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last01standingTitle: Dial Tone
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: MAJOR for No Rest for the Wicked [3x16]
Warnings: Really, really, obscenely slapstick torture (yes, it’s possible). Also cursing.
Summary: Dean finds a way to phone out of Hell. Sam is skeptical. The fic is crack. [Dean, No Rest for the Wicked]
Author’s note: Most, if not all, of this is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pyro_wizzard’s fault. She knows why.
Dial Tone
As it turned out, Hell was a lot like prison: you got one phone call a day.
Dean, of course, didn’t figure this out until day thirty-four sometime in between getting force fed his own foot and having the skin slowly peeled from his body. The maintainers of Hell are required by the treaty of 39762AD to inform any prisoner of this fact daily. However most people are screaming far too loud to hear (the treaty did not specify how loudly the prisoner should be told.)
So on the thirty-fifth day, Dean politely asked for a phone so he could call his brother. He dialed with shaking, broken fingers, smearing blood all over the numbers. He waited breathlessly for a moment and then Sam picked up the phone. It was the first time Dean had heard his brother’s voice in more then a month and honestly this was not the greeting he’d expected: “This really isn’t funny.”
“Sam,” Dean croaked. “Sam, it’s me. It’s Dean.”
“Mark my words,” Sam growled. “I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Human or not, I swear I’m going to kill you.” He slammed the phone shut and after a second to leave Dean staring at the phone.
He wasn’t pissed too long because a demon stopped by and scooped his eyeballs out with a spoon. He screamed and screamed until they came back and took his tongue too. It was all right thought. In Hell, they grow back. (Of course that just meant someone could rip them out again.)
________________________________________________________________________
Dean called again the next day to the same reception.
“If you’re another fucking crocotta,” Sam said, “you should know I wasted one of you a few months ago. You’re not going to get my soul.”
“Why the hell would I want your soul?” Dean asked.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Not much about Hell is.”
There was a little hesitation in his voice before Sam finally said, “You’re not Dean. Dean’s dead.”
Dial tone.
________________________________________________________________________
The third day when Dean called, a Demon lit him on fire before he could get the first word out and he screamed into the phone for the next two minutes or until the phone melted. Dean really couldn’t tell since he was, you know, on fire.
________________________________________________________________________
The forth day when Dean called, Sam didn’t answer and the phone just rang and rang and rang and Dean thought that was worse then being set on fire.
And then they set him on fire again and Dean reconsidered.
________________________________________________________________________
On the fifth day Sam answered sounding tired and hung over and Dean said, “Sammy, you sure as hell better be taking care of my car.”
Sam laughed. He actually laughed and Dean felt that little bead of hope building dangerously in his chest. “You’re not my brother,” he said, but at least his voice was light. “If my brother found a way to dial out of hell, he’d probably try to get phone sex instead of call me.”
Dial tone.
Dean blinked because if Sam’s not going to be convinced, that was probably the much more pleasant option
________________________________________________________________________
So on day six he called Lisa but got Ben on the phone. Dean could hear the smile in the boy’s voice when he said, “Dean! My birthday’s coming up again are you going to come this year.”
Dean swallowed, trying of a way to say no that didn’t sound like, Sorry kid, I can’t because I’m dead. “Sorry kiddo, not going to make it this year.”
“Oh,” Ben said, momentarily forlorn, but he recovered quickly and before Dean could say anything else, he was off jabbering about monsters and hunting at high speed. “And when I get older, can I road trip with you and your brother? Please? I’ll be good! Dakota’s daddy’s going to teach me how to shoot and everything—“
“Ben, buddy. I don’t think that’s something you’re going to want to do. Hunting takes you to some pretty bad places.”
“Really?” Ben asked. “Where are you now?”
Dean glanced around the baron landscape. “I’m in hell,” he said finally. “Hey is you’re mom around?”
And then Dean’s time was up. He could tell because suddenly there were meat hooks. He really fucking hated meat hooks.
________________________________________________________________________
On the seventh day, he tried Cassie and ended up getting bitched out by who Dean could only assume was her current boyfriend. After that he was slowly cut to pieces by a demon who looked like Sam, but wasn’t Sam. They must like fucking with his head. Dean didn’t know why that surprised him. He was in Hell after all.
________________________________________________________________________
The eight day, Dean called Sam again. His brother picked up but didn’t say anything. He just breathed heavily into the phone for a long moment. Dean said, “Apparently there’s no phone sex in Hell.”
Then he hung up. He was sick and fucking tired of being on the wrong end of that dial tone.
________________________________________________________________________
On the ninth day when Dean called, Sam was drunk. Dean could tell it from the first word—all that self righteous, condescending little brother talk just oozed off of every word. “I’m going insane,” he said.
“You really are an incredible lightweight. If I find out you were drinking appletinis, I swear to God I’m dragging you down here with me.”
“Hellhounds,” Sam muttered. “There were a deal made. You was stupid and sold your soul.”
“If you puke on my car,” Dean promised, “I will find a way to kill you.”
________________________________________________________________________
Dean called Bobby on the tenth day and told him to kick some sense into his brother. Bobby, rather bewildered, muttered something about how he must be dreaming and Dean screamed in frustration.
________________________________________________________________________
Dean didn’t call on days eleven, twelve or thirteen because he’s busy being filleted, buried alive and forced to listen to that emo-shit Sam likes. Oh, and then they gave him decaf coffee. So, by the time he pulled himself together (harder then you might think considering he was in more then a few pieces) and got to the phone, he was already pissed off beyond belief.
So when Sammy answered the phone and said, “Hey, I forget. How exactly are you supposed to kill a black dog?” Dean saw red (which wasn’t as common a color as you might think in Hell. On the whole, it was actually rather green.)
“Sammy,” he said slowly. “I’m standing here on broken legs holding my own entrails and you’re asking me how to kill a black dog?”
“Well, you’re not really Dean, but if you want to pretend, hell, I’ll pretend.”
“QUIT PRETENDING AND FIND A WAY TO GET ME THE FUCK OUT!!”
Sam made a sound that was half sob, half laugh and Dean felt the guilt swim over him. He never could stomach Sam’s misery. He took a deep breath, glanced down at the pile of entrails in his hands and said, “You can kill a black dog using rod iron rounds. That should work, but if it doesn’t try silver bullets doused in holy water.”
“Thanks,” Sam said and then paused for a minute. “You know, I miss him.”
“You miss me.”
“I miss Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean said finally. “You and me. We’re not talking again until you stop being such a bitch about this.”
He hung up in a huff and dropped his entrails in a mess on the floor. Unfortunately the floor turned out to be made of acid and that hurt just as much as it sounded.
________________________________________________________________________
Days fourteen to thirty-one are all variations on the same conversation:
“Hey. It’s me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAMMY, GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”
“Stop pretending you’re Dean.”
Dial tone.
________________________________________________________________________
On the thirty-second day when Dean called, Sam answered the first and said, “Dean?”
“About fucking time,” Dean said.
“Since when are there phones in Hell?”
Dean started to laugh hysterically. He only recovered when a demon prodded him in the ass with a pitchfork. “Since always, I guess,” Dean replied. “Most people are screaming too much to take advantage.”
Silence.
“So,” Sam said awkwardly. “How you been?”
Sometimes, Dean really wanted to strangle his brother. “In Hell. How the fuck do you think I’ve been?”
(end)
I realize I’m going to Hell for this story. And I’m okay with it. (Dean’s there.)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: MAJOR for No Rest for the Wicked [3x16]
Warnings: Really, really, obscenely slapstick torture (yes, it’s possible). Also cursing.
Summary: Dean finds a way to phone out of Hell. Sam is skeptical. The fic is crack. [Dean, No Rest for the Wicked]
Author’s note: Most, if not all, of this is
pyro_wizzard’s fault. She knows why. As it turned out, Hell was a lot like prison: you got one phone call a day.
Dean, of course, didn’t figure this out until day thirty-four sometime in between getting force fed his own foot and having the skin slowly peeled from his body. The maintainers of Hell are required by the treaty of 39762AD to inform any prisoner of this fact daily. However most people are screaming far too loud to hear (the treaty did not specify how loudly the prisoner should be told.)
So on the thirty-fifth day, Dean politely asked for a phone so he could call his brother. He dialed with shaking, broken fingers, smearing blood all over the numbers. He waited breathlessly for a moment and then Sam picked up the phone. It was the first time Dean had heard his brother’s voice in more then a month and honestly this was not the greeting he’d expected: “This really isn’t funny.”
“Sam,” Dean croaked. “Sam, it’s me. It’s Dean.”
“Mark my words,” Sam growled. “I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Human or not, I swear I’m going to kill you.” He slammed the phone shut and after a second to leave Dean staring at the phone.
He wasn’t pissed too long because a demon stopped by and scooped his eyeballs out with a spoon. He screamed and screamed until they came back and took his tongue too. It was all right thought. In Hell, they grow back. (Of course that just meant someone could rip them out again.)
Dean called again the next day to the same reception.
“If you’re another fucking crocotta,” Sam said, “you should know I wasted one of you a few months ago. You’re not going to get my soul.”
“Why the hell would I want your soul?” Dean asked.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Not much about Hell is.”
There was a little hesitation in his voice before Sam finally said, “You’re not Dean. Dean’s dead.”
Dial tone.
The third day when Dean called, a Demon lit him on fire before he could get the first word out and he screamed into the phone for the next two minutes or until the phone melted. Dean really couldn’t tell since he was, you know, on fire.
The forth day when Dean called, Sam didn’t answer and the phone just rang and rang and rang and Dean thought that was worse then being set on fire.
And then they set him on fire again and Dean reconsidered.
On the fifth day Sam answered sounding tired and hung over and Dean said, “Sammy, you sure as hell better be taking care of my car.”
Sam laughed. He actually laughed and Dean felt that little bead of hope building dangerously in his chest. “You’re not my brother,” he said, but at least his voice was light. “If my brother found a way to dial out of hell, he’d probably try to get phone sex instead of call me.”
Dial tone.
Dean blinked because if Sam’s not going to be convinced, that was probably the much more pleasant option
So on day six he called Lisa but got Ben on the phone. Dean could hear the smile in the boy’s voice when he said, “Dean! My birthday’s coming up again are you going to come this year.”
Dean swallowed, trying of a way to say no that didn’t sound like, Sorry kid, I can’t because I’m dead. “Sorry kiddo, not going to make it this year.”
“Oh,” Ben said, momentarily forlorn, but he recovered quickly and before Dean could say anything else, he was off jabbering about monsters and hunting at high speed. “And when I get older, can I road trip with you and your brother? Please? I’ll be good! Dakota’s daddy’s going to teach me how to shoot and everything—“
“Ben, buddy. I don’t think that’s something you’re going to want to do. Hunting takes you to some pretty bad places.”
“Really?” Ben asked. “Where are you now?”
Dean glanced around the baron landscape. “I’m in hell,” he said finally. “Hey is you’re mom around?”
And then Dean’s time was up. He could tell because suddenly there were meat hooks. He really fucking hated meat hooks.
On the seventh day, he tried Cassie and ended up getting bitched out by who Dean could only assume was her current boyfriend. After that he was slowly cut to pieces by a demon who looked like Sam, but wasn’t Sam. They must like fucking with his head. Dean didn’t know why that surprised him. He was in Hell after all.
The eight day, Dean called Sam again. His brother picked up but didn’t say anything. He just breathed heavily into the phone for a long moment. Dean said, “Apparently there’s no phone sex in Hell.”
Then he hung up. He was sick and fucking tired of being on the wrong end of that dial tone.
On the ninth day when Dean called, Sam was drunk. Dean could tell it from the first word—all that self righteous, condescending little brother talk just oozed off of every word. “I’m going insane,” he said.
“You really are an incredible lightweight. If I find out you were drinking appletinis, I swear to God I’m dragging you down here with me.”
“Hellhounds,” Sam muttered. “There were a deal made. You was stupid and sold your soul.”
“If you puke on my car,” Dean promised, “I will find a way to kill you.”
Dean called Bobby on the tenth day and told him to kick some sense into his brother. Bobby, rather bewildered, muttered something about how he must be dreaming and Dean screamed in frustration.
Dean didn’t call on days eleven, twelve or thirteen because he’s busy being filleted, buried alive and forced to listen to that emo-shit Sam likes. Oh, and then they gave him decaf coffee. So, by the time he pulled himself together (harder then you might think considering he was in more then a few pieces) and got to the phone, he was already pissed off beyond belief.
So when Sammy answered the phone and said, “Hey, I forget. How exactly are you supposed to kill a black dog?” Dean saw red (which wasn’t as common a color as you might think in Hell. On the whole, it was actually rather green.)
“Sammy,” he said slowly. “I’m standing here on broken legs holding my own entrails and you’re asking me how to kill a black dog?”
“Well, you’re not really Dean, but if you want to pretend, hell, I’ll pretend.”
“QUIT PRETENDING AND FIND A WAY TO GET ME THE FUCK OUT!!”
Sam made a sound that was half sob, half laugh and Dean felt the guilt swim over him. He never could stomach Sam’s misery. He took a deep breath, glanced down at the pile of entrails in his hands and said, “You can kill a black dog using rod iron rounds. That should work, but if it doesn’t try silver bullets doused in holy water.”
“Thanks,” Sam said and then paused for a minute. “You know, I miss him.”
“You miss me.”
“I miss Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean said finally. “You and me. We’re not talking again until you stop being such a bitch about this.”
He hung up in a huff and dropped his entrails in a mess on the floor. Unfortunately the floor turned out to be made of acid and that hurt just as much as it sounded.
Days fourteen to thirty-one are all variations on the same conversation:
“Hey. It’s me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAMMY, GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”
“Stop pretending you’re Dean.”
Dial tone.
On the thirty-second day when Dean called, Sam answered the first and said, “Dean?”
“About fucking time,” Dean said.
“Since when are there phones in Hell?”
Dean started to laugh hysterically. He only recovered when a demon prodded him in the ass with a pitchfork. “Since always, I guess,” Dean replied. “Most people are screaming too much to take advantage.”
Silence.
“So,” Sam said awkwardly. “How you been?”
Sometimes, Dean really wanted to strangle his brother. “In Hell. How the fuck do you think I’ve been?”
(end)
I realize I’m going to Hell for this story. And I’m okay with it. (Dean’s there.)
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
1/6/08 14:46 (UTC)(no subject)
1/6/08 16:09 (UTC)(no subject)
1/6/08 14:57 (UTC)Favorite lines:
Dean really couldn’t tell since he was, you know, on fire.
Dean didn’t call on days eleven, twelve or thirteen because he’s busy being filleted, buried alive and forced to listen to that emo-shit Sam likes. Oh, and then they gave him decaf coffee.
Unfortunately the floor turned out to be made of acid and that hurt just as much as it sounded.
I love you and your cracked brain and your cracked friends who get you to write these things.
(no subject)
1/6/08 16:14 (UTC)Dear old pyro was freaking out when we were talking about s4 of supernatural. It went something like this:
Pyro: But how do we know Dean's even going to get out! It could be that he gets a magic phone so he can call Sam and that's going to be his role in the show!
Me: That could actually be kind of awesome.
(no subject)
1/6/08 16:21 (UTC)I love that Dean ended hanging up on Sam for a change.
(no subject)
1/6/08 21:10 (UTC)I've never seen the point of decaf. If you want to drink coffee, there damn well better be caffine in it.
(no subject)
1/6/08 16:34 (UTC)(no subject)
1/6/08 21:12 (UTC)What? Too soon?
(Yay! I knew slapstick torture would be a hit!)
(no subject)
1/6/08 16:57 (UTC)(no subject)
1/6/08 21:12 (UTC)(no subject)
1/6/08 17:19 (UTC)(no subject)
1/6/08 21:14 (UTC)Glad I made you giggle.
(plus omg, icon LOVE!)
(no subject)
1/6/08 21:20 (UTC)HOW CAN ONE LINE BE PAINFUL ONE SECOND AND PAINFULLY FUNNY THE NEXT?!
I think I broke something while laughing.
(no subject)
3/6/08 14:05 (UTC)Glad you like it!
(PS. Your icon is adorable. In a completely homicidal grandma way.)
(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
1/6/08 22:34 (UTC)BUAHAHA!
When I started reading this, I actually went, "Oh my god, I really shouldn't be laughing at this. I SHOULDN'T." But I am, loudly I might add, because it's so painful and so funny at the same time. I'm joining you in the special hell, don't worry :D
(no subject)
3/6/08 14:06 (UTC)(Unfortunately, said hot tub is filled with lava.)
(no subject)
1/6/08 23:19 (UTC)We needs an encore!
Maybe Sam's POV? Or Sam's POV picking up from where this one leaves off? I love the phone call concept thingie.
Crack is the best way to get through to September.
(no subject)
3/6/08 14:08 (UTC)(You're seriously asking for more of this? But Sam would be all angsty! Slapstick torture is way more funny!) Besides, I've already written the prerequisit angst finale fic...
(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
2/6/08 18:49 (UTC)It's complete genius by the way.
It's so ridiculously in character - like completely so. And hilarious at the same time. So I'm howling because Dean and Sam are exactly Dean and Sam while everything else is happening; so great.
(no subject)
3/6/08 14:09 (UTC)(no subject)
2/6/08 22:15 (UTC)...but I'm LMAO anyway. Dammit, he's in HELL. How can I be laughing? HOW CAN YOU MAKE ME LAUGH THROUGH MY PAIN?
“Sammy,” he said slowly. “I’m standing here on broken legs holding my own entrails and you’re asking me how to kill a black dog?”
*giggling hysterically*
This is so, so wrong. Hee.
(no subject)
3/6/08 14:23 (UTC)(Of course Hell is funny! What's not funny about entrails and pitchforks? In fact, the only thing funnier is zombies!)
(no subject)
3/6/08 20:06 (UTC)...a demon stopped by and scooped his eyeballs out with a spoon.
Oh, and then they gave him decaf coffee.
And awwwww, Dean's a sucker, even in hell:
Sam made a sound that was half sob, half laugh and Dean felt the guilt swim over him. He never could stomach Sam’s misery.
Thanks for the laughs!!
(no subject)
6/6/08 20:51 (UTC)Thanks you for reading!
(no subject)
3/6/08 22:54 (UTC)(no subject)
6/6/08 20:51 (UTC)(no subject)
4/6/08 01:03 (UTC)Very nicely done!
Favorite lines:
The maintainers of Hell are required by the treaty of 39762AD to inform any prisoner of this fact daily. However most people are screaming far too loud to hear (the treaty did not specify how loudly the prisoner should be told.)
*snickers* I love the idea of the mandatory phone call, and of course most people are in too much agony to hear about or make it.
He dialed with shaking, broken fingers, smearing blood all over the numbers.
Good details.
The third day when Dean called, a Demon lit him on fire before he could get the first word out and he screamed into the phone for the next two minutes or until the phone melted. Dean really couldn’t tell since he was, you know, on fire.
LOL! And also, feel bad for laughing. Poor Dean.
“I’m in hell,” he said finally. “Hey is you’re mom around?”
I love his lack of segue.
Oh, and then they gave him decaf coffee.
Poor, poor Dean. To be denied his beloved caffeine. *hugs him*
*g*
“So,” Sam said awkwardly. “How you been?”
Sometimes, Dean really wanted to strangle his brother. “In Hell. How the fuck do you think I’ve been?”
*snickers*
(no subject)
6/6/08 20:54 (UTC)“I’m in hell,” he said finally. “Hey is you’re mom around?”
I love his lack of segue.
Oh, yes. That was my favorite line. =)
Glad I could twist Dean in hell into something amusing even if you do feel bad for laughing.
(no subject)
4/6/08 02:31 (UTC)Apart from the lack of sleep what else are you on when you wrote this? Take more of it!
Making he!! humorous takes guts and skill; which you demonstrated ably possession of which in vast quantities. Man, phonecalls from hell ... who woulda thought?
Very true to character that Sam would be disbelieving, but poor Dean. The poor, poor baby. You are gonna write the fic where Sam got Dean out of hell and gets his ass kicked for hanging up, right? Right?
*flutters lashes*
(no subject)
6/6/08 20:56 (UTC)You forgot about the eyeballs and entrails. It nees that too. =)
Not on anything when I took this. Believe it or not, my brain always functions this way.
(no subject)
4/6/08 05:28 (UTC)(no subject)
6/6/08 20:56 (UTC)(no subject)
4/6/08 15:12 (UTC)(no subject)
6/6/08 20:57 (UTC)(no subject)
6/6/08 06:56 (UTC)(no subject)
6/6/08 20:57 (UTC)Crack is the only way to make it through this hiatus!
(no subject)
25/6/08 18:24 (UTC)Thank you very much for such a fun read. If you go chill with Dean in hell, can I come?
I'll bring marshmallows.
(no subject)
4/7/08 23:57 (UTC)Thanks for reading!
(no subject)
16/7/08 05:24 (UTC)“QUIT PRETENDING AND FIND A WAY TO GET ME THE FUCK OUT!!”
I thought that was the best part of the story.
Then came this:
I realize I’m going to Hell for this story. And I’m okay with it. (Dean’s there.)
Which was kinda weird since it was written after this:
(end)
(no subject)
22/7/08 01:00 (UTC)Isn't crack!fic just buckets of fun?
(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
Posted by(no subject)
17/12/09 09:05 (UTC)(no subject)
30/12/09 17:40 (UTC)(no subject)
4/1/10 22:41 (UTC)(no subject)
16/1/10 01:56 (UTC)(no subject)
10/4/10 10:26 (UTC)LMAO, and that means I'll probably go to hell, too. This isn't funny. *snicker*
<3
(no subject)
11/4/10 14:42 (UTC)(no subject)
8/8/10 14:46 (UTC)(no subject)
9/8/10 03:53 (UTC)(no subject)
25/4/13 08:18 (UTC)(no subject)
20/5/13 18:56 (UTC)I still remember writing this one. It was kind of a ball. Glad it's still good for a giggle.