liptonrm_fic: (spn metallicar-broken_neon)
[personal profile] liptonrm_fic
Title: Monkey See, Monkey Do
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: You'll know when I become an all-powerful demi-god because that's when all of this will belong to me. Until then you know the drill.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: A coda to 5x06 and heavily influenced by Good Omens, nearly as much as Show is these days. The Trickster realized that he had a couple things to say.

Summary: Sometimes you've just gotta march to the beat of your own drummer.


McDonald’s was, in the Trickster’s1 opinion, the epitome of all of humanity’s existence. No god, angel, or demon could ever have been brilliant, or evil, enough to create food that wasn’t really food and distribute it across the globe, drawing in more worshippers and practitioners with every order of fries sold. It was the perfect self-perpetuating myth, the shining symbol that every person mired in mediocrity could gaze upon and pray to become.

That Ronald McDonald was one lucky S.O.B. If only parents knew what he really did to all of those kids who followed him Pied Piper-style into his neverending pit of colorful plastic balls. Let’s just say, they wouldn’t be so happy to pray at the Altar of the Golden Arches if they knew exactly what was being served up in their Happy Meals. He had to give it to that crazy clown, that joke was epic, even by a god’s standards.

And the strawberry milkshake2 was the greatest thing ever invented in a laboratory, pure poetry in creamy, sugary, pink deliciousity.

So it totally wasn’t his fault that he almost walked right past the new kid’s table while he was communing with frozen tastiness. But even the greatest milkshake known to man, god, or Rygelian3 couldn’t stop him from noticing the way that ice cream cones blinked into existence in ever patron’s hand or how the pretty crappy Playland suddenly became the Caesar’s Palace of fast food gymnasiums.

He quickly pin-pointed the center of the disturbance and couldn’t have reined in his delighted grin even if he’d wanted to. Excellent, he hadn’t gotten to indoctrinate a newbie in ages.4

The kid glared at him when he slid into the bench across from him. The Trickster5 just grinned around his straw and slurped up some more shake. This was going to be fun.

“Hey there, kid, how’s it hangin’?” The Trickster beamed with a twinkle6 in his eye.

The kid’s glare only intensified. “You’re not supposed to be able to see me. What are you? What do you want?”

The Trickster raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa there, bucko. Hold your horses. Figured you were the one spreading the happy and thought I’d pay my respects, one professional to another.”

“I don’t want to help anyone win their stupid war. I just want to be left alone.” The kid’s eyes were getting darker and for just a second the Trickster was almost worried that his next breath might be his last.

“Who said anything about a war?” The Trickster snapped and pushed the just-materialized fudge sundae across the table, a peace offering, if you will. “I hate war7, it makes everybody all serious and boring.”

The kid grabbed the bowl of ice cream but he didn’t dig in, his eyes still narrowed. “You’re really not going to try to talk me into fighting the angels or the demons?”

The Trickster barked a laugh, he couldn’t help it. “Man, who have you been talking to? I wouldn’t join up with those killjoys8 if they paid me. Way too somber for my taste.”

“But, you’re, I mean.” The kid took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed in confusion instead of rage. “They said that I was born to be evil and then Sam told me that I’d always be dangerous to everyone I was around.”

“Wait, you talked to Sam, Sam Winchester?” The Trickster rolled his eyes, finally getting the kid’s psychosis. “The last guy you want to take advice from is that dude. He’s one nervous breakdown away from destroying the world.” He shrugged. “Not that I blame the guy, he’s had it rough, but you are so not in his league, trust me.”

The kid took a bite from his sundae and then stared mournfully into the pooling fudge. “I am evil, though. I hurt all of those people.”

“You were young and stupid, we’ve all made mistakes like that9.” The Trickster pulled a garish red handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it across the table, courageously not saying anything when the kid smeared snot all over it. “The thing is, we’re not like other people. All of these people around us, they only ever get to mark A, B, C, or D in their lives. But guys like us, we get to choose ‘none of the above.’ We make our own rules.”

“So, does that mean I get to pass Go and collect $200 whenever I want?” The kid’s eyes shined like it was Christmas morning and all of the presents under the tree were his.

“You’ve got it in one. It’s your game now.” The Trickster smiled and stood up. He held out his hand with a flourish. “Come on, let me show you around your new playing board.”

The kid, Jesse, grinned back at him. He grabbed the Trickster’s hand and they both vanished on a puff of laughter.

Some days, it was really good to be a god.10

~~~

1“The Trickster” obviously wasn’t his precise name. But ever since Coyote and Loki threw such massive hissy fits over him “co-opting communal deific identity” he'd decided to keep using it just to screw with them. Anansi, however, totally got the joke.
2The best part of all was that the shake didn’t contain any strawberries or milk. And the Russians liked to play dumb but Chernobyl never would’ve gone haywire if they hadn’t tried to reconstitute the recipe.
3The original slow-dancing aliens.
4Every single frigging time he ran into another god they couldn’t wait to bring up Sodom. One little mentoring mistake and BAM! a million years of grief. And don’t even ask him about Gomorrah.
5Actually, he’d gone by a lot of names in his life, too many to count. But lately he’d decided that “Skip” had a nice ring to it. It could be fun to be the god known as Skip.
6He’d bought the twinkle off of an old star in exchange for some decrepit black matter he’d had laying around. The star’s subsequent supernova was so not his fault.
7An opinion that maybe had something to do with the wedgies he’d gotten from Ares all those years ago. That guy was such an asshole.
8He’d once spent a couple centuries in angel-imposed “time out” just for messing with some dick's ride. Scrawl "Wash Me" on the window of some archetype's Mustang and suddenly everybody was against you. It had been Michael’s idea too, the bastard. And the demons thought they were so funny. Puhleeze, they wouldn’t know comedy if it bit them in their insubstantial asses.
9Two words: duck-billed platypus. Just be glad you weren’t around when they were ten feet tall and had razor bills.
10Actually, it was always good to be a god. Except for that one time after that thing with the Valkyries and some magic spear. Thank the Baby Jesus that Valhalla was the original Vegas or he'd never hear the end of it.

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