Man Who Knew Too Little

ch 13

by Clubs

It would be inaccurate to say that Maximillion Curmudgeon wasn't used to not getting his way. He was extremely used to not getting his way. That's the thing about "evil" people, or criminals. Mostly the reason they become "evil" is because they are used to not getting their way.

Some people deal with it by sulking or complaining. And some people just punch everyone else in the face. Or in this case, create a highly dangerous chemical which acted as a powerful hallucinogen and worked on the parts of the brain that dealt with fear.

Either way, it was not a new experience for Curmudgeon to taste defeat. That didn't mean he liked it, though.

Currently he was hiding away in a stolen basement (the owners of the house were currently locked in a closet upstairs screaming something about spiders, octopi, and tropical fish), rubbing his palms together in a fashion that seemed standard for scheming mad scientists.

Revenge was something that he rather liked the idea of, but at the same time knew that would only lead to further defeat and humiliation. Besides, if he actively sought out people he had already lost to once, it would just be asking for trouble. Trouble he had no intention of getting into.

So it was with much annoyance that he suddenly found himself confronted by a strange-looking man in a disheveled long coat and tie. If he had paused long enough to truly get a good look at the man, he may have noticed the frankly alarming grin that he was wearing. As it were, he did not, because he was too busy squirting his spray bottle of chemicals at the intruder.

It should be noted that his invented chemical was most effective in its gas form, but for convenience of transportation he was using a plant mister to spray it in its liquid form. It was a terrible hassle, going about the containing of the gas. The mist was slightly less potent, but seemed to still have the desired result.

Whatever form it was in, it didn't seem to matter now, because the man he sprayed it at barely blinked.

"Maximillion Curmudgeon." He said, in a tone that was casual but with a voice that resonated with some deep hidden power.

The scientist's eyes narrowed.

"Your chemicals won't work on me." He nodded toward the slowly dissipating cloud of spray hanging in the air between them. "I have come to you to ask for your assistance in bringing about the End of the World."

Now as much as mad scientists seem to love the End of All Things, this one couldn't help but be more than a little skeptical. Confusing though it was that he, like two of the others he had encountered earlier, could manage to not be affected by the chemical, he was still finding it almost laughable that anyone would "ask for his assistance" in any matter. People just didn't do that. So he huffed out a wheezy, almost non-committal laugh.

"Right. Well, as lovely as that sounds, I'm afraid I must decline your offer."

To his annoyance, the man's smile merely widened, and his unblinking gaze never moved from Curmudgeon's as he stepped closer.

"I don't think you quite understand." He said, "When I said 'ask', I was being very, very polite. The only option you have in the matter is whether or not you are allowed to maintain your..." there was a slight hesitation as he searched for the proper wording, "...individuality."

Curmudgeon couldn't really identify the strange sensation that spread through him as the other man spoke to him. It was almost like an idea had been planted into his head. A thought that wasn't his own. A thought that told him that this was not a person he wanted to cross.

God, as that is in fact who Maximillion was speaking to, narrowed his eyes, holding back a smirk. Human beings really were embarrassingly weak-minded creatures. He hadn't even intended to influence the thoughts of Curmudgeon (yet). And still, His Will had permeated the delicate membrane of the human's mind. Curious.

The human in question also had narrowed eyes as he weighed his options.

"...what exactly does this entail?" he finally asked. God smiled.

"There are many names for it. The Apocalypse. Armageddon. Call it what you will. It is when Heaven descends with righteous fury upon the armies of Hell, and the World as you know it ceases to be." An unmistakable note of pride and excitement rose in His voice as he spoke, the room seeming to become even darker and colder around them.

Still, Curmudgeon couldn't help but roll his eyes slightly.

"Yes, I am aware of what you meant by 'The End of All Things,'" he said disdainfully. "But where I come in is a bit of a blurred area for me at this point, if you wouldn't mind clarifying."

"All I ask is for you to join my armies of Heaven. Your abilities would be...useful to us."

Before the words had even formed on the human's tongue to ask why he should help them, the powerful creature spoke again.

"In return," his grin widened impossibly, "you will be spared from the horrible fate that will befall the rest of your race."

Unfortunately, Maximillion Curmudgeon was ignorant of one key fact: God lies.

"Remind me why this is a good idea." Dean interjected into Bobby, Lucifer, Gabriel, and Sam's conversation, planning their Grand Heist to retrieve the Holy Lance. This Grand Heist consisted of Lucifer and Gabriel transporting themselves into the Vatican's "Holy objects storage place" (obviously it wasn't actually called that, but that was what they were calling it for simplicity) and taking it. They would then proceed to teleport back. Ta-da.

This was, however, Gabriel and Lucifer, so naturally Dean was more than a little skeptical that this plan would actually work.

"Because they're the ones with angel wings and would be a lot less conspicuous than one of us." Sam answered without even glancing at his brother.

"If you take such offense to the idea, maybe you should just go with 'em, sunshine." Bobby quipped.

"I think one lunatic is quite enough, actually." Lucifer drawled, glancing with a wink at Gabriel. The other archangel winced and clutched his chest in mock pain.

"You wound me, brother!" he exclaimed, causing the younger Winchester brother to roll his eyes. "Besides," he continued with a grin, "I prefer the term 'creative maniac.'"

"And you still think this is a good idea?" Dean asked the other two hunters, gesturing at the Messenger and Morningstar, who were currently making faces at each other. Sam sighed, but shrugged.

"What other options do we have, Dean? They can be competent if they want to be."

"But where's the fun in that?" Gabriel practically sang. Bobby turned to Dean.

"Alright, I'm startin' to see your point. Pair a' idjits."

In the end, Gabriel and Lucifer went together, leaving the slightly wary humans behind as they travelled hundreds of miles in less than the blink of an eye.

It took longer to actually find the Holy Lance once they had gotten there, having to sift through crates of other junk, some of it authentic, some of it complete bull.

"Hey Luce," Gabriel called in a casual conversational tone as they searched, "have you ever thought about what we're gonna do after we actually, y'know, win?"

Lucifer paused. He actually hadn't given it much thought, too focused on the actual act of killing his Father.

"I mean, are we gonna go back to Heaven? Stay here?" Gabriel continued, not oblivious to the other's hesitation.

"I...don't know." Lucifer responded slowly. Gabriel turned in the direction that his brother's voice came from, and was suddenly right next to him. Lucifer didn't start, didn't even seem all that surprised when Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder. He turned, brow furrowed, to see Gabriel's expression. He looked...vulnerable. Not scared, just...worried.

"But we'll figure it out when we have to." Lucifer amended his own uncertainty. One of them had to at least appear strong for the other. Especially in a family divided as they were. Gabriel nodded, but the worry didn't leave his eyes, and so Lucifer sighed. And he motioned for the other archangel to come closer.

He decided not to dwell on the way his (unnecessary but still functional) heart rate increased at the proximity. He pretended not to notice the way Gabriel's breathing (again, not strictly necessary, but they were used to it by now) also picked up speed.

"We'll be okay, Gabe." He soothed, smothering the urge he felt to reach out and touch Gabriel in some way, show some physical reassurance as well as verbal. "Whatever happens to Da...to God, whatever happens to Michael or Raphael, we will be okay. You and I. Got it?"

Gabriel didn't meet his gaze as he spoke, and nodded unconvincingly when he finished. This time, Lucifer did reach out, ignoring both voices in his head (one of which was flipping out—"Since when does the Devil show affection?", the other of which was urging him on) as he gently hooked his thumb under Gabe's chin to make him look up at him.

"Got it?" he repeated when Gabriel reluctantly met his eyes. The former Trickster hesitated, gaze flickering down to linger momentarily on Lucifer's lips. It wasn't until then that the Morningstar realized how close their faces were. Literally mere inches apart now. When had that happened?

It was then that Gabriel chose to lick his lips—the briefest of motions, lasting less than a second—and then suddenly there was no space between their faces anymore.

If you asked them both later, neither would really be able to tell you (or admit) who initiated the kiss. One second, they were there, and the next, they were there. Neither of them had ever imagined them doing this prior to this moment, and yet, when it actually happened, they couldn't imagine why it took them so long to finally do it.

It felt as though Lucifer's mouth and chest were on fire. But it wasn't like any kind of fire he had ever felt before (and he knew some things about fires). It was painful only in its intensity, an aching throb of feeling pulsing through his heart and head. And the voices were silent. It was just him, just barely aware of his own actions as one of his arms snaked stealthily around Gabriel's waist, pulling their bodies closer together.

The younger archangel wasn't complaining. Quite the opposite, his own hand was planted firmly at the back of Lucifer's head, some small part of his mind marveling at how soft his hair was, especially considering that Lucifer had spent the majority of his time in Hell, where they certainly didn't have showers. The rest of his mind was entirely focused on the meeting of their lips, the kiss that was slowly growing in intensity and passion.

Passion. He found himself thinking wildly. When was the last time I was this passionate about anything? Maybe that red velvet cake I had in Nevada a few years back? No, not even close.

To say Lucifer was surprised when he felt Gabriel's tongue, his tongue, for Dad's sake! begging for entrance past his lips, would be a regrettable understatement. Despite his surprise, however, he didn't hesitate in the least to grant him that access.

Gabriel let out a high-pitched whine when their tongues clashed together, and attempted to pull closer. As it happened, he did manage that, but not entirely...physically. He and Lucifer were being drawn together by their Graces—damaged as they were—in a connection that they hadn't ever experienced before, in all of their centuries of existence. It was like a burning-freezing feeling, followed by a surge of warmth and then a nearly unbearable feeling of joy.

They were forced away from each other, panting at the unexpected experience.

They stared at each other in shock, both at what had just happened and at what they had just done.

Then Gabriel started laughing. And Lucifer started laughing. And they knew it would be okay. It may be slightly nerve-wracking, this huge new step that they had spontaneously taken from sexual tension to full-blown making out, but it wasn't like they hadn't gotten past other nerve-wracking things. Things that were considerably worse than making out, which was decidedly really awesome.

"Sorry, am I interrupting something?" a cool, female voice rang out, and they both started, turning around with enough speed that a human would probably have gotten whiplash.

A dark-haired woman stood before them, dressed in a blazer and dress pants. Of course, neither of the archangels were fooled.

"What are you doing here?" Lucifer asked his underling, and the demon flashed black eyes briefly.

"Just trying to help out the Boss." She said innocently, with an ugly smirk. "Is it this you're looking for?" she held out a long, smooth handle, which widened to a cone and then tapered off to an undoubtedly sharp point. They figured was the Holy Lance they were indeed looking for.

"Yeah. So if you wouldn't mind..." Gabriel was hesitant, but put on a nonchalant façade for the demon, holding out his hand for the Lance. She grinned at him.

"Sorry, I'm under orders not to let you have it." She said smoothly.

"Whose orders?" Lucifer demanded. She looked to him.

"My Boss." She repeated. "Oh, sorry, you didn't think I meant you? No, I'm working for Daddy dearest."

It wasn't like Gabriel and Lucifer hadn't seen that coming, but it was still not a very nice thing to hear.

"Shit..." Lucifer muttered.

"And, I'm so very sorry to tell you this, boys, but I'm also under orders to kill you." She didn't look sorry at all, in fact the bitch looked practically gleeful at the prospect.

"This is the point where I would usually say 'You and whose army?' but I know by now that the minute I did, fifty million hellspawn would show up." Gabriel commented. She smiled wider. And, maybe not fifty million, but still a very sizable amount of demons did in fact appear out of the shadows around them, some accompanied by large, viciously snarling Hellhounds.

"...shit..." Lucifer reiterated.

"Is it just me, or is this taking way too long?" Sam was the one who broke the slightly awkward silence in Bobby's kitchen as the three of them stood or sat with beers in their hands. Bobby shrugged.

"It's probably gonna be a chore to actually find the thing, even after they've gotten there." He said by way of an answer. It had been little over an hour since the two angels had left, and none of them really knew what to do while they waited. Well, except for Dean. But what Dean had elected to do was not-too-stealthily watch porn on his brother's laptop with some cheap dollar store disposable headphones. Sam had long since given up the losing battle of getting Dean to stop stealing his laptop for this purpose, settling for throwing disapproving or disgusted looks his way instead.

Sam knew Bobby was probably right, but he couldn't help getting fidgety while they waited. If something did go wrong, how would they even know it? Unless they decided to pray for one of them (probably Gabriel, he wasn't sure how Lucifer would respond to prayers considering the long time he had existed as the Devil), they didn't have much hope of getting into contact. And even then, that was assuming they could come when called. Maybe one of the hunters should have gone with them, after all. Or they should have taken a phone. But of course, being archangels, that wouldn't have even occurred to either one of them. To be honest, he hadn't even thought of it himself until just now.

The younger Winchester began pacing the length of the kitchen, biting his lip.

"Hey, Sam, chillax, would 'ya? You're ruining the mood." Dean called to him from the table. Sam barely gave him a glance before rolling his eyes.

"You're the one who was so nervous about this plan at the beginning, Dean." He pointed out. Dean smirked, taking a drink from his beer.

"Exactly. And I reserve the right to rub it in your faces if I'm right." He said, with a wink. Sam sighed.

"Seriously Dean. What if they ran into Michael? Or Raphael? Or Him?"

"Then I will make sure to gloat as much as possible before we are slaughtered like the cattle that we are."

Before Sam could facepalm at Dean's nonchalant façade, Bobby's phone rang out shrilly, making him jump slightly. He exchanged a glance with Bobby before the older hunter went warily to the receiver and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Okay, there's good news and bad news." Gabriel said, completely skipping over a greeting of any kind. Bobby blinked, caught a little off guard.

"Meaning?" he prompted.

"Well, on one hand, we're alive, and we found the Holy Lance, so go team."

"And?"

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.

"...and on the other hand, we were sorta kinda ambushed by demons sent by God to get the Lance and kill us and we may or may not have had to kill them all and one of them may or may not have gotten away with the Lance while we were killing them all." Gabriel said this all very quickly, but Bobby still got the gist of what he was trying to get across. The Lance was gone. Probably on its way to the Big Man Upstairs.

"Balls..." Bobby muttered. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance behind him. Bobby shook his head at them, eyes downcast. They both visibly wilted. The mission hadn't been as successful as they had hoped.

"Okay. You two get your sorry asses back over here pronto so we can all figure out what in the Holy Hell we're supposed to do now." Bobby instructed. There was a pause from Gabriel's end, and the hunter was immediately wary. There was more.

"Uh, about that...Lucifer may or may not be...unconscious at the moment..." the archangel said slowly. Bobby wondered briefly how bad the damage would be if he threw the phone out the window.

"...balls." he repeated instead.

Ariel Connors was a respectable woman. Her parents, Mark and Gwendolyn Richardson, were both very nice people: a doctor and an ultrasound technician, now both retired with sufficient money in the bank to support themselves. Her husband, Marshall Connors, was an architect with a substantial income from the firm he worked for and the love of her life. She herself worked at the local high school as a teacher of English Literature. She had no children.

There was no reason why God or the Devil should care who she was at all. However at that moment, they did. They did because it just so happened that the demon who was currently in possession of the Holy Lance, the one object of the known world that truly had the potential to kill God (other than Death's scythe, that is), was wearing her skin.

The demon, much like other demons who escaped the torturous confines of Hell and who had taken possession of a human host, had taken to calling itself by Ariel's name, finding humor in the Heavenly implications of it.

At the moment, Ariel was waiting. She was waiting for her new leader, the most unlikely of people considering the fact that she was a hellspawn, to retrieve the Lance from her.

As unusual as it was that any demon would ever elect to follow God, her reasoning was simple. He made a better offer than the other side, which she had been informed consisted of two archangels, an ex-demon, and four humans. No offense to Lucifer, but that didn't exactly sound like a solid winning team. And she would rather be alive to enjoy the Apocalypse than dead because of it.

So here she sat, in a dark farmhouse somewhere in northern Alabama, the irony reek of freshly spilled blood swirling around her, coming from the murdered family on the floor in the next room, throats slit. Even the child.

The wind danced around her, though there were no open windows or doors. It didn't surprise her when a figure appeared suddenly before her, eyes cold and expressionless, lips tight in a serious line.

"Demon." He sneered. Except, it didn't have any bite. It didn't have any anything to it, really. It would have been a sneer if he had been in complete possession of himself, but clearly he was not. It wasn't going to stop Ariel from smirking back at him, just as disgusted by angels as angels were by demons. She, however, had enough class to call him by his actual name.

"Michael." The word almost burnt out her tongue to say. So she simply held out the Lance, which is what he had been sent for. He regarded it for a moment before taking it carefully from her.

"You are to gather your forces. Regroup and await further instructions." He commanded. She hissed with anger.

"You don't order me around, angel." She spat, "I did what I was told I had to do. I upheld my end."

"Not yet. God has given me one more task to appoint to you." Michael droned, a passive, watered down impression of disapproval at being questioned and disobeyed.

"Fuck you and your God." Was her response, and she spat at the floor at his feet. If Ariel Connors, the real Ariel Connors, had been aware of herself at that moment, she would have been appalled. As it was, Michael reacted with an impression of being surprised, looking at the spot where she had spit. His eyes looked slowly back up to her. He was completely silent. And then his hand reached out and touched her forehead, and light burst out of her eyes and mouth, and she fell hard to the floor, into the pool of slain humans' blood. He regarded her for a moment more before leaving with the Lance, to present it to his Father.