The Rain is the Punch Line (Things Can’t Possibly Get Worse), 1/?
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens (crossover)
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter)
Summary: Dean had thought his life couldn’t possibly get any worse than it already was. He supposed this was his punishment for being so optimistic.
Warnings: Violence, language, crack, angst.
Dean Winchester had never been an optimist. From four years old, he had been painfully aware that things could, and almost certainly would always get worse. He had never had any illusions to the contrary. He’d known how he would grow up, and he had quickly come to terms with it.
But now Dean was genuinely starting to believe that his life could not possibly get any worse. Things had been bad enough after Cas…
Now Bobby was gone too.
Sam had steadfastly refused to let him burn their father figure’s body, so they had slipped back to the ruins of his house in the dead of night and buried him in the shade of the forest. Dean knew Sam was holding out for a miracle, so he’d indulged the request. But there had been no miraculous recovery; no God or angels to bring Bobby back, and Dean had driven them to a nearby liquor store before finding a motel for the night.
When he finally came to, face down on the carpet, the motel room was completely trashed, bottles scattered all around him and crap paintings torn from the wall and stomped into pieces. Two days had passed, and he was completely, utterly alone. The idea that Sam had left him too was so jarring that he was already reaching for his gun before he noticed the note on the bedside table.
Sam opened the door. “Dean,” he said, and his voice was reproachful. Dean dropped the gun and instead accepted the bottle of aspirin and the greasy stained paper bag that his little brother offered. He dry swallowed a handful of pills before Sam grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He picked up Dean’s duffle, too, and dragged his brother out of the room without another word. Dean followed, too tired to argue.
The Impala was sitting, gleaming, in the parking spot outside their room.
“I, uh, went and got her back,” Sam explained unnecessarily, “I figured…”
We’ve lost enough already, she’s all we really have left.
Dean nodded, stepping forward and laying his palm flat on the hood of the car. He tried an approximation of a smile and Sam tenetively returned it.
“Now let’s get out of here before the manager sees what you did to that room.”
Dean didn’t even argue when Sam slid into the driver’s seat. It probably wouldn’t be the best way to start off the day, crashing his baby after a two-day bender. He crawled into the backseat and laid on his back, halfheartedly nibbling on one of the hash browns Sam had brought back.
The purring of the Impala’s engine was the most soothing thing he’d heard in a long time and it wasn’t long before Dean drifted off to sleep.
*
Sam drove the next few hours in silence, afraid to turn on the radio and wake his brother. He knew this was the first time Dean had slept without the assistance of drugs or alcohol for weeks. He was not about to end it because his drive was a little uneventful.
“Bored, Sammy?” Lucifer said conversationally, appearing in the passenger seat. Sam gritted his teeth.
“Go the fuck away.”
Lucifer clicked his tongue, scolding. “Such language, Sammy Boy. Didn’t you miss me?”
“Fuck you,” Sam snarled in an undertone, “You aren’t even real.”
“You keep saying that like you’re sure, kiddo,” Lucifer said, stretching languidly, resting his arm across the back of the seat, fingers at Sam’s neck, “But you have more conversation with me than you do with Dean-o back there, and you’re so certain that he is real.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Sam said. He was vaguely aware that if Dean woke up and found him talking to thin air again, it might be enough to completely break him. Sam remembered opening the door to their room earlier that day and seeing his big brother contemplating the barrel of his pistol. He pressed forcefully on the scar in his palm.
Lucifer barely flickered, “Are you worried about sending big brother over the edge, Sammy,” he mocked, “C’mon, let’s be real. Dean’s barely clinging to the edge. He spends most of his time wondering if he might do better just to let go.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re so touchy, Sam, I’m just telling you the truth.”
“Oh, of course,” Sam said sarcastically, “You’re telling me the truth. That must be why they call you the Prince of Lies.”
Lucifer’s fingers tangled in the hair at the base of his neck, “I don’t need to tell lies when the truth is so much worse, Sam,” he whispered, breath hot on the side of Sam’s face.
Sam jerked away as if he’d been burned, “Leave me alone,” he growled, pressing against the scar on his hand until his skin went completely white. Lucifer sneered, then flickered and vanished. Sam pulled the car over to the side of the road and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, taking deep, even breaths through his nose.
A quick glance in the backseat confirmed that Dean was still out cold, so Sam put the car back in gear and pulled back on to the highway before the lack of motion woke his brother up. He was going to have to be the strong one for a while now, and he’d be damned if hallucinations of Satan were going to stop him taking care of his brother.
*
Dean dreamt about deep water and gunshots. He was standing at the end of the world, holding a bloodied trenchcoat and a battered blue baseball cap when he heard someone call his name. He stared into the void before him, but the voice called out again.
“Dean, wake up!”
Dean shot bolt upright, hand fumbling for a gun that wasn’t there and hit his head on the roof of the Impala. Sam’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Hey, easy, it’s just me.” Sam said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the concern in his eyes, “We’re here.”
Dean scrubbed at his face. “Where’s here? And when?”
“Cassville, Missouri, six pm,” Sam answered, “I found a hunt.”
“A hunt?” Dean repeated back at him stupidly. Sam’s face fell slightly.
“I…I thought it would be a good idea,” he said uncertainly, “I mean, we have to do something with ourselves until we find the Levia--”
“Yeah, sure,” Dean interrupted, “What’ve we got?”
“Looks like a rogue demon,” Sam said, “So far there have been two disappearances and the only unusual thing at the scene was sulfur under the windows.”
“Sounds pretty open and shut,” Dean agreed, “We’ll find the sucker and gank him in the morning. I’m gonna go find the nearest bar.”
“Dean…” Sam’s voice was tired.
“Dude, we’re broke,” Dean pointed out, “And it’s too risky to get new cards. So unless your newfound Prohibition-era sensibilities would like to starve, we need to go hustle some pool.”
Sam scowled, “Prohibition-era, Dean, really?”
“You’re the one with the aversion to alcohol lately,” Dean countered.
“I have an aversion to alcoholism, Dean.”
Dean ignored the jab. “I’m going to go hustle some pool, and if you want to come watch my back, great. If not, it’s your fault if I have to kick people’s asses.”
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. When Dean put it like that…
“Fine,” he said tightly, “But we’re not looking for any trouble.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
*
The first hour they spent in the bar had been trouble free, much to Sam’s relief. They collected about $500 off of a pair of drunken frat boys and decided with an exchanged look to call it a night.
But that was when things had gone south. Dean had gone to the bar and taken seven shots in quick succession before coming back with a beer for himself, and one for Sam.
Now he was gone again, and Sam had no idea where he was. He pushed his way to the bar, only to discover that Dean wasn’t there either.
“Did you ever wonder why he’s the older brother?” Lucifer asked, perching his chin on Sam’s shoulder, “It’s probably because you’re shit at taking care of people.”
Sam shoved him away and ordered some shots of his own.
*
Dean stumbled drunkenly into the last stall in the men’s bathroom, dragging the pretty brunette he’d met at the bar after him. She giggled and shoved him against the wall, kissing him hard, her tongue in his mouth.
“I feel so cliché,” the girl giggled, looking up at him with wide, brown eyes, “Sex in a bar bathroom. Really.”
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Dean murmured against her throat, “C’mom, er…”
The girl leveled a look at him, eyebrow raised, “You already forgot my name?”
Dean laughed, and there was a hysterical edge to it, “I don’t think I even heard it when you told me the first time,” he slurred, “And I really don’t give a shit, either. I just would rather think about anything than my life right now, so…”
Dean was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He waited for the inevitable slap, gasp, stomp-out combo, but it never came. Instead the girl pressed further against him, her nails scraping along his arms.
“You’d rather anything than your life right now, huh, Dean?” she growled. He pulled back, startled at the use of his name just as she dug her nails into his forearm, hard enough to draw blood, “I bet I can fix that for you.” Her fingers were tracing patterns in his blood and he stared at her, reflexes slowed by drink and bewilderment.
She grinned and her eyes flickered black. “Let me help you out, Winchester.”
It was the sight of her eyes that forced him back to reality, and into action. He reversed their positions so quickly she didn’t even have time to shriek and then went for Ruby’s knife, strapped to his leg.
“I don’t need anybody’s help, you bitch,” he snarled, and stabbed her. The demon moaned a little, her host’s puppy dog brown eyes going wide as she spasmed and then collapsed.
Dean shoved away from the body and back out into the bar, barely having the wherewithal to shove the bloody knife into his jacket pocket. He saw Sam at the bar and grabbed his shoulder. His brother tensed and swung around, prepared to fight, but stopped when he saw it was Dean.
“Dean…” he took in the blood down Dean’s arm, and on his jacket, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
He half dragged Dean out of the bar, earning some catcalls from some drunk twenty-somethings who didn’t seem to have noticed that Dean was covered in blood.
“What the hell happened?” Sam demanded as soon as he’d safely deposited his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala.
“I almost got laid by a demon,” Dean scowls, “What does it look like happened, Sam? I guess I just don’t have the sway with demon ladies that you do.”
“Dean!” Sam kind of felt like he’d been punched, even after all this time, but he shook it off. Dean’d always been something of a belligerent drunk, “Did you take care of her? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” he snapped, “Of course I took care of the bitch.”
“Well,” Sam said, trying to sound light, “At least that case is taken care of.”
“Like I said,” Dean groused, “Open and shut.”
After all, at this point it really couldn't get worse, could it?
Chapter Two
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter)
Summary: Dean had thought his life couldn’t possibly get any worse than it already was. He supposed this was his punishment for being so optimistic.
Warnings: Violence, language, crack, angst.
Dean Winchester had never been an optimist. From four years old, he had been painfully aware that things could, and almost certainly would always get worse. He had never had any illusions to the contrary. He’d known how he would grow up, and he had quickly come to terms with it.
But now Dean was genuinely starting to believe that his life could not possibly get any worse. Things had been bad enough after Cas…
Now Bobby was gone too.
Sam had steadfastly refused to let him burn their father figure’s body, so they had slipped back to the ruins of his house in the dead of night and buried him in the shade of the forest. Dean knew Sam was holding out for a miracle, so he’d indulged the request. But there had been no miraculous recovery; no God or angels to bring Bobby back, and Dean had driven them to a nearby liquor store before finding a motel for the night.
When he finally came to, face down on the carpet, the motel room was completely trashed, bottles scattered all around him and crap paintings torn from the wall and stomped into pieces. Two days had passed, and he was completely, utterly alone. The idea that Sam had left him too was so jarring that he was already reaching for his gun before he noticed the note on the bedside table.
Sam opened the door. “Dean,” he said, and his voice was reproachful. Dean dropped the gun and instead accepted the bottle of aspirin and the greasy stained paper bag that his little brother offered. He dry swallowed a handful of pills before Sam grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He picked up Dean’s duffle, too, and dragged his brother out of the room without another word. Dean followed, too tired to argue.
The Impala was sitting, gleaming, in the parking spot outside their room.
“I, uh, went and got her back,” Sam explained unnecessarily, “I figured…”
We’ve lost enough already, she’s all we really have left.
Dean nodded, stepping forward and laying his palm flat on the hood of the car. He tried an approximation of a smile and Sam tenetively returned it.
“Now let’s get out of here before the manager sees what you did to that room.”
Dean didn’t even argue when Sam slid into the driver’s seat. It probably wouldn’t be the best way to start off the day, crashing his baby after a two-day bender. He crawled into the backseat and laid on his back, halfheartedly nibbling on one of the hash browns Sam had brought back.
The purring of the Impala’s engine was the most soothing thing he’d heard in a long time and it wasn’t long before Dean drifted off to sleep.
*
Sam drove the next few hours in silence, afraid to turn on the radio and wake his brother. He knew this was the first time Dean had slept without the assistance of drugs or alcohol for weeks. He was not about to end it because his drive was a little uneventful.
“Bored, Sammy?” Lucifer said conversationally, appearing in the passenger seat. Sam gritted his teeth.
“Go the fuck away.”
Lucifer clicked his tongue, scolding. “Such language, Sammy Boy. Didn’t you miss me?”
“Fuck you,” Sam snarled in an undertone, “You aren’t even real.”
“You keep saying that like you’re sure, kiddo,” Lucifer said, stretching languidly, resting his arm across the back of the seat, fingers at Sam’s neck, “But you have more conversation with me than you do with Dean-o back there, and you’re so certain that he is real.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Sam said. He was vaguely aware that if Dean woke up and found him talking to thin air again, it might be enough to completely break him. Sam remembered opening the door to their room earlier that day and seeing his big brother contemplating the barrel of his pistol. He pressed forcefully on the scar in his palm.
Lucifer barely flickered, “Are you worried about sending big brother over the edge, Sammy,” he mocked, “C’mon, let’s be real. Dean’s barely clinging to the edge. He spends most of his time wondering if he might do better just to let go.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re so touchy, Sam, I’m just telling you the truth.”
“Oh, of course,” Sam said sarcastically, “You’re telling me the truth. That must be why they call you the Prince of Lies.”
Lucifer’s fingers tangled in the hair at the base of his neck, “I don’t need to tell lies when the truth is so much worse, Sam,” he whispered, breath hot on the side of Sam’s face.
Sam jerked away as if he’d been burned, “Leave me alone,” he growled, pressing against the scar on his hand until his skin went completely white. Lucifer sneered, then flickered and vanished. Sam pulled the car over to the side of the road and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, taking deep, even breaths through his nose.
A quick glance in the backseat confirmed that Dean was still out cold, so Sam put the car back in gear and pulled back on to the highway before the lack of motion woke his brother up. He was going to have to be the strong one for a while now, and he’d be damned if hallucinations of Satan were going to stop him taking care of his brother.
*
Dean dreamt about deep water and gunshots. He was standing at the end of the world, holding a bloodied trenchcoat and a battered blue baseball cap when he heard someone call his name. He stared into the void before him, but the voice called out again.
“Dean, wake up!”
Dean shot bolt upright, hand fumbling for a gun that wasn’t there and hit his head on the roof of the Impala. Sam’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Hey, easy, it’s just me.” Sam said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the concern in his eyes, “We’re here.”
Dean scrubbed at his face. “Where’s here? And when?”
“Cassville, Missouri, six pm,” Sam answered, “I found a hunt.”
“A hunt?” Dean repeated back at him stupidly. Sam’s face fell slightly.
“I…I thought it would be a good idea,” he said uncertainly, “I mean, we have to do something with ourselves until we find the Levia--”
“Yeah, sure,” Dean interrupted, “What’ve we got?”
“Looks like a rogue demon,” Sam said, “So far there have been two disappearances and the only unusual thing at the scene was sulfur under the windows.”
“Sounds pretty open and shut,” Dean agreed, “We’ll find the sucker and gank him in the morning. I’m gonna go find the nearest bar.”
“Dean…” Sam’s voice was tired.
“Dude, we’re broke,” Dean pointed out, “And it’s too risky to get new cards. So unless your newfound Prohibition-era sensibilities would like to starve, we need to go hustle some pool.”
Sam scowled, “Prohibition-era, Dean, really?”
“You’re the one with the aversion to alcohol lately,” Dean countered.
“I have an aversion to alcoholism, Dean.”
Dean ignored the jab. “I’m going to go hustle some pool, and if you want to come watch my back, great. If not, it’s your fault if I have to kick people’s asses.”
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. When Dean put it like that…
“Fine,” he said tightly, “But we’re not looking for any trouble.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
*
The first hour they spent in the bar had been trouble free, much to Sam’s relief. They collected about $500 off of a pair of drunken frat boys and decided with an exchanged look to call it a night.
But that was when things had gone south. Dean had gone to the bar and taken seven shots in quick succession before coming back with a beer for himself, and one for Sam.
Now he was gone again, and Sam had no idea where he was. He pushed his way to the bar, only to discover that Dean wasn’t there either.
“Did you ever wonder why he’s the older brother?” Lucifer asked, perching his chin on Sam’s shoulder, “It’s probably because you’re shit at taking care of people.”
Sam shoved him away and ordered some shots of his own.
*
Dean stumbled drunkenly into the last stall in the men’s bathroom, dragging the pretty brunette he’d met at the bar after him. She giggled and shoved him against the wall, kissing him hard, her tongue in his mouth.
“I feel so cliché,” the girl giggled, looking up at him with wide, brown eyes, “Sex in a bar bathroom. Really.”
“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Dean murmured against her throat, “C’mom, er…”
The girl leveled a look at him, eyebrow raised, “You already forgot my name?”
Dean laughed, and there was a hysterical edge to it, “I don’t think I even heard it when you told me the first time,” he slurred, “And I really don’t give a shit, either. I just would rather think about anything than my life right now, so…”
Dean was drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He waited for the inevitable slap, gasp, stomp-out combo, but it never came. Instead the girl pressed further against him, her nails scraping along his arms.
“You’d rather anything than your life right now, huh, Dean?” she growled. He pulled back, startled at the use of his name just as she dug her nails into his forearm, hard enough to draw blood, “I bet I can fix that for you.” Her fingers were tracing patterns in his blood and he stared at her, reflexes slowed by drink and bewilderment.
She grinned and her eyes flickered black. “Let me help you out, Winchester.”
It was the sight of her eyes that forced him back to reality, and into action. He reversed their positions so quickly she didn’t even have time to shriek and then went for Ruby’s knife, strapped to his leg.
“I don’t need anybody’s help, you bitch,” he snarled, and stabbed her. The demon moaned a little, her host’s puppy dog brown eyes going wide as she spasmed and then collapsed.
Dean shoved away from the body and back out into the bar, barely having the wherewithal to shove the bloody knife into his jacket pocket. He saw Sam at the bar and grabbed his shoulder. His brother tensed and swung around, prepared to fight, but stopped when he saw it was Dean.
“Dean…” he took in the blood down Dean’s arm, and on his jacket, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
He half dragged Dean out of the bar, earning some catcalls from some drunk twenty-somethings who didn’t seem to have noticed that Dean was covered in blood.
“What the hell happened?” Sam demanded as soon as he’d safely deposited his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala.
“I almost got laid by a demon,” Dean scowls, “What does it look like happened, Sam? I guess I just don’t have the sway with demon ladies that you do.”
“Dean!” Sam kind of felt like he’d been punched, even after all this time, but he shook it off. Dean’d always been something of a belligerent drunk, “Did you take care of her? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” he snapped, “Of course I took care of the bitch.”
“Well,” Sam said, trying to sound light, “At least that case is taken care of.”
“Like I said,” Dean groused, “Open and shut.”
After all, at this point it really couldn't get worse, could it?
Chapter Two