Lies and a Truce, 2/?
Fandom: Good Omens/Supernatural fusion.
Characters this chapter: Adam Young (an antichrist), Dean Winchester (a hunter)
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman and Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke. I'm certainly not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Dean can't quite decide whether or not to shoot his guest.
The second apocalypse…
There is a noise that sounds like stumbling outside their hotel room door, and Dean tenses, turning the volume down but not all the way off on the television and reaching for his weapon. Sam shouldn't have made it back yet from meeting Bobby's contact, an expert on lore about fallen angels that he decided to visit while Dean was at the bar hitting up the locals for information on their latest case.
Opening the door in one swift movement, he aims the Colt at whatever made that noise but there’s no one outside. He looks cautiously around, until he hears a groan come from somewhere near his feet.
Always check below eyelevel, jackass! he chastises himself and looks down, blaming his lack of common sense on the slight buzz. He usually has a rule about not drinking much on hunts, but he had to keep buying his source of information beer, and it would have looked weird if he hadn’t been drinking as well.
The blond man who face-planted himself outside his hotel room door looks like he got in a bar fight with a gorilla, if the bruises on his face and his labored breathing are any indication.
“Shit, man, what happened to you?” he asks, because angels and demons, at least, don’t need to pretend they are injured to be capable of kicking his ass.
“Inside,” the man says in a desperate rasp. “Let me inside!” Dean notes, with some surprise, that he has a British accent.
He hesitates before doing as the man asks, even while his instincts are screaming at him to help. He has learned some caution over the years, but as long as his mystery visitor isn’t a demon or an angel, he can probably take him while he's in this state even if he isn’t human.
“Christo,” he says just in case, and the man laughs.
“Close, but no cigar,” he says a little hysterically. Dean narrows his eyes at him. What the hell is that supposed to mean? “Can’t you be paranoid later, mate? I don’t care if you throw me in a bloody cage once we’re inside, but demons are after me, and I’m in no shape to fight ‘em again!”
Again? He must be one damn good hunter or…not human.
Dean sighs and puts his hands under the man’s arms, dragging him over the salt line. Yeah, he’ll have to fix that, and soon from the sounds of it. He will also have to call Sam to warn him about the demon attack, but that will have to wait until he has his guest secured.
I have a war to plan, my guest to hogtie(1), he thinks sarcastically, and then, Okay, this is the last time I watch the Princess Bride after a night of drinking, no matter how bad-ass the Man in Black is.
As soon as he has the man tied up in the hotel room’s only chair and fixes the salt-line, he calls Sam to tell him the bad news.
“Man, get over here now. A guy just showed up at our doorstep and he thinks demons are after him.”
“And fallen angels. Did I forget to mention that part? Those Enochian wards I sensed in your room’ll hold, right?”
“Dammit, man, now you tell me-- Yeah, I’m still here. This ass just told me fallen angels are after him, too. Yeah, hurry. Bye.” He turns an irate gaze on his prisoner. “Just how soon can we expect them, and what the hell are you if you can sense angel-proofing?”
“Expect ‘em in a few minutes. I had to jump around a lot to lose them, but I don’t think they’ll stay lost,” he says ruefully, ignoring the second half of the question. Dean notices it, and narrows his eyes.
“When you say ‘jumped around’, is that like ‘angel-express’ jumping around?”
The man snorts.
“That’s one way of putting it,” he says, and snaps his fingers. Just like that, the ropes binding him to the chair loosen and fall to the floor. Dean swears colorfully and brings his gun up again, having never let his guard down enough to let the Colt leave his hands. “More like Antichrist-express in this case, if we’re being technical. If you try shooting that thing at me, it’ll just squirt water,” he says casually, giving Dean a half-grin through bloodied lips. “Little trick I learned from my godfather.”
The man--Antichrist, whatever--starts to get unsteadily up from his chair, moving as if every step pains him. Dean doesn't understand why he doesn't just use his powers to get rid of the injuries, as he thought that antichrists could generally bend reality any way they wanted to. That question can wait, though. He has a more important one on his mind right now.
“What the hell did you do to the Colt’s bullets? ‘Cause we kinda might need them if there are angels and demons after our asses.”
The man rolls his eyes.
“They’ll still be bullets if you shoot at anything except for me,” he says in a slightly annoyed tone that tells Dean he thinks this should have been obvious. Well, maybe it’s obvious if you’re used to having phenomenal, cosmic powers, Dean thinks, and then takes a moment to curse the fact that kids’ movies have been the only thing on television lately. Sam never needs to know that he just quoted Aladdin, even if it was only in his head. “I’m gonna go check your angel-proofing, and maybe add some more,” the Antichrist says, tracing his fingers over the first angel-banishing sigil and hmming in satisfaction.
Dean watches the Antichrist in bemusement as he limps around the room to check all their wards, then cuts his hand with a knife that he materializes out of thin air so he can start adding his own.
“If you’re an Antichrist, how come you’re having problems with these douches? I mean, the last one we met turned Cas into a GI Joe before he could get within smiting distance.”
"My father bound most of my powers. D’you think Hell would create a nuke if they didn’t know a way to keep it from destroying them?”
Dean thinks about this for a moment, then shrugs.
“If someone in Hell decided to grow some common sense for a change, then no, I guess they wouldn’t.”
“Well, dad has common sense about most things. It’s the big things, like wanting to bring Hell to Earth and wiping out the human race that he’s a little irrational about,” the Antichrist says sarcastically. Dean snorts. “Anyway, now I have powers about equal to one of the younger archangels. Still not shabby, but not what I’m used to. I’m more regular bomb than nuclear weapon, now.”
“That’s…so comforting, man.”
The Antichrist ignores his sarcasm good-naturedly, and puts a few finishing touches on his last sigil.
“Alright, that better be enough,” he says suddenly, freezing and cocking his head like a dog who’s just heard a sound no human ear could detect. “It’s a good thing your brother just pulled into the driveway, because I can feel them closing in on us, and fast.”
Dean hardly needs to hear the warning twice from his new angel-dar, and rushes to open the door. Sam barely makes it inside before something that looks like a fast-moving storm cloud, but is much, much worse, becomes visible over the horizon.
***
(1) The actual quote is, “I have a war to plan, my wife to kill,” but Dean will make do with what he has. Beaten-to-a-pulp dude is not and never will be his wife, no matter how pretty he is for a guy.