion nuts, but they were okay.
Until they weren't.
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Dean awoke to the sound of Sam cursing viciously.
"Dude, what?" Dean grumbled, pushing himself upright groggily. "Our Lord and Savior manage to convert the Dalai Lama or something?"
Sam snapped his laptop shut, and the instant Dean saw his face he knows that this wasn't about the game.
"Sam."
Sam ignored him, turning on the TV. The channel which had been showing a dumb Western last night now projected a shot of blood-soaked room. For a second Dean thought it was some sort of crime show – until he saw the news emblem at the bottom.
Wordless and grim, Sam flicked through the channels.
". . . inexplicable massacre . . ."
". . . federal investigators are baffled . . ."
". . . over six dozen dead . . ."
". . . terrorism . . ."
". . . images may be disturbing to some viewers."
Sam turned it off.
"You think it's . . . ?" Dean trailed off. Sam was nearly vibrating with tension, face white and jaw clenched, utterly, apoplectically furious. Clearly, he knew, or thought he knew, exactly who was responsible.
Sam turned sharply, and the door flew off its hinges. Every light in the room motel sputtered and sparked as he stormed into the office, Dean only pausing to grab his gun as he rushed to follow. He caught up just in time to see Sam seize the demon-possessed clerk by the collar and haul him across the desk with one hand.
"The man who calls himself God. Find him. Now."
The demon nodded frantically. It smoked out and Sam dropped the poor bastard it had been riding, who collapsed bonelessly on the floor and stared up at them in gibbering terror.
"Sorry about that," Dean apologized, crouching down while Sam paced back and forth, fuming. "It's okay now. No one's gonna hurt you."
He felt like he said that a lot these days. At least it was mostly true. Not that it was very convincing when the lights were flickering in time with Sam's growling mutters. Dean glanced over his shoulder at him, back to the sweating, incoherent motel clerk, and sighed.
"Look, I haven't got my wallet on me, but I'll leave some cash when we go. Buy yourself a drink, on us. Forget this ever happened."
Something about that seemed to resonate. The guy tore his eyes away from Sam to look at Dean, and nodded slowly. Dean patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and straightened up again.
"C'mon, Sammy," he said soothingly, taking his brother by the arm and steering him out of the office. "I think we've scared the locals enough."
"There are rules," Sam snarled through clenched teeth. "He broke the rules; he broke the fucking rules –"
Every electrical device in sight, probably every one within a five mile radius, was going nuts. (Except in the Impala. Sam's powers never touched her, no matter how upset he was.) Sam's fury was leaking into his eyes, black and shining like an oil spill. Dean hadn't seen him this pissed since one of his demons spat at Dean.
"Easy, man," said Dean, grabbing Sam's shoulders. "Calm the fuck down. You're not gonna solve anything by throwing a temper tantrum."
Sam glared. Dean held his gaze. Sam conceded, taking a breath and relaxing slightly under Dean's hands. His eyes cleared. The parking lot quieted.
"He broke the rules," Sam repeated, but this time it was plaintive, almost a whine. King of Hell or not, right now Sam was all little brother, shoulders hunched, hazel eyes wide and damp. He was hurt and scared, covering for it with anger. Dean had taught him that.
"I know, Sammy."
"I don't want to kill him."
"You won't have to," Dean promised. Even if I have to do it myself.
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The found him, eventually. He was a crumpled form on the floor of a gas station bathroom, a far cry from the distant, unfathomable creature Dean was used to. Sam drops down to shake him awake, only to recoil in horror and disgust.
"They're souls," he breathed, eyes wide. "That's where he was getting the power from. He drank in human souls."
Just like that, the anger was back, and before Dean could stop him Sam had surged forward and slapped the man who would have been God across his bloodied face.
Trench Coat opened his eyes, but they were drifting, unfocused. Sam was having none of it. He seized Trench Coat's chin and forced him to meet his eyes.
"Where did you get them? Where?"
He received a single word in response, too breathless and choked for Dean to understand. Sam straightened up, face cold and unreadable. Dean had been right to call his earlier outburst a temper tantrum – this, this was real anger. Sam was breathing evenly, eerily still; calmly, silently livid. For the first time since he had crawled out of his grave to find him standing blood-soaked and black-eyed above it, Dean was genuinely afraid of his little brother.
"I need to pay someone a visit."
And then Sam was gone, leaving Dean with a trench-coated pile of bone and blood. He muttered an oath, glanced over at the demon which hovered warily in the doorway.
"You got any idea what's wrong with him?"
The demon (who was riding a strawberry blonde, heavily freckled young woman in overalls) shook her head. Dean sighed.
"Fine. Help me get him to the car."
He patched up the most obvious wounds as best he could and then all he could do was sit there, an unconscious Not-God in his backseat and a subservient demon watching from a safe distance away. He cursed Trench Coat, cursed the real God, cursed Sam, cursed the real devil. (Because that was where Sam was, talking to that silver-tongued son of a bitch through the bars of his cage. That was where Sam always went when they needed answers that were beyond them.)
Sam returned, of course. He always did. He looked grim and exhausted, which he also always did. It had only been a couple hours here on the Earthly plane, but who the fuck knew how long it had been down there. Dean wanted to force Sam back to a motel and into bed, but Sam said,
"I know what's going on. I can fix this."
– and Dean couldn't remember when this nameless stranger had become so important to them, to him, but he found himself nodding. After that, everything was a blur of Sam barking orders and demons bringing blood and herbs and Sam painting a sigil on the dingy concrete and Dean was ninety-nine percent sure that the moon shouldn't have looked like that at this time of year –
– and somehow Dean ended up being the one holding Trench Coat in his arms while Sam placed the finishing touches on the ritual, whatever the fuck it was, and then Trench Coat was shining –
— and Dean barely had time to register that the light didn't burn before Sam eyes widened –
"Those aren't just souls."
– and then Sam was reaching into the light, into the Not-God, grimacing in pain and pulling out handfuls and handfuls of something thick and black and moving, and Dean's stomach turned –
— and then, quite suddenly, it was over.
Sam sagged to his knees.
"'M okay," he said weakly, waving Dean off when he made an instinctive move towards him. If Dean had thought he was lying he would have dumped Trench Coat out of his lap and been at his side in an instant, but Sam, surprisingly, did seem okay, beyond his obvious fatigue.
Blue eyes fluttered open. They looked different than before, Dean thought. Warmer. Afraid.
"Hey," Sam greeted tiredly. He frowned a little, as if listening to something they couldn't hear. "You're an angel," he said, like maybe it would have been a revelation if he had the energy.
"Yes," Trench Coat agreed. His voice was rougher than Dean was used to hearing it. "I . . . was. You are human."
"I was," said Sam, with a twisted smile. "My name is Sam, but you probably knew that."
The Not-God – angel – whatever, nodded, pushing himself upright and awkwardly extracting himself from Dean's hold.
"Most every being in heaven knows of you."
Sam shrugged, cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"So, what's your name?"
"My name . . . ?" He looked confused, as if he couldn't remember it. He frowned with the effort of recollection. "My name is . . . Castiel."
"Castiel," Sam repeated, as if he was testing it out. He smiled. "Welcome back, Cas."
