You may be assured that, since this is the Jimiverse, where only happy funny things happen, neither Dean nor Sam will be traumatised by time spent in unearthly realms: there will be no horrific flashbacks or PTSD. Sam is not stroppy because he's having bad memories, he's just pissy because he has to fill in for Lucifer, be in the company of demons, and wait for a ludicrously out of date operating system to get its shit together before he can do anything. Oh, and he feels like a bit of a twit in an all-white outfit (it's Supernatural endverse rather than Constantine, because a) he would just shudder at the idea of having to walk around with his feet dripping ectoplasmy stuff and b) he would shudder even more at having to walk around barefoot in Hell, given that even the best bred imp will sometimes forget its housetraining). But it's better than the leather pants. Just.
Chapter Eleven
Dean stood as still as he could while Sephariel fitted his armour. "Yow!" he yipped as something pinched.
"My apologies, Michaelsword," said Sephariel immediately, "But it has been a long time since I have assisted with this armour." The angel actually smiled. "I have kept it in trim, of course, polished and oiled, but it has been so long, it is a joy to see it deployed again."
"You look very well in it," commended Ameniel, "Truly a leader to ensure stability in Heaven at this unsettled time."
"Oh, uh, good, that's good," replied Dean, trying to hitch surreptitiously at his unfamiliar undergarment.
"It is only to be expected that the fit will be perfect – it was, after all, made for you," noted Ameniel. "The Host will be much reassured when you expose yourself before them."
"They may get more exposure than they bargained for," muttered Dean with another hitch, "Er," he stared down at his cuirass as it was buckled into place, "Hey, has anybody ever wondered why you'd bother to put, like, nipples on armour?"
"You would have to ask the Romans," shrugged Ameniel.
"Which, of course, we may not do," added Sephariel judiciously, "As that would be intrusion."
"Although if you were determined to find out, you could send a diplomatic communiqué to Elysium," mused Ameniel, "The Romans were pagan for a large proportion of their history after all, and there would doubtless be plenty of armourers there."
"Isn't there, like, a, uh, Circle of Virtuous Pagans Up Here?" asked Dean.
Ameniel didn't quite roll his eyes, but he was clearly struggling not to. "Oh, if it was permitted I would give that Dante fellow such a talking to," he almost-complained, "If it was up to him, we'd all be going around in circles for eternity! Don't unquestioningly believe everything you read written by humans, is my advice."
"Yeah? What about the Bible?" queried Dean.
"As I said," sighed Ameniel.
"Of course, Father would be happy to accommodate any virtuous non-believers," confided Sephariel, "But frankly, whenever Roman gods have visited, they haven't liked the music very much." His tone became just a little bit snippy. "Apparently, they think that Dis Pater throws better parties."
"Oh, er, well," Dean shrugged, "I guess that it will just remain, uh, one of afterlife's little mysteries, then."
Sephariel continued to fuss with buckles and straps and things that Dean never even knew existed – "A war skirt? It's actually called a war skirt? Wow, who knew?" "Well, the Romans did, Michaelsword, it was so named because that is essentially exactly what it is, a fringe of leather panelling to be worn in front of the tunic during combat…" "Uh, yeah, thanks for that, Seph." – until finally his red cloak was fitted into place, and the angel stepped back.
"So, are we done?" asked Dean, wiggling and wondering whether there might be a place for something slightly more modern under his tunic, even if it was only a piece of elastic.
"Almost," Sephariel turned and handed over a belt and scabbard, his face a picture of reverence. "Your blade, Michaelsword."
Taking the sheath, Dean looked at the hilt. It looked battered and worn, well used but well maintained. He'd been raised in the tradition of never drawing a weapon unless you intended to use it, but when he laid his hand to it, he found that he just couldn't resist.
With a metallic shhhhhing noise, the flaming sword sprang from its scabbard. Beaming, Dean gave it a couple of experimental swooshes, whilst the angels looked worried.
"Er, perhaps it would be… prudent to put away your weapon," suggested Sephariel with a wince.
"It's okay," Dean grinned, "I got it. It was made for me, after all."
"Well, yes," Ameniel agreed, "But there have been… mishaps before now."
Dean paused. "Mishaps?"
"It was before I was, when Michael was young," Sephariel told him, "But he was, by all accounts very keen to grow into his role as Father's general, and he started practising with his sword very early on."
"Father told him to wait until he was older," Ameniel carried on, "But Michael was adamant, so he was wielding the weapon while it was too large for him, when suddenly… swoosh!"
"Swoosh?" echoed Dean.
"Swoosh," confirmed Ameniel grimly. "And New Zealand was suddenly two islands."
"Yeah?" mused Dean.
"Then he started to whirl it around," Sephariel resumed the story, "And once he got started, he couldn't stop, and swoosh again!"
"Again, huh?" Dean nodded.
"Many swooshes, actually," Sephariel said, "And suddenly, Japan was no longer a single land mass."
"Wow." Dean regarded the sword, then resheathed it. "I'll, uh, I'll just keep the, er, swooshing to an absolute minimum, then."
"That would be sensible," agreed the angel armourer, "But you are ready to address the Host, Michaelsword,"
"Okay, then," Dean squared his shoulders, and bounced on his toes a few times, noting that the legionary military boots would actually be pretty good for some serious ass-kicking, "So, where does the, uh, Host collect for departmental meetings?"
"You shall be expected in the Throne Room," Ameniel told him, "Where our Father reigns in glory."
"When He's even here," Dean muttered mutinously. "Okay, Am, lead the way."
Looking every inch a leader, an inspiration, and a worthy general to The Almighty's Host, The Righteous Man strode down the echoing marble corridor after Ameniel.
The effect was somewhat spoiled when he had to stop a couple of times to hitch.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"I can't believe that you lot are still limping along on CRT monitors," griped Sam, frowning at another piece of paper as he tried to bring order to the departmental detritus littering the desk. "And you're several iterations behind with your operating system."
"Well, this is Hell, effendi," Nabiz pointed out philosophically, "If you're here, afterlife isn't meant to be easy."
"I guess not." Sam studied the piece of paper in his hand. It purported to be a memo from Engineering. "Engineering? You have an Engineering Department?"
"Indeed, lord," Nabiz replied, "Somebody has to keep the furnaces running – the Red Energy reactors, running on souls, are a great technological advance on the old brimstone burning ones, and they take more technical ability to operate." His face became wistful. "I have written a report home on the wonderful efficiency gains to be made in upgrading to this new technology, but I'm afraid that Islam is a number of centuries behind Christianity in many things, including willingness for the realm of the wicked to embrace new and more efficient ways to do business with a renewable and environmentally sound resource to take ownership of our mission for client-focused outcomes."
"Well, you sound like you're on the way with the management-speak," Sam muttered, peering at the document. "Whoever wrote this has terrible handwriting."
"It is probably from Snotty, the Chief of Engineering," Nabiz volunteered. "Mr Crowley does not believe that he writes his memos and reports, he is convinced that the demon drops imps into the blood of lesser demons and lets them scamper about on the page."
Sam considered that, then sniffed the paper. "Nope, definitely not demon blood," he confirmed, "Trust me, I'd know. But if the underlining and emphasis here is anything to go by, he thinks it's important. Either that, or he's got caps lock engaged on his brain." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe I should go talk to this Snotty."
"Well, you can try," shrugged Nabiz, "He'll be in the furnace room, that's where he always is. But I warn you, lord, he can be…"
The ifrit was interrupted by a knock at the door of the office.
"Shall I get that, sire?" he asked, "Or would you like to kick them in the posterior back out into the hall?"
Sam looked at the monitor. "I didn't get an alert," he noted, "And this Departmental Instruction," he waved another piece of paper, "Makes it clear that if anybody wants to speak to the King of Hell, they have to book an appointment in the calendar…" he scrabbled on the desk amidst the mess.
"Are you looking for something, lord?" enquired Nabiz.
"Yeah, the mouse," Sam replied.
"Just follow the cord, effendi," Nabiz reached behind a desktop ornament pen holder that depicted a sinner being torn limb from limb by demons – Sam had already tested it, when the pen was removed or replaced it played a jaunty little tune accompanied by agonised screams. "It is necessary for the mouse to be tethered to the computer."
"Of course," sighed Sam, "It would be too much to hope for that it might be cordless."
"Indeed," the ifrit agreed, "But it is also necessary to stop them running away."
He held up the hapless rodent, which gazed at Sam in a bored fashion. Red streaks crackled across its eyes.
"Oh, are you kidding?" Sam almost wailed, "Hellmice? Why the fuck would there be Hellmice?"
"Well, there has to be a way to get the cursor to move on the screen," Nabiz pointed out reasonably, "And R&D isn't having a lot of luck with the stab screens yet."
Sam just knew he'd regret asking. "Stab screens?"
"I do not understand the details," Nabiz admitted, "But it is a way to get items to move on the screen without using a mouse – instead, you just take a dagger and stab the screen where you want the cursor to go, and…"
The knocking at the door sounded again.
"Go answer that," Sam sighed, putting down the mouse and the memo.
"Shall I put down the drop sheet?" asked the ifrit briskly.
"Drop sheet?" Sam was nonplussed. "Why, do demons routinely, uh, leak when they come in here?"
"Well, sometimes," replied Nabiz, "If they get frightened enough. Or if you decide to shred them, and we do not have Orgle's so-helpful little imp to suck the stains out of this so-lovely rug…"
Sam groaned. "Just, just, let's just see who it is before we discuss dissecting them with vigour," he suggested.
Nabiz turned to open the door, and bellowed in an intimidating bass-baritone that echoed like the booming of an angry elephant seal with opera training: "What lowly filth of The Pit dares to petition for the attention of The Boy King, His Majesty, Lord Samuel, King Of Hell, The Chosen Successor of Lucifer, Heir to the Red Throne, Ruler of Dis, Master of The Realm Below, Commander of the Legions of Hell…"
"Uh, please come in," Sam called, worried that if he let the ifrit run through the gamut of the titles he apparently held then eternity would seem short in comparison.
Nabiz stopped, and shot him a worried look. "Lord, you have not even had time to seat yourself upon The Bidet!"
"I think we can forego that particular protocol, just for today," Sam said firmly, "So, whoever's there, just let them in, and we'll see what they wan- HOLY FUCK!"
The demon without did not enter the room. She… slunk in, thought Sam, that was the only word, not 'slunk' as in 'skulked in a guilty-looking way hoping not to draw attention', but 'slunk' as in 'entered the room with an action that could only be described as slinky, very very slinky'…
"Your Majesty," the young, voluptuous she-demon performed a gymnastically deep curtsey, which had the double action of abasing herself suitably and giving anybody within range an unencumbered view of her astonishingly generous bust, which threatened to burst out of an ensemble that seemed to be made mostly of black silk ribbon, Hollywood tape and optimism. "I beg an audience, a moment of Your Grace's time."
"Oh, uh," stammered Sam, astonished by the sight, "Yes, well, of course, uh, what was your name?"
"I am Ferdinzia, daughter of Duke Ganthery," the she-demon purred, "And I bring an offering, a token of loyalty and esteem, vouchsafed by my father to you…"
"He is the fat one, sire," murmured Nabiz discreetly, like the most capable and unobtrusive assistant to a politician.
"Ah, right, well, I am King of Hell," Sam recovered, because this was after all a demon he was dealing with, "So, first I'll decide whether I want any of you slimy assholes trying to buy favour, then maybe…"
A six pack of beer hit the desk, just as there was another knock at the door, which Nabiz answered.
"What lowly filth of The Pit dares to petition for the attention of The Boy King, His Majesty, Lord Samuel, King Of Hell, The Chosen Successor of Lu-"
"Get out of my way, DICKHED," said an imperious voice that dripped with disdain. It proved to belong to another she-demon, one who was built just as buxomly as the first, but was wearing an outfit that revealed even more. "Announce me."
"I didn't finish," Nabiz said wistfully.
"Oh, stand aside, I shall do this myself," the she-demon snapped. Her expression went from angry to simpering, "Forgive my intrusion, my lord," her voice was as thick and dark as demon blood, "But I am in haste to proffer an offering, a token of devotion, from the clan of Dame Ghazoria, my mother."
Another six-pack slammed down on the desk.
"Yoo hoo!" another female voice called from the door. "Your Majesty! I am delighted to make your acquaintance personally!" The young she-demon had bothered with the extremely shapely body, but hadn't bothered with the whole clothes thing. "As the eldest daughter of your most loyal follower Duke Belaal, may I gift you with…"
She let out a small shriek as another nubile naked maiden grabbed her hair from behind and yanked. The six pack of beer she'd been carrying dropped, and would've hit the floor if Nabiz hadn't reacted with lightning reflexes and dived to catch it.
"Loyal? Loyal?" the newly arrived nude sneered, "Everybody knows that your father is the most devious and persistent schemer, who will stop at nothing until he plants his own scrawny ass on The Bidet!" Her demeanour changed entirely as she stepped forward – apparently, there was a demonic School of Slinking somewhere. "I am so sorry that you were disturbed by this disgusting offspring of a born traitor, Your Majesty, but I hope that this small gift from my Father Duke Anghaar will reassure of the loyalty of our whole clan…"
Yet another she-demon strode in, and whacked Anghaar's daughter with the six-pack she was carrying. With a sigh, Nabiz surrendered, picked up a pot plant, and chocked the door open.
Sam sat, open-mouthed in disbelief, as the female demons hissed and screeched at each other, jostling for space as more of them pushed into the office to join the cat fight, lashing out with fists, nails and bottles of beer – he thought vaguely that if it wasn't demons, Dean should be the one sitting there to watch, because he might enjoy it…
When a bottle of beer broke over somebody's head, he decided that was going too far.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he bellowed, standing up and emerging from behind the desk, "That's enough! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW!"
The demons froze where they were, and stared up at him, suddenly realising that the boyish figure was not just any human, but the Boy King, fit to replace Lucifer himself, and he was about to throw a bitch fit that none of them could ever match.
His voice was all the more menacing for being quiet. "I did not ask for a bunch of as-good-as-naked women to come waltzing into my office," he growled, the volume rising as he spoke, "I did not ask for a demonic version of lingerie WWF to break out! Get this through your heads, I do not want your filthy demonic families throwing their young women at me, as if I was some sort of prize stud bull, I do not want you vicious selfish sulphur-stained bitches anywhere near me, I do not want to get dragged into some pathetic popularity contest between the various tribes of scum in this place, and most of all I do not want to have to wait for a computer system to update while I have to watch it tick over ridiculously slowly on a FUCKING ANCIENT MONITOR FIT FOR NOTHING EXCEPT BEING TURNED INTO A QUIRKY FISH TANK!"
He slammed a fist down on the desk, splintering the wood, and then something so terrifying happened that demonity would talk about it for centuries to come...
The Boy King turned to his cowering subjects, and pulled the most epic Bitchface that had ever been seen in Hell.
Its searing power was such that one of the young demons let out an astonished squeak, and suddenly exploded in a puff of ash, which the others warily backed away from.
The she-demons stopped slinking, and fled.
The unwanted visitors pouted into submission, Sam dropped back into the chair, selected a beer that was still cold enough, and let out a groan. "I hate this job." He glanced down at his sleeve, where a small smudge of ash besmirched his cufff. He glared at it until it wafted off and drifted down to the floor to get away from the expression.
"Sometimes, my master Iblis, long may he shit copiously on the heads of the Damned, says the same thing," confided Iblis. "He says, some days, it's barely worth getting out of bed to disembowel the suicide bombers. He says he wants to retire to a volcano and raise garnets. He says, Hell wouldn't be a bad place to work, if it wasn't full of demons."
Sam thought about that, watching the ancient PC update at a snail's pace. "You know what? We should get that printed on some coffee mugs," he declared. "I bet the fiends would love them."
Nabiz's face lit up. "I shall see to it at once, effendi!" he said, "Just as soon as I sweep up the pitiful remains of the so-thoughtless she-devil who selfishly disintegrated on the so-lovely rug."
"Good man," Sam drank deeply, and made a mental note to put one of the mugs aside for Orgle. And maybe one for Crowley, because if he had to fill in for that asshole, he reserved the right to stir the shit out of him.
Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Exposing Themselves Before You In The Departmental Meeting Of Life!*
Anybody else who'd rather skip that particular meeting can join me in the tea room - we'll get a head start on the pastries.