A/N: I have no idea exactly where this particular plot bunny came from, but I'm glad to unleash it on an unsuspecting world.

Summary: Meg: "That thing in Gotham? That was Dean's coming out party, so to speak. He made Alastair proud." This is an SPN/Dark Knight crossover. One shot AU

POV: Azazel's daughter (Meg)

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or The Dark Knight. This is all in fun, not for profit, and no disrespect is intended.

Wasn't my idea to send big brother back topside, Sammy boy. That was Alastair's doing. If I'd had my way ol Deano would have been a bloody, screaming chew toy for Lillith's hellhounds for all eternity, but I didn't have much say in the matter.

That thing in Gotham? That was Dean's coming out party, so to speak.

He made Alastair proud.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, to see you suffer, for one. I wanna see the look on your face when you realize how far gone your precious big brother is. For another, I'm dead anyway, right? I've heard about you and your exorcisms, little boy king, so I may as well have my fun before I go. I'd rather die than kiss your tainted ass. So be it.

Anyway, don't blame Dean for the turn he's taken. You sons of light can swing big-time either way. Everybody knows that. You got dark. I can see it all around you, thanks to that bitch Ruby. Liked you both better before, you know? You changed.

Better watch your back, Samuel. Bitch ain't what she seems.

Remember the good times we had? You and me and Steve Wandell? Oh, hit a nerve, did I? All right, damn it, I know I'm rambling. You wanna hear about Dean? Okay.

Your boy held out for thirty years. Can you imagine that? Thirty years on the rack. Thirty years of being torn apart, fucked in every way imaginable, and it was all for you, Sammy, day in and day out.

There, see? That's what I was looking for. That hurt look in your eyes.

Go ahead. Do it. You kill me now and you'll never find out what happened to Dean down in Hell. I fucked up and I'm willing to pay for it. I'm the only source of information you've got. I see your little bitch knows it too.

You gonna let me finish? Good.

Ol Allie asked Dean the question each and every day: "We'll let you climb off the rack if you start torturing the damned. How about it, Dean?"

It was a pretty sweet deal.

Every day Dean told Alastair what he could do with his deal. I gotta admit, even I was impressed. Everybody thinks Dean's the dumb one, but most of the curses he flung in Allie's face showed a lot of imagination. Very, very creative. Kid has a flair with words.

We had a betting pool going.

Nobody won. Nobody had thirty.

One year after he started torturing damned souls on the rack, Deano began to change his technique.

According to Dean, all they needed was some laughter in their life. Big smiles.

I mean really big smiles.

He thought it was a good idea, so he used his knives on himself first. That showed real craftsmanship. Commitment, you know? Dean perfected his technique, used knives and paint on the souls who were assigned to him.

Well, that's what I heard, anyway. I wasn't there at the very beginning. Hell's not my favorite place, y'see. It's a prison of fear and blood and bone. Nice place to visit…well, scratch that. I don't even want to visit. Why do you think I hated Dean for sending me back there in the first place?

I saw a few of those souls after Dean got through with them, later. They were works of art.

Angels carved in bleached bone and black, blue and golden paint. Trees carved in flesh, and Dean painted every single leaf himself.

Heard that he really hit his stride when he started carving clowns.

Did 'em as a tribute to you, Sam.

I knew I was looking at pure genius in the making. Van Gogh and Michaelangelo have nothing on Dean. I should know. I tempted and tormented them both.

Deanie likes to paint and sculpt. Who knew?

If I ever see your Dad, I'm gonna thank him for helping to make Dean what he is today. Kid's a genius with knives, and all those Marine lectures your Dad gave you two, well, I gotta say, we couldn't have done a better job ourselves.

After Allie let Dean loose topside I showed up at Dean's place one day wearing this little girl. She was playing in her backyard as I passed overhead, and I figured, what the hell. Why not? She was a little small, not exactly a perfect fit, but I figured I she wouldn't last long anyway.

I figured right.

Rumor was that big brother was faking it. The scars, the paint, the insanity, just to get topside again.

I just took it into my head to test that theory, okay?

Like I said before, Sammy, Dean's had a bad rap all his life. People looked at that pretty face of his and figured there just couldn't be a brain inside. No smarts.

He was holed up in this abandoned warehouse about fifty miles outside Gotham, and he'd already attracted some followers. One of them was this little blonde chippie. Harley, I think her name was. She swooned over him, Sammy. I mean swooned. It made even me sick, and I'm a depraved demon bitch.

Harley reminds me of your mother, Mary.

Yep. Dear old Mom.

There were about eight others, your garden variety thugs and goons.

I froze everyone but Dean when I walked in the place.

He didn't seem surprised.

I was.

I mean, damn.

He grew his hair out, down to his shoulders. Put some sort of transparent green tint on it. Yeah, you heard right. I said green.

When I saw him he'd painted his face white. That scarring around those full lips of his almost reached all the way to his ears on either side, then curved upwards into this neat little grin. Or smirk. It was striking, I gotta tell ya, especially with that red lipstick or paint or whatever the hell that color was he put on his mouth. That black around his eyes really brought out his eye color. He's still got the most beautiful green eyes. Before they almost glowed with all that pain he carried inside.

He's got a different light inside him now.

Never thought of Dean as a snappy dresser. That stuff he used to wear while he was hunting? All that denim and leather? Well, Samuel, your boy has definitely growed up. You've heard the rumors. I know you have. You wouldn't have kept me alive this long if you didn't want confirmation.

So here it is: Dean's wearing royal purple now. A long waistcoat with a vent in the back. Matching pants and even purple leather gloves. That green vest matches his eyes. Blue shirt, brown and gold tie. That's it for the fashion report, Sammy boy. What do I look like, Queer Eye for the Eternally Damned Guy?

Being around Dean just wasn't the same after that. He was no fun to play with. Not anymore. I came around a few more times after that, just to see what he was up to. I could tell he knew who I was, no matter what body I clothed myself in, but there was a disconnect there. I could see it in his eyes.

"So how they hanging these days, big guy?" I told him that day.

He ignored me. He was sitting at a table covered in all this lab glassware, mixing chemicals up. Dean sang to himself, something about letting a smile be your umbrella. Bouncy little number.

He's got a really nice singing voice. He can carry a tune really well. I could hear him clearly over the muffled crying and groans of the hostages. He never missed a beat, and he knew all the words.

Dean got up, walked over to this family of four (Mom, Dad, and two brats) he had trussed up in these chairs, and poured the chemicals all over them.

Then he just stood there and watched.

Took them about fifteen minutes to die. Their skin turned grey, and their eyes rolled up into their heads, but they didn't smile.

They didn't even chuckle.

That pissed Dean off.

He came stomping back to the table, looking kind of dejected, with both hands jammed into his pockets. "Tough crowd. It's really hard to make people laugh nowadays, you know? Everybody's so fucking serious it really makes my damn head hurt."

He sat down and started mixing chemicals again as his goons disposed of the bodies.

Well, hell. I was convinced. Kid was the real deal. And then some.

By this time that Harley chick came over and started fawning over him.

"Oh, Mr. J, you're so tense. Let me help you with that. Ooh, your muscles are so tight..."


He scowled as he batted Harley's hands away from his face and shoulders. She was all over him like a cheap suit. If we were lucky maybe she'd be the next test subject.

I figured I didn't have anything to lose. I'd just about worn out my welcome anyway, and I knew it. "Hey, Dean, you ever tell your fan club where you got your skills from?"

Dean snorted. "Tell them I spent all those years down in hell? What d'ya think I am, crazy?"

Lillith let two of her hellhounds follow Dean up. As I understand it, he'd taken quite a shine to them both while he was down below. They looked like oversized hyenas now, lolling around, obviously disappointed that Dean wouldn't let them eat what was left of Joe Six-Pack and his brood.

"Sammy?" Dean cooed, and the bigger hellhound perked his ears up. "Lunchtime, Sammy."

Dean jerked his thumb at me. "You too, John boy." The slightly smaller hound licked his lips.

They both got up and walked over, laughing their asses off.

Dean smiled, wide and cheerful, and I knew it was time to go.

Like I said, I knew that little girl wouldn't last. She was barely a good mouthful.


Yeah, I know. My time's up. Wish I could be here to see it when you catch up with Dean. See big brother face to face.

I love family reunions.

Just follow the trail of death and smiles, Sammy boy. Dean's not very subtle these days. Way I hear it, cops are after him, and that masked nutcase from Gotham is on the prowl for him too. Man goes around dressed as a flying rodent. If that's not crazy, I don't know what is.

Hope all you lunatics enjoy each other.

You never did approve of Dean's humor when he was "normal" did you, Sam? Too low brow. Too…gutter. Never laughed at any of his imitations either.

I kinda doubt you'd be laughing now, either.