Kendra (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tyndalecode) wrote2008-03-28 12:22 pm
tyndalecode) wrote2008-03-28 12:22 pm
Entry tags:
The Neighbours
Title: The Neighbours
Fandom: Reaper/Dogma
Characters/Pairing: Sam Oliver and the Voice
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,447
Summary: There are several ways in which to save a damned soul. This one should be the easiest.
Notes: I'm guilty of two things. a) Being a crossover whore, and b) starting a fic at 2am and finishing it at 5:30am. The recent additions of the new neighbors on Reaper reminded me so much of Bartleby and Loki, and then, well, Dogma on to Cinemax. So... this happened.
Spoiers until Episode 2.12 (Unseen), and I hope you enjoy.
It was turning into one of those mornings. There wasn't much Sam could do but stare. "The devil's an Italian mob boss look alike and the voice of God's an old English dude? Even though God is… a girl?"
"Woman," the older man corrected quickly. "God is a Woman, not a girl. 'She' if you must."
"Right. 'She'." He bent over from his position on the edge of his bed and grabbed the first shirt his hand touched on the floor. Even if it was dirty, it seemed better to talk about God in more than just his boxer shorts. Especially if she was indeed, 'She'. "And you're 'Her' voice?"
"Ding, ding. My, he catches on quickly, doesn't he?"
Sam groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Listen, what was it… Metatron? It's eight o'clock in the morning. I haven't had any coffee. What do you want from me?" He looked up, just slightly. "I have to get ready for work."
"You may call me Metatron, yes," said the Angel – and Sam did believe he was an angel, he had the wing span to prove it. "Which is completely beside the point."
"Great. You, um… you know who I work for, right?" Because maybe if Metatron didn't and he was forthright and honest about the fact that his employer's name was Lucifer, then this conversation would just end and the guy with the six foot wingspan would leave his room and stop knocking over the action figures he, Sock, and Ben spent hours lining up on that shelf. It took skill to get GI Joes lined up by height like that.
Standing from his bed, Sam edged past Metatron and over to his dresser. Maybe if he just ignored the minor religious figure in the corner, it would go away.
Not that that ever worked on the Devil.
"We know who you work for." Didn't work with Metatron either, apparently. Sam had to count to ten before reaching into his drawer for a pair of jeans. "We're not quite sure what to do with him yet. To be fair he doesn't really deserve Hell, but he's too bloody annoying to spend eternity with in paradise either. Bit of a prick, really."
Sock would have appreciated that. Sam did too, but he refused to laugh aloud. "No, see, you're talking about Ted," he said instead as he pulled his jeans up. "I'm talking about… you know. The other 'Him'."
"Word of advice. Don't say him with a capital letter when you're talking about Lucifer if you want to stay on Her good side," said Metatron, giving Sam a pointed look that seemed to reduce him to about three feet in height. "'The Devil' will suffice."
"Yeah, well, The Devil is my boss, so I'm pretty sure I'm not on Her good side." And those words would never get any easier to choke out. It certainly didn't help that he was talking to a representative of God. "My life's path is pretty locked up. Catch souls, bring them to the DMV, say, 'Hi' to Gladys, repeat cycle. Eventually one of those souls kills me and I burn my ass off in hell for all of eternity. The Devil's given me so much to look forward to, that I just really don't need any other things that aren't supposed to be real jumping into my life."
"You're rather bitter. Has anyone ever mentioned that?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "All I'm saying, is why couldn't it've been Santa Claus?" He wouldn't have minded working for Santa Claus. At least then he might have gotten an X-Box out of it.
Sighing and still wondering why Biblical myths seemed forever determined to ruin his life, Sam walked past Metatron again, ducking around his wings and into the bathroom adjoined to his room. He reached for his toothbrush and the toothpaste before turning on the cold water. If he brushed long enough, he couldn't talk. If he couldn't talk, then maybe the Angel would just get bored and leave. He had work to get to and likely a visit from the Devil to look forward to. Sam wasn't sure how Hell's employee evaluations went, but he was pretty sure that fraternizing with the enemy would lose him some major points. He'd seen what happened when his boss got angry and was now on what he considered to be a very self-preserving mission of never seeing it again. Talking to the Voice of God was guaranteed to end up in shelves collapsing at work or a train jumping a track out of nowhere and running straight into him.
Sam didn't like working for the Devil, but he did like not doing it from a wheelchair.
"Santa Claus isn't real, you know." Damnit. Well, at least he'd folded up the wings, even if he'd knocked over more GI Joes in the process. It seemed like the shock and awe portion of the show was over.
He spat into the sink. "What do you want? Before my real boss shows up and kicks my ass for this."
"Fine, to the point. I'm here to solicit your services," Metatron said.
"That's… No. God, no!" Sam pulled a face before grabbing his towel and soap. "You want to rephrase that?"
It was the Angel's turn to roll his eyes, his hands moving towards the waist of his jeans as he shook his head. "I thought I'd made it clear that that sort of soliciting would be completely impossible with our unique physiology. Of course, you were tired, so if you didn't get the idea the first time, allow me to –"
"No!" Sam held up a hand and squeezed his eyes shut as he turned away from Metatron. "No. That's really okay… No. I got it the first time, thanks." It had been his 'pleasure', that morning, to be presented with the non-genitalia of an Angel practically two minutes after being dragged out of bed by one. Needless to say, it was not Sam's favorite way of waking up.
"Right then." Metatron redid the button on his pants and brought his eyes back to Sam. "In terms you can understand, I am here to offer you a job."
"We just covered this, didn't we? I work for–"
"Yes, that's all well and good." For some reason, being interrupted by someone with a British accent really left no room for argument. Maybe that's what he was the Voice of God. Of course, then by that logic, there was a while country filled with people who could stand in for God. Kind of cool. Kind of scary. Sam couldn't really decide. "This wouldn't interfere with your other job. In fact, I dare say you'll prefer it. No putting your life in danger, your friend's lives.... no jumping in front of escaped souls and making weekly trips to hell on earth– "
"Gladys isn't that bad," Sam muttered.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." The Angel's patronizing tone was not attractive. "All we would like you to do, Sam, is become friends with your new neighbors."
With his lathered washcloth about two inches from his face, Sam turned to look at Metatron. "Wait, what?"
"Make friends. It's easy enough. I'd think even you would understand that. Or am I over estimating the mortal?"
Eight fifteen and Sam was already on what felt like his hundredth insult since the rise of the sun. This was going to be a bang up day. He turned back to look into the mirror and finally ran the soapy cloth over his face. If ever he'd felt the need for a good cleansing it was now, sitting in the bathroom, trying to get ready for work, and talking to an Angel. Funny how he got the same feeling of needing a scalding hot bath and some alone time from the Angel that he always felt after talking to the Devil. If nothing, that only further proved how much this life was completely not for him. An Angel in his bathroom, the Devil popping in whenever he wanted, and gay demons across the hall. This was what his life had become.
Maybe college really would have been the best choice.
"If this is about Steve and Tony, I'm not spying on them for you… or Her," Sam said once he'd rinsed his face. "They're demons, but they're nice. I've never met an escaped soul who makes catfish and apple martinis. How dangerous can they be? They like Spades."
"So did Hitler."
"I know. The Devil plays him on Wednesdays."
Metatron pursed his lips and Sam suddenly found himself wondering if this was where the smiting came in. Maybe you weren't supposed to joke about megalomaniacs around the Voice of God. "Either way," his accented voice was dry when he finally spoke. Sam was getting the feeling the Metatron was enjoying this visit just as much as he was. "Steve and Tony are of no consequence to Her right now. It's your other neighbours."
"Other neighbours?" Sam asked,
"It's a large building. You do have others." The Angel rolled his eyes again. "Two in particular. Fallen Angels, recently resurrected. Their names are Barry and Larry."
"Those names don't even sound real." Feeling more than little annoyed, Sam pushed past Metatron, out of the bathroom and into his room once again. He ran his fingers through his hair, realizing that he'd forgotten to comb it. It was too late now. He really didn't want to walk past the Angel again and it was going to take him forever to find his Work Bench apron anyway. It did every morning. The weirdness of this conversation would likely only add to that time.
Sam opened the door to his closet and started rummaging around inside. "What is this place? A freakin' demon resort?"
Metatron simply shrugged. "Why do you think the rent's so low?"
Leave it to Sock to not ask the important questions. "Whatever. That doesn't change anything. I can't work for you… Her. Either of you. I mean, no offense. Obviously, it'd be better than working for the Devil, but I don't really have a choice, and have you ever seen the guy mad? I say yes to you and the next morning there's a bleeding horse head under my sheets."
"Or, you say yes to Her and you have a chance at not, as you put it, burning your ass off in hell." The Angel looked at him. "I assure you, it'll be a good deal more than just your ass."
"My parents signed a contract," Sam said, barely turning from the closet. Funny how saying those words out loud could stir up so many emotions, feelings he very purposely pushed away on a daily basis. It helped that he never really had to say it aloud, 'my parents sold my soul to the devil before I was born'. It tended not to come up in everyday conversation. "It's unbreakable."
"And She is in infallible. What is your point?"
"Is it weird that I don't want to piss off the Devil? Because I really don't find that weird, 'specially since he has a fist around my soul. Or it's in a little jar, which is just as messed up."
"I'm not sure you're understanding what I'm saying –here, take this. Watching you dig around in there like a mole is painful–" Sam turned around to see a bright blue Work Bench uniform neatly folded in Metatron's outstretched hand. Generally he had a rule against taking things from mythological creatures, but given that he was going to be late for work he would have to make an exception this time. "As I was saying, you don't understand. This is God we're talking about, not some two-bit fallen Angel with a superiority complex and some half decent underground real estate. God. She who breathed life into this earth in six days. She who created animal and man. She who sent the seven plagues upon Egypt. She who smote Sodom and Gomorrah.. She who– are you getting the idea, or must I continue? It's insulting that you'd think a piece of paper signed in blood would stop her."
He really didn't appreciate the false hope, he really didn't. Quite frankly, it sucked. Sam couldn't help shaking his head as he tied on his apron. "So what you're saying is that I help you with these two… these Barry and Larry guys, and I don't have to go to Hell?" Somewhere during that sentence his body tensed, as if he expected that the Devil was listening and any moment something horrible was going to come flying across the room at him.
"You'll go to hell," Metatron said, watching as Sam began the search for his car keys. "But not for eternity. Maybe a few centuries or so, but not eternity. She wouldn't allow it."
Sam couldn't help but snort. "A few centuries, great. That makes it all better."
"You mortals. I say centuries and you act like it's a bloody millennia or three." The Angel shook his head and Sam could see his feathers ruffle behind him. "Do you realize how long an eternity is? How short two hundred years are in comparison. This is you getting off quite easy, my Reaper friend. This is you eventually walking through the pearly gates and being reunited with the two ingrates you live with, not to mention your parents and brother. Granted, your parents are likely to be doing their own time in one of the nine circles, seeing as how they sold your immortal soul, but I digress."
"My parents?" Yelling at an Angel probably wasn't the best course of action, but Sam felt the need to pursue it.
Metatron simply nodded. "Don't dwell on it. They sold a newborn's soul. It's standard procedure." Don't dwell on it? Easy for the Angel with no balls to say. "But this is about you, Sam, and you not spending an eternity in a place where, quite frankly, you don't deserve to be. It's as simple as befriending two fallen angels, Are you really going to pass this up?"
"The Devil–"
"Can do nothing about it," the Angel interrupted neatly. "Do try and keep up? He's only the Morningstar. She is God."
Time had passed somewhere along the way and as Sam looked over at the clock he realized it was eight thirty. He was officially late for work and an Angel had been standing in his room for a good thirty minutes now. He'd stopped assuming he'd just disappear a while ago and had even made the mistake (most likely) of engaging him in conversation. Ted wasn't going to buy this one and he'd probably have to close to make up for it, because that was just how vindictive Ted was.
This was what his life had come to. This was what he had to look forward to. Closing on Ted's whims, catching demon's on the Devil's, and befriending fallen angels on God's. At least he didn't have a contract with God. It would have been better than having one with the Devil (even with this annoying British guy speaking for Her), but Sam honestly didn't think he could take anymore contracts at this point. It was as if his life was signed away to Hell and housing supplies. Now they wanted him to add Heaven? Of course, adding Heaven meant taking out a little bit of Hell. He was pretty down with that idea. Not so much down with working for another deity, but suddenly the knowledge that he was going to actually have go to Hell wasn't just a blip in the back of his mind.
Suddenly, an eternity was seeming like a damned long time.
What was hell like, he wondered. An infinite number of Work Bench shelves waiting to be stocked, no Sock, Ben, or Andi in sight?
Sam found himself running his fingers through his hair. "What if I can't answer right now?"
"Then I suppose I come back once more and ask you again. After that… well, I'm afraid then Hell is yours to make the best of."
Somewhere along the lines of this conversation it had become clear that that was not what he wanted. It would have been a lie to say that he wasn't confused as all hell about a good deal of what was going on and why, but he wasn't stupid. This was the card everyone competed for in Monopoly: Get Out of Jail Free– this card may be kept until needed or sold. He was being handed one by an angel, and while it was more like 'get out of jail free but with third degree burns', it would still be foolish not to take it.
Still, the topic warranted a lunch break discussion. "You'll come back? And. Explain more?"
"That's my job."
"Could we, uh, maybe try after lunch next time? You know… when I'm not sleeping?" Sam figured it couldn't hurt to ask.
Metatron's feathers ruffled once more and he looked about ready to throw his arms up in the air. "Can you imagine what the course of the world would have been if Mary had said to Gabriel, 'could you come back later? Around sevenish? Just after dinner? I need my beauty sleep.' I swear, you modern day vessels are just…" He didn't finish his sentence, instead muttering under his breath something that sounded way too British for Sam to decipher.
Sam decided not to even bother trying. He glanced out of his bedroom window instead and held up his keys. "So, I have to go to work now…"
"Say no more. Have a wonderful day at… the Work Bench." Sam found that he couldn't even muster up the energy to blame the Angel for the distasteful way he said the name of the store. He could it was going to be one of those says where he was cursing the name by the time noon rolled around. That tended to happen when he arrived late. It started everything off on a bad note.
Having spent so much time with the Devil, it barely phased Sam when he looked up from grabbing his wallet and found that Metatron had vanished from his room. The two at least had that in common, and he guessed it made sense since the Devil had been an Angel at one point in time. A long, long time ago. It was sort of hard to imagine that really. The Devil he knew, running around the same playing field as someone like Metatron? It just didn't seem right. For one thing, the Voice hadn't looked even half as addicted to self tanner as the Devil very obviously was.
There was no sun down there after all.
Sam shook his head in a final attempt to clear it before he left the apartment. With one final long and deep breath, he turned and headed for his bedroom door. He almost immediately tripped over a familiar, dingy wooden lock box.
"Fuck." It hadn't been there before and Sam was positive Metatron hadn't left it for him.
It had been his experience since beginning this whole 'adventure' that it was just best to open the box as soon as it arrived and get it out of the way. It tended to follow him around otherwise, randomly dropping from shelves or chasing him down aisles at work and causing him to scare the customers with what he knew looked like absolutely spastic behavior most of the time. Opening it at home, at least, removed one giant stress from the day.
He was late for work already, so after rubbing his bruised shin he picked up the heavy box and lugged it over to his desk. Trying to find the positives in his current situation, he wondered if maybe the appearance of the vessel alone meant that the Devil didn't know yet that he'd had a visit from the Holier-than-thou types. That was reassuring. Sort of.
The usual odd smelling smoke and mist flew from the box when he opened it and he coughed and waved it away as he waited for it to clear. Eventually it did and he was greeted with, as he had been on many occasions prior, the Devil's wicked sense of humor.
The string of rosary beads he pulled from the box was seemingly never endless as he piled them into the pockets of his apron. It wasn't even really necessary to state the obvious aloud, but he did so anyway, sighing and squeezing the newest vessel in his pocket. "I guess he knows."
Fandom: Reaper/Dogma
Characters/Pairing: Sam Oliver and the Voice
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,447
Summary: There are several ways in which to save a damned soul. This one should be the easiest.
Notes: I'm guilty of two things. a) Being a crossover whore, and b) starting a fic at 2am and finishing it at 5:30am. The recent additions of the new neighbors on Reaper reminded me so much of Bartleby and Loki, and then, well, Dogma on to Cinemax. So... this happened.
Spoiers until Episode 2.12 (Unseen), and I hope you enjoy.
It was turning into one of those mornings. There wasn't much Sam could do but stare. "The devil's an Italian mob boss look alike and the voice of God's an old English dude? Even though God is… a girl?"
"Woman," the older man corrected quickly. "God is a Woman, not a girl. 'She' if you must."
"Right. 'She'." He bent over from his position on the edge of his bed and grabbed the first shirt his hand touched on the floor. Even if it was dirty, it seemed better to talk about God in more than just his boxer shorts. Especially if she was indeed, 'She'. "And you're 'Her' voice?"
"Ding, ding. My, he catches on quickly, doesn't he?"
Sam groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Listen, what was it… Metatron? It's eight o'clock in the morning. I haven't had any coffee. What do you want from me?" He looked up, just slightly. "I have to get ready for work."
"You may call me Metatron, yes," said the Angel – and Sam did believe he was an angel, he had the wing span to prove it. "Which is completely beside the point."
"Great. You, um… you know who I work for, right?" Because maybe if Metatron didn't and he was forthright and honest about the fact that his employer's name was Lucifer, then this conversation would just end and the guy with the six foot wingspan would leave his room and stop knocking over the action figures he, Sock, and Ben spent hours lining up on that shelf. It took skill to get GI Joes lined up by height like that.
Standing from his bed, Sam edged past Metatron and over to his dresser. Maybe if he just ignored the minor religious figure in the corner, it would go away.
Not that that ever worked on the Devil.
"We know who you work for." Didn't work with Metatron either, apparently. Sam had to count to ten before reaching into his drawer for a pair of jeans. "We're not quite sure what to do with him yet. To be fair he doesn't really deserve Hell, but he's too bloody annoying to spend eternity with in paradise either. Bit of a prick, really."
Sock would have appreciated that. Sam did too, but he refused to laugh aloud. "No, see, you're talking about Ted," he said instead as he pulled his jeans up. "I'm talking about… you know. The other 'Him'."
"Word of advice. Don't say him with a capital letter when you're talking about Lucifer if you want to stay on Her good side," said Metatron, giving Sam a pointed look that seemed to reduce him to about three feet in height. "'The Devil' will suffice."
"Yeah, well, The Devil is my boss, so I'm pretty sure I'm not on Her good side." And those words would never get any easier to choke out. It certainly didn't help that he was talking to a representative of God. "My life's path is pretty locked up. Catch souls, bring them to the DMV, say, 'Hi' to Gladys, repeat cycle. Eventually one of those souls kills me and I burn my ass off in hell for all of eternity. The Devil's given me so much to look forward to, that I just really don't need any other things that aren't supposed to be real jumping into my life."
"You're rather bitter. Has anyone ever mentioned that?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "All I'm saying, is why couldn't it've been Santa Claus?" He wouldn't have minded working for Santa Claus. At least then he might have gotten an X-Box out of it.
Sighing and still wondering why Biblical myths seemed forever determined to ruin his life, Sam walked past Metatron again, ducking around his wings and into the bathroom adjoined to his room. He reached for his toothbrush and the toothpaste before turning on the cold water. If he brushed long enough, he couldn't talk. If he couldn't talk, then maybe the Angel would just get bored and leave. He had work to get to and likely a visit from the Devil to look forward to. Sam wasn't sure how Hell's employee evaluations went, but he was pretty sure that fraternizing with the enemy would lose him some major points. He'd seen what happened when his boss got angry and was now on what he considered to be a very self-preserving mission of never seeing it again. Talking to the Voice of God was guaranteed to end up in shelves collapsing at work or a train jumping a track out of nowhere and running straight into him.
Sam didn't like working for the Devil, but he did like not doing it from a wheelchair.
"Santa Claus isn't real, you know." Damnit. Well, at least he'd folded up the wings, even if he'd knocked over more GI Joes in the process. It seemed like the shock and awe portion of the show was over.
He spat into the sink. "What do you want? Before my real boss shows up and kicks my ass for this."
"Fine, to the point. I'm here to solicit your services," Metatron said.
"That's… No. God, no!" Sam pulled a face before grabbing his towel and soap. "You want to rephrase that?"
It was the Angel's turn to roll his eyes, his hands moving towards the waist of his jeans as he shook his head. "I thought I'd made it clear that that sort of soliciting would be completely impossible with our unique physiology. Of course, you were tired, so if you didn't get the idea the first time, allow me to –"
"No!" Sam held up a hand and squeezed his eyes shut as he turned away from Metatron. "No. That's really okay… No. I got it the first time, thanks." It had been his 'pleasure', that morning, to be presented with the non-genitalia of an Angel practically two minutes after being dragged out of bed by one. Needless to say, it was not Sam's favorite way of waking up.
"Right then." Metatron redid the button on his pants and brought his eyes back to Sam. "In terms you can understand, I am here to offer you a job."
"We just covered this, didn't we? I work for–"
"Yes, that's all well and good." For some reason, being interrupted by someone with a British accent really left no room for argument. Maybe that's what he was the Voice of God. Of course, then by that logic, there was a while country filled with people who could stand in for God. Kind of cool. Kind of scary. Sam couldn't really decide. "This wouldn't interfere with your other job. In fact, I dare say you'll prefer it. No putting your life in danger, your friend's lives.... no jumping in front of escaped souls and making weekly trips to hell on earth– "
"Gladys isn't that bad," Sam muttered.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night." The Angel's patronizing tone was not attractive. "All we would like you to do, Sam, is become friends with your new neighbors."
With his lathered washcloth about two inches from his face, Sam turned to look at Metatron. "Wait, what?"
"Make friends. It's easy enough. I'd think even you would understand that. Or am I over estimating the mortal?"
Eight fifteen and Sam was already on what felt like his hundredth insult since the rise of the sun. This was going to be a bang up day. He turned back to look into the mirror and finally ran the soapy cloth over his face. If ever he'd felt the need for a good cleansing it was now, sitting in the bathroom, trying to get ready for work, and talking to an Angel. Funny how he got the same feeling of needing a scalding hot bath and some alone time from the Angel that he always felt after talking to the Devil. If nothing, that only further proved how much this life was completely not for him. An Angel in his bathroom, the Devil popping in whenever he wanted, and gay demons across the hall. This was what his life had become.
Maybe college really would have been the best choice.
"If this is about Steve and Tony, I'm not spying on them for you… or Her," Sam said once he'd rinsed his face. "They're demons, but they're nice. I've never met an escaped soul who makes catfish and apple martinis. How dangerous can they be? They like Spades."
"So did Hitler."
"I know. The Devil plays him on Wednesdays."
Metatron pursed his lips and Sam suddenly found himself wondering if this was where the smiting came in. Maybe you weren't supposed to joke about megalomaniacs around the Voice of God. "Either way," his accented voice was dry when he finally spoke. Sam was getting the feeling the Metatron was enjoying this visit just as much as he was. "Steve and Tony are of no consequence to Her right now. It's your other neighbours."
"Other neighbours?" Sam asked,
"It's a large building. You do have others." The Angel rolled his eyes again. "Two in particular. Fallen Angels, recently resurrected. Their names are Barry and Larry."
"Those names don't even sound real." Feeling more than little annoyed, Sam pushed past Metatron, out of the bathroom and into his room once again. He ran his fingers through his hair, realizing that he'd forgotten to comb it. It was too late now. He really didn't want to walk past the Angel again and it was going to take him forever to find his Work Bench apron anyway. It did every morning. The weirdness of this conversation would likely only add to that time.
Sam opened the door to his closet and started rummaging around inside. "What is this place? A freakin' demon resort?"
Metatron simply shrugged. "Why do you think the rent's so low?"
Leave it to Sock to not ask the important questions. "Whatever. That doesn't change anything. I can't work for you… Her. Either of you. I mean, no offense. Obviously, it'd be better than working for the Devil, but I don't really have a choice, and have you ever seen the guy mad? I say yes to you and the next morning there's a bleeding horse head under my sheets."
"Or, you say yes to Her and you have a chance at not, as you put it, burning your ass off in hell." The Angel looked at him. "I assure you, it'll be a good deal more than just your ass."
"My parents signed a contract," Sam said, barely turning from the closet. Funny how saying those words out loud could stir up so many emotions, feelings he very purposely pushed away on a daily basis. It helped that he never really had to say it aloud, 'my parents sold my soul to the devil before I was born'. It tended not to come up in everyday conversation. "It's unbreakable."
"And She is in infallible. What is your point?"
"Is it weird that I don't want to piss off the Devil? Because I really don't find that weird, 'specially since he has a fist around my soul. Or it's in a little jar, which is just as messed up."
"I'm not sure you're understanding what I'm saying –here, take this. Watching you dig around in there like a mole is painful–" Sam turned around to see a bright blue Work Bench uniform neatly folded in Metatron's outstretched hand. Generally he had a rule against taking things from mythological creatures, but given that he was going to be late for work he would have to make an exception this time. "As I was saying, you don't understand. This is God we're talking about, not some two-bit fallen Angel with a superiority complex and some half decent underground real estate. God. She who breathed life into this earth in six days. She who created animal and man. She who sent the seven plagues upon Egypt. She who smote Sodom and Gomorrah.. She who– are you getting the idea, or must I continue? It's insulting that you'd think a piece of paper signed in blood would stop her."
He really didn't appreciate the false hope, he really didn't. Quite frankly, it sucked. Sam couldn't help shaking his head as he tied on his apron. "So what you're saying is that I help you with these two… these Barry and Larry guys, and I don't have to go to Hell?" Somewhere during that sentence his body tensed, as if he expected that the Devil was listening and any moment something horrible was going to come flying across the room at him.
"You'll go to hell," Metatron said, watching as Sam began the search for his car keys. "But not for eternity. Maybe a few centuries or so, but not eternity. She wouldn't allow it."
Sam couldn't help but snort. "A few centuries, great. That makes it all better."
"You mortals. I say centuries and you act like it's a bloody millennia or three." The Angel shook his head and Sam could see his feathers ruffle behind him. "Do you realize how long an eternity is? How short two hundred years are in comparison. This is you getting off quite easy, my Reaper friend. This is you eventually walking through the pearly gates and being reunited with the two ingrates you live with, not to mention your parents and brother. Granted, your parents are likely to be doing their own time in one of the nine circles, seeing as how they sold your immortal soul, but I digress."
"My parents?" Yelling at an Angel probably wasn't the best course of action, but Sam felt the need to pursue it.
Metatron simply nodded. "Don't dwell on it. They sold a newborn's soul. It's standard procedure." Don't dwell on it? Easy for the Angel with no balls to say. "But this is about you, Sam, and you not spending an eternity in a place where, quite frankly, you don't deserve to be. It's as simple as befriending two fallen angels, Are you really going to pass this up?"
"The Devil–"
"Can do nothing about it," the Angel interrupted neatly. "Do try and keep up? He's only the Morningstar. She is God."
Time had passed somewhere along the way and as Sam looked over at the clock he realized it was eight thirty. He was officially late for work and an Angel had been standing in his room for a good thirty minutes now. He'd stopped assuming he'd just disappear a while ago and had even made the mistake (most likely) of engaging him in conversation. Ted wasn't going to buy this one and he'd probably have to close to make up for it, because that was just how vindictive Ted was.
This was what his life had come to. This was what he had to look forward to. Closing on Ted's whims, catching demon's on the Devil's, and befriending fallen angels on God's. At least he didn't have a contract with God. It would have been better than having one with the Devil (even with this annoying British guy speaking for Her), but Sam honestly didn't think he could take anymore contracts at this point. It was as if his life was signed away to Hell and housing supplies. Now they wanted him to add Heaven? Of course, adding Heaven meant taking out a little bit of Hell. He was pretty down with that idea. Not so much down with working for another deity, but suddenly the knowledge that he was going to actually have go to Hell wasn't just a blip in the back of his mind.
Suddenly, an eternity was seeming like a damned long time.
What was hell like, he wondered. An infinite number of Work Bench shelves waiting to be stocked, no Sock, Ben, or Andi in sight?
Sam found himself running his fingers through his hair. "What if I can't answer right now?"
"Then I suppose I come back once more and ask you again. After that… well, I'm afraid then Hell is yours to make the best of."
Somewhere along the lines of this conversation it had become clear that that was not what he wanted. It would have been a lie to say that he wasn't confused as all hell about a good deal of what was going on and why, but he wasn't stupid. This was the card everyone competed for in Monopoly: Get Out of Jail Free– this card may be kept until needed or sold. He was being handed one by an angel, and while it was more like 'get out of jail free but with third degree burns', it would still be foolish not to take it.
Still, the topic warranted a lunch break discussion. "You'll come back? And. Explain more?"
"That's my job."
"Could we, uh, maybe try after lunch next time? You know… when I'm not sleeping?" Sam figured it couldn't hurt to ask.
Metatron's feathers ruffled once more and he looked about ready to throw his arms up in the air. "Can you imagine what the course of the world would have been if Mary had said to Gabriel, 'could you come back later? Around sevenish? Just after dinner? I need my beauty sleep.' I swear, you modern day vessels are just…" He didn't finish his sentence, instead muttering under his breath something that sounded way too British for Sam to decipher.
Sam decided not to even bother trying. He glanced out of his bedroom window instead and held up his keys. "So, I have to go to work now…"
"Say no more. Have a wonderful day at… the Work Bench." Sam found that he couldn't even muster up the energy to blame the Angel for the distasteful way he said the name of the store. He could it was going to be one of those says where he was cursing the name by the time noon rolled around. That tended to happen when he arrived late. It started everything off on a bad note.
Having spent so much time with the Devil, it barely phased Sam when he looked up from grabbing his wallet and found that Metatron had vanished from his room. The two at least had that in common, and he guessed it made sense since the Devil had been an Angel at one point in time. A long, long time ago. It was sort of hard to imagine that really. The Devil he knew, running around the same playing field as someone like Metatron? It just didn't seem right. For one thing, the Voice hadn't looked even half as addicted to self tanner as the Devil very obviously was.
There was no sun down there after all.
Sam shook his head in a final attempt to clear it before he left the apartment. With one final long and deep breath, he turned and headed for his bedroom door. He almost immediately tripped over a familiar, dingy wooden lock box.
"Fuck." It hadn't been there before and Sam was positive Metatron hadn't left it for him.
It had been his experience since beginning this whole 'adventure' that it was just best to open the box as soon as it arrived and get it out of the way. It tended to follow him around otherwise, randomly dropping from shelves or chasing him down aisles at work and causing him to scare the customers with what he knew looked like absolutely spastic behavior most of the time. Opening it at home, at least, removed one giant stress from the day.
He was late for work already, so after rubbing his bruised shin he picked up the heavy box and lugged it over to his desk. Trying to find the positives in his current situation, he wondered if maybe the appearance of the vessel alone meant that the Devil didn't know yet that he'd had a visit from the Holier-than-thou types. That was reassuring. Sort of.
The usual odd smelling smoke and mist flew from the box when he opened it and he coughed and waved it away as he waited for it to clear. Eventually it did and he was greeted with, as he had been on many occasions prior, the Devil's wicked sense of humor.
The string of rosary beads he pulled from the box was seemingly never endless as he piled them into the pockets of his apron. It wasn't even really necessary to state the obvious aloud, but he did so anyway, sighing and squeezing the newest vessel in his pocket. "I guess he knows."