So I'm trying to work on a nice serious meta, right? Suddenly my iTunes presents me with an absolutely wicked plotbunny via a song. Thus is crackfic born, my darlings. And this is pretty cracky. Hope you enjoy!
Chicken in the Breadpan
An Oh-God-My-Brain-It-Burns Story
"Look, you've gotta stop, okay?" Dean repeated with a sigh.
The red-skinned demon, trapped within the circle etched in the dirt around the stump of an old hickory tree, folded its arms petulantly and pouted, "Why?"
"Sam," Dean prompted, rolling his eyes. Sam dutifully propped open the worn book and began the exorcism chant.
The demon writhed and squealed on its stump, panting, "I just asked why!"
"Oh, Christ," Dean said (and Sam stifled a chuckle when the demon flinched), "do we really have to go into this? I'm tired, I want some fried chicken, and it's just so much easier for me to send you back to hell now."
The demon lowered its voice an octave in an attempt to sound threatening. "If you just exorcise me without any explanation, I'll make it my sole mission to hunt you down and flay you alive—you and your children, and your children's children, unto the tenth generation."
"Get in line," Sam grumbled under his breath. Both men looked thoroughly unimpressed.
The demon blinked, taken aback. Dean took that opportunity to settle back on another stump. Sam, looking around but not finding any other perch, glared at Dean and shifted his weight to the other foot.
Producing a flask, Dean pulled at it before addressing the demon as one would a particularly slow first grader. "One—you're an evil, soulless thing and we kill crap like you all the time. That's nothing personal. Two—you've been stealing souls, and that pisses me off. That's kinda personal. Three—I hate everything about you, because you've got to be the tackiest excuse for a hellish fiend I've ever seen. And that's entirely personal."
"Tacky?" the demon asked in a small voice.
"Yes," both brothers responded simultaneously. Sam, looking at the flask, made a "gimme" motion at Dean which the older man ignored.
"Nobody plays the horns-tail-and-cloven-feet card anymore; it doesn't exactly lend itself to inconspicuousness," Sam offered, snatching the flask from Dean, who backhanded him in the thigh for his trouble.
The demon, its face falling, reached up and touched a horn. "I thought it was kinda classic."
"Yeah, in a leisure suit sorta way," Dean snorted, then snickered when Sam spat out a mouthful of holy water with a disgusted look on his face.
"Also," Sam continued, glaring daggers at Dean (who had now produced a second flask, this one almost certainly filled with liquor), "your shtick is terrible. You challenge musicians to contests, their souls versus a golden instrument?"
"Sure, why not? I win, I get a soul. I lose, I get to hear some great music. Works for me," the demon replied with a grin.
"Yeah, but it got real old around the time Charlie Daniels started singing a song about your little shindig here," Dean scoffed.
"Oh, that? Catchy, isn't it? But that wasn't me. Great idea, though. Really neat." The demon twirled its tail idly.
Sam and Dean wore identical expressions of mental anguish. "You mean...you're not even the original devil? You just thought it was a "really neat" idea?"
"Sammy," Dean groaned, covering his eyes with one palm. "Just finish it."
After a bit more Latin, writhing, and black smoke, Sam snapped the book shut. Dean rose from his seat, dusted off his blue jeans, then began to scuff out the containing circle he had drawn on the ground.
"You drank all the whiskey?" Sam huffed, picking up the now-empty second flask.
"I needed it," was Dean's answer. "And now I need some chicken. I haven't eaten in like fourteen hours. I want chicken and okra and sweet tea. And no more lame-ass demons. I mean, god, what was he, the nerdy cousin that all the other kids avoid at the family reunion?"
Grabbing their supplies, the Winchesters began the trek back to where they'd parked the Impala. "What would you know about family reunions?" Sam asked, still peeved at his brother.
"Saw one on TV once when you were sleeping. The only thing that motel got without static was Disney Channel. I had the songs from some crap movie called "High School Musical" or something stuck in my head for a week. Hey, you see those billboards for Southern X-posure on the way through South Carolina? I think I'm in the mood for a little cheering up, and there's a chick named Candi who can do just that."
Sam looked heavenward. Only Dean could segue from Disney to a strip club like that. But food sounded like a good idea. Well, they were in Georgia, and he'd be damned if he left the state without getting a bowl of Brunswick stew.
Somewhere down in hell, a demon was grinding its pointy teeth and fantasizing about climbing back to earth and poking out the eyes of the Winchester boys with an unrosined bow.
And that is definitive proof of why I should not be allowed to listen to "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" at 3am. My apologies.