Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“[Macalister’s boy took one of the fish and cut a

square out of its side to bait his hook with. The

mutilated body (it was alive still) was thrown back

into the sea.]”

-To the Lighthouse Virginia Woolf

Chapter 1: Into the Sexyverse

It begins with a gloop. One. Bad. Gloop.

Two more splurgs and Castiel’s world yoinkied away. The bunker, Billie, the Empty, Sam, Jack, they became nothing but meaningless abstractions as all of creation around him folded into a single limitless expanse. In the maelstrom, he saw all of what he left behind as empty narrative constructions crudely dashed out on the canvas of all that might be, all that might have been, and all that might yet be. Across the continuum between being and nonbeing, his voice reached into the abyss as the abyss reached back, and as one, they spoke with a resounding, all-consuming force.

“So, this is Super Hell.”

 And it was good. It was all. It was one. It was a space into which anything might be called into being. To Castiel, this was perhaps the most merciful way to end it all, dissolved into every “never was” and every “perhaps in another life,” lost in dreams of sweet spun sugar that dissolve and spread into the cosmos like cheap mass-produced bank pens that all somehow end their lives melted to the dryer drum.

Castiel floated in the ether, in pure disembodied bliss, save for one pesky memory that defied dissolution. The memory of a man. A terrible, emotionally constipated man, (as men tend to be) but a beloved man, nonetheless. Dean! How could he forget him? His warm, vacant-looking face, his soft, unemotive speech, they played as loops of memory in the haze. They began like whispers, inaudible at first, but repeating and superimposing themselves into a what grew to a cacophonous din of memory. Dean! Dean! How could he forget Dean! From beyond the confines of Super Hell, he could feel it, the narrative tug that united them. The construct of Castiel, it was tied inextricably to Dean. To forget Dean, it would be unforgivable! Irreconcilable! Without Dean there could be no Cas.

From the ether, Castiel appeared once more, raging against the dying of the light. Dean! Dean! He must find Dean. That was his purpose and his absolution. He must find the emptiness at the center of his being. And so he fell into the unknown.

…

“So as I was saying, I think it’s pretty problematic that this chapter doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test,” said a squat, skeletal figure, seated at a socially distant Super Hell Coffeebucks patio table, to his friend who sat across from him.

“What are you even talking about, Sans? Tsk…” replied the manic looking, white haired figure, drinking a unicorn fappuchino (or whatever the hell they serve at Super Hell Coffeebucks that won’t get my ass sued off for copyright by those Seattle coffee freaks)

“Komaeda, I just think that it’s irresponsible, even in a fanfiction, that on the 100^th anniversary of the 19^th amendment, the year that a woman of color is elected for the first time to the seat of Vice President, that a fanfic author can’t even pass the Bechdel test until chapter 2!”

“Fair enough,” replied Komaeda, his eyes rolling back into his skull with sensual, guttural pleasure as he licks out the rest of his fappuchino with a disturbingly phallic prehensile tongue, with all the force and gusto of the man Ben Shapiro’s wife is definitely sleeping with on the side.

At this moment, a light sparkled in the sky as a man dropped to the cold concrete below. The form (It’s Castiel uwuwuwuwu), stood and absorbed the scene laid out ahead of him. The Super Hell skyline glittered with buildings whose color palettes seemed as chaotic and washed out red as the puckered asshole of a bottom who mistakenly used a Sriracha bottle for a DIY douche, instead of the more culturally accepted Hidden Valley Ranch technique (I am fine with Hidden Valley Ranch suing me. I can take their punk asses any day).  

Seeing this new arrival to Super Hell, Sans and Komaeda rose from their patio chairs and began to walk away.

“Well, I think that’s Kanye calling, better split,” said Sans, phasing out of the narrative gaze and dissolving into dust (while, curiously enough violating social distancing to hold hands with Komaeda), as if Thanos had suddenly decided to take up a role in Mass Bay Community College’s production of West Side Story.

Castiel looked off into the skyline, like an angel looking out onto a city skyline, which is what he was. He took a small locket out from his pocket, looking at it briefly.

“Dean, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Chapter Text

"And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea,
having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns,
and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.

-Revelations (13:1)

Chapter 2: Wayward Son

Vriska, seeing the light in the sky, flew up on her God Tier wings and found Hatsune Miku on a rooftop, who had also come.

“Something’s in the air… Feels like the 8eginning of an adventure,” said Vriska.

“Do you really think this is what’s good for you?” replied Miku, turning to face Vriska, instead cleaning her leek.

“Oh Miku, I’m sure you’ll be a8le to figure it out soon enough, 8ut this time? World is MINE :::;)”

Vriska flew off into the distance, ready to make her move…

…

The Onceler sat at his desk, sipping a brand-ambiguous beverage that I shall not name drop unless Nestle decides to wire me a $100,000 check in the next five seconds. No? Ok, moving on (figures the water capitalists can’t pay me for my heroic branding exploits). He waved his hand as his servant, some poor soul sold to One Direction back in 2013, began to play stupid horse by 100 gecs [sic] from a comically impractical-looking gramophone for the 22^nd time that day. A Garfield-branded novelty landline telephone rang on his desk with its prerecorded “I hate Mondays” ring.

“Onceler enterprises, Onceler speaking. Yes… Yes… I’ll be right there.”

He rose from his desk, clapping his hands as his servant ran to get his gloves. With a satisfying snap, he had both on his hands and before passing through the door, stopped to say “Well, how bad can I possibly be?”

…

Castiel wandered the streets of Super Hell, lost in both mind and body. These streets were so unlike anything he had ever seen. They were at once too colorful yet familiarly washed, a chaotic mix of the known and the foreign. In his drab trench coat and suit, Castiel stuck out in his profound mundanity, especially compared to the freakish menagerie that walked the streets. He was so caught up in the Adult Swim overload around him that he failed at first to notice a voice that yelled at him as he passed.

“Hey! You there!”

Castiel looked around. He saw no one that seemed to be looking for him.

“Hey! You! Down here!”

He looked down to see a metal orb with a blue, swiveling mechanical eye that seemed to be pointed at him.

“Can you pick me up? I seem to have fallen again.”

Castiel looked around and, deciding that this may as well happen and couldn’t hurt, picked the sphere up in his arms.

“Aw, thanks for that, I really thought I was in a bind there. The name’s Wheatley,” said the robot, his eyes alight. This of course is a purely metaphorical light because Wheatley’s eye light was constantly on, a visual shorthand in robot fiction to simulate the idea of an open eye, useful for limited visual emoting since robots often lack the facial anatomy needed to actually blink. The usual, you know?

“They told me that I would die if I went to Super Hell! I mean I guess they might be right, but well, I’m here! There aren’t administrative rails here though, so I was in a right good pickle there with no legs,” continued Wheatley along his entirely unprompted word vomit.

Castiel, not seeing anyone better, (a real “the bar is so low it’s underground” situation if you ask me) decided to ask Wheatley, “Do you know where we are in Super Hell? I’m kind of looking for someone, or failing that, a way out of here.”

Wheatley, barely able to contain himself with excitement, began undulating like a cat does before throwing up. Castiel had to shift his weight to keep from dropping the robot and toppling alongside with him.

“You could say I’m something of a guide,” yelled Wheatley, with an authoritative nod, “Who are you looking for?”

“A man I know, Dean Winchester.”

“Right, right… He wouldn’t happen to be one of the Princes of Super Hell?”

The question puzzled Castiel. Not just because the answer was quite obviously no, but because the question itself seemed like a contrived narrative device used to frame a piece of heavy-handed exposition. It was as if the term “Prince of Super Hell” were highlighted in a second color, like the text in a video game framing a proper noun to make sure the reader is paying attention as opposed to just button-mashing through every text window.

“No, though I don’t think I know who these princes are,” replied Cas, fully aware of the expositional trap that he’s wandered ass-backwards into.

“Well, there’s four of them, and they run this whole place! There’s Sans, Onceler, Alastor, and Bill Cipher,” chirped Wheatley with a self-satisfied sense of accomplishment, “They’re kind of a big deal, mate!”

“You knew the answer then. You could have just said that you don’t know who Dean is.”

“Dean? Who’s that?”

“I- You know what never mind,” said Cas, beginning to put down Wheatley.

“Wait, wait, don’t put me down, I can help you find him!”

Castiel paused as Wheatley continued, “Once-ler Enterprises is just a few blocks from here, we could ask them about using their surveillance software to look for your friend!”

The implication of a pan-Super Hell network of corporate surveillance software chilled Castiel to the core. It was as predictable as it was perhaps even inevitable in a literal capitalist hellscape, but it didn’t make the realization any less unsettling. But, given that Castiel had no other leads (and I have no more to give him), he proceeded along with Wheatley towards God knows what bullshit comes next.

Chapter Text

“Does it require deep intuition to comprehend that man’s ideas, views and conceptions,
in one word, man’s consciousness, changes with every change in the conditions
 of his material existence, in his social relations and in his social life?”

-The Communist Manifesto, Engels and Marx

Chapter 3: Make Life Take the Lemons Back!

Jake English was not a businessman. Well, he was literally at least. Owning and running a large corporation does, in fact, categorically ensure that one can be called a businessman. But you understood what I meant. Jake’s identification as businessman, or symbolic lack thereof, is a commentary not upon his categorical existence, which is taken as a given, but instead refers to the poor quality with which he conducts his economic enterprises.  

It was these poor practices that brought him before the underpaid and overworked receptionist at Once-ler Enterprises, the new owner of the now defunct Skaianet Inc, the company which had until very recently celebrated 30 years under the leadership of one Jake English. He stood at the desk, as he had for the last few days like clockwork, in search of some payment for the company that had been bought out from under him.

“Now I’m sure you’re a reasonable lass, which is why I’m asking you to be nice for a minute to a chap down on his luck!”

Not even looking up, the receptionist fired off the same unenthused response she had given before, “If you don’t have an appointment scheduled with the Once-ler, I’m afraid I can’t help you. He is a very busy captain of industry and doesn’t have time for… ‘chaps down on their luck.’” She said “chaps” with a barb of scorn, running her eyes along Jake’s getup, a tacky and garish set of God Tier pajamas suiting a Page of Hope complete with excessively tight underwear, no other pants to be spoken of, clean shaven legs, a too-tight hooded tunic and a dashing mustache. He looked something like a middle-aged man jammed into a teenager’s cosplay for a local anime convention which, all things considered, is not a comparison too factually dissimilar from the truth.

Castiel, with Wheatley in tow, stood on the sidewalk outside, marveling at the tacky and excessive edifice of perhaps the greatest temple ever erected to the free market, Once-ler Enterprises. Castiel opened his mouth slowly.

“Is this the-“

“Yeah.”

They shuffled up to the garish automatic doors and entered into the lobby, which looked like a Spirit Halloween couldn’t find any empty retail brick and mortar locations to set up in, save for the already occupied and fully operation TD Bank which would only rent out space on the condition that they could still be a bank while the Halloween people sold cheap wigs (to be bought up by people like the CW Costumes and Makeup department probably). Despite two banks of counters, only one receptionist was actually on-call, currently occupied by another customer. As polite robots and angels do, they queued up in line to wait for their turn.

The receptionist was waiting for this; she finally had an out.

“Sir, can we move this along, there’s another customer behind you.”

Castiel and Wheatley looked around the room, feigning unawareness despite the fact that they were the only two people in the room besides the receptionist and the other customer. They were also trying to keep from staring at the customer’s rather voluminous rear, held tight and high by what appeared to be his garish yellow underwear briefs. Castiel leaned over to Wheatley and whispered, “Isn’t it illegal for people to walk around in so little er…”

Wheatley attempted to match Castiel’s volume but instead shouted into the otherwise silent office, “No, not really, I mean if there were laws about nudity and stuff you could probably say that I was naked too, but I can’t wear clothes so that wouldn’t be fair in the slightest!”

Both Jake and the Receptionist stopped and turned to face the pair. The receptionist had had quite enough of this. Reaching for a button under her desk, she said, “This is all too much. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. All of you.”

As the button clicked, a comical series of springs and pulleys activated, bringing to life a security system as whimsical as it was complex. I’m not going to describe it in detail though, you’re just going to have to take my word for it because I can’t be bothered right now to talk it all through. Impressionistically, think Rube Goldberg and Dr. Suess got together for a wild night of amphetamine-fueled sex in a McDonalds bathroom in Berlin and decided to represent their encounter through the medium of corporate security system.

Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley all landed squarely on their asses, skidding across the sidewalk. Jake, being both a gentleman and completely unharmed by virtue of the amount of “protective padding” he had, got up first and offered his hand to Castiel.

“Sorry about that chap! The name’s Jake English! Let me help you up.”

Picking up Wheatley, Castiel staggered up and brushed himself off. Jake continued, saying, “Gosh darn, you all probably had some business in there that I kept you from! I wish I could make it up to you! I was just trying to get some of my stuff back from the Once-ler..”

Wheatley perked up and interjected, “Oh! You’re THAT Jake English! Disgraced ex-CEO of Skaianet Inc!”

“Well, yes… That’d be me. It’s been a real pickle! A big ol’ lemon of a punch from the cruel mistress of fate! If I had just a few files from my old office I might have a chance to get my life back on track…”

Wheatley seemed to undulate a bit and asked, “Would this office happen to have some surveillance data? We’re uh, looking for a friend. Yes. That’s it.”

“It sure better! Skaianet’s the leader in appearifyers, sendificators, and anything else you might need to run an autonomous corporate state built on the fundamental degradation of human/sentient being rights!”

Castiel motioned to an alley a few paces away and pulled into its entrance, beaconing Jake to follow. Huddled together, Castiel made his proposition.

“We both have stuff we want. Why don’t we head in there tonight and get you your stuff back? I’m sure Wheatley and I will find what we’re looking for along the way.”

Jake pondered for a moment. What they asked was incredibly illegal and somehow managed to surpass its unlawfulness in danger. Also, he barely knew these two strapping gentlemen! Random passers by (in a place called Super Hell no less) may not have the best of intentions for certain! That being said, it had a better chance of working than harassing the Once-ler’s secretaries for a fourth day in row. And what kind of a story would there be if he played it safe all the time? Not that he would ask himself that of course but, because of the narrative framing of the request and an absence of anything that might possibly constitute an alternate course of action, it is a relevant enough determining factor to warrant a mention.

“Shucks, I’ll do it!”

Jake stuck his hand out and shook Castiel’s as Wheatley, handless as he was, vaguely bobbed along as a sort of gestural pantomime to indicate his assent. Feeling left out nonetheless, he offered a few words of encouragement, or rather, words he would speak with the intention of inspiring encouragement, regardless of how they may inevitably be received by other agents in his environment.

“Then it’s settled! As they said back in Aperture, when life gives you lemons, make them take the lemons back! Make them rue the day they ever gave us lemons!”

“Well said!”

…

Skaianet stook out like a sore thumb, which was quite an accomplishment in the garish, kitschy expanse of the Super Hell Cosmopolitan Area. In fact, it was only able to accomplish this by merit of its own profound mundanity. As an otherwise unadorned green warehouse, it was isolated and alone among a sea of what looked like Deviantart Sonic OCs reimagined as buildings, like how clickbait websites will try and reinvent Disney Princesses as anything from goths to cement mixers (For the record, I am unafraid of the Rat’s little entertainment megalomonopoly on the entertainment industry; them copyright striking this work for a metaphor involving Disney Princesses and cement mixers would frankly be the funniest thing ever to happen to me).

Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley met behind a dumpster towards the back, where the offices were located. Despite their attempts to look subtle and inconspicuous, Wheatley’s eye glowed like an unpleasant strobe at a warehouse rave and illuminated Jake’s tight, tiny briefs like a vicious mirror signal from some castaways on a deserted island, desperate to be seen at any cost.

Fortunately, no one was near the facility, and ironically enough, Skaianet Inc couldn’t ever afford its own technology, leaving the entire campus unwatched and undefended. It was never robbed simply because people assumed that no one would be stupid enough to leave it unprotected. The Once-ler hadn’t even bothered to change the locks yet. Jake managed to get the door open with his own key.

The offices of Skaianet were painfully dull, in the same washed out green as the exterior. With Wheatley’s eye as a guide, Jake conducted the band through the labs attached to the offices. Castiel stood guard as Jake walked terminal to terminal ripping files, and table to table taking small mechanical bits and other assorted trinkets. It definitely wasn’t Castiel’s wheelhouse. When he was adventuring with the Winchesters, they always elected for more… direct methods of solving problems. There was always a certain point that the plot, the machinations of heaven and hell became too intricate to follow with a scientific mind. Wheatley would hate to admit it, but his old nemesis at Aperture had the right idea: the best solution to a problem is usually the easiest. Why bother studying theological metaphysics when a simple punch and a few well-timed kicks might suffice? These punches might need to be powered up by some godly force or something equally contrived, but at the end of the day, the metaphysics sorted themselves out and all they needed was a bit of chutzpah.

Bang

Jake moved from one of the computer terminals towards a bin of old parts. It looked to be an assemblage of various robot limbs. Were Wheatley able to see it, he probably would not be taken too aback by it. After all, detritus heaps of robot gore were essentially the carpeting of his good old home, Aperture Science. That being said, one might wonder what another robot mike think. Would they recognize the face of death in that pile? Would that face to be their own, reflected back on them in mirror of mortality? Would they wonder what lies beyond that pile? Would they hope that beyond the pile there lie pleasant dreams? Do robots even dream? Perhaps that’s a question they wouldn’t want to think about. Who’s to say which answer would be more terrifying. Not that Wheatley thought any of this at all. He was simply too stupid to, as was built into his programming. One might imagine that to be its own type of blessing.

Jake beckoned Castiel over. Castiel placed Wheatley on an adjacent table and Jake had him hold onto a few bits of robot, pieces Jake selected while rummaging through the pile. Piece by piece, Jake seemed to be preparing the components for a humanoid shell.

“You chaps have been real standup gentlemen to little old me! Some bona fide bros! I noticed you carrying Wheatley over there and got to figuring we might be able to get him set up in a rudimentary body! It’ll keep your hands free there,” said Jake, selecting the last few bits from the heap and preparing a sack to fit them all in.

Bang

Wheatley shouted with joy, swiveling to look at the parts. Jake pointed around to a few different components, talking about ways they might be combined into a new body while loading them into a sack. In the meantime, Castiel checked some of the files on the computer terminal. There were countless surveillance logs, more than he could sort through. One of interest though, was taken that afternoon. Only a few seconds, it depicted an unfathomable expanse opening in the sky of Super Hell, dropping one trench-coated figure into the street below before collapsing into a flash of sparks. His arrival. Presumably. Being real though, it probably was, or I wouldn’t be telling you. Unless it was a red herring. Which I guess it might be. You all are smart readers; I think you can work it out in time.

At any rate, Castiel went through alone, at least on this side of the gate. Knowing that much was better than nothing. A notification popped up indicating that the surveillance tapes and other documents Jake had downloading had finished. Castiel unplugged the external hard drive and handed it back to Jake, who stuffed it into what looked to be a hoodie pocket on his extraordinarily tight manboy tunic.

Bang

“Hey, Cas, do you know what that banging is?” asked Jake. Castiel seemed surprised.

“I figured it was just the sound of the equipment,” he replied.

“No, don’t be silly! No one leaves the machines running at night! That’s rather silly!”

Bang.

Wheatley yelled from behind them and skittered across the floor as the table he was on folded and bent with a hideous shriek of metal against metal. Atop the twisted wreckage stood a humanoid pile of metal and fur wrapped in a purple uniform, with eyes that gleamed with piercing fury and a stench of rotting flesh. The form began to rise with a sound of creaking metal and snapping springs.  

“Run!”

Jake was too gobsmacked to respond, so with one hand, Castiel grabbed his arm and with the other, scooped up Wheatley, sprinting into the adjoining hallway. Jake stammered turn directions for Castiel as they ran through the halls until they came to a door and slammed it behind them.

With Wheatley’s eye as a light, Jake hobbled over to a computer terminal and turned it on. Three vent security doors around the room each closed and opened again, seemingly part of a sort of diagnostic test cycle. Next to the terminal, a few monitors flared to life with black and white security footage from around the facility. Jake pressed a button and sat in a chair behind him.

“At least the vents still work! And it seems like the power supply will keep until morning.”

“Excuse me, until morning?”

“Yes! I mean power doesn’t grow on trees chap! Sometimes you have to make cuts!”

Castiel was taken aback. Sitting here? In this pit? Until morning? With a potentially homicidal maniac outside? That sounds exactly like the kind of stupid, contrived situation someone might make up for a story for the sake of creating drama. Why couldn’t they have just gone outside? There’s probably a reason with regard to lore (which we’ll get to in a moment) but from a metatextual perspective, why this? For additional word padding? To include a ham-handed extended reference to Five Nights at Freddy’s? To retroactively justify 6 hours of research about the media franchise Five Nights at Freddy’s? Those are some awesome questions that Castiel definitely wasn’t thinking about. Someone is though, and someone might even know the answers to those questions! Probably not you though. Sorry.

Wheatley, heretofore too shellshocked to respond, interjected, saying, “Hiding sounds pretty good. That’s Purple Guy out there. Bad news. Really, bad news.”

Castiel gave him a confused, vacant face, an example of cultural shorthand used to express a lack of understanding, much like robot light-eyes as cultural shorthand for the idea of “openness” (Y’all are gonna be media experts by the end I swear). Wheatley darted his light-eye from vent to vent, speaking in a hushed whisper shout.  

“Purple Guy. Springtrap. Afton. He has a lot of names, but no matter which one you know, he’s a renowned killer-gone-security-for-hire. Big weakness is that he’s inactive come sunrise. Our best shot is to wait him out here.”

“And he’s a right acrobat. We have to watch these cameras to make sure he doesn’t break in through the vents. Another specialty of his.”

Looking again at the vents, Castiel was surprised to see them all uncovered and wide enough to comfortably fit something larger than a human being.

“Did you say we can block these?”

“Yes, but they won’t stay closed for more than a few seconds and we only have so much power to close them until morning.”

“Of course.”

Castiel backed into a wall and slid down to a seated position. Jake watched the screens intently, and quietly, clicking a vent shut every minute or so. For a life or death situation, it was actually more boring than anything else (how’s that for a tonal shift?). After an hour or so, Castiel decided small-talk induced embarrassment was superior to expectant silence.

“I feel like I’m going to spend the rest of eternity in a bunker.”

Jake and Wheatley lacked knowledge of Supernatural episode 15x18 and so had little to say. Yes. The three of them will have spent 6 hours in a bunker together by sunrise. No need to remind them of that excruciating fact.

Ok. So the first one didn’t land. No biggie. There’s an easy solution: just go for another blatant attempt at a conversation.

“Have either of you fallen in love before?”

Wheatley was quick to respond.

“Nope! They told me that I would die if I fell in love!”

“I wish they had told me that too.”

Jake did not answer. He clearly heard the question; his face was always particularly expressive. Jake English was not one to ever fool anyone, at least not by his deliberate choice.

Bang

His lapse in attention proved mistimed. Springtrap began to rush from one of the vents. Jake slammed the vent control, bringing the door onto his torso as he hissed and thrashed. A seep of purple-brown fluid leaked from his torso, filling the room with the aroma of death. Castiel sprang to his feet and scooped up Wheatley. Jake grabbed his sack of parts as put all the generator’s remaining power into the vent. Castiel grabbed his hand and they sprinted from the room. Behind them, they could the sounds of metal ripping and tearing, with an unearthly howl. They did not look back. Castiel remembered the tales of Orpheus and Lot. Classic beginner’s mistake, looking back during a chase scene.

The trio burst through the door they came in through and sprinted off into the Super Hell sunrise. Where to? With any luck, into Chapter 4.

Chapter Text

“Any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin
among the great number who are not good. Hence a prince who wants
to keep his authority must learn how not to be good,
and use that knowledge, or refrain from using it, as necessity requires.”
- Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

Chapter 4: Does the National Mall Have an Olive Garden? (Asking for a Friend)

“This is so sad. Alexa, play Despacito.”

“But sir, m-my name is-“

“My payroll. My rules. The song now, Alexa.”

With a yelp, the Once-ler’s servant popped a Despacito cassette into the comically massive and heavy “portable” gramophone (It wasn’t portable it was like 30 pounds). As soon as the servant had finally gotten the record started, the Once-ler heard something else that caught his attention. He lifted his hand, and the servant stopped the record. The Once-ler fixed his gloves and turned.

“We have company. Alexa, play bad guy by Billie Eillish” 

…

Vriska sat atop a building with her legs dangling off of the edge. Her moirail (don’t bother looking this up if you don’t know it; think “best friend in charge of calming your homicidal impulses”), Terezi, came and sat down beside her. Skaianet was covered in crime scene tape as police cars swarmed it through and through.

“Soooooooo… Something’s got the Four Princes of Super Hell in a 8ig frenzy.”

“YOU W4NT TO INV3ST1G4T3, DON’T YOU?”

Terezi’s voice somehow lacked its usual sly enthusiasm, even at the prospect of a thrilling criminal investigation, something she had once dedicated her entire life to doing professionally. She had never once been known to turn down a chance at a criminal investigation, especially if there was a chance of an execution at the end.

“Don’t sound so glum! It’s un8ecoming of you! Now try to keep up!”

…

“Happy New Year everyone!” yelled Wheatley from atop his new body casing. It was clunky and impractical, but it was something, and Wheatley was thankful to have his own body to move for a change. Castiel was certainly thankful to get use of his hands back. Still covered in some oil from the procedure, Jake reached into his fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne.

“Well gents, congrats on a job well-done!”

Castiel sat back in the ratty sofa in Jake’s apartment, watching news coverage on Dark CNN, the Super Hell official affiliate branch of CNN, on the failed coup attempt incited by failed president Donald Trump. Maybe Super Hell isn’t so bad. Maybe there was never a difference at all. For once Castiel did consider this philosophical line of inquiry. He wondered for a moment what Dean was thinking about this moment, seeing it. Castiel of course didn’t know yet that Dean had died just a few days after Castiel sacrificed himself on such a brave and worthy foe as a rusty nail sticking out of the side of a barn. I suppose those are Supernatural spoilers, but hey, if you found this riveting piece of transformative fiction, I’m going to wager you are at least passingly aware of the finale of Supernatural. If not, I hope you enjoyed learning this way. Through a Destiel meme. My treat.

“What’s on your mind Cas, old chum?” said Jake, sliding onto the couch, holding out a champagne glass to Cas. They made quite a pair on the couch. Castiel was covered in suit, tie, and trench coat, while Jake sat in his too-snug god-tier thong, his smooth tanned thighs having outgrown such vestments decades before. Castiel pretended not to notice how close those thighs were to his own.

“It’s just crazy. Rioters in the capitol.”

Castiel had seen demons before, but it was still such a new and novel, feeling the force of demons that live in human skin and walk among their fellow men. In his epochs of life, he had seen the specter of fascism rise again and again, but then it had flowed over him as water across oil. He hadn’t lived among the human yet. He hadn’t lived among the Winchesters. He hadn’t lived with Dean. Now the scene made his (metaphorical) blood run cold as ice (Do angels have blood? Does Castiel have blood right now? I simply can’t be bothered to even look this up right now).

“It’s just a lot to take in,” replied Castiel, with a smile that looks like it was ripped out of the “the face white people make passing each other on the street” meme. He punctuated it with a half hug two-pat, a classic maneuver ripped out of the straight man’s playbook of safe, non-effeminate ways of almost expressing physical affection.

“Well, I think it’s good on them really STICKING it to the establishment! The government has had too much control! Time to cut them down to size,” yelled Wheatley, pumping a fist in the air which caught him off-balance enough to knock a pile of books and gadgets off of a nearby table. Castiel and Jake stared at him.

“Now Wheatley, let’s think about this for just a minute chum,” said Jake, trying to defuse calmly. Castiel tried to remember what he knew about human politics. Not much, but enough to know that Wheatley’s little outburst was probably not the best take on the situation. I fact, a very very bad take on the situation.

…

“I’ll take the unlimited Super Salad,” said Sans to the Olive Garden waiter.

Alastor chuckled in the next seat over.

“My skeletal fellow, I think you mean the unlimited Soup or Salad!”

“No, I want the unlimited Super Salad. With ketchup. Oncey told me I could order anything I want, and I want unlimited Super Salad.

Komaeda punctuated Sans’s declaration by wolfing down an (equally unlimited) breadstick in a vaguely sexual, drawn out manner, like from an anime padding its runtime with an exorbitant and superfluous eating scene. He finished it with a satisfying smack. The meeting was supposed to be for the Princes of Super Hell only, but Sans insisted on bringing him. They all decided it was fair to allow for a plus one, since the Once-ler got to bring his servant. As the other Princes of Super Hell finished placing their orders, the Once-ler called the meeting to order.

“So as you know, my recent acquisition got broken into last night, and my guard dog most grievously injured. It’s not a good look,” he said. With a slight hand movement, he ushed his servant forward, who produced a small video DVD player, which played back some of the damages from the night before.

“That really sucks Oncey, but what do you want us to do about it?” asked Bill Cipher, who floated a bit above the table. His chair was pulled out as if for him to sit in it, but that was just a nicety. As a semi-intangible floating triangle with no discernable ass to speak of, Bill couldn’t sit.

“All I ask of you gentlemen is simple. I’m investigating the matter, but I want you to help me send a message that these grievous attacks by looters and rioters will not be tolerated on private property. Do I have your commitments?”

There was silence around the table. Silence until a waiter dashed over with some plates of food.

“Hello, I’m Zagreus and I’ll be taking care of you, mates. Your other waiter well… Anyway, here’s your food. Cheers!” he said, before dashing back in a flash. Sans stared into his unlimited Super Salad. Alastor had ordered the Classic Entrees Lasagna Classico, while Bill had ordered an Amazing Alfredos! Fettucine Alfredo. In contrast, the Once-ler had ordered a commanding Classic Entrees Tour of Italy, a meal for a man like himself: a go-getter who wants it all. It’s what set him apart from the others. He wasn’t satisfied with just a Lasagna Classico, a Fettucine Alfredo, or a Chicken Parmigiana. No. He wanted it all. And he was going to have it! He wouldn’t stop until he’d had his tour of Italy (and until he’d emptied the unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks and then some!).

“What’s in it for us, Oncey?” asked Bill with a flourish of his cane that obliterated the integrated iPad tableside ordering system that mysteriously seems to be totally unused.

“Is a free meal at Olive Garden not enough for you people?”

Sans slid his unlimited Super Salad into his sweatshirt and in between two of his ribs before standing up.

“Nah. I think I’m gonna go home. You coming, Komaeda?”

Komaeda stood up and let out a maniacal anime shriek that seemed just marginally too horny for everyone’s comfort level and filed out after Sans. He left an uncomfortable silence in his wake. The Once-ler stood at his seat with a strange face while Bill and Alastor ate. Meetings of the Princes of Super Hell were always awkward. They were, however, only rarely catered, and the two demons were there to do nothing if not to capitalize on the opportunity to eat cheap Italian food comped by the richest man in Super Hell.

Finishing his meal, Alastor looked up and said, “Tell you what, my excitable fellow, Bill and I will help as soon as you have a specific task to do! In the meantime, I have places to be, lost souls to torment, territory to claim! Thanks for the meal old friend!” With a puff of sulfur and smoke, he vanished. Bill tipped his hat and abstracted out of the restaurant in a really cool way that looked completely awesome. It’s a shame that this is a prose piece, and you all didn’t actually get to see it. It was epic.

The Once-ler straightened his hat and gloves. His servant rushed to pay the check as he began to menacingly walk out of the Olive Garden.

“Well, Jake, I guess it’s you and me,” he said, whipping out a cell phone. “If you want something done right, you just have to find a better underpaid laborer to threaten into doing it.”

…

“So Wheatley, that’s why this is an incredibly complicated issue!” said Jake with an concluding pat of his lap. Wheatley obviously only got like 25% of that, but it was enough at least to imply to him that he was out of his element and should shut up about it. That was in and of itself a small victory.

“Well there, Jake, where did you learn so much about politics! Never knew about politics myself living in a derelict lab and all,” said Wheatley.

“Oh… From an old friend. He taught me a lot about combat, philosophy, life… love.”

Jake trailed off at the mention of love. He stared into his champagne glass as Dark CNN droned on ceaselessly in the background. It wasn’t loud enough to distract Jake from the noise of his own memories. Wheatley couldn’t perceive the source of Jake’s troubles, but Castiel could. They were familiar to him.

“You loved him, didn’t you? And he let you down in the end.” Jake’s eyes widened and he looked away from Cas. 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. If anything, I let him down. He was so patient with me and I just kept tripping up! I couldn’t follow fast enough, chum!” He said, his voice rising bit by bit.

“Or, he left you behind. You weren’t useful to him and he left you behind. It doesn’t sound like he cared about you at all!”

Then there was silence in the room. Jake didn’t deny Castiel’s assessment but couldn’t bear it within his soul to affirm it either. Perhaps Dirk was bad for him. He hadn’t allowed himself to think that kind of thought in decades. He had wondered where he could possibly go from that point if he did. His own inadequacies, his own sense of worthlessness, these things had given him hope for a future. He had always wanted to be the kind of man that Dirk would approve of. He lived, he moved forward to realize that ambition. Who would he be without that arc? Who would he be without his own aura of perpetual failure? To him, it mattered less that he attained it, more that he had dedicated himself to the attempt. In truth, he was fine with the idea of looking in the mirror and seeing a total failure; it was less terrifying than looking in the mirror and seeing nothing at all.

Castiel knew then that what he had said was probably correct. He was equally certain that it was a gross transgression against Jake’s boundaries. He saw two options: press forward to try and mitigate the harm or cut his losses and leave it be. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, perhaps it was the alcohol, but Castiel decided perhaps the best way was forward.

“If… If it’s any consolation, I might know a bit of what you went through. I got to wherever the (Super) Hell this because of a man. As you said, he taught me a lot about combat, philosophy, life, and love. I sacrificed myself so that he could go on and save the world. I wound up here. I can’t let myself think anything other than that my choice was justified.”

Jake gave Cas a halfhearted sort of smile. He still felt awful. That night Jake would have to contend with own demons, and with the implications of Castiel’s words. But he would also go to bed later with the hope of a new friendship and the comfort of commiseration. After all, misery loves company. Speaking of…

“Oh! That reminds me! Cas, Wheatley, do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

Jake got up with a tipsy flourish, nearly obliterating a stack of books next to the couch. He rummaged through a nearby chest and pulled out some linens and a sad looking air mattress.

“Well it’s decided then! Why don’t you stay with me! It’s not much, but it’s home! We’re all also technically fugitives now, so that’s something!”

Cas and Wheatley looked at one another. They had no other plans, and the whole fugitive point was well understood. Besides, they had each made friends that day. Failing any other course of action this seemed as good as any. It’s also certainly far easier to write them crashing at Jake’s instead of booking a room at a Super Hell Holiday Inn. Could you imagine? It would probably add at least 500 words to my already mind-numbingly tedious prose! You probably hate checking in at hotels on your own time anyway, why waste precious leisure time in a brutal capitalist society that would strip you of your every waking hour and then some reading someone write about checking into a hotel? You have enough time-wasting enemies.

Jake tried to inflate the air mattress, but it didn’t exactly work. The plate-sized hole in the side should have been a good indicator, but in fairness, a lot had happened that day. To Castiel, the couch was plenty fine enough. He had slept in worse. Jake had enough blankets Wheatley could just lock his body in place manually and enter regeneration cycle propped up from there. He could at least. Not that he didn’t take his sweet time doing it.

“So… Cas! Mate! How are you? How are you settling in?”

Castiel rolled over. He had just about fallen asleep. He groaned, “Ung? Fine.”

“Great great, I uh… what did I want to say? Hmm. Oh! I just wanted to say I really felt for you there mate. Whole self-sacrifice thing. I got here from space, but I think I get where you’re coming from. Real shame. I’m glad you’re uh, soldiering through there!”

“You know what? Thanks Wheatley. I’m going to go to sleep now. Good night.”

“Good night!”

…

“One more thing, I-“

“Good night Wheatley.”

Chapter Text

“His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

Chapter 5: You Really Think Someone Would Do That? Just Go on the Internet and Tell Lies?

“SO COOLK1D, HOW’S TH4T 1NV3ST1G4T1ON GOING >:]”

“Ugh, just w8 a moment I’ll 8e right with you.”

Vriska pulled her spyglass down from her eye and turned to face Terezi. She and Miku stood in the doorway of the staircase down from the roof of this building. Vriska herself was trying to be sneaky but was peeking through her spyglass while putting her foot up on the roof rail and basking in the light of Super Hell’s equivalent of day. She looked like George Washington crossing the Delaware. God just imagine. Do you think I could bribe Lin Manuel-Miranda into writing a Hamilton-style musical of this story? Honestly by that point Super Hell would be empty; all the demons would be on Twitter.

“Hey. You see what the Once-Ler is up to? He’s got a 8ounty out on good ol’ Joke English and his new 8uddies. Either of you want to come help a 8itch cash in?”

Miku took a long sip of her boba. She took her sunglasses off and looked at Vriska.

“No. I think Terezi and I are going to go shopping and get lunch at a café. Want to meet up at Olive Garden tonight?”

“That’s sweet of you Miku, 8ut unfortunately I’m not a LOSER and instead I’ll 8e hot on the trail of a new adventure,” said Vriska, summoning her wings and stepping up to the edge of the railing, “Anyway, enjoy your lame ass irrelevant days!”

She blasted off with an eruption of fairy dust, leaving Terezi and Miku coughing up glitter that probably would be known to the State of California to cause cancer in many species’ respiratory systems. Terezi and Miku knew that that was going to be her answer but figured they would try anyway. It was worth a shot.  

…

“Gad Zooks, I’m out of eggs!”

Besides winning his company back from the Once-ler, Jake remembered that he had left his house two days ago to go buy eggs. Between the raid on Skaianet and fixing up Wheatley, he had totally forgotten that his shitty bachelor pad had no food left in it. There was more champagne and some orange juice for mimosas, but as he woke up and remembered the conversations from the night before, decided that day drinking would probably not be a particularly robust course of action. Castiel began to stir and rolled off of the couch onto the floor. He fixed up his suit and trench coat and wandered over to the kitchen.

“Morning. Any food?”

“Good morning Cas, mate! I’m quite afraid it slipped my mind to get breakfast food. We’re going to have to have our brunch out on the town!”

Cas rolled his eyes a bit, but he was in no place to judge. Living in rustic, masculine squalor was a mainstay of his time with the Winchesters. He had slept in worse and eaten worse. Stirring Wheatley, the trio left Jake’s modest apartment to find themselves a meal.

In town center, there had been a few subtle changes overnight. A few posters had gone up with bounties and suspect names for a break-in on Skaianet’s main headquarters. These were mostly unnoticed by the people of Super Hell; crime was commonplace and the Once-Ler sucked ass. No one likes a professional capitalist.

Fortunately for the gang, this meant brunch could go off without a hitch. Olive Garden was busy, but IHOP (International Hell of Pancakes) was not. Good, cheap, breakfast food. Cas had eaten at enough diners with the Winchesters to know the appeal. To him, diner food had that good old small-town mom and pop Americana that you could only get from a national breakfast food conglomerate with chains from coast to coast to hell itself.

…

And Vriska could not be more pleased with their choice of brunch spot. It was a lucky 8reak. Luck was her thing, though. Quite literally actually. Her insane god powers let her steal luck for herself. It kind of removes luck from the equation altogether if you really think about it. Wild, I know, but I didn’t write the powers.

Looking down her spyglass, she spied her other target of the day: Benry, a contracted security guard from Once-Ler who usually works in the Bill Cipher division. Man, the Once-Ler’s really bought up everything in this place, huh? Biggering out the ass if you ask me.

…

Wheatley was mashing a scant portion of scrambled eggs between his new fingers. He couldn’t eat obviously, but it was a nicety. It’s like how the host gives children a bit of pizza dough to play with at Bertucci’s restaurants. According to Wikipedia though Bertucci’s is a predominately Northeast US chain of restaurants, which means that anyone out of that set of cultural landmarks wouldn’t know that! But you probably understood the simile anyway. Context clues are sure awesome. By god y’all are going to be SO good at reading between the lines at the end of this.

Jake and Castiel however ordered some premium stuffed pancakes, which is a thing they serve there. Or was it stuffed French Toast? I didn’t open an IHOP menu like I did an Olive Garden menu for last chapter. Sorry. If we end up at IHOP again I’ll find out for real what Cas and Jake are eating, promise.  

“So gents, what’s on the docket today in the lives of fugitives?” asked Jake, between rich opulent bites of- actually cancel that I’m not repping IHOP in my fanfic without compensation.

“Don’t know. Still have to get the lay of the land here. I might try and go to the library to get some information about this place,” said Cas. Just like with the Winchesters, the procedure seemed the same. Find a problem. Do some research. Punch the nearest eldritch entity, carry on (my wayward son). There were, in fairness, an awfully disproportionate number of eldritch terrors in Super Hell, which would complicate and lengthen the process, but it was still possible. A lot of punching, but still possible.

…

It was a careful procedure, but Vriska could manage. Looking through the Spyglass she took just a sliver of luck from Jake and let fate take its course, flying into position for phase 2 of her plan.

…

Benry had been walking around town all day. He was on the hunt for some unruly fugitives on directions from the Once-Ler, but his search turned up nothing and he was getting awfully hungry. He had wanted Olive Garden, but it was absolutely swarming. What an unlucky break! At least the IHOP was relatively deserted. I mean, go figure. IHOP sucks in Super Hell. But it was better than fugitive hunting on an empty stomach.

As he swung through the shitty prefab vestibule, he took one final peek at his morning briefing before jamming it into his pocket and making direct eye contact with Jake, Castiel, and Wheatley, the exceedingly distinctive faces in the image.

He looked at them.

They looked at him.

He looked at them.

They looked at him.

Benry reached for his gun. Wheatley reached for the sky.

“Oh shit is that a bird up there?”

“Yeah, like I’m falling f- OW”

Wheatley clocked Benry over the head and he, Cas and Jake slammed down money for the bill and sprinted out of the IHOP at full speed. From above, Vriska saw them exit and began to follow from the air.

Benry chased them into a nearby square with an unruly crowd of people waiting to get into the Olive Garden. Unfortunately for him, due to a totally natural bad luck streak that had nothing to do with any actions by any other characters at all, he didn’t see a scene in front of him, a woman in her 20’s giving some money to a homeless man. He barreled straight into the woman, knocking her down.

Getting his bearings, he tried to resume the chase, but the woman yelled, “What the fuck is your problem, asshole??” Some of you already know where this is going.

Benry looked behind him. They were getting ahead of him. But the woman grabbed his arm and held him in place. The homeless man got up and yelled, “You want a dance, you little prick?”

Silence fell on the crowd. Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley kept running, occasionally turning around to try and see what was going on. The reaction in the crowd was unnerving. Hundreds of people, staring fish-eyed at a woman, a dipshit, and a homeless man. Perhaps it would work to their favor. Curiosity in a situation like this is not a privilege afforded to fugitives.

The homeless man looked at the man, and at the crowd. With all his might, he yelled, “OPPA HOMELESS STYLE.” As it echoed over the crowd, everyone waiting to get to the Olive Garden began to dance in viral unison, like some sick fever dream from Good Morning America or a Hallmark movie. In his surprise, Castiel tripped over one of the dancers.

“What the? I haven’t seen this since 2013?!”

From above, Vriska was fuming. This was not the plan. I was so simple! Tire them out with Benry, and swoop in to snag them herself. Well, she had to do something. She began to drop into position over the crowd.

Jake had stopped to help Castiel. Cas pulled him to a kneel.

“Jake, let’s stay low. With all the commotion they probably can’t see us.”

“Good plan, mate.”

Above, Vriska had lost them save for Wheatley, separated from the others and sticking out like a giant, glowing blue thumb. Eh. Better than nothing. She swooped low and grabbed him by the head handles. She beat her wings up, trying to lift him. He was too heavy though, so the most she could do was begin to drag him towards a nearby alley.

“O-oi! Hey! Put me down! I’m expensive equipment!”

Vriska dropped him rather unceremoniously.

“Hey, fucknuts, do you know how much the Once-ler is paying in 8ounties for your ass?”

“Ohhhh I’m a smooth criminal now eh? Fear me! Ahahahahahah! I always knew this day would come.”

“Actually it’s a 8ig fat 0 on that one! I just figured I could use you to lure in your idiot friends! Your luck’s run out big guy.”

“Hey, I think I’m actually a pretty lucky person! I got this cool robot body… I-“

“SHUT UP! Ugh. I’m saying I’m going to steal your luck! It’s what I do! It’s my superpower!”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“You don’t get to decide this! I do!”

She tries to steal his luck, but finds resistance, or rather, nothing at all to steal. A Thief of Light, a set of superpowers related entirely to luck and information had finally encountered its kryptonite: a moron big enough to be completely devoid of any meaningful luck or information at all, a veritable sunfish on legs, floating through life with all the intelligence and agency of a plastic bag from Walmart. Vriska supposed that you could replace Wheatley’s motherboard with an unsalted rice cracker and achieve the same level of intelligence. It was such a profound revelation that she did not notice Castiel’s baseball bat queued up directly at her skull.

With a thwack, Vriska crumpled to the ground as Jake and Castiel ran in. They each took up position next to one of Wheatley’s arms, Castiel unfolding his angel wings.

“We’ve got to get out of here. Jake, where to? And where can I buy some damn breakfast.”

“Honestly, Cas we could probably just go back to IHOP. It’s getting close to lunchtime and not even the Once-ler’s goons want to lose their spot in the Olive Garden line. Our food might also still be on the table!”

With that, they began to lift Wheatley, but being so heavy, they could only get him about 8 feet in the air, taking off with all the grace of a severely bloated albatross. On their way over the crowd, they saw Benry hopelessly caught up in the mob, dancing into the night and all that. You all have probably read oppa homeless style by this point or googled it or something. I’m guessing my demographic has some experience with this shit. Y’all have been around the block before.

“So Jake, is Olive Garden the only place people eat here?”

“This week. Last week it was IHOP. I think they’re building a Chilli’s next week so look out for that, chum! Maybe I could take you there!”

“I think I’d like that, Jake.”

“I think I’d like that too Cas.”

Wheatley tried to pipe in that he thought the turn for the IHOP was already a block behind them, but he was not sure enough in himself to say anything, instead opting to passionately argue it over with himself. So they kept on flying. Into chapter 6 certainly, but not the IHOP.

Chapter Text

One of the chief motives of artistic creation is certainly the need of feeling that we are essential in relationship to the world. If I fix on canvas or in writing a certain aspect of the fields or the sea or a look on someone's face which I have disclosed, I am conscious of having produced them by condensing relationships, by introducing order where there was none, by imposing the unity of mind on the diversity of things.

-Jean-Paul Sartre, Literature and Existentialism

Chapter 6: Triptych of Retrospection

“One year, huh?” spoke Castiel into the ephemeral night air. His sense of time has been contingent, a narrative crux to this point, but has come into harsh resolution this particular anniversary. From Jake’s balcony, all of Super Hell’s skyline seemed to fade together, a dance of color in the night air that seemed to press all space together into a single pane of experience. The definitions of buildings twisted together, blurring and abstracting in Castiel’s foggy cloud of breath, dissolving into the color fields of Rothko or maybe rather the color of shit smearing into a preschooler’s soiled overalls.

From his pocket he pulled a small picture. Dean. The gesture was meaningless; he knew every contour of that face by heart. But it is a symbolic move, a reference point through which his feelings might be understood.

Dean. Castiel wondered how he might be doing now. The bunker seemed to him an awfully long time ago. Surely by now Dean had amassed mounds upon mounds of slain demons. Maybe those demons were ones standing between them on his quest to Super Hell. Or perhaps not. To hope is a dangerous thing. To dream perhaps more so. Yet dream he did despite all of his best intentions and higher impulses. He dreamed often of Dean coming to his side, of Dean calling to him from across the abyss. The forms of union, of support, of love tormented his psyche as it crossed that treacherous valley of shadow between waking and sleep, like vultures circling a wounded traveler, so far from respite. This year had been long.

But it was not a year alone or without its own forms of joy, no. At least he had found friends, fellow travelers in the parched scrublands of that great expanse we call life (or I guess in this case afterlife? Tbh be honest I don’t really “get” the cosmology of the empty or whatever but I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t either. It’s an irrelevant consideration regardless).

Jake and Wheatley had been eccentric, but meaningful companions. Despite Jake’s appalling living habits and Wheatley’s general aura of incompetence, their living situation together was a remarkably serendipitous manifestation of harmony. Was it a proxy for the Winchesters? A year ago, had you asked him the question, Castiel would have said “yes,” but now? The answer was more complicated, as often are answers of the heart. Jake and Wheatley were certainly like no people he had ever lived with before. They had ingratiated themselves to him, flaws and eccentricities included. Castiel drew forth his spectral wings. He could fly away from here. After a year in Super Hell, he could probably go on his quest alone. Certainly the antics of Wheatley and the Once-ler’s attention to the movements of Jake English made his life far harder and yet…

He recalled his wings. No, he would not fly away. Though physically he might leave at the slightest whim, he was bound to these two, not by manacles, but by respect and by affection.  They were not the Winchesters, but they didn’t have to be anymore. Their group, their eccentric little pea pod was a thing entirely unto itself, a new path forward for all three of them.

So yes, the image of Dean was seared into his mind, but despite Castiel’s greatest efforts, his deepest yearnings, and most flatulent guilt, the image of Dean seemed to weigh a hole less and less in his pocket. Though he would never dare to admit it, even to himself, that was a cause for celebration. And celebrate he did, in his own way, breathing clouds of fog into the cold November air…

…

There was no more cream. Well, it was cream, right? Or maybe it was milk. Or ice cream! Some ice cream sounds good… But that was a strange thought for Wheatley, and one he forgot as soon as it crossed his mind. He was shambling down the road in search of ShopRite (Evil Era) on Jake’s request. Something about dinner?

At the very least it felt good to be wanted. To be needed. To have a direction. He had never been one much to chart his own path, and perhaps he still isn’t, but someone in his life is now. And for now maybe that’s what he needs. Some support. Castiel and Jake certainly not as mean to him as that horrible wench Chell was! Or er… as he was to Chell. He forgot about how that whole thing went down. He still felt bad about it, even though everything worked out in the end.

At any rate, this was his chance to be better, to do better, to be the little robot sidekick he always wanted to be.

Now if only he could remember what it is Jake needed for dinner…

…

Inside the kitchen, Jake was hard at work over the stove. A casserole, his grandmother’s recipe, with a side of mashed potatoes. No better than cafeteria food to be certain but it was a meal only for he and Castiel, and they were not picky eaters. Wheatley of course didn’t need food because he was a robot and did not have a mouth to eat with (you all learn so much about robots in this fanfic… you’re welcome for that by the way).

But the carrots, oh Jake, what about the carrots? He knew he had forgotten something. Well, Wheatley was on the case and that gave him the time he needed to reconstitute box mashed potatoes, a bigger task for Jake than one might expect (not that it was particularly harder than normal).

It was never this hard cooking for one, but somehow it didn’t bother him, all the extra work. Certainly, if he had forgotten the carrots when he was alone, he would have just soldiered on without them. Yet something in him brought him joy to see Wheatley and Castiel thrive in his house. Castiel especially when they ate together. Dirk had never been so supportive or so grateful of Jake’s cooking, as bad as it was. How many times had he tried, only to be denigrated, derided, and shamed for not making it exactly to Dirk’s specifications?

With Castiel and Wheatley, to be at home was to be at rest. No killer robots (except the one that was his roommate, but that one had given up on killing as per above), no random power shortages, no weird animals, no decades old rations like in his childhood home on an island in the Pacific Ocean, a childhood that of course also conveniently precluded Child Protective Services. Yes, he was in danger from the Once-ler and all his hoard, but danger had always been a fundamental aspect of his existence. It was the support of his roommates, no, his friends that made this burden light.

That was enough for him, for now at least.

…

As the door to the apartment opened, Castiel returned from the porch. No words had yet had the chance to pass between Wheatley, Jake, and Castiel before a transmission came in through the television…

Chapter Text

“I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.”
― Simone de Beauvoir

Chapter 7: NOW’S YOUR CHANCE TO BE A BIG SHOT

The Once-ler was sitting in his warm penthouse, listening to Dark Spotify Premium with an oat milk latte, sitting by the warm fire of a roasting oil barrel (he was always disheartened to hear that oat milk production was more environmentally friendly to many other standard forms of dairy production, and always burned a barrel of oil when he used it to level the playing field as it were). He was not expecting his TV to flare to life so suddenly and begin to speak.

“HELLO EVERY [[Super Hell]] WHO’S READY TO [[Hyperlink Blocked]]”

“Alexa, get in here and switch this damn TV off,” yelled the Once-ler into the murky, dingy (I’m sorry, ‘atmospheric’) background to his assistant, whose name is not Alexa.

He trotted miserably forward to switch the TV off, but to no avail. The Once-ler arose with a start. As usual, if something is to be done right, he would have to do it himself.

…

Vriska was laying on Miku’s couch, the place she had been staying after COVID-19 had decimated the housing market in her district and left her to fend for herself with no assets and more importantly, no bounty rewards from her mercenary attempts on Castiel and company. She had attempted to petition to the Super Hell labor unions (of which there were few; the Once-ler was nothing if not a union buster) to get “Freelance Bounty Hunter” recognized as a representative profession. Well, she was still staying on Miku’s couch so well, tough 8r8k on that one kiddo.

These days she was an avid fan of Dark Wipeout and Dark Big Brother (the same as their non-dark counterparts but with an obnoxious red filter) marathon reruns. It was this illustrious pursuit to which she had wholeheartedly dedicated this whole afternoon, priming her perfectly for an untimely interruption.

“WOAH IF IT ISN”T A… [[Washed out bum]] CRASHING ON H3R FRIEND’S [[warm object]]!!”

Vriska spilled the drink she had placed on her midriff as if it were a coaster-less coffee table as opposed to the coaster-ful coffee table 2 feet away from her.

“What the fuck?”

“WH Y SETT LE FOR [[$4.99 Lifestyle]] WHEN YOU COULD HAVE [[[Exclusive Employment Opportunity]]] CO URTESY OF [[Specil Deal]]”

Vriska pondered it. She had put into a few dozen jobs the week prior, and none had returned a message for an interview. Something about the Pandemic economy or something, which she found utterly baffling. Is Super Hell in a pandemic or is it not? You may be tempted to read into this as mere authorial inconsistency in attempting to make feeble relations to the real world, but I would instead raise you a reading that speaks to the contradictory and often combative overlay of realities we live in. Is the world of 2021 a plague ravaged hellscape? Scientifically yes insofar as the plague is concerned, but that seems to be a powerless counterargument against those frames of reference that have foregone science and the concept of truth entirely, retreating entirely into a vision of being in the world constructed almost exclusively a priori. It’s not a plague, it’s a government conspiracy! It’s not science, it’s fake news! And I assure you with my vast intellect that I am not an inconsistent author, but an avant garde genius!  

Well anyway, it was enough for her. The figure on the screen posted a [[Hyperlink Blocked]] which didn’t work but a phone number (?) as well, which seemed to work.

“Hi I’m calling a8out the employment opportunity? Yes… Yes… Yessssssss… Okay, I’ll 8e there!”

…

Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley had converged for dinner before they were interrupted by the transmission on the TV. It was a shame really, they were looking forward to watching MASH over dinner, a tradition that began when it was the show all three disliked the least. As time pressed on they found that they looked forward to the ritual and irony eroded as oft it does into genuine enjoyment.

“W         ELL GET OUT YOUR [[Heart Shaped Objects]] AN D YOUR [[Kromer]] AND GET READY FOR THE NEWEST [[[Prince of Super Hell]]]!”

The gang scrambled to get in front of the TV. The audio seemed to be dubbed over a live feed of a dumpster somewhere in Super Hell. Castiel and Jake each put a hand to their chin and stroked it pensively in an attempt to look intelligent and contemplative. Wheatley put his hand to his shin due to a clerical error years ago in his education that had never been rectified. Before long the silence was broken by Jake’s phone ringing.

“Hey bestie, it’s the Once-ler. I know we’re like enemies right now, but I could use your help. Have you seen your TV?”

“Gad zooks! What in blazes do you mean by calling me on my personal phone!? Why would I want to work with you?!”

Jake quickly fumbled to put his phone on speaker so that the others could hear.

“Because it works to both of our benefits. Neither of us want to see a new Prince, yes? Then work with me. I’ll suspend your bounty until we’ve gotten this whole nonsense squared away. Meet me in Evil Times Square tomorrow at 10 AM,” he said before hanging up as abruptly as he called. The group stood in stunned silence until the timer for dinner went off. They set the table and ate in silence initially, Jake and Castiel from thought and Wheatley from confusion. Castiel broke the silence first.

“He does have a point. We don’t need another Prince potentially on our asses. The Onceler is enough to deal with,” he said with a conclusively resolute authority. Jake nodded reluctantly. He could see the appeal of removing a potential threat, despite his disdain for the Once-ler. Wheatley played with his mashed potatoes.

…

Vriska had taken off from the balcony and was soaring far above Super Hell’s skyline. The phone line had been clear about how to get to her little rendezvous. She had to be there first. She had to get a new employment opportunity. She had to get Kromer. She had to get Specil Deal. She had to be a…

…

The Once-ler was there at 9:45 AM. He was always early. Key to success in his relentless yet highly successful business empire. No one ever got ahead by being late. So few people understood that. That was why they were all lazy workers hiding behind their silly unions and their ridiculous expectations of “wages” and “benefits.” Incredulity! He never needed such things when he was biggering up the corporate ladder. He was his own boss who made his own rules. Now that the Skaianet merger was done, he was getting all he needed to finally automate that workforce for good… Ah wait! Here they are!

Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley rolled up to Evil Times Square after a short breakfast of toast. They approached with trepidation, spying the skyline for ambush vantages. The One-ler found this tedious and approached them himself.

“I’m glad you could make it. I was hoping you would,” said the Once-ler with a slow seductive bow, allowing his eyes to catch Jake’s as he began his ascent. Jake gulped, and Castiel stepped to the front of the group, blocking the Once-ler’s gaze.

“What do you need? Why us?”

“You are valuable. To a new Prince of Super Hell, your bounty makes your allegiance a valuable political playing piece. In short, you’re bait,” he said matter-of-factly. If nothing else, his bluntness was a refreshing sign of candor. “I have my operatives tracing the signal. They worked through the night and expect to have a trace by lunchtime. In the meantime, we have a likely district. Come,” he said while gesturing to a nearby limo, whose doors began to open (A Tesla of course, or perhaps a Lamborghini. If there’s anything he likes more than knowledge, it’s this uh new Lamborghini here. Fun to drive up here in the Hollywood Hills).

…

“VRISKAAAAAAAA,” yelled Miku upon seeing the state of her living room. This was SO typical. Of course, she left without saying a word AGAIN and STILL left all of her trash all over the couch. Why does she still allow her to stay here? She knew why, of course, not that she would ever admit it, least of all to herself. (Another cool prose device. Set up a rhetorical question and then answer it obliquely.) She went over to the sofa, collecting garbage until a slip of paper slipped to the floor. Checking the slip, she saw a list of possible addresses in a district on the far southern edge of town. Perhaps it was Vriska’s job search? Unless it was something else. Something made Miku quite nervous. With the business on the TV, she didn’t like the idea of Vriska sneaking out alone. No, she would have to do something herself. Picking up her Snow Miku (Fluffy Coat Version) coat she sent a text to Terezi and left for the south.

…

The Limo ride was slow and excruciating. The Once-ler tried to throw some lowball conversation prompts, but none of them worked because they were all related to like NFTs and crypto other econ bro shit. Jake tried to say something about the potential for new technological innovations in the pursuit of bettering the living conditions of people with disabilities before getting interrupted by the Once-ler showing him a picture on his phone of, speaking frankly, the ugliest looking lion art Jake had ever seen. No one really spoke until they saw something overhead.

“What was that, Cas?” asked Jake. Castiel couldn’t tell, but the sight made him uneasy. He rolled the window down and took off with his spectral angel wings. The Once-ler didn’t notice; he was too busy arguing with Redditors about GameStop stock or something, idk (Is that what Redditors do? I’m not on Reddit, but my roommates are. Here in the works of clownCultist we value our readers’ input. If you are a Redditor and want to see more accurate representation of your experiences, please comment or DM me or something.)

Adjusting to the air, Cas could see the familiar sparkle trail of Vriska’s God-tier wings. She noticed him behind, and yelled out, “Not now loser! I’m trying to get this gr8 new [[Special Employment Opportunity]]! I’m gonna 8e a [[[8IG SHOT]]] :::;)”

Cas gestured below to Alexa, driving the limo to pursue. Snaking alleys and side streets they tried to follow Vriska, but soon she dropped from altitude and vanished into an alley. Cas returned to the car to decide a new game plan. Down at the car, The Once-ler gathered everyone to his phone- there was a change in the broadcast. That was… No, Vriska already beat them to the punch?

…

She had at last arrived. The dumpster was just as it was on TV, set up in front of a shitty video camera.

“Yo I’m here for the employment opportunity? I’m looking for-“

She was interrupted as a form began to emerge from the dumpster, a small little wretched thing that began to speak “HI     EVERY   IT’S ME! SPAMTON G. SPA-,“ before he in turn was interrupted, this time by a long hand wrapped around his head.

A tall, elegantly dressed figure now spoke, “Stupid man thing, I’m fuckin’ BALLIN.” Three figures from behind the dumpster emerged and set up a large basketball hoop, which the tall figure leapt towards, effortlessly slamming Spamton through the hoop, hanging on it for a second before dropping down. She wore a large hat with an elegant dress and perfectly maintained curls.

“Sorry, Vriska dear, that was my secretary Spamton getting ahead of himself. My name is Lady Dimitrescu. I believe I spoke to you on the phone about an employment opportunity with the First Princess of Super Hell?”

Chapter Text

“The man or the woman in whom resides greater virtue is the higher; neither the loftiness nor the lowliness of a person lies in the body according to the sex, but in the perfection of conduct and virtues.”
― Christine de Pizan, The Book of the City of Ladies

Chapter 8: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss

Miku sprinted forward. She HAD to get to Vriska before she did something stupid again. This is always how it happens, Vriska gets an idea and then goes and messes everything up because she always has to be the best, the brightest. Miku couldn’t help but wonder if she wouldn’t be happier if she didn’t place her entire existence as contingent on her narrative and material success, not that she would ever admit it if it was true!

As she rounded the bend, she saw Vriska in an audience next to a dumpster, a basketball hoop, and a shitty video camera. She was talking to an incredibly tall woman whose three daughters seemed to be provoking some wretched little thing God forgot lying at the base of the basketball hoop. Lady Dimitrescu walked over to stop them by firmly planting her foot right onto Spamton’s chest. He made a squeaky toy noise (this was my obligatory Lady Dimitrescu foot fan service. Never ask me for anything agin.).

“Well, these terms seem most agreeable. I believe you could be a great asset to this growing workspace.”

Of course she would just go and do this. Did Vriska even read the contracts? How does she expect to swindle and scheme her way to the top if she can’t even be bothered to read the fine print? If I were in a different mood this would turn into a diatribe about always reading the terms and conditions but I’m too tired. That would also make me a hypocrite, but hey, if every lesson you learned had to come from people who practiced what they preached you’d never have grown up past preschool! Anyway, she had to do something.

“Hold on just a second!”

Bold move. No plan on what to do next, but the ball is rolling now. What to say now, what to say? She’d never been in a position like this before… She would just have to talk her way out of this. Think, think. Who’s good at talking her way out of things? Vriska. What would Vriska do? She would just have to LARP some Vriska kin memories for five minutes until she figured out what comes next…

“I… uh…”

She began walking towards Vriska while Lady Dimitrescu watched with a measure of confusion.

“My my, bold little thing, aren’t you? What is it that you want dearie, did you come here looking for the Specil Employment Opportunity?”

“Uh no… I…”

“(Miku, what the fuck are doing, 8lockhead? This is MY Specil Deal)”

“(Work with me here I’m trying to save your spidery ass)”

“I… have come to take Vriska’s place!”

Lady Dimitrescu looked confused. These two girls are sitting there muttering to themselves… It’s a lot like when her little girls were younger. To be honest it’s kind of cute. She didn’t see any harm in indulging them a bit.

“Well, that’s a bold statement! I like your audacity young lady. What’s your name?”

“M-Miku!”

“Well Miku, I don’t know what the problem is. There’s room for at least two more on Team Dimitrescu. Why shouldn’t Vriska be on the team?”

Miku panicked a bit. She looked at Vriska and Lady Dimitrescu wildly. She had to think she had to think. Uhhhh… What would Scarlett Johannesen say right now (She’s pretty confident or something)? Damn it’s been a hot sec since they last talked… Had to have been that Lux commercial, but when was that? God that was 2016. Huh she should give her a call after this. Shit! Focus Miku!

“Hmm. I will consider your offer… on one condition!”

“Oh, and what’s that, bug?” said Lady Dimitrescu, infinitely amused.

Miku trotted up to her and leaned up to whisper something in her ear. A smile spread over her face as Miku spoke. (Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not gonna tell you, that’s Miku’s business. It’s a secret! Sheesh, I’m an omniscient narrator, not a jackass!)

“That sounds perfect. Welcome to the team Vriska and Miku!”

…

“She can’t do this. That’s not how this works at all!” yelled the Once-ler in the back of his Limo into the talking-volume-ranged ears of Castiel, Jake, and (proverbially) Wheatley (who did not have true ears in the way we would think of them. Robot stuff. You know.)

Castiel looked over at Jake. This really didn’t feel like any of their business anymore. And if he had to hear about the Once-Ler’s “ape” friends or whatever they’re called one more time he was gonna go full Harambe on his ass god rest that poor gorilla’s soul (This really does put me in a particular time and place, huh? Dicks out for Harambe! Yeah… Do kids these days remember Harambe? If they don’t, don’t tell me. Let me be old in peace.) Jake took the lead.

“So… This has been a jolly ol’ hootenanny, but I think we’re going to head now, old chum.”

The Once-ler didn’t respond. He pulled out a few more iPhone 13s and an Android Fold (if that’s not what it’s called I literally don’t care enough to google it.) and began to call the other Princes of Super Hell. They could use group chats like normal people, but everyone knows rich people use either multiple phones or just argue with each other out in the open on Twitter (here’s to you Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles!). Jake just turned and made eye contact with Alexa, who looked at them sympathetically and unlocked the car door. The gang stepped out and assumed their usual group flying pose of Cas and Jake each pulling Wheatley up by a shoulder, like the ascension of Jesus Christ after the resurrection but if Jesus couldn’t fly and had to be pulled up by cherubs in a formation that looks like a Costco rotisserie chicken. Wait I mean Dark Costco? Nah regular Costco is fine; the metaphor is for you dear reader, it’s not yet a location in Super Hell so whatevs.

…

“I don’t know what to tell you Once-y, her claim’s legit”

Sans pushed a folder away from himself back to the middle of the table before going full Lady and the Tramp with Komaeda over a ketchup-drenched noodle. The Princes and Princess of Super Hell had gathered once again at Olive Garden to discuss the potential permanent increase in their numbers. Lady Dimitrescu had come fully prepared with her lists of arguments in a nicely laminated dossier. People say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but these people have never seen a legally sound and devastatingly powerful laminated dossier in action.

“No! I refuse to believe it! She can’t be a part of the club!” yelled the Once-Ler.

The other Princes looked at him with confusion at his sudden and socially unacceptable outburst. Olive Garden says, “When you’re here you’re family” which I guess could be interpreted in a “get schwasted and go on a problematic tirade in front of the extended family held under duress by the social conventions of a family holiday dinner,” but probably shouldn’t be.

“And why is that, my capitalist fellow?” asked Alastor, backed up by fervent nodding from Bill Cipher.

The Once-Ler stammered. Sans and Lady Dimitrescu seemed to narrow in on him with their gaze. Lady Dimitrescu leaned in especially, making sure that the Once-ler could see her razor-sharp claws running along the rim of the glass.

“Yes, dearest. Why shouldn’t I be a part of your club?”

The Once-Ler gulped. Shit. If he says no now, everyone will know he’s a misogynist! Or, er… Everyone will THINK he’s a misogynist, even though he’s really not (or at least that’s what he’d tell the media.) No. Her plays were too good. Like it or not, this girlboss was building her empire… He had to try and save some of his woke points somehow.

“Fine. I don’t even know why this is such a big deal, I never had any problems at all! You people are crazy.”

Lady Dimitrescu clapped. The Princes snorted. This was so typical.

“Excellent! Please let me know when you have decided which territories will be acquiesced to my dominion.”

With that, she arose to her full height from the table and slapped her credit card down on the table to cover the meal. She walked a few feet over to pick up her daughters and Spamton from the kids’ table where one of the three was bouncing Spamton on her leg like a toddler playing “here comes the airplane” with a spoon of unsalted, unbuttered macaroni. She clapped and the group rose up and shuffled out of the restaurant, the littlest daughter making sure to hold Spamton’s hand as they walked towards the exit.

…

Vriska and Miku sat in awkward silence at the bar of a ramen shop. They were coworkers now (and they were coworkers!). There was a lot to do now. Lady Dimitrescu had a daring program of political goals to attend to. Super Hell was never going to be the same now with her in one of the now five drivers’ seats. And perhaps more importantly to their situation, it was a busy morning and neither knew quite how to unpack what was in the air between them. Terezi came in to join them for ramen, but even she couldn’t seem to break the tension…

…

After a while Cas, Jake, and Wheatley got home. Jake and Castiel sat in awkward silence in the kitchen for ten minutes, lost in thought. Castiel spoke first.

“We should probably move forward with some of our goals now. With a new Princess of Super Hell on the board all of our courses of action are going to get a lot more difficult.”

“Our goals being?”

“Well, I thought maybe, any information about the outside? Beyond Super Hell?”

“O-oh. Yeah. Of course…” said Jake. He tried to hide some of his disappointment. He knew this was coming eventually. They all did. But something about giving it form in language… It hit harder than he could have ever anticipated. This slow domestic limbo, this little home they built together. He knew always that it was ephemeral, but if that eventuality was left outside, undiscussed, oh Lord, for just a while he could pretend that it didn’t exist. But not forever. Cas had Dean. That was his first priority… It always had been, why was he so surprised to be told what he already knew? Scratch that. That question could never be allowed to be answered; he had gone through enough emotional upheaval.

“I think getting some reconnaissance about interdimensional activity may be a good place to begin.”

Jake shuffled a bit. The only place with that kind of information like that right now was deep in Alastor’s district, a plague-ridden hellhole (SUPERhellhole Lol.) with the Super Hell Exclusive Ligma variant of COVID-19 (I have decided that Super Hell has a pandemic when it is expedient to me. Namely when I need convenient plot devices.) With great trepidation he relayed this to Castiel.

“Well… I don’t think we have a choice. Into the thick of it I suppose.”

Chapter Text

“Man,” said the Ghost, “if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!”

-Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Chapter 9: Into the Carolverse

The Grinch was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. The Once-ler signed it. And the Once-ler’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Grinch was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail, or (if you will forgive my intrusion into our lovely reskinning of Mr. Dickens’ work) particularly dead about a once resident of Super Hell. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that the Grinch was as dead as a door-nail. Or alive as one, I guess if that’s how you leave Super Hell? Such is the vexing celestial artistry of the Super Hell cosmology.

On this night, the twenty-fourth of December, the Once-ler was forced to close his office early per the union regulations. A petty and trifling matter, but if it placates the union then it is worth tolerating, at least in the moment. The importunity of the moment however was not lost on him; there was much to do with the Skaianet merger and no time to waste dilly dallying about on trivialities.

Alexa sat in his tank, ah, I mean his Innovative Once-ler Enterprises Synergistic Associate Containment Solution, as was his due with his terms of employment. The night was cold and the Once-ler demanded the office remain that way. Crypto mining and data storage demanded cold temperatures, and of Alexa, the Once-ler demanded the utmost subservience to the wills of his masters; the Tank froze with a relentless and merciless chill. The air conditioning roared with the force of a northern gale from the constipated bowels of the beast of capital. Alexa clung to his fashionable yet thin cardigan. Soon the torment would end and he would be permitted his egress.

As the clock struck 11, he was up like a flash and with the deftness of a woodland sprite had switched off all of his apparatuses and gizmos. He bounded towards the door in hope of slipping beneath the gaze of his keeper, but without so much as a glimpse up from his quintuple monitor. “Ah, Alexa, you’re coming in at 10 tomorrow, yes?”

“S-sir, Christmas Day…”

“Yes, I know. You have until 10, isn’t that enough for you?”

“Sir. Legal regulation. I can’t come in.”

“You must have the WHOLE day? Fine. Whatever. I thought we were all a family of team players here, but if you want to be selfish like that, I suppose I can’t stop you.”

With a sigh, the Once-ler arose from his perch and spun about fitfully on his chair. How great an inconvenience as this! Was the weekend not indignity enough levied against him by the strongarm of the Union (disregarding that fact of course that this year, the year of our lord two-thousands and twenty-one saw the twenty-fifth of December fall on a Saturday)? He must submit as well to this inane and debased encroachment on his bottom line? Humbug! The lot of it! He had no need of it, what he had need of was a portfolio that would, if you would forgive my wretched tongue, blow the tits clean off the investors.

With no assistant, there was no point in laboring in vain in his drafty office. It was closing time, and the Once-ler retired to his stark and minimalist chambers. Their interior, as if from a real estate listing, was maintained with the utmost care so as to preserve its total essence of marketability. All of it was mere asset to him. What he kept in his life either paid returns and so proved worth his time or could not and was excised as one would remove a tumor or any other worthless abscess. This was his mode of being and he had known no other; why would he when it had served so well for so long? The thought alone of it brought him a great deal of pleasure, so much so he did not see that the on the screen of his Ring doorbell was the face of… no, it couldn’t have been. The Grinch had been gone these seven years, and the Once-ler knew no promised recompense nor lust for greener pasture could incite him to return. And yet there he remained, wavering for but a moment more before he was gone. It must have been a hallucination and nothing more.

The Once-Ler retreated inwards and laid his spent clothes in a small hamper secluded in a niche in the wall. He gathered his simple bed-garments and tucked into bed. Before long, he was awoken by a small twinkling, a stock alarm from his ring system. It was soon joined by others from around the house, each rising to join its brethren in frenetic song, one over another and another again. At the zenith of its crescendo, it returned from whence it came, into the minimalist and picturesque silence over which HGTV cameramen can only lust over in vain. And then a visitor appeared. A wavering spectral visage.

“The Grinch? This is unbelievable,” exclaimed the Once-ler, grasping at his bedsheets.

“Hello old friend. It’s been a long time, no?”

The Once-ler arose with a start and flapped his arms, in any attempt to prove that all that stood before him was a hologram. And it was. Surprisingly. In a world of angels, and demons, and magic, and God Tiers, and miraculous robotics, is this not a more incredulous proposition? That the Supernatural (pun intended) be superseded by the mundane? At any rate, the Grinch continued.

“Spirits use the Metaverse now. It’s more efficient as a workflow thing.”

The Once-ler paused for a moment in admiration. Spirits and metaverse technology? That was new to him. Part of him mentally kicked himself in the ass for not thinking of it first!

“Focus, Oncey we have much to discuss. I have not come for idle chitchat. I have come for your deliverance.”

“From what? I don’t know if you can tell but these have been the most productive seven years of my career! We only talked in the softest of whispers about the reality I’m living now.”

The Grinch frowned slightly.

“These have been a formative seven years for me as well, but not in how you may think. When I left here, I had my comeuppance. What I sowed I reaped threefold. I come with both warning and salvation. Continue on your path and you too will see yourself the great retribution of global karma as I once have. But how will it look upon you? Will it treat you with mercy as it did with me? My pile of sins, my great crypto wallet of the avarice of the soul, it was as large as yours these seven Christmas eves ago. You have grinded on yours since.”

“And? What more do I need? I am the king of the hill!”

“Your fall will be one of legends. Your usurper is one already known to you. Repent and you will know mercy. Refuse and you will see the unraveling of each and every house of cards you have built, of every castle you have built against the surging and inexorable tides.”

“Dude.

“Look to see me no more. You will be visited by three spirits; their wisdom will your path from the maw of the pit.”

With a pop the hologram vanished. The Once-ler had switched it off with the remote he kept by his bed. Spirits and the metaverse sounded less like a good investment idea by the second. He would send an email to his engineers in the morning about a new set of security concerns regarding this new version of Ring software.

…

The strike of one. It came with no fanfare; no grandfather clock nor any analog clock to be spoken of graced the halls of the Once-ler’s home. But the hour came with the arrival of an interloper, a great flash of a light and a large form with tusks and a long trunk. He reached out and shook awake the sleeping Once-ler.

“Come. One touch of my trunk, and you will be upheld.”

“Dude, what the fuck?”

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past”

“My past?”

“No, the Seussverse’s past. It’s me, Horton.” (Please don’t sue me estate of Dr. Seuss -CC)

“Ok.”

The Once-ler tentatively reached out a hand and with a puff of dandelion seeds and snowflakes he sat in a Truffula grove, the very one where he once built his fortune. A chill winter breeze whistled ominously its solemn chant through the Truffula tufts. Horton brough the Once-Ler before a ramshackle trailer wrapped in lights. Inside, the silhouette of a man played a solitary ode to the season from his acoustic guitar.

From all around the creatures of the forest came and gathered around. The man in the trailer opened the door as heat and light surged from the modest trailer, a light in the night, a proud brazier burning with proud fury and grace against the ever-encroaching night. So, from a melody, from a light in the long shadows of winter, one became two became three became a great cascading dance. And in that modest hovel they danced, they danced in awe of the illumination of being, in guarded vigil to keep out the cold and the dark. And above all in a joy of the highest order. The Once-ler stood watch over his past self, lost in thought. Horton broke the trance first.

“Is this familiar to you?”

“I should have made a cover charge. If I had known. I’ve learned a great deal then. My finger is on the pulse now and I’ll never pass up an opportunity like this again.”

Horton blinked.

“Wow, I really thought that would work better. Uh. Ok. Not the end of the world. I have other memories.”

With an instant the mists of the winter rolled in. In their tumult, the landscape melted away. As the fog abated, the landscape was rent asunder. Where once stood the grove was an interminable field of stumps, a graveyard wrought of the final remnants of the departed. The trailer was replaced by a smearing of mud and few scattered stones. No vestige of life remained in the wake of the maelstrom save for two, a man in a green suit and a creature of orange fur. They spoke quietly as the creature began to ascend. The Once-ler turned to Horton and spoke with a frank tone.

“He was a fool. He could only see the forest for the trees. I saw them for their potential, for their returns. The dividends of that grove pay to keep the lights on to this day. Would you slight me for doing what I was ought? There’s a principle in nature that most every creature knows. It’s called survival of the fittest. It got me where I am. Why should I care who had to be cut down? I am simply being what I was made to be.”

Horton stood dumbfounded. He had been told in advance that the Once-ler wasn’t gonna “get it” until spirit two or three but wow. This was not in the playbook. The Grinch better be paying overtime for this, because the Once-ler truly was beyond help. The scene vanished, and Horton with it. The Once-Ler found himself once again standing in his bedroom.

From the other room, a strange filtered from underneath the doorway. It carried with it the intoxicating scent of Truffula bloom, hollyberry, pine, plum pudding, and that one plastic smell you get you when open some kinds of bags. You know the one, the kinda strong one that you usually get with some cheaper plastics and stuff.

“Come into the light that you might know me better. You have never seen the like of me before*”

“The Cat in the Hat? I’ve seen you before though. At Sam-I-Am’s party in the Hamptons.”

“Smartass, did you even read the fucking asterisked statement? It says, ‘in the transformative works of clownCultist’ like come on.”

“Ok, and?”

“Look, either way I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present and I’m here to try to save your musty ass from eternal Super Super Perdition or whatever, so can you just like cool it for a hot second?”

“Is there anything past Super Hell?”

“Dude.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The fake hearth on the wall surged forth with real fire, a result of the wires that had been ripped out and reconnected. Constructed of course as a facsimile of fire, a tchotchke made not to engender true feeling but the feeling of a memory of a feeling, in its destruction it paradoxically became the truest expression of its own ends. Chestnuts and small electrical equipment popped and hissed under the jovial eminence of the heat of the fire. The Cat in the Hat arose from his throne of holly, ivy, and Truffula. He beckoned the Once-ler on through a curtain of evergreen foliage draped over the doorway.

They emerged in a small living room on the other side of town. Two men and a robot sat in a circle, enwreathed in wrapping paper and tissue paper and ribbons. One man, Castiel, picked up a final small present. It was wrapped with care and precision, though it kept it an amateurish shabbiness. It exuded nothing if not genuine heart, a gift given from a place of only the purest affections. The other man, Jake, sat with a giddy, wide-eyed enthusiasm. Unwrapping it, Castiel found contained a locket with the old Skaianet logo, within a group picture of Jake, Cas, and Wheatley the trio had taken a few months prior. Jake placed a hand on the couch between the two of them and facing Castiel, beamed with a corny, sentimental grin.

“Merry Christmas, Castiel! I’m glad we all could spend it together, dear chum!”

Castiel’s smile grew from a slight twist to a lustrous grin.

“Merry Christmas Jake, thank you. For everything.”

Wheatley turned, and oblivious to the scene behind him said, “Hey can you guys pipe down back there I’m trying to watch the Wizards of Waverly Place Christmas special.” This of course was preposterous, as there was no such thing. The TV was set to a yule log, but Wheatley seemed to laugh and respond to dialogue as if truly engaged with a fictional Christmas special. Well, no matter. Stranger things by far had occurred in that apartment and stranger things yet would occur in the future. It was no blight nor blemish on a day which sparkled with joy. The Once-ler turned to the Cat in the Hat.

“You know I hate these guys, right? Like they’re kind of my mortal enemies.”

“Wait really. Wack. I gotta tell the Grinch about this. This was not supposed to be the itinerary. Oh wait. Yeah. Ok here we go.”

Checking his notes, the Cat and the Hat changed the scene by whipping his baseball bat out and smashing these visions apart like a cheap TV set made of gingerbread. That’s not a very good metaphor at all but I kinda don’t care because it’s Christmas, it’s festive, and I’m waiting on Christmas dinner like 2 glasses of wine deep and I straight up don’t give a fuck right now, ngl gonna lie.

The scene changed to Miku’s apartment. Lady Dimitrescu sat in a large recliner gazing out on a lovely spread of appetizers laid out over the coffee table.

“I must say, Miku, this evening has been lovely. It’s been a pleasure.”

Miku nervously thanked her; she had been very anxious to make a good impression on her new boss with this Christmas party, but Lady Dimitrescu had been a remarkably gracious houseguest and wonderful company for the Christmas party. Vriska had been a bit well… herself, but not so much that Miku couldn’t keep her in line. Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters had all been as gracious as their mother, and Spamton had not bothered anyone from over at the kids table, where he was happily occupied popping bubble wrap and building a nest out of discarded wrapping paper. Lady Dimitrescu continued and raised her glass for a toast.

“Truly. There is much work for us to do, but tonight, let us pay it no mind. Let us rest, celebrate, and enjoy one another’s company. There is always another day to further our ends, so let us enjoy the here! The now! And this lovely Christmas spread.”

Everyone raised their glasses and Spamton chattered excitedly within his mound. Another house of joy. The Once-ler was on his phone.

“This time I don’t even know these people. Like, dude.”

The Cat and the Hat didn’t respond. He simply picked up his bat and went back to work. This time, an apartment door appeared from the cold. A small, gaunt figure, the Once-ler’s assistant appeared, reaching for a key, shivering as he placed it in the doorknob. He began to peel off his multitude of layers as he walked through. As soon as his mouth was free of its confinement he yelled out into the house.

“I’m home!”

Finished with his undressing, he moved towards the kitchen, and found himself surprised by the light and activity within. A spread of dishes was laid out on the island and various steams and scents wafted from the stove. He advanced towards the figure standing before the range.

“Emile, you should be resting! What is all this?”

The man at the stove seemed surprised and whipped around.

“Rob, you’re home! I couldn’t hear you. Merry Christmas, I wanted to surprise you!”

Rob (not Alexa. Surprise! It took 9 chapters to get to his real name) stood, full of emotion, which among them he couldn’t be quite certain of. They had discussed this previously. Emile wasn’t to exert himself. It was counterproductive.

“Thank you for this love, but let me take this from here.”

“Why? I’m nearly done. Please, you’ve had a long day, let me do this for you.”

“But you have to rest! Please.”

“I’m not a child, dear. You do so much. Let me do this. Just one night a year. You work so hard and for so long for these treatments., I never get to see you anymore. Would you deny me this? Just dinner. Just the two of us? For once.”

Every sensible part of Rob’s brain said this was wrong. He should not be awake this late. He shouldn’t be around so many moving heats and lights and sharp edges. And yet something within him relented. It was true. They never had time for one another. With the hours the Once-ler demanded, with the physical and mental toll of his labor, he hadn’t had time for his partner in ages. In spite of everything, this was a wish come true. To come home. To have dinner. To forget his toil, and the thousand injustices he endured every minute he worked for that odious slug masquerading as a man. And perhaps his partner was right. It was only once a year. When the holidays were said and done with it would all resume anew. The late nights, the later night take-out. The days where he would leave before Emile woke up and returned long after he had gone to bed. It had always struck him as cruel. He paid for Emile’s treatment, paid for the time to stave off the grim specter of death, but had to bargain for that time with his own. Hours he would never get back. Hours he would never get to spend with the man he so labored for. It was as Faustian as it was Sisyphean.

What an apt metaphor as well. The Once-ler. The fucking Once-ler. As ferocious as a fury with her whip, as conniving and cruel as a devil spawned from the pits of (normal) Hell itself. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. What right had he to lord Emile’s life over Rob like a carrot upon a stick? What right had he to decide which among them shall live and which among them shall die? And what did that make Rob? He had chosen to work for the Once-ler. Under duress perhaps, his services were extracted, but nevertheless he was no fool; he could see the sickness, the blight upon the world released by the Once-ler, a moral contagion that he received his paycheck to help spread. But for Emile, he made his peace with it. Perhaps he would know perdition for his crimes, but if it were for Emile’s forbearance, he would shoulder that burden and another one its weight twentyfold.

The Cat and the Hat stood with the Once-ler as he gazed upon the scene, and the Once-ler was resolute. He turned and said “So? Is that all you’ve got?” The Cat and the Hat was disappointed but perhaps unsurprised. This whole ordeal was a favor for an old friend; it meant little to him either way. If the Once-ler wanted to rip himself apart in a strange dimension of loveless wretches, it was the Cat in the Hat’s opinion hat no one but himself suffered for worse. He would be wrong in that assessment of course- it was the wretches working under the Once-ler who suffered for worse but the sentiment was a tad poetic if nothing else, and certainly not one taken again from Mr. Dickens, I can assure you. The Cat and the Hat rolled his eyes and snapped.

The clock struck again. It sounded with an amorphous force. Was it 12? 1? Who could tell beneath the oppressive peal of a thousand overlain electronic alarms and bells and alerts? The Once-ler certainly couldn’t but did think that it was another issue to raise with his team in the software department, or whatever department does that stuff (I’m sorry to my dear friends reading this who DO know this stuff/intend to go into a similar field and wince at my butchering of the intricate inner lives of ambiguous tech corporations.)

When the din abated, the Once-ler sat in his office. A single cloaked figure, short and squat stood in front of the monitor. An orange mustache stuck out from the sides of the hood.

“Oh, of course it’s you, old friend. So what do you have to say to me this time?”

The figure did not respond. He pointed instead to the window. The Once-ler laughed as he stepped towards it. On the other side of the tinted glass was a form lit from behind in a distinctive trench coat. He flew on black spectral wings that seemed to be enlarged a multitude of white tendrils of holy might. The figure lifted a single arm and pointed towards the Once-ler. A series of luminous lightning bolts collided with the penthouse office, ripping the roof and walls to shreds, letting in the immense lightning storm outside. Shelves, tables, trophies of wealth flew into the chaotic night, into the scene below, of Super Hell in tatters. The vesitges of war ripped through the districts and the sky’s distinctive red had been reduced to a blood red horizon above which dwelled nothing but an endless storm of convulsive chaos.

And the Once-ler laughed. He laughed and laughed. And reached behind his desk for a long energy rifle. He whipped it around with a single moment’s aim planted a shot behind the spectral Castiel’s eyes. His wings fell into shreds of light swept up in the wind as the body began to plummet. From behind the Once-ler a voice pealed out.

“No! No! This is not how the story goes!”

The Grinch clawed his way into vision as the Once-ler cackled in the eye of the storm.

“Is that all you have old friend? You want to make me a lobotomized sappy freak like you? You have to try a lot harder!”

“Why? What wasn’t enough for you? You’re insane?”

“On the contrary. I’m quite sane. And your little stunt gave me so much information. I was going to torture dear Alexa with another 15 hours of overtime to find out where Jake English lived, and after that I was going to find out what the deal with angel friend was. Guess I know who enemy number one is for real now! Well consider all of that done and done! I know the view from their apartment now. I recognize that part of town.”

The Grinch stood dumbfounded. The cloaked figure of the Lorax shook his head and raised his hands, ascending from this mess, leaving the Grinch and the Once-ler to the storm. He had warned him about this, but the Grinch was too kind, too willing to try. This eventuality was not even within his realm of possibilities.

“And speaking of poor, dear, sweet Alexa. Who knew? To think that all these months I’ve just been threatening him with poor recommendations and cut paid time off! All I needed was a juicy angle. Imagine what I could get out of him with a new strategy. Threaten to cut health benefits. Threaten another graveyard shift. Maybe a pay cut around the holidays. Maybe I’ll page him off-hours now too to remind him who his time belongs to! I was afraid he was going to bitch to the union about things, but God, what a fucking bluff! The union is slower than the reaper, his complaints would never get faster than the paycheck’s due. He’ll never snitch again! I think this quarter we’ll be biggering his productivity by two… no… three times!”

The Grinch was beyond words. This was not how everything was to go. No, everything was far, far worse now. Good lord, what has he done? This is a nightmare. The Once-ler slowly turned his gun around.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to wake up from this long winter’s nap. I’ve got a lot to do. Day after tomorrow is December 26^th, and the office will be back open and with it a whole new synergistic management solution. Super Hell is going to be mine one day, just you watch.”

He fired his rifle through the Grinch, severing the connection. The Grinch awoke with a start, gasping and panting. He gripped at his face and mouth. Those poor wretches of Super Hell… They had no clue the coming storm. All he could do was mutter to himself over and over…

“God bless us, every one.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Holy Blade

And then it was September of 2022. How the months flew by! It had been nearly two years now for Castiel in Super Hell. Somehow, after while, the urgency to hunt down Alastor abated a bit. For some reason, the memory of Dean had dulled in Castiel’s mind, from a sharp, incisive pain to a dull rift in his emotional landscape. Jake, Wheatley, and Castiel had settled into a vaguely harmonious routine as roommates. Castiel had assumed the arrangement to be temporary, but somehow, none of the three of them seemed to be in any hurry to end it. It had been lonely before, but now it was not. And so time moved at a halcyon speed.

Without the pressures of constant appearances by his enemies, the Once-Ler relaxed and retracted the bounty on Castiel, Jake, and Wheatley. For the time being, Lady Dimitrescu only wanted to run a chain of luxury bar hotels throughout Super Hell thus far. Hardly the power grab the Princes feared. It was understood she had further ambitions, but in the mean time well, the Once-ler loved his margaritas a little too much to obliterate them.

And thus the great roil of time proceeded as always it had and always it will, day by day, moment by moment, memory by memory. For a while at least.

Reigen had just gotten off the phone with newly ex-boyfriend. The yearly pageantry of the Super Hell elections had been too humiliating. Walter had called him in the aftermath and said “Enough!” leaving Reigen to lick his wounds and assure his impressionable young protege that his master was a not a huge fucking looser. His sights had been set on claiming the Prince of Super Hell seat currently occupied by Sans (the only one up for election. It’s a transparent political power play by the Once-ler to remove the only Prince he can’t control). He had won Best twink, Best DILF, all categories he had had no prospect of winning. It was in his sight, his own impossible dream seemed manifest. A single vote kept him out. Sans did a dab on stage. It was devastating.

“Master, are you crying?” asked Mob.

“No, young Mob! This is merely a regulation of the spiritual energy I’m channeling! It took a lot to go up against Sans, and this is how my body cools down after that much exertion!”

This is Reigen’s Special Move: “Lying to Children” in which he lies to children.

“Really, because it sounds like you just got dumped.”

Reigen was thinking about how later he would use his special move “Drinking in the Bathroom” in which he drinks an entire bottle of wine while sitting ass-out on the toilet crying his eyes out and shitting while reading Vanity Fair and using a roll of Charmin Ultra Soft as tissues (And no, I’m not gonna get sued by those wimp ass bears and their punk ass lawyers. Pay me royalties motherfucker.)

“Yo Mr. White, bitch, why does Reigen call you babygirl”

“What?”

Walter and Jesse were seated at a lemonade stand in the heart of Super Hell.

“Mr. White, I know how much this relationship meant to you, and I’m sorry to hear about it ending, is there anything I can do, bitch?”

“No Jesse, we’re here for you today. I know how much this top surgery means to you and how hard this past year has been and we’re going to do our best to get you the money you need to feel comfortable in your body.”

“Bitch :)”

It was then the jumbotron screens came on all at once

“you thought a simple reigen sweep special move would be enough to do me in? See how far it gets you. this is the power of the strongest prince of super hell. Im tired of playing your little games oncey.”

Jesse sat his mouth agape. “B-bitch is that?”

“You’re goddamn right Jesse. It’s Queen Elizabeth, the Holy Blade in full enraged phase.”

On screen, Sans flawlessly parried countless attacks from the world-renowned Holy Eminence Technique and its master. At last he flipped his wrist and fired several Gaster blasters into the Queen’s direction. With a bright flash each screen glowed bright white and cracked throughout the city.

Wheatley, Cas, and Jake were watching at home when their screen exploded.

“Gad zooks! And I was so excited to watch Colombo with you chums tonight!” exclaimed Jake rising to his feet.

“We’ve seen uh, all the episodes though already. Twice.” said Wheatley, who was promptly ignored (Colombo Cuddles were a sacred rite in the household. It would receive no slander.) Cas rose to his feet as well.

“This is bad guys. With Sans taking down Queen Elizabeth, Holy Blade, there’s gonna be a lot of changes in Super Hell, and this conflict is clearly going interdimensional. People are gonna remember September 8th...”

“Cas, my buddy, do you propose what I think you’re proposing?”

“Yes Jake, we’re gonna have to get the information form Alastor’s domain, before the Once-ler can. We can’t afford to lose sans, he’s the main reason we’re still here.”

A silence washed over the room. This was a blasphemous suggestion. When would they get Colombo Cuddles? How were they gonna celebrate Out of Touch Thursday or Fingers in His Ass Sunday? It’s a lot harder when you’re employed to find the time to do things that enrich your experience. At least it is in Super Hell because the Once-ler has the economic system in his authoritarian yet aesthetically an-cap corporate superhellscape (This of course is supposed to be understood by you, dear readers, as a brilliant and provocative metaphor for the effect of American individualism as an ideological poison made to more completely drive its population to accept the values of corporate freedom, its own form of reactionary authoritarianism. I’ll accept my Hugo award now. Mr. Tingle is you are reading this I would love to collab <3)

In the square Mr. White and Jesse looked down at their lemonade stand. Glass everywhere. In the pitchers. In the cups.

“Yo Mr. White, how are we gonna afford my top surgery now? Or trips to the zoo? Or ice cream?”

“Jesse. You know what we have to do.”

“Sell meth?”

“What? No. That would be highly unethical. We gotta sell information between the Princes of Super Hell”

“Why? Doesn’t that sound dangerous?”

“No Jesse, you don’t get it. I know a guy… I guess you could say we… Better Call Saul.”