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Sometimes there comes a day when you gotta say, “Mom, Dad. I’m sorry to let you down, but this just ain’t the job for me. I’m afraid I’ve got to quit.”
Only in my case, it wasn’t Mom or Dad, but the King of Hell.
And I didn’t say I was sorry. In fact, I didn’t say anything. I just got my ass out of there before anyone could notice.
Our illustrious leader has been MIA for a few days now. Rumors say he’s been nabbed by the Winchesters. A few of the others are talking about searching for him, but I’ve decided to move on to greener pastures. If I were loyal and true, I probably wouldn’t be a demon, now would I?
So far, I have no regrets about my decision. The whole Crossroads deal sounded like a good career path at the start, but my mentors conveniently forgot to mention that not everyone who summons you has a pretty face. Or hair. Or toothpaste, apparently.
You ever pucker up for someone who still has gas station corndog stuck in their front teeth? Extra relish? No? Then don’t judge.
Anyway, like I was saying — no regrets. I’ve got a new meatsuit, a new set of wheels, a new life. My only complaint is the shoddy reception I’m getting on these backroads. Only one station is coming in, and it’s been stuck on a Throwback Thursday kick. They’re currently playing “It’s Raining Men” for the fifth time today. The first three times I groaned. By the fourth, I was ready to rip the radio from the dashboard and throw it at the first pedestrian I came across. Now, I know better.
“IT’S RAINING MEN! HALLELUJAH, IT’S RAINING MEN! A~MEN!”
I sing at the top of my lungs and lean on the gas, accelerating as the chorus reaches a crescendo. Auditory crack of the highest quality. I’d go steal a CD if stores still sold anything but the current Top 40.
Everything is going fine, my hands beating a rhythm off the steering wheel, when the sky erupts. Light begins flashing against the darkness like the firing of synapses — Heaven’s got a bitch of a migraine, but that’s not lightning cutting through the sky.
“What the…”
There’s no way what I’m seeing is real. Leaning forward in my seat, I forget the road as I practically press my forehead to the windshield, watching them plummet to the earth. This probably looks like the meteor shower of the century to humans, but I know better. I recognize those flames for what they are, but what the hell does this mean? Did Crowley actually get his hands on that tablet he was after? You know, that would be my luck. Quit the company right when it gets the acquisition of the milleni—
“SHIT!”
The tires scream as I slam on the brakes, the wheel protesting as I wrestle it to the side. I miss the guy who stumbled onto the road, but not by much. Good thing, too. I just got this jeep. I don’t feel like scraping his brains off the front fender.
Every foul name I can think of is combating for position on my lips. I’m going to kill this jerk, of course, but first I want to tell him off.
However, in true jerky fashion, he doesn’t give me the chance.
No sooner am I reaching for the door than he’s dragging himself through the one on the passenger side. Hair mussed, body trembling, sweat soaking his collar, my first thought is: drunk that drove himself into a guardrail.
But then he raises his face, locks his eyes on mine, and I about wet myself (or would, if that kind of thing fell in line with demon biology).
NO. NO. NO.
I ran away to avoid trouble, to make a fresh start, so can someone please explain to me why, out of all the celestial killjoys falling to the earth right now, the one that decides to join me for a roadtrip is the godforsaken Winchester’s pet?
“Get away from me!” I shout, but he catches my arm as I twist in my seat to flee.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” There’s panic and fear in his voice, but I’m not paying attention to that.
No, what I’m far more interested in is the hand gripping my wrist.
His soft, weak, deliciously frail hand.
I feel a giddy, hungry rush at what I could do to that hand. Pluck it from his arm as easily as a feather from a bird. Maybe slap him in the face with it a few times afterward for nearly making me crash.
“Please, I need to use your phone.” The lightshow has nearly stopped, but his gaze is darting nervously between me and the settling sky.
“I don’t have one.” For once, I’m telling the truth. Meatsuit dropped it in our short scuffle. By the time it was over, it was damaged way beyond warranty.
My reply leaves him stumped. As if it never occurred to him a human might not carry a cell phone.
“I… then, can you please bring me to one? I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but this is a bit of an emergency.”
I’ve heard when angels die, their wings burn. Is he going to ruin my seats? Screw it. It’ll be worth it. If I take out Castiel, the Castiel, drag what’s left of his broken vessel back to Hell in a bodybag, I’ll probably be given my own flaming chariot.
She taught every angel
to rearrange the sky
so that each and every woman
could find perfect guy~!
I’m broken out of my fun little reverie when I notice how he’s frowning uncomfortably at the music.
“You got a problem with post-disco classics?” I snap. Fucking angels. What’s he expect, Gregorian chant?
“Uh.. no.. no, sorry…”
He can’t tell what I am, but he’s suddenly unsure of his choice of transportation. Too bad I’m not one to look a gift angel in the mouth. Before he can change his mind, I hit the gas, kissing goodbye to my potential freedom, but waving hello to life as a champion of underworld.
The jump into motion is unexpected, and the almighty “angel,” who should be as immovable as the Great Pyramid, has to throw out his hands to keep from knocking into the dashboard. I could roll this jeep like a bocce ball and walk away smiling, and he’d be lucky to have enough life left in him to extract his skull from the windshield.
But, as you can probably tell, I like this jeep. And this meatsuit. Would hate to get them wrinkled so soon after purchase. Not like either have a refund policy.
“So, what were you doing out on the road alone?” I ask.
In other words: Um, how far away are you from the Winchesters, and am I going to have to worry about them if I start torturing you here and now?
“I made a bad choice. Got lost,” he murmurs. His fingers are stroking the seat belt that hangs loosely by his side. Wonder if the poor schmuck even knows how to use it.
“And no phone? No car?”
Nothing that would leave the hunters any hint as to where you were last seen in one piece?
“I was… taking a walk.” He fidgets. No doubt hoping I didn’t notice that his footwear was more suited for investment banking than a leisurely stroll. “Two more miles?”
We’ve just passed a sign advertising a diner and motel. Given the area, it’s probably not part of any 5-star travel listing. I obviously can’t let him use a phone, but perhaps there’s a chance I can play the good Samaritan. Offer him refuge. Check him into a room. It’d be as nice a place as any. After all, a demon has a lot of ways to silence a man’s screams, and I don’t feel like having to play torture dungeon off the side of a highway. Too much mud.
“Sure. You look like you’re having a bad day. Maybe I can spot you some cash. Get you a room to wait in until help arrives.”
For the first time, some of the tension seems to leave him.
“You’re very kind.” He pauses, hesitates to add, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to repay you.”
“Oh, you’re already repaying me.”
I smile, and he returns the gesture with a nervous tick of his lips.
“I just mean it’s nice to have some company for the ride. I’m in the middle of a move. Transitioning,” I continue, smoothing away the crease that’s formed in the middle of his forehead. Maybe that’s where I should carve my initials, later.
“Change is difficult,” he agrees, the tension leaving his shoulders as he slumps back into his seat.
The song’s long since ended, replaced by a radio host that’s encouraging listeners nationwide to call in with their favorite memories of “better times.” Heh, lady. My better times are yet to come. But soon.
I’m entertaining ideas on how to make tonight memorable when flickering neon lights break through the otherwise monotonous scenery. The ride’s ended too quick for my liking. Sure, I know a fast kill would be the safer option, but how often does a demon of my level get an angel — even if a broken one — as a chew toy?
And it seems like fortune is on my side. The parking lot is empty save for a few scattered cars, and the diner is little more than a fluorescent shanty hitched to one side of what I assume is the place where you check in. In this off-season, I could probably pick Castiel apart for days without worry of a visitor.
“Do you see a payphone?” he asks as we pull in, trying to see past the grease-stained windows of the diner.
“There’ll be one in the room,” I reassure. “Here. This should more than cover you.” I pull a pair of fifties from my pocket and press them into his hand.
“Really… thank you. Thank you so much.”
He smiles more genuinely this time, and I’m humored enough to muse on the poetry of showing gratitude to your own executioner.
“See you around,” I say, waving as he exits, turns his back to me.
Seeing as how I was interrupted before, I hum the last few bars of the earlier classic as I slide from my seat and head to my trunk. Inside is a veritable treasure chest of goodies, compliments of my new duds. Handcuffs, taser, nightstick, just to name a few. I’ve even got the uniform if I want to get kinky.
“Hallelujah, it’s raining men,” I sing cheerfully, but then stuff happens.
Shit happens.
And it’s in the form of three assholes who I don’t know by name, although they’ve slinked around Crowley’s heels like hungry dogs ever since he stole the throne.
“Going somewhere?” one asks.
They haven’t seen Castiel, or they’d be fleeing in the opposite direction, weaklings that they are.
Not that I should talk. Sadly, I have to admit, I’m too young to be high up on the food chain. Powerless angel? Can do. Three older demons? Eh… that’s pushing my luck.
So, I smile thinly.
“Just thought I’d round up some fresh contracts. Have some souls ready and pretty for when the boss gets back,” I answer.
“You mean the King,” the one in the middle corrects.
Oh, be still, my fluttering gag reflex.
“Right. Our King. Speaking of whom, I really should get back to work…”
Now, I’d put more money on a amnesiatic goat than I would these three, combined, when it comes to brainpower, but I can tell they’re getting suspicious. Or impatient. Either or, both are bad news for me.
I race through my options, consider telling them Castiel is inside. Maybe it’d buy me some leeway. But… damn. I know how that will turn out: me, destroyed, with them stealing my prize and taking credit for the catch.
Sigh.
“All right, all right. I can tell you’ve got your own jobs to do, so I’ll go with you. Not like I have any reason not to.”
I shrug casually, as if every cell of this stolen sack of flesh isn’t screaming in bitter rage. All’s not lost, I tell myself, as they take me by each arm and the world around us pulls away. I still know Castiel is fallen. And vulnerable.
For now, that’s my secret.
And it’ll have a good price for the right buyer.