Okay, this is ENTIRELY AU. Entirely. So, uh, be forewarned. Also, it was just a response to a prompt my friend gave me from a site called They Fight Crime!, so it doesn't really follow a traditional fic format. It's, er, supposed to be funny. Dunno if it actually is. Enjoy?
Hot Iron and the Diver
-- Prompt: He's a fiendish misogynist waffle chef on the wrong side of the law. [He]'s an orphaned cigar-chomping pearl diver with only [him]self to blame. They fight crime!
Prompt: He's a fiendish misogynist waffle chef on the wrong side of the law. [He]'s an orphaned cigar-chomping pearl diver with only [him]self to blame. They fight crime!
The Waffle House in Whitegrove, Indiana wasn't glamorous. No, scratch that—no Waffle House has ever been glamorous. Ever. Cas ladled out the batter and was satisfied with the hiss as it spread itself in the waiting iron. It wasn't like he'd chosen this. But when everybody in Tennessee is looking for you, you get the hell out of Dodge. Wasn't even his fault the girl had died—she'd been busting to prove herself, prove that her little wiry scrap-of-nothing self could handle baddies just as efficiently as Hot Iron and the Diver.
Hell, wasn't even like he'd wanted a sidekick. It'd been the Diver that said they'd needed one. Somebody to pass the mantle on to when they wanted to retire. A nice strapping teen who was hungry for glory, that's who Cas'd wanted to hire. Somebody who could handle himself. But no, the Diver just had to have the girl. "Spunky," he'd called her. Frankly, Cas'd known there was only one way that was gonna end.
Cas lifted the top of the waffle iron, grabbing a spatula. Just as he was about to loosen the finished waffle, it was dusted with ashes. For a long moment, he didn't look up. He knew what this was about. He'd known since he'd smelled the acrid smoke a few moments before. He just hadn't wanted to acknowledge what it meant.
"Cas," the Diver said, leaning a hip against the countertop. "Gotta job for you." He took a pull at his cigar—thin, Cuban, expensive—and knocked the ashes onto the waffle again.
"I thought we'd discussed this, Dean," Cas said, scraping the ruined order off of the iron. "That's behind me. I'm back to doing what I was meant to do—short-order cook at any waffle joint that'll take me."
"That's bullshit," the Diver said, shoving him in the shoulder. "Man, I've seen you take people down in a way that was pure poetry. There are half a dozen human traffickers out there with lattice scars on their faces that'll never fade. You think that woulda been possible without you?"
Cas was silent. The sizzle of batter and the sizzle of flesh didn't sound too different on a properly heated iron. Just the smell was different. The smell, the screams, and the justice.
The Diver clenched his cigar in his mouth for a long moment. When he took it out, Cas could see the end had been worried down to a wet pulp. "Look," he said. "I know what happened back in Memphis was my fault. You were right, she couldn't have handled it. But shit, man, I miss you. We can do it again, get started somewhere new. Maybe Canada. They still make waffles in Canada, right?"
Cas closed his eyes. Truth is, he'd missed Dean—the Diver, he reminded himself harshly—too. He'd missed the whole thing. And here wasn't all that great. He turned away, ladled out more batter. Even as he dropped it into the iron, though, he already knew he was gonna say goodbye to Whitegrove.
Fifteen minutes later a customer found the butt end of a cigar cooked into their strawberry waffle, and Hot Iron and the Diver were ten miles closer to the border.
Epilogue of sorts:
"Why on god's earth did I let you talk me into this?" Hot Iron groused. "Do you know how hard it is to get seared flesh off of these things?"
The Diver just blew smoke in his face and laughed.
SPECIAL FEATURES: "The Making of Hot Iron and the Diver"
So basically here's what the hell is going on in the background.
Cas was just a kid, barely outta his teens, when he first discovered he loved fighting crime. He was working the graveyard shift at a Waffle House in Kentucky when some schmuck came in with a gun and threatened to shoot him and the only waitress if they couldn't produce enough cash. The useless titbag completely froze, so Cas took the hot waffle iron and chucked it at the would-be thief. Left the most horrific scars you've ever seen. Cas had just finished inventing a portable device that electrically heated retractable open-paddled waffle irons when he met up with the Pearl Diver.
Dean grew up along the Ohio River. His house (when it wasn't partially submerged because some idiot contractor in the sixties didn't understand the concept of "flood plains") was located next to a natural freshwater mussel bed. As a kid, Dean would dive for them and harvest the pearls. When his career counselor asked what he wanted to do with his life, Dean decided he was gonna fuck with 'em all and said "superhero." Unfortunately, the idea kinda stuck. Three years later he'd perfected the art of turning pearls into bb-like projectiles launched via compressed air stored in long gauntlets. His only other marketable skill was holding his breath for long periods of time, which had some applications when he met Hot Iron but couldn't really ever be considered a superpower.
So Cas--who was going by the Waffle Warrior at the time (he wasn't very creative, okay?)--met Dean--who was calling himself the Pearl Diver--in Memphis. It was kind of a rocky beginning. They both went after the same bank heist suspect, and for a bit there it seemed like each had found their archnemesis. Then they realized they were on the same side and an uneasy truce was formed. One night, after a joint effort to take down a crime ring, they found themselves in a bar. Dean begrudgingly admired Cas's waffle irons, and Cas politely inquired into the firing mechanism of the Pearl Gauntlets. Fifteen hours and a bottle of Cuervo later, Dean woke up hungover, sticky, and slightly scorched with a very asleep and very naked Waffle Warrior drooling on his chest.
Thus was the beginning of their reign over the streets of Memphis. Dean redubbed Cas "Hot Iron" (a much less tacky name, he assured the dubious Waffle Warrior), and Cas persuaded Dean that even for two dudes who loved cock, "the Pearl Diver" was pretty gay. So Dean dropped the "pearl" bit from the name--but not from his arsenal--and worked to make his image a bit more butch. They had a very successful run for about eight years, then Dean got it in his head that they needed a spunky sidekick for publicity and retirement security. Cas, who'd never thought much of the fairer sex, picked out an athletic youth with amphibian-like tendencies. Dean, now aging a bit and not wanting to admit that he felt a bit threatened by Frogspawn, pulled hard for Peppermint Punch--"a breath of fresh air!"--instead, a Memphis native in her late teens who'd been inspired by the dynamic duo. Within six months, she'd been killed in the line of duty. Memphis was outraged over the death of of their native daughter, and the Diver spiraled into guilt-driven depression. Hot Iron, unable to stomach the hatred spewing from every corner of the city and the dramatic change in the Diver, fled to greener pastures.
Flash forward three years. See above scene. Dean has tracked Cas down, utilizing Waffle House's online store locator and a process of elimination. After ditching Whitegrove, they drive for about twenty minutes before Dean pulls over into a cornfield and pretty much jumps Cas. Car!sex is never terribly comfortable, but hey. It was pretty awesome make-up sex anyhow, and unlike the first time, Dean doesn't end up with waffle-shaped burns on his thighs.
They set up in Quebec City, fighting evildoers, bitching about having to learn French, and generally reliving their glory days. They take on false identities to maintain a charade for their neighbors: Dean works as a sales clerk and quality inspector at a local jewelry store; Cas, knowing that taking on a waffle-making job might arouse suspicions, instead finds employ as a crepe-maker. He thinks he is very clever. Nobody mentions sidekicks.
Then they live happily ever after, and the baddies of Quebec City live in fear of a waffle iron to the face or a freshwater pearl to the eyeball. The end.