ultraviolet9a | Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.

ultraviolet9a

>> Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.

TITLE: Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.

AUTHOR:

ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: Spoilers for after In My Time of Dying

GENRE: Gen. Humour. Possibly crackfic. Depends on your POV really. But I’d go with gen. Okay?

CHARACTERS: John Winchester, Pastor Jim, and others which I can’t mention because that would be a spoiler for the episode mentioned above.

SUMMARY: Same deal here. It will be a spoiler for In My Time of Dying. Also? You won’t see the end coming. I hope.

RATING: PG-13. Easy on the rating. Just has the occasional cuss, and a bit of sacrilege. Actually, a lot of it.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: Deep in my mind I’m surely convinced that if I write long enough about him, John Winchester will become real and in my ownership. Till that happens, he ain’t mine. None of them are, and do you see me being any richer? Do you? I didn’t think so either. No profit made.

NOTE: Has a bit of…eh… sacrilegious humour. I don’t mean to offend anyone by it, and frankly, I think it’s funny. (My beta, who is a priest’s daughter, thought so too. So. I think I’m safe.)

Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes

- Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)-

John Winchester opens his eyes. And though he takes notice of the big puffy whiteness around him, and the golden glint in the distance, and the distant music from invisible choirs and has a growing suspicion of where he is, as he starts walking, nay, hovering like those vampire chicks his sons so much loved in the Hammer movies, when that suspicion grows into certainty as he looks at the gates, all he can really think of is Oh hell.

Which is ironic really, his brain helpfully supplies.

There’s an old man with a neatly trimmed beard and a white robe propped against the huge ornate solid golden gate, and his oh so helpful brain again comes up with the feedback that if that is solid gold and he pawned it, he’d get like, a zillion ammo.

The old man looks severely at him as if reading his thoughts. He’s got an equally shiny huge key hung from his rope belt (and John manages not to think about pawning this time), and a huge book in front of him, the pages of which he turns ceremoniously as he glances at John Winchester.

And John Winchester really wants to point out that a laptop would have saved them so much more trouble, wouldn’t it, St. Peter?

St. Peter –for, who else could it be really- speaks in a voice that sounds like waves of a perfect sea against a shore. Kind of like Sean Connery, John’s thinking, and wants to shove his hands in his pockets. Except there are no pockets. John is in neat, white, loose baggy pants and a T-shirt, sockless, shoeless, pocketless. He feels practically naked. He already misses his worn-out multifunctional jacket fiercely. And remembers his Bible, and a wave of horror washes over him. He pulls the elastic band of the trousers a bit in front of him and takes a peek, and then lets out his hitched breath. Everything seems to be…in order. Ok. No angel, he’s still got…Big John there. Good.

Looks over his shoulder waiting for a pair of huge wings or something, but to his relief are none. Even better. Wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway, and, believes like his first-born that, if it ain’t got wheels on a road, it ain’t reliable for travelling.

“Art thou John Winchester?” St. Peter says.

“Yessir,” John replies, standing to attention, a sudden flash of his marine years and chain of command ever present. He’s not used to not being the highest in command, but he knows when he’s outranked.

St. Peter ceremoniously takes out the key, unlocks the gates and swings them open.

“Thou may enter now, John,” he says in a posture more dignified than any hotel groom.

And then things start going wrong.

****

John Winchester crosses his arms and says, in the equally dignified posture of any tough costumer

“No.”

St Peter looks at him as if he’s used to that.

“Some confusion is natural, son,” he says patting him on the shoulder. “I’m St. Peter. You have died. You made a lot of mistakes in your life, but you’re only human and your heart is pure and you’ve sacrificed yourself for your son, so now you have inherited heaven.” He nudges him softly forwards. “You’re a good man, John Winchester. Enter.”

John doesn’t budge an inch.

“No,” he says. “I know where I am, and I know who you are, but I’m not going to heaven.”

St Peter pats him companionably on the shoulder.

“All of your sins have been atoned, John. Don’t feel guilty. You do deserve heaven.”

“But I don’t want to go to heaven,” John says.

“That’s ridiculous,” St. Peter replies. “Everybody wants to go to heaven. It’s the number 1 destination really. Those folks down there are really good with the marketing. Of course,” he adds, “Not all of them make it here.”

“I don’t want to go to heaven,” John says. “My sons are still down there. From hell I have a better chance of killing that demon that killed my wife.”

“You’re talking about Earl, aren’t you?” St Peter says.

“Earl?”

“Earl. We’ve told him over and over again but those are the demons for you.” St Peter sighs. “Won’t ever change. Now come, son. Move along. People will be queuing up soon enough.”

“No,” John Winchester says. “First I’ll get that son of a bitch.”

“Watch your mouth,” St Peter says. “You’re at the threshold of God.”

“I don’t even really believe in God,” John says hands open, palms upward in frustration.

St Peter blinks.

“You’re standing at the golden gates of paradise and telling me that you don’t believe?” he slowly asks.

“I had paradise,” John says. “It was a house in Lawrence, Kansas, and a wife and two kids. And it was taken away from me. ”

He crosses his arms.

“And God allowed for that to happen.” So don’t you think I’m going to be liking him very much any time soon, John’s thinking, but he’s wise enough to keep his mouth shut.

St Peter sighs, shakes his head.

“I figured something like that would happen,” he says, “Pastor Jim thought it likely, though he always talked highly of you.”

“Still does,” a voice says. Out of the indistinctly cloudy mist ahead a shape starts appearing, getting closer and closer.

“Jim!” John says and wraps him up in a bear hug. Pastor Jim looks serene and happy. He’s dressed in similar clothes to John’s.

“No halo?” John says frowning. “No wings?”

“Nah,” Jim replies. “Hierarchy’s different. It’s a nice place to be, John. Come on in.”

John laughs.

“Listen, Pastor,” he says. “Puffy white clouds and harp playing? Not the kind of pension I’d consider for now. I got loose ends.”

“But your sons burnt and salted you, John,” Jim says amicably. He grabs an armful of cloud from beneath him, shapes it into a vague like armchair form and settles in. John mimics him.

“Your sons didn’t want you to be stuck in between,” St Peter says. “They wanted you to get what you deserve.”

John looks at him.

“Dean would be the first to agree that a place where harp playing is compulsory can’t be heaven. I’ll tan their hide when I get back. Have you got any idea how itchy salt is in the in between state?”

“John…” Jim says slowly, tenderly. “You died.”

“I know.”

“You got to end up somewhere.”

“Hell is a good solution,” John says.

“Listen, mister,” St Peter cuts in. “You don’t get to choose where you’re going. It’s your actions that determine that.”

“But surely I’m not looking to improve my position,” John ventures. “It’s not like I’m asking to be moved from hell to heaven.”

“True,” Jim concedes.

“And surely there’s a free will somewhere, right? And surely, a father must always help his children.”

“Yes, but we can’t have that,” St Peter says. “If we allow you to choose, we’ll establish a precedent. Could be dangerous. Even the almighty God left his son to his fate because that sacrifice had to be done.”

John throws him his patented I-rest-my-case look. Pastor Jim coughs.

“Well, I ain’t going to no heaven,” John says. “Don’t need wings and halos and harps and sitting on a cloud all day, not to mention these clothes.”

St Peter scratches his head. “That’s a first,” he says. “Hey, Mike!” he calls out. “Can you give me a hand?”

There’s a big flapping noise as a shape in battle gear lands from the puffy whiteness above into the puffy whiteness below. He is a warrior, with auburn hair, a trumpet, huge black wings (dried blood on their edges, as if they’d been dipped in it, John observes, and Michael must be keeping them dirty for show) and a big sword.

“I’m the Archangel Saint Michael,” he says. He’s got a voice as impressive as his sword.

“Nice sword,” John says.

“Thanks,” Michael replies smiling. “I get that a lot.”

“It is pretty cool,” John concedes.

“Now, John,” Michael says. “I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation as I was flip flapping around. This is no way to act.”

John shrugs.

“Free will,” he says.

Peter rolls his eyes. “It’s been like this for the last half hour. Whine whine, yak, yak, not entering.”

“He can be stubborn,” Father Jim concedes.

Michael seems to think.

“John,” he says. “You know Mary is waiting for you on the inside.”

Something changes in John. Something softens, wants to break. Mary…after all these years… Mary…

“I’d love to see her,” he says. “I do.”

“Then come on in,” Michael invites.

John shakes his head.

“I will. Just not yet. I got to help my boys.”

“People are queuing up,” Peter whines. “And David promised to show me how to use a sling properly. I can’t be late.”

Archangel Michael sighs.

“You are beginning to annoy me. And I’m not supposed to get annoyed. I’m a Warrior Saint cum Archangel. You know how rare that makes me? You did the tough part, ok? You’re through with the dying, now just move along for heaven’s sake and I mean that literally!”

Father Jim taps his chin.

“Force won’t work on him either,” he says. “You’d be having him here all day long trying to pick the lock or bribing the guards.”

“Can they be bribed?” John asks. St Peter rolls his eyes.

“I know. That’s why I want him to come in of his own volition.”

“On the other hand,” Michael says, “not letting Earl go through with his annoying deals would be great for our PR. We’d be sending a strong message out there. If we let the demon appear stronger, it’d be bad for marketing.”

John looks at him approvingly.

“Only one forged in battle would see my point,” he says and looks at Michael in appreciation. Michael nods.

“You want to be sent back? Fine. There is one catch though.”

John rolls his eyes.

“Isn’t there always?”

“What do you mean?”

“The snake, Isaac, Abraham, Job, yadda, yadda, yadda. God loves to torture people.”

“Test them.”

“Through torture.”

“God works in mysterious ways.”

“Well, he ain’t the only one.” John sighs. “Where’s the catch?”

“If you turn your back now,” Michael says, “there’s no telling where you will be returning.”

“You mean heaven or hell?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll lose Mary all over again,” Jim says. “Risk never being with her again.”

“I knew you had given in too easily,” John says looking through squinted eyes at Michael and Peter.

Michael is neutral, but Peter looks smug.

“Not like you know what love for a woman feels like, you neut,” John mutters. “Hey, Michael, is it true?”

“What?”

“That angels got no sex?”

“You sound like Dean,” Michael says benevolently.

“You know Dean?”

“I keep an eye on him on occasion. He…amuses me.”

Michael grabs John by the lapel.

“When you return, I’m not sure Purgatory will want you either,” he says thoughtfully.

“Send me back,” John says.

“Precedent,” Peter coughs.

“I won’t tell on anyone,” John says again. “I swear. I just want to get the demon, keep my sons safe, then I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

“What about your wife?” Peter asks. All seems hazy as tears start messing with John’s vision.

“I got to do what she would have wanted me to do.”

“Vengeance?”

“No. Helping my boys out. Go in, ask her,” John says passing a hand over his face. He feels tired. “She’d tell you the same thing.”

There’s a shift in the atmosphere, John’s thinking. He can see it on St Peter’s open face.

“Your faith is pure, John Winchester,” he says somewhat surprised. John quirks his eyebrows in a You got to be kidding me way. “Strange faith, but pure. Go back.”

“Thank you,” John says. “Tell Mary I love her and…” the world starts to shift.

“Whatever,” Michael rolls his eyes.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, aren’t you?” Jim smiles. John shrugs. Points at the gate or where he thinks the gate is as the world blurs out.

“What’s it like over there?”

“Classified, John. You’ll have no memory when you get back.”

The white puffiness turns dark. The last thing John thinks he hears is Jim and Peter talking about playing chess and harp playing practice.

****

John Winchester opens his eyes. He’s on a morgue table. There’s a little name tag on his big toe, and he is cold and his balls are shrunk and feel ready to fall off. He can hear music coming from outside the corridor, something classic, with violins and harps and string instruments.

The last thing he remembers is collapsing on the hospital floor, but all of the sudden he’s got the urge to wear something with lots of pockets and listen to some good classic rock and figure out why the hell the demon backed out of the deal.

He gets up, looking down at himself, for some reason worried that parts, vital parts of him’d be still missing, drapes a tossed lab coat over him. (It looks well-worn and the name Earl is threaded in small neat stitches on the breast pocket, but John pays no further attention.)

He gives the orderly walking in a heart attack and then goes to find his sons.

-The End

NOTE: ok, ok, I know, it’s AU, and all that, but admit it, this version is…nicer than Kripke’s. At least here we get a shot of John naked (even if on a morgue). Plus, alive. And did I mention that I got this lasting obsession in finding ways to get John back? Did I? Did I? :)

Current Mood: calm
Current Location: here
Current Music: huh