fic: the waffle option initiative - spn - gen
New Supernatural in two hours! Have something that will be jossed afterwards!
title: The Waffle Option Initiative
fandom: SPN
rating: PG
summary: The giant neon sign on top of the building was flickering, just a little, and not doing Sam's pasty face any favors. It said, Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland. Underneath that was a billboard that said, Music Minus Misery. Beneath that, it said: Lou's Live Late Nights. Below that it said: Awesome Acoustics, Almighty Alliteration, Wonderful Waffles. And under that, in small font, was: Better than anything else in heaven or hell.
notes: This is all entirely musesfool's fault. She made me do it. She wrote some of the funniest lines, and she betaed. Really, she made me. I'm like an indentured servant to her whims. I cannot get this to code 100% to my satisfaction, so, please, tell me how to fix it.
Dean approached the building with dread settling heavily on his chest. His stomach, which had been growling like the hounds of hell for the past two hours, gave one last desperate, pathetic whimper, then quieted completely. His fingers twitched toward his gun without consulting his brain first.
"Dean," Sam managed to hiss, in exactly the same tone of voice as the semi-MILFy mother of two-point-five had used on the kid pulling things off the gas station self before she pointed them in this direction. Sam kind of looked like he wanted to slap Dean's hand, too, but Bobby had threatened to put them in couples counseling the next time they got into a fist fight. "Quit being a baby," he said, instead.
"Three out of five," Dean said, because he was pretty sure Bobby was serious with that threat. There had been hours of Dr. Phil on his DVR the last time they were at his place. That kind of thing can change a man. It was also a good possibility that he'd just shoot them the next time, and Dean was kind of over taking chances for a while.
Sam shook his head, and rolled his eyes. Dean was pretty sure that was on the same level as patting your head and rubbing your stomach, but he didn't want to give Sam any credit where it might not really be due.
The giant neon sign on top of the building was flickering, just a little, and not doing Sam's pasty face any favors. It said, Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland. Underneath that was a billboard that said, Music Minus Misery. Beneath that, it said: Lou's Live Late Nights. Below that it said: Awesome Acoustics, Almighty Alliteration, Wonderful Waffles. And under that, in small font, was: Better than anything else in heaven or hell.
There were soft sounds of an acoustic guitar that could be heard from the parking lot across the street. Dean watched a group of teenagers with tight jeans and neon shoes walk in, and his stomach decided to roll over and play dead.
"Aw, Sam, come on," he said. Said, and did not even kind of whine, no matter what Sam's left eyebrow might have been implying. He said, "It's like the triple crown of douchebaggery! Crappy emo music and knock-off waffles."
Sam's eye twitched. "That's just two things."
"I'm working on the third," Dean said, and kicked at the parking lot gravel.
Sam, who was clearly trying to see if he could roll his eyes out of their sockets, huffed. "Everyone for the last two counties has said these waffles are the best to be found. More than one person used the phrase life-changing."
"Because the indigestion they got from waffles and terrible music put them off of breakfast food for life?"
"Dean," Sam huffed, like he would when he was seven and Dean made him go to bed at nine, all I'm not a little kiiiid!!!. "They said these waffles are as close as they will ever get to heaven."
The sign that Dean would've sworn under oath 1 said: OPEN, was now flashing to say: MALTS, MILKSHAKES and MORE.
Dean's moral high ground started to quake. Just a little, it was more like it began to tremble. People who'd lived in California for a while wouldn't have even noticed it. "The angels are douchebags; you're making my point for me here."
"You would know," Sam mumbled, not quite under his breath. Dean very carefully weighed disappointing Bobby with the satisfaction he'd get from kicking Sam really hard. "Look, you don't want to go in there, fine, but it's Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland, or it's tracking down Satan."
It wasn't exactly an easy choice for Dean to make.
Another sign started flashing in the window, it said: PLENTY of PERFECT PIES.
Dean sighed, and did exactly what he'd been doing since Sam was seven and huffing because Dean was telling him it was bedtime. He caved. He did his level best to look innocent as he stepped on Sam's toes on the way to the door, though.
The life of a Winchester was usually made up entirely of small victories and face-smashing losses. Dean was used to this. When he walked through entry to Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland, he was not surprised by the not so small army of over-pierced, badly dressed emo kids; he was not shocked by the blank, black-eyed stares of, well, mostly emo kids, but also a couple of demons; he was not taken aback by the geek with the guitar singing something about finding a way if it kills me while one of the angels that'd shown up when Lucifer started rising played the drums.
When some guy in slacks, a silk button down and an apron came up, wrapped his arms around Dean and Sam's shoulders, and said, gleefully, "Finally, the Winchester brothers decide to grace us with their presence. It's so hard to thank you boys when you're avoiding me, you know." Well, then Dean was a little stunned.
"Um," Dean said, because he'd never claimed to be the guy who was good with words. His mouth, yes, absolutely; but words, no. In a bout of eloquence, he added, "Do we know you?"
"Well," Douchebag Numero Uno answered with a drawl, see-sawing his hand from side to side right beside Dean's cheek, "we've never really been introduced." Dean could see a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, from Dean's angle it said 999, and Dean's stomach dropped down to somewhere around his knees. The apron he was wearing had an angry kitten on it, and said: I escaped from hell and all I got was this lousy apron.
"I'm Lucifer," Lucifer said, frankly, with a twisty-wristed wave of his hand that would imply he had just said, "Oh, it's Thursday again" or "yeah, yeah, I know, what're you gonna do?" He went on, over the awkwardness and bad background music, "You know, Satan. The devil. If you want the whole list I can send someone out to grab you a theology 101 book or something. Anyway, just call me Lou. After everything you've done for me, hell, you're practically family."
"Um," Sam said, because he was a giant fucking copycat.
"Just not the sleep-on-the-couch, drink-all-the-beer, repeat, type of family, alright? I've got enough of them bumping around here lately." Lou laughed loudly enough that a couple of teenagers turned around to look. Lou didn't quite come up to Dean's chin; he looked like he had probably started the day in a three piece suit, but had given up the ghost hours before; his slacks where so tight Dean was pretty sure he could tell if the dude was circumcised if it weren't for that wonderful, wonderful kitten apron. He probably weighed in at about 170; and if Dean was a gambling man 2, he'd bet Lou was wearing eyeliner.
Dean was, first of all, fairly certain that it shouldn't be physically possible for Lou to have an arm around Sam's shoulders and his feet on the ground at the same time. Second of all, Dean was man enough to admit that, just then, flying off to some far away third world country to raise sheep and grow yams was his life dream.
"Um," Sam repeated, just to show off that verbal SAT score of his. He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Dean over Lou's head. It was Sam speak for great plan, genius, now what; which, frankly, Dean found offensive.
He narrowed his eyes, and said, "Yeah, it's amazing the trouble family can get you in." He reached for his gun again, even if it was too crowded to pull it. His shoulders dropped when he got cheap plastic instead. Typical, typical, typical.
Lucifer laughed again, and ruffled Sam's hair. Dean couldn't see any way that Lucifer-Satan, the devil, lots of other names throughout history, and also apparently Lou-could even come close to pulling that trick off without a stepladder, and maybe some rope and a few good footholds. "Let's get a pot of coffee and chat, Brothers Winchester. We've got some things to discuss. I've got gratitude to expresses, and eventually you've got a gospel to end 3."
"Fine," Dean said, "but only if I get some pie out of-" Dean stopped, when a skinny guy in a neon green Waffle Wonderland apron pushed a plate with a piece of pie into his hand. Dean sat down at the nearest table, but only because he really needed some coffee to stop his internal alliteration. Sam sat across from him and kicked him under the table with his stupid, Sasquatch, herbivore foot. Lou plopped down in the chair next to Dean, so at least Dean didn't have to try and find away to put space between his baby brother and Satan.
Winchester problems were not normal problems. They might have to get business cards printed that said just that. Like the Ghostbusters but less catchy. Like Angel.
The guy on the stage sang, ha la lalalala, and at least a hundred kids swayed and sang along.
Dean took a bite of warm, crumbly, cinnamon-apple perfection. Sam hummed under his breath, and Dean said, strictly in self-defense for his already-abused ears, with his mouth still full of pie, "You've got unlimited resources and no morals about using them, and this is the best musical act you could get?" He might, if anything Sam said was to be believed, have followed this with a few sounds of sheer bliss around his pie that, if taken out of context, were maybe not appropriate to use in a public forum of any kind.
"He's good," Sam said, because he was always eager to get his douche on. He bought tickets to the douchebag revival whenever it came to town. He stirred three of those little cups of creamer and four sugar packets into a cup of coffee that was dropped off in a blur of obnoxious colored bracelets, because he had no shame.
Lou's grin stretched wide, crinkled the corners of his eyes. He had entirely too many teeth. He leaned back in his chair and twirled his knife 4 between his fingers. It was maybe less creepy than it should have been, all in all. "Everyone expects something different," he said, "but the thing about hell is it's always AAAAAAHHH; or GAAAAH; and once in a while to spice things up: NGAANN. I mean, sure, inflicting pain and torment always makes for a good laugh. And everybody likes a new job when they start it. But after the first thousand years or so, well, it just gets old. All that screaming, it just never stops. It was worth the work of escaping just so I could hear something else for a while. I'm not gonna rush back to listening to it just because some dickwad throws in a bass line."
Sam looked at Dean, and did that thing with his mouth that meant he was saying see? With no regard at all for the fact that he taking sides with Satan. Dean shook his head, sad that his life had come to not being surprised by being shafted for the devil. Maybe he really was just getting too old for this shit.
"So you're getting people to sell their souls, to play at your Waffle House knock off?" Dean asked. Sometimes it was too much to resist the urge to remind Sammy that he was a really just a smarty-pants know-it-all lunatic.
For the first time, Lou's face darkened. Like a storm cloud had just passed over the horizon of his incredibly stupid, completely immobile hair. "Watch your mouth, Dean," he said. In a flutter of freakishly efficient, neon bedazzled wait staff, Dean's pie was gone, and replaced by: two eggs over easy, two sausage links, four slices of crisp bacon, and one very golden waffle. Sam and Lou each had their own versions of the same thing, though Sam's had fruit, the freak. "There are two things I can't stand: people who wear Crocs, and subpar breakfast food.
"I escaped hell for this. I rule hell, Dean. I walked off of a throne to spend twelve hours a day running between the kitchen and the office trying to get things lined up just right. Waffle House has nothing on this. You think I'd have gone through all this work to flip flapjacks at some chain restaurant? This is better than anything in all of heaven or hell; I don't advertise falsely because I don't have to."
The waffle did seem to be lit up, with a chorus of angels going AAHHHH, but not in the screaming agony sort of way. It looked like maple covered perfection. Dean felt kind of bad.
Sam kicked him under the table in a clear breech of their peace treaty. He took a bite of his waffle and just... stopped, frozen midbite. Dean was just working up some concern for him, when his eyes rolled back in his head, and he said, "Oh my god," in a tone of voice Dean wished he didn't know as well as he did.
"Well, that's the kind of talk that started this mess, isn't it?" Lou said, but the storm had clearly passed, and the outlook seemed sunny. "Look, that's the kicker here, guys. I've got the best waffles you'll ever taste, and I've got great 5 live music. I've got the gig I've been dreaming about for years. I just want to run a legitimate, evil-free business. Totally on the up and up and up, unlike those bastard angels who run the golf course in Biloxi."
Dean took a bite of his waffle and said, "Jesus Christ," with his fork still in his mouth. He would probably have sold his soul for it 6. As it was, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to eat anything else again.
Lou, the devil, supreme and ultimate evil, snickered. "No, no, some lesser beings than J.C. We do try to get the front nine in every other Wednesday afternoon, but he's a rotten cheater when you give him a club and an opponent with some natural skill."
Dean wasn't haven't the best time ever adjusting. "What, do you wear the outfits and everything?" he asked, because his brain had given up trying to have a rational thought about anything.
Sam kicked him under the table again. Dean was totally going to show Bobby the bruises, and make Sam watch the episode of Oprah with Rihanna. In the meantime, he kicked back.
"J.C. wears Crocs," Lou answered, grumbling. "Bright orange ones. He knows I hate that. I've got a special, garishly colored, squeaky rubber level of hell reserved for people who put their feet into those things willingly. It's right next to the ones for people who kick puppies, and talk in the theater."
Sam was doing that thing with his mouth that either meant he had gas, or he was kind of in love. His shoulders hunched forward like he wanted to leap across the table and hug Lou. "So you're using waffles to bring about the end of mankind?"
"A legitimate business needs customers, Sam," Lou answered, in a tone of voice that implied very strongly that Sam was both very small and very stupid. It made Dean want to hug him. "I'm one of the few that's spent time in heaven and in hell. You want to know what they have in common? Cheapskates. Try to get an angel to loan you a five sometime, you don't believe me.
"Besides," he added, offhanded, doing his little hand-wavey thing again. "People keep talking about 'em like they're that big of a deal, right? But they're boring, the music is awful and the cuisine is bland. This right here, this is the life, Sammy."
"We're supposed to just trust that?" Sam asked, with his doubtful eyebrows and his plate completely empty.
"Aw, you boys are free to stop by anytime," Lou said, and laughed. "Keep an eye on me and the dessert menu, right? And since I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you two, it's on the house."
The guy on stage sang, ah la lala-life is wonderful, and Dean leaned back in his seat and asked, "Do you have take-out? How about hash browns?"
1Admittedly, this didn't mean a lot to Dean. He could always just cross his fingers behind his back as he did the any kind of court sanctioned swearing.
2Dean was, is, and always will be a gambling man, but he'd lost his wallet in a tragic swamp/kerosene incident the night before that he maintained Sam was completely to blame for. The fact of the matter was, if Dean had his wallet, he would bet. Of course, if Dean had his wallet, he wouldn't have been subject to Sam's freakish Anything-Not-Deep-Fried-For-The-Love-of-God whim for the second time in the last three weeks. If Dean had his wallet, he'd have been in Vegas partying like it was 1999.
3Dean felt this was also unfair. It wasn't like he was the one writing the thing. And besides, he'd never been the best at endings, unless they were non-Disney happy kind. People who are probably don't go around selling their soul to begin with.
4Dull. Dean checked, because it wasn't his pretty face that kept him mostly alive for all those years.
5Dean disagreed with this the way he disagreed with male cheerleaders and people who ordered their steak well done; which is to say, he disagreed with this a lot. Possibly more than words could ever properly articulate. But he was smart enough to learn from his mistakes, no matter what Sam might think. He could keep his opinion to himself just fine.
6You know, had he not already been there, and done that.
title: The Waffle Option Initiative
fandom: SPN
rating: PG
summary: The giant neon sign on top of the building was flickering, just a little, and not doing Sam's pasty face any favors. It said, Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland. Underneath that was a billboard that said, Music Minus Misery. Beneath that, it said: Lou's Live Late Nights. Below that it said: Awesome Acoustics, Almighty Alliteration, Wonderful Waffles. And under that, in small font, was: Better than anything else in heaven or hell.
notes: This is all entirely musesfool's fault. She made me do it. She wrote some of the funniest lines, and she betaed. Really, she made me. I'm like an indentured servant to her whims. I cannot get this to code 100% to my satisfaction, so, please, tell me how to fix it.
Dean approached the building with dread settling heavily on his chest. His stomach, which had been growling like the hounds of hell for the past two hours, gave one last desperate, pathetic whimper, then quieted completely. His fingers twitched toward his gun without consulting his brain first.
"Dean," Sam managed to hiss, in exactly the same tone of voice as the semi-MILFy mother of two-point-five had used on the kid pulling things off the gas station self before she pointed them in this direction. Sam kind of looked like he wanted to slap Dean's hand, too, but Bobby had threatened to put them in couples counseling the next time they got into a fist fight. "Quit being a baby," he said, instead.
"Three out of five," Dean said, because he was pretty sure Bobby was serious with that threat. There had been hours of Dr. Phil on his DVR the last time they were at his place. That kind of thing can change a man. It was also a good possibility that he'd just shoot them the next time, and Dean was kind of over taking chances for a while.
Sam shook his head, and rolled his eyes. Dean was pretty sure that was on the same level as patting your head and rubbing your stomach, but he didn't want to give Sam any credit where it might not really be due.
The giant neon sign on top of the building was flickering, just a little, and not doing Sam's pasty face any favors. It said, Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland. Underneath that was a billboard that said, Music Minus Misery. Beneath that, it said: Lou's Live Late Nights. Below that it said: Awesome Acoustics, Almighty Alliteration, Wonderful Waffles. And under that, in small font, was: Better than anything else in heaven or hell.
There were soft sounds of an acoustic guitar that could be heard from the parking lot across the street. Dean watched a group of teenagers with tight jeans and neon shoes walk in, and his stomach decided to roll over and play dead.
"Aw, Sam, come on," he said. Said, and did not even kind of whine, no matter what Sam's left eyebrow might have been implying. He said, "It's like the triple crown of douchebaggery! Crappy emo music and knock-off waffles."
Sam's eye twitched. "That's just two things."
"I'm working on the third," Dean said, and kicked at the parking lot gravel.
Sam, who was clearly trying to see if he could roll his eyes out of their sockets, huffed. "Everyone for the last two counties has said these waffles are the best to be found. More than one person used the phrase life-changing."
"Because the indigestion they got from waffles and terrible music put them off of breakfast food for life?"
"Dean," Sam huffed, like he would when he was seven and Dean made him go to bed at nine, all I'm not a little kiiiid!!!. "They said these waffles are as close as they will ever get to heaven."
The sign that Dean would've sworn under oath 1 said: OPEN, was now flashing to say: MALTS, MILKSHAKES and MORE.
Dean's moral high ground started to quake. Just a little, it was more like it began to tremble. People who'd lived in California for a while wouldn't have even noticed it. "The angels are douchebags; you're making my point for me here."
"You would know," Sam mumbled, not quite under his breath. Dean very carefully weighed disappointing Bobby with the satisfaction he'd get from kicking Sam really hard. "Look, you don't want to go in there, fine, but it's Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland, or it's tracking down Satan."
It wasn't exactly an easy choice for Dean to make.
Another sign started flashing in the window, it said: PLENTY of PERFECT PIES.
Dean sighed, and did exactly what he'd been doing since Sam was seven and huffing because Dean was telling him it was bedtime. He caved. He did his level best to look innocent as he stepped on Sam's toes on the way to the door, though.
The life of a Winchester was usually made up entirely of small victories and face-smashing losses. Dean was used to this. When he walked through entry to Lou's Lo-Fi Waffle Wonderland, he was not surprised by the not so small army of over-pierced, badly dressed emo kids; he was not shocked by the blank, black-eyed stares of, well, mostly emo kids, but also a couple of demons; he was not taken aback by the geek with the guitar singing something about finding a way if it kills me while one of the angels that'd shown up when Lucifer started rising played the drums.
When some guy in slacks, a silk button down and an apron came up, wrapped his arms around Dean and Sam's shoulders, and said, gleefully, "Finally, the Winchester brothers decide to grace us with their presence. It's so hard to thank you boys when you're avoiding me, you know." Well, then Dean was a little stunned.
"Um," Dean said, because he'd never claimed to be the guy who was good with words. His mouth, yes, absolutely; but words, no. In a bout of eloquence, he added, "Do we know you?"
"Well," Douchebag Numero Uno answered with a drawl, see-sawing his hand from side to side right beside Dean's cheek, "we've never really been introduced." Dean could see a tattoo on the inside of his wrist, from Dean's angle it said 999, and Dean's stomach dropped down to somewhere around his knees. The apron he was wearing had an angry kitten on it, and said: I escaped from hell and all I got was this lousy apron.
"I'm Lucifer," Lucifer said, frankly, with a twisty-wristed wave of his hand that would imply he had just said, "Oh, it's Thursday again" or "yeah, yeah, I know, what're you gonna do?" He went on, over the awkwardness and bad background music, "You know, Satan. The devil. If you want the whole list I can send someone out to grab you a theology 101 book or something. Anyway, just call me Lou. After everything you've done for me, hell, you're practically family."
"Um," Sam said, because he was a giant fucking copycat.
"Just not the sleep-on-the-couch, drink-all-the-beer, repeat, type of family, alright? I've got enough of them bumping around here lately." Lou laughed loudly enough that a couple of teenagers turned around to look. Lou didn't quite come up to Dean's chin; he looked like he had probably started the day in a three piece suit, but had given up the ghost hours before; his slacks where so tight Dean was pretty sure he could tell if the dude was circumcised if it weren't for that wonderful, wonderful kitten apron. He probably weighed in at about 170; and if Dean was a gambling man 2, he'd bet Lou was wearing eyeliner.
Dean was, first of all, fairly certain that it shouldn't be physically possible for Lou to have an arm around Sam's shoulders and his feet on the ground at the same time. Second of all, Dean was man enough to admit that, just then, flying off to some far away third world country to raise sheep and grow yams was his life dream.
"Um," Sam repeated, just to show off that verbal SAT score of his. He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Dean over Lou's head. It was Sam speak for great plan, genius, now what; which, frankly, Dean found offensive.
He narrowed his eyes, and said, "Yeah, it's amazing the trouble family can get you in." He reached for his gun again, even if it was too crowded to pull it. His shoulders dropped when he got cheap plastic instead. Typical, typical, typical.
Lucifer laughed again, and ruffled Sam's hair. Dean couldn't see any way that Lucifer-Satan, the devil, lots of other names throughout history, and also apparently Lou-could even come close to pulling that trick off without a stepladder, and maybe some rope and a few good footholds. "Let's get a pot of coffee and chat, Brothers Winchester. We've got some things to discuss. I've got gratitude to expresses, and eventually you've got a gospel to end 3."
"Fine," Dean said, "but only if I get some pie out of-" Dean stopped, when a skinny guy in a neon green Waffle Wonderland apron pushed a plate with a piece of pie into his hand. Dean sat down at the nearest table, but only because he really needed some coffee to stop his internal alliteration. Sam sat across from him and kicked him under the table with his stupid, Sasquatch, herbivore foot. Lou plopped down in the chair next to Dean, so at least Dean didn't have to try and find away to put space between his baby brother and Satan.
Winchester problems were not normal problems. They might have to get business cards printed that said just that. Like the Ghostbusters but less catchy. Like Angel.
The guy on the stage sang, ha la lalalala, and at least a hundred kids swayed and sang along.
Dean took a bite of warm, crumbly, cinnamon-apple perfection. Sam hummed under his breath, and Dean said, strictly in self-defense for his already-abused ears, with his mouth still full of pie, "You've got unlimited resources and no morals about using them, and this is the best musical act you could get?" He might, if anything Sam said was to be believed, have followed this with a few sounds of sheer bliss around his pie that, if taken out of context, were maybe not appropriate to use in a public forum of any kind.
"He's good," Sam said, because he was always eager to get his douche on. He bought tickets to the douchebag revival whenever it came to town. He stirred three of those little cups of creamer and four sugar packets into a cup of coffee that was dropped off in a blur of obnoxious colored bracelets, because he had no shame.
Lou's grin stretched wide, crinkled the corners of his eyes. He had entirely too many teeth. He leaned back in his chair and twirled his knife 4 between his fingers. It was maybe less creepy than it should have been, all in all. "Everyone expects something different," he said, "but the thing about hell is it's always AAAAAAHHH; or GAAAAH; and once in a while to spice things up: NGAANN. I mean, sure, inflicting pain and torment always makes for a good laugh. And everybody likes a new job when they start it. But after the first thousand years or so, well, it just gets old. All that screaming, it just never stops. It was worth the work of escaping just so I could hear something else for a while. I'm not gonna rush back to listening to it just because some dickwad throws in a bass line."
Sam looked at Dean, and did that thing with his mouth that meant he was saying see? With no regard at all for the fact that he taking sides with Satan. Dean shook his head, sad that his life had come to not being surprised by being shafted for the devil. Maybe he really was just getting too old for this shit.
"So you're getting people to sell their souls, to play at your Waffle House knock off?" Dean asked. Sometimes it was too much to resist the urge to remind Sammy that he was a really just a smarty-pants know-it-all lunatic.
For the first time, Lou's face darkened. Like a storm cloud had just passed over the horizon of his incredibly stupid, completely immobile hair. "Watch your mouth, Dean," he said. In a flutter of freakishly efficient, neon bedazzled wait staff, Dean's pie was gone, and replaced by: two eggs over easy, two sausage links, four slices of crisp bacon, and one very golden waffle. Sam and Lou each had their own versions of the same thing, though Sam's had fruit, the freak. "There are two things I can't stand: people who wear Crocs, and subpar breakfast food.
"I escaped hell for this. I rule hell, Dean. I walked off of a throne to spend twelve hours a day running between the kitchen and the office trying to get things lined up just right. Waffle House has nothing on this. You think I'd have gone through all this work to flip flapjacks at some chain restaurant? This is better than anything in all of heaven or hell; I don't advertise falsely because I don't have to."
The waffle did seem to be lit up, with a chorus of angels going AAHHHH, but not in the screaming agony sort of way. It looked like maple covered perfection. Dean felt kind of bad.
Sam kicked him under the table in a clear breech of their peace treaty. He took a bite of his waffle and just... stopped, frozen midbite. Dean was just working up some concern for him, when his eyes rolled back in his head, and he said, "Oh my god," in a tone of voice Dean wished he didn't know as well as he did.
"Well, that's the kind of talk that started this mess, isn't it?" Lou said, but the storm had clearly passed, and the outlook seemed sunny. "Look, that's the kicker here, guys. I've got the best waffles you'll ever taste, and I've got great 5 live music. I've got the gig I've been dreaming about for years. I just want to run a legitimate, evil-free business. Totally on the up and up and up, unlike those bastard angels who run the golf course in Biloxi."
Dean took a bite of his waffle and said, "Jesus Christ," with his fork still in his mouth. He would probably have sold his soul for it 6. As it was, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to eat anything else again.
Lou, the devil, supreme and ultimate evil, snickered. "No, no, some lesser beings than J.C. We do try to get the front nine in every other Wednesday afternoon, but he's a rotten cheater when you give him a club and an opponent with some natural skill."
Dean wasn't haven't the best time ever adjusting. "What, do you wear the outfits and everything?" he asked, because his brain had given up trying to have a rational thought about anything.
Sam kicked him under the table again. Dean was totally going to show Bobby the bruises, and make Sam watch the episode of Oprah with Rihanna. In the meantime, he kicked back.
"J.C. wears Crocs," Lou answered, grumbling. "Bright orange ones. He knows I hate that. I've got a special, garishly colored, squeaky rubber level of hell reserved for people who put their feet into those things willingly. It's right next to the ones for people who kick puppies, and talk in the theater."
Sam was doing that thing with his mouth that either meant he had gas, or he was kind of in love. His shoulders hunched forward like he wanted to leap across the table and hug Lou. "So you're using waffles to bring about the end of mankind?"
"A legitimate business needs customers, Sam," Lou answered, in a tone of voice that implied very strongly that Sam was both very small and very stupid. It made Dean want to hug him. "I'm one of the few that's spent time in heaven and in hell. You want to know what they have in common? Cheapskates. Try to get an angel to loan you a five sometime, you don't believe me.
"Besides," he added, offhanded, doing his little hand-wavey thing again. "People keep talking about 'em like they're that big of a deal, right? But they're boring, the music is awful and the cuisine is bland. This right here, this is the life, Sammy."
"We're supposed to just trust that?" Sam asked, with his doubtful eyebrows and his plate completely empty.
"Aw, you boys are free to stop by anytime," Lou said, and laughed. "Keep an eye on me and the dessert menu, right? And since I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you two, it's on the house."
The guy on stage sang, ah la lala-life is wonderful, and Dean leaned back in his seat and asked, "Do you have take-out? How about hash browns?"
1Admittedly, this didn't mean a lot to Dean. He could always just cross his fingers behind his back as he did the any kind of court sanctioned swearing.
2Dean was, is, and always will be a gambling man, but he'd lost his wallet in a tragic swamp/kerosene incident the night before that he maintained Sam was completely to blame for. The fact of the matter was, if Dean had his wallet, he would bet. Of course, if Dean had his wallet, he wouldn't have been subject to Sam's freakish Anything-Not-Deep-Fried-For-The-Love-of-God whim for the second time in the last three weeks. If Dean had his wallet, he'd have been in Vegas partying like it was 1999.
3Dean felt this was also unfair. It wasn't like he was the one writing the thing. And besides, he'd never been the best at endings, unless they were non-Disney happy kind. People who are probably don't go around selling their soul to begin with.
4Dull. Dean checked, because it wasn't his pretty face that kept him mostly alive for all those years.
5Dean disagreed with this the way he disagreed with male cheerleaders and people who ordered their steak well done; which is to say, he disagreed with this a lot. Possibly more than words could ever properly articulate. But he was smart enough to learn from his mistakes, no matter what Sam might think. He could keep his opinion to himself just fine.
6You know, had he not already been there, and done that.