Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made with this story as it was written for enjoyment only.

Actually, I don't even really own the idea that this is what hell might look like. Other stories with a similar premise have been written before. Izzy just showed up in my head one day and politely requested that I tell his story. And I figured, with all the revelations about what Dean's time in hell was really like, a little levity about what it could have been like is nice for a change.

Specific spoilers up to 4.01 Lazarus Rising (though I twiddled things around a little to fit them into the story), but generally everything that already aired is fair game. I don't think there are any specific spoilers for any episodes, though.

Rating due to some language and some...well, naughty jokes ;-)

Enjoy!

Friends in High Places

He was hanging suspended over eternal nothingness, meat hooks tearing into flesh and muscle, threatening to tear him apart. The pain was unbearable, blinding and numbing all his senses. He could barely breathe, pain was pulling his chest together so tightly that none of the foul, putrid air got into his lungs.

With his last strength, his last air, he opened his cracked lips and screamed.

"SAM!"

And suddenly, everything turned black. Gone was the roaring silence around him, the pull from the wires and meat hooks was released, and he was breathing fresh air.

Frowning, Dean opened his eyes.

"What the hell…?"

"Good evening Mr. Winchester. I am truly sorry for the inconvenience."

Dean blinked once, twice, but the image in front of his eyes didn't change. Instead of being suspended somewhere in hell, he was standing in…a waiting room? It simply couldn't be, but here he was, standing in a brightly lit waiting room. The floor was tiled, the walls were painted an actually rather pleasant yellow, and rows of chairs were lining the walls of the large room. And right in front of Dean, there was a teak counter, from behind which the most hideous creature was looking right at him.

"Whoa!"

Dean actually took a small step back and started blinking again, trying to chase away the rather sickening sight in front of him. But the ugly thing continued to look up at him, pointy teeth bared at Dean.

Seriously, this was f-ed up. What the hell was this?

The thing was sitting on a swivel chair behind the counter, head at Dean's chest level. Standing up, it was probably 5'5'' tops, and weighed maybe 90 pounds soaking wet. It was thin as a stick, pointy bones sticking out underneath the leathery dark red skin as if trying to escape in a dozen different places at once – the shoulders, the elbows, the ribs, everything was poking through the skin.

The thing was wearing nothing but a loincloth, and as it to complete the grotesque picture, two tiny black horns, maybe half an inch in length each, grew out of the sides of its bald head. The thing's skin was shining, giving off the illusion that it was wet and slimy, much like the scales of a snake, or some other reptile. All in all, it was a repulsive sight, and it looked as if some Hollywood producer had read too many books about what hell spawn was supposed to look like.

Because honestly, there was no frigging way this was real.

There was just no way a five-foot-five mini devil was staring up at him, an image right out of a very bad cartoon illustration of Dante's inferno. And it was still baring its teeth at Dean, as if waiting for a reaction.

Though, come to think of it, the way those reptilian lips were parted, revealing pointy yellow teeth, could be taken as a sign of aggression or maybe…a smile?

Really?

What the hell?

When Dean just kept staring wordlessly at the thing in front of him, it started shifting under his gaze. Finally, the what-might-be-a-smile vanished from its face.

"It's the horns, isn't it?"

Dean tore himself out of his stupor. "What?"

"The horns, they're a little over the top, right? I keep telling it to my supervisors, but they're saying we have to keep up appearances."

Dean swallowed against his dry throat. "Supervisors."

The thing nodded. "Yes, of course. Admittance Control, responsible for all check-ins."

"Check-ins."

Dean felt a little like a parrot, but it was all so creepily surreal. Whatever he had imagined hell to be like – and he had imagined a lot of things over the past twelve months, thanks for asking – this certainly hadn't been it.

"So you're saying that this here," he gestured around the room, "is what everyone who goes to hell goes through? A check-in?"

The thing shook its scaly head. "No, of course not. Which is why I was apologizing for the inconvenience, Mr. Winchester. Normal people, they get thrown into hellfire straight away. You know, flaying, meat-hooks, roasting over the pits, tearing the skin off the flesh – we actually offer a huge variety on that kind of thing, according to individual character and personal preferences. This check-in is solely for people on the waiting list, the ones with priority notices."

"Priority notices."

There was the parroting thing again, but Dean simply couldn't help it. He'd probably keep on repeating things at random until something started to make sense. Because sooner or later something had to make sense, right?

The thing cocked its head to the side, showing of a few inches of scrawny neck too many.

"Yes. Do you honestly think humans invented bureaucracy, Mr. Winchester? There's only a few minor things we need to get out of the way, just to make sure that we dotted all our -is and crossed all our -ts, then we can proceed to get you settled. You were supposed to end up straight here after your unfortunate demise, but the Gate Guards screwed up again. I swear, some of those demons are too stupid to read their own names, much less check all arrivals against their list to make sure everyone ends up where they're supposed to. I'll be sure to report this to Admittance Control, rest assured that it will never happen again. I hope you didn't have suffer any inconveniences due to this screw-up."

Inconveniences. Now that was funny. Dean simply had to ask. "But…this is hell, right? And you're a…a demon."

The thing nodded enthusiastically, then its face screwed up in a horrifying grimace.

"Oh, but where are my manners. Yes Mr. Winchester, this is in fact hell. You're in admittance room 27-D, and I am Izzigor, Desk Clerk Demon Grade 2, responsible for all check-ins, letters W-Z."

Dean didn't know whether he should laugh or scream. This was simply unbelievable.

"So if this is really hell, I mean…the whole thing with the meat-hooks earlier, that's not what's supposed to happen to me here?"

Izzigor's scaly forehead creased into what probably counted as a frown amongst demons.

"Well, that depends entirely on the paperwork. You see Mr. Winchester, the circle of hell you ended up in due to this unfortunate mistake of our gate guards is only one amongst hundreds and thousands of possible locations in hell. At this point of time I am completely unable to say where you will be staying, but once we get all the paperwork out of the way, I'm sure we'll figure something out."

Reptilian lips parted again in a baring of teeth that didn't resemble the smile it intended at all.

"Paperwork. You're trying to tell me there's paperwork."

Izzigor nodded. "Of course. As I told you, bureaucracy is a hellish invention. Though I have to admit, the level you humans have taken it to without any further demonic involvement is impressive. The amount of paperwork it takes for a human to file a simple insurance claim has made many a demon weep with joy, let me assure you."

Dean was pretty sure he was staring open-mouthed, but for the life of him he could simply think of nothing intelligent to say to that.

"See Istagor…"

"Izzigor," the demon corrected politely.

"Izzigor. Right. See, don't mind me asking, but why the hell is there paperwork for me?"

"Oh, I don't mind at all. After all, you have to be aware of what it is you're signing, right? See, you've been on our waiting list for an exact total of twelve months. During that time, a lot of priority notices and bookings have come in for you."

That didn't sound too good, despite Izzigor's cheery tone.

"Bookings? Like…well, like scheduled appointments?"

Izzigor nodded. "Of course. Demons claiming their right to you, taking you for treatment first before somebody else can lay a claw on you, that kind of thing. Let me tell you that you have made quite a number of acquaintances down here even long before your arrival. Now, while I'm sure it's pleasant for you not to end up amongst total strangers, that also means a whole lot of paperwork and coordination for me. I mean, I need to make sure that the racks are free at the required times, that no two demons share the same time slots, everything. I have to admit, I've never handled a case of your magnitude before." He flashed another smile that was all teeth and not at all assuring. "But I'm sure we can work all this out."

Dean had no idea what could possibly make Izzigor think that it was a good thing that a lot of demons down here knew him and were only waiting to lay their hands on him. He had sent quite a number of demons back to hell over the years, and the thought that most of them were only waiting for payback was anything but reassuring. Really, anything but.

"So, what happens now?"

Izzigor pointed a clawed finger at Dean and flashed another of those smiles that made Dean worry that the next moment, the demon might jump across the desk and start chewing on him. But instead of doing that, the demon bent down to retrieve something from the bottom drawer of its desk. When he straightened up again, Izzigor held a giant stack of papers in his claws which he unceremoniously dropped on the counter surface between himself and Dean.

There was a jar with pens on Izzigor's desk. Only when the demon pulled one out of it with its claw, Dean realized that it was actually a coffee mug that had been converted into a pen holder. It was a black coffee mug, with the words "Devil may care after all" written across it in bold red letters.

This simply couldn't be true.

Izzigor took the pen and put it on top of the towering stack of papers, flashing another of his predatory grins.

"Now we fill out the paperwork."

Dean eyed the stack of papers suspiciously. No frigging way was he going to fill those out. It were probably about 500 pages, if not more, color coded from blue over green to yellow. Filling those out would take ages. Dean looked at the papers, then back at the demon who was smiling at him again.

"You're serious about this?"

"Of course. Blue is for Admittance Control, green goes to the Central Registry, and the yellow files will be archived right here. Everything has to be documented, otherwise demons are going to bombard me with complaints as soon as something doesn't work the way they imagined it. The only way to keep up some semblance of order in a place like hell is red tape. Lots and loads of red tape."

"Red tape."

Izzigor nodded. "Yes. Rules and regulations. Otherwise, there'd only be chaos. What, you don't believe that demons have to adhere to rules?"

"Oh, I believe it all right. Yellow Eyes might have mentioned it in passing."

"Yellow Eyes?" Izzigor frowned, but after a moment his wrinkles, leathery face brightened. "Ah, surely you're talking about Azazel. Oh yes, he was a stickler for the rules. A role model demon actually. Ambitious, too. Quite controversial, of course, but big leaders often are. I was quite sad to hear of his passing."

Dean couldn't quite relate to that feeling, but he chose not to comment on it for now. Who knew what was going to happen if he brought up the little fact that Azazel's demise had been his doing. He'd rather not risk it.

"So…I fill those out, and then what? I'll get tossed back to where I was before I ended up here?"

Izzigor shrugged its skinny shoulders, skin stretching taut over pointy bones.

"Then I'll send it to processing and see where we're going to send you first. But let's not worry about that now Mr. Winchester. For as long as this isn't done, you're not going to go through that door." He pointed a claw at the nondescript wooden door at one end of the waiting room. How Dean had failed to notice it before was a mystery to him, but then again everything here was pretty…nondescript, for a lack of better word.

Which was frigging crazy. After all, this was hell. Hell wasn't about waiting rooms and paperwork, or about desk-clerk demons and advanced bookings on his soul. If he didn't know better, he'd say this was a bad acid trip. An awfully, awfully bad acid trip.

Izzigor flashed his teeth one more time.

"Now, if you have any questions about the forms, don't hesitate to ask. Just fill out the fields and sign every page with your initials. I'd love to keep chatting with you, but right now you're holding up the line."

Startled, Dean looked behind himself to find that really, there were two people standing behind him now. One was a middle-aged man, the other a young guy who couldn't be much older than Sam. Both were staring around with the same bewilderment Dean had felt earlier. But despite that, they kept standing right behind Dean in the beginning of an orderly queue.

When Dean turned back to Izzigor, the demon smiled again and leaned in closer in a conspirational whisper.

"They're both British. It's pretty much in their blood to stand in line. Now, just go over there and take a seat. I'll be right here if you have any questions."

And, much to his own bewilderment, Dean found his feet moving of their own accord towards the row of plastic chairs that lined one wall of the room.

This was unbelievable. Frigging unbelievable. Nothing he had ever heard or read about hell could have possible prepared him for this.

Hell had an admittance desk, a waiting room and huge, towering stacks of paperwork. Not to mention advanced bookings and a desk clerk demon who was just a tad bit too cheerful and polite for his job description. Seriously, the demons Dean had met over the years definitely hadn't even known the meaning of the words 'thank you' or 'sorry', never mind used them. Yet Izzigor used them so often that Dean had the sneaking suspicion he got paid for every time he did. Though what a demon got paid in, Dean didn't even want to imagine.

Important things first.

There was one realization that had been settling in his brain for the past minutes. For as long as he was here, he wasn't suspended by meat hooks, and he didn't have to deal with any demons who had an advanced booking on his soul. Which, in all its screwed up weirdness, was good. No pain, no torture – that was a good thing in Dean's book. A state he had to take care to drag out for as long as possible. And the way he saw it, he still had a whole lot of paperwork to fill out. Paperwork took time.

So for now, he was safe.

It wouldn't hurt to look at the paperwork.

Dean put the huge stack of papers down on the chair beside the one he was sitting on and pulled the first few pages towards himself. Being a Winchester meant that he had never needed to bother with many official forms. No tax reports to file or anything. Credit card applications and hospital admittance form were as far as he had come in his time. But still, one official form pretty much looked like the other.

The first page held his name already filled into the squares in the top row, the handwriting neat and in capital letters. But all the fields below that were empty, so Dean started to read.

Name. Date of birth. Place of birth.

That was easy. Pretty much like filling out a hospital admittance form, only that he was using his real name for once. Not much use for aliases around here if the desk clerk demon already knew him by name and was only itching to arrange a schedule for the advanced bookings on his soul. Dean forced himself not to think about that particular point.

Marital status.

Huh. Now that was the kicker. What, if he wrote down that he was married, they were going to give him a double suite or what? This was ridiculous.

Nationality. Religious denomination.

Maybe he should write down that he was a Buddhist. One never knew, they might schedule him for immediate re-birth or something. He wouldn't put it past this place, it seemed screwed up enough.

Date of death.

Huh, now that was kinda unexpected. But right, he was in hell. Better get used to the fact that he was, in fact, dead.

Place of death.

Some crap hole town in Indiana. What had the name been? New Harmony, that was it. Dean nearly laughed at the irony of it. There had been nothing harmonic about that place the way Dean had experienced it.

Manner of death.

That field actually had a number of options with boxes to check beside each option.

Natural Causes. Suicide. Homicide. Fratricide. Patricide. Matricide.

Seriously? How many words could there be for murder in the family?

Ritual Death. Human sacrifice. Accident. Other (please elaborate).

Dean checked the box beside 'Other' and wrote 'hellhound' on the line next to it. He had no clue if that was sufficient enough of an answer, but seriously – this was hell. If anybody had to know about hellhounds, it should be here. Besides, this whole thing about filling out forms was ridiculous anyway. He only did it to pass the time while he figured out a way to get the hell out of here. Pun fully intended.

On to the next field.

Surviving family.

Well, there was no way he was going to fill that one out. Sam already had far too many dealings with hell and demons for Dean's liking, and there simply was no way that he was going to give them his brother's name in writing. No matter what the question was.

Sam.

Dean hadn't really thought about his brother since he had arrived here. But honestly, it had all been far too screwed up to think about what his brother had to be going through right now. After all, Sam had been left to deal with what the hellhounds had left of him. Which was a horrible enough thought on its own. And then there had been Lilith, and all the other demons. Dean really hoped that Sam and Bobby had gotten out of that okay.

No, Sam definitely had a hard time right now anyway. For as long as Dean was here filling out this ridiculously high stack of paperwork, his brother's name was going to go unmentioned.

Dean had reached the end of the first page, and as instructed by Izzigor he signed the bottom with his initials and turned to the second page.

Another similar form, but under a different headline. Seemingly, page 1 had fully covered the general information.

2. Physical information

What was next? A mugshot? A full-body picture? Exercise and dietary plans?

Height. Weight. Hair color. Eye color. Distinctive marks, tattoos.

Dean filled in the information, still a lot more to humor Izzigor and to keep himself occupied and out of hellfire than for a need to have his case processed further. It was only page 2 of around 500, after all.

Blood type.

Just as Dean was about to jot down AB-positive, the pen gave out. Dean shook it, tried to doodle on the margin of the form, but no, the pen wasn't writing anymore. He sighed and put the papers down on the chair beside him. He'd have no other choice but to ask Izzigor for another pen. And really, what had things come to if he had to ask for a working pen in hell? What did that look like?

– And Dean, what was your experience in hell like? – Oh, the usual. I tried to fill out the forms as requested, but halfway through page two the pen gave out and I had to ask Izzigor, the Desk Clerk Demon who was responsible for my check-in, for another one.

Seriously, he was never, never ever in his life, going to tell anybody about this.

Looking up, Dean found that the two men who had been standing in line behind him were no longer standing in front of the check-in counter. The young man was nowhere to be seen, and the older guy was sitting on the other side of the room, filling out his paperwork with a completely befuddled expression on his face. His stack of papers, Dean noticed with some envy, was smaller than Dean's. A lot smaller. And not even color-coded.

This sucked.

Dean got up and trotted over towards the counter. Izzigor was busy rifling through a large folder, but upon hearing steps approach his desk he looked up and flashed Dean a smile. Either that, or he was imagining what it'd be like to rip Dean apart with his teeth. Dean still didn't quite know how to tell the difference.

"Mr. Winchester! Anything I can help you with?"

Dean held up the faulty pen. "The thing's not writing anymore."

Before Dean had the chance to react, a clawed hand shot towards him and ripped the pen out of his hand. Startled, Dean took a small step back, but Izzigor was far too busy examining the writing utensil to notice. Like Dean, he shook the pen a few times, then tried to doodle on a piece of scrap paper that was lying on his desk. To no avail. The pen had died. It had ceased to exist, had gone to meet its maker, and it would never write a single letter again. Ever.

And he was not just watching a demon trying to get an empty pen to write again, because he was afraid that if he allowed that thought to really penetrate, he was going to go crazy. Dean thought that if he kept only telling himself that this was all unreal, his brain would not liquefy from the surreal feeling of watching a demon try to get an empty pen back to working.

And he surely must have imagined that when none of his efforts produced any results, Izzigor breathed a pair of flames through his nostrils, melting the plastic of the pen into a small black blob. Really. He hadn't seen that, and he most certainly didn't smell the acrid smell of burnt plastic. Not at all. Because it hadn't happened. Because seriously, it was impossible.

Izzigor dropped the charred remains of the pen with a world-weary sigh and looked up at Dean again.

"Honestly, I keep telling the Central Administration that those things are crap, pardon my French. But seriously, it cannot be that every other applicant has to stand in line twice or more because those things give out. And what do I get to hear if I complain? It's too expensive Izzigor, we cannot invest in higher quality if those things keep vanishing. Really! As if the people who come here have nothing better to do than stealing our pens! I mean, how far can one drift from reality? But it's what I always say – once a demon gets a desk job and their own office, they lose touch with what's really going on. I'm awfully sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Winchester. Here, take a few pens with you, that should hopefully work."

The demon thrust a clawful of pens at Dean, who was still startled enough to simply take them wordlessly.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

Dean slowly shook his head. "Erm…no, thanks. I'm good, I think. Just…just the pen."

"Well, if there's anything else be sure to let me know."

Dean nodded and returned to his chair. Any minute now he had to wake up. Any minute. Maybe his brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long after the hellhound had torn him apart, that had to be it. A lack of oxygen caused him to hallucinate, nothing else. This wasn't real. No matter how often he had to tell it to himself, but it was a fact. It couldn't be real.

But until he woke up from this nightmare, he could as well continue with the paperwork. He was only on page 2, after all. Dean tossed the surplus pens onto the chair along with his remaining paperwork and picked up the discarded page again. He filled his blood type into the indentation that his previous attempt with the empty pen had left in the paper and continued to work his way down the page.

Dean silently continued to fill out the second page of his paperwork. This wasn't so bad, after all. Definitely not as bad as he had thought. Okay, so it was a bit warm in here. But only warm, not hellfire-hot. And the chairs were definitely more comfortable than your average hospital waiting room chair. Not much more, but at least a little. So okay, the music sucked, but there could definitely be worse…

Hold on a second.

Music?

Dean put the pen down and looked up, eyes roaming around the entire room as he tried to make out the source of the sound. It had been there the entire time, he realized belatedly. He simply hadn't paid any attention to it, but now he wondered how he could have missed it. Especially since it wasn't really what Dean called music. Some pansy classic violin crap, and now that he had noticed it, it was annoying as hell.

Go figure.

Dean looked over towards Izzigor, who was bent over his folder again.

"Hey, Izzy!"

The demon looked up, an excited and even somewhat pleased expression on his face, and it made Dean wonder if it was the use of the nickname which had caused that.

"Mr. Winchester? Anything I can do to help?" He called back across the room.

"What's with the orchestra up there?"

Dean gestured towards the ceiling, where a speaker would have been located if this was a normal waiting room, or a bar, and not…well, hell.

Izzigor's smile widened to predatory proportions.

"You're the first to notice. You like Mozart?"

That question couldn't be meant seriously. There were no drums, there were no lyrics, no guitars, nothing. Just…violins. The only thing that could have possible been worse would have been if hell's pick in music had been Country.

"You don't have any Zeppelin? Or maybe Black Sabbath?"

The demon's face fell a little. "I'm so sorry. Central Administration doesn't allow any rock music to be played here. Besides, our choice in music is somewhat…limited, you could say. After all, we don't have everybody down here that we'd like to have."

It took a moment for the penny to drop. "You mean Mozart's in hell?"

A pleased expression showed on Izzigor's face as Dean figured it out on his own. "Well, considering his lifestyle, that shouldn't come as that much of a surprise now, should it? And in my opinion, he is one of the greatest composers of all times, so we can count ourselves lucky to have him. But still, one does start to miss the variety after a while. Of course the other side got Bach – well, all the Bachs, to be precise – and Beethoven, but we do have our fair share of talented musicians down here as well. And Mozart has written some extremely interesting pieces ever since he arrived here. But Central Admittance decided to play only pieces he wrote before his demise in the waiting room. As they say, it's supposed to help our guests make the transition easier, but to be bluntly honest with you Mr. Winchester, it does grate on one's nerves after a while. If we Desk Clerk Demons had any say in it, we'd definitely vote for something more modern. That Mr. Presley, for example, made some very good music in my humble opinion."

Dean swallowed against his dry throat. "Elvis is here?" He couldn't help the slightly star-struck note from creeping into his voice.

Izzigor nodded vigorously. "He sure is. But don't get your hopes up, Mr. Winchester. You have to be at least a Level 9 Demon to even have a right to schedule a meeting with one of our guests. And the waiting list for Mr. Presley is insanely long, I doubt there's a single slot free for the next couple of decades, if not longer. And, if I may add, from personal experience I can assure you that meeting him isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I personally was rather disappointed. Of course I'd never pass judgment on any of our guests, but in my opinion Mr. Presley was well past his peak by the time of his demise."

Dean's jaw was hanging slack, mouth gaping wide open, but he simply had to struggle too much with those latest revelations to care. Izzigor gave another shrug, bones popping out all over his scaly skin and threatening to burst through.

"I still think Central Administration could agree to play at least some of his songs in the waiting rooms, but unfortunately the voice of a Grade 2 Desk Clerk Demon goes unheard most of the times. I hope the music is not bothering you too much, because there's nothing I can do to regulate the volume or anything."

Dean quickly shook his head. "No, no it's not bothering me. I was just…curious."

Another flash of teeth in one of those demon smiles, then Izzigor pulled his folder towards himself again.

"But of course. That's my job, Mr. Winchester. Anything to help you make the admittance process more agreeable."

Dean shook his head and looked back down onto the forms in his hands as the demon turned his attention back to his folder. Seriously, this was completely and utterly f-ed up.

Forcefully, Dean tore his thoughts away from Elvis, and the question as to what kind of music Mozart could have written in hell, and continued filling out the forms. It wasn't easy, not with that frigging music playing in the background which he was completely unable to ignore now that he had noticed it. Dean had no idea who could think that it was soothing or calming, to him the screeching violins were an annoying distraction that kept him from thinking. But Dean silently hummed a few bars of Zeppelin and forced himself to continue.

There were a lot more questions to answer under the Physical Information header, and for the most part it required just enough mental activity to keep Dean from thinking too much about where he was, and most of all what he was doing. Because seriously. No way.

For a long while, Dean worked through his forms without interruption. Occasionally, the thought why on earth anybody in hell would want to know all those things about him would creep to the forefront of his mind, but whenever that happened he forcefully pushed it back again. Not thinking about it was the only way to keep his sanity intact for the moment.

He very nearly laughed out loud when he turned another page and read the next header.

8. Previous Medical History (important: please fill out complete previous medical history)

Oh, this was going to be a blast.

If he was supposed to write down his entire medical history, this could take a while. A long while. Maybe he should ask Izzy for another sheet of paper or two, because he seriously doubted that the one sheet of paper was going to last him for long. Not to mention that it was going to be a lot of trouble remembering every single instance of when he had been hurt. But there was always the upside to it – the longer it took him to fill out these forms, the longer it was going to keep him out of hell. Well, out of the part of hell with the meat hooks and the flaying and shredding. Compared to that, the violins were the preferable alternative.

So Dean wrote, resorting to keywords when injuries repeated themselves or his own recollection of the incident was too hazy. But still, he filled out the entire sheet of paper and used the backsides of two other forms until he thought he had given as complete an overview over his medical history as he could. And still the stack of papers he had to fill out didn't look any smaller.

So Dean wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

Before he knew it, he had filled out about thirty pages of information, and was working his way through 28. Allergies. The sound of claws scratching over tiled floor was the only advanced warning he got to the upcoming interruption in his work. When he looked up, all skinny five feet of Izzigor were looming over him, a mug of something steaming held in one claw.

"Whoa!"

Dean tried to scoot back, the demon's presence far too close for his liking, but the back of his chair and the wall kept him from putting as much distance as he'd have liked between himself and the demon. Izzigor either didn't notice or he ignored the way Dean had flinched back. Instead, he smiled again. Up close, it looked even worse than with the relative safety of the counter to separate them.

"I thought you'd like something to drink while you fill out the paperwork."

The steaming mug was thrust under Dean's nose, and he couldn't turn his head in time. The last time a demon – in that particular case, Ruby – had given him something to drink, it had tasted like ass. True, it had probably saved his life, but still – it had tasted like ass.

"What is that? Some more of the demon brew that tastes like horseshit?"

Izzigor drew the cup back a little, a mixture of offence and confusion on his face. He peered into the cup as if suddenly unsure himself, then he shook his head.

"No, it's Earl Grey tea, actually. I could look and see if I can scrounge up some Breakfast Blend somewhere, but I'm afraid I have absolutely no blend that tastes like…manure."

Tea. A demon was offering him tea. What was next? The devil was going to drop by with a plate of hors d'oeuvres?

"You wouldn't have some coffee anywhere, would you Izzy?"

Izzigor shook his head dejectedly. "I'm sorry Mr. Winchester, no coffee. I only have my private stash of Earl Grey."

The little demon looked actually disappointed, and before Dean knew what he was doing he saw his hands reach out and take the mug from Izzigor. Immediately, a beaming smile burst through the leathery skin on Izzigor's face.

Dean gulped and shook his head. It couldn't be. He hadn't just accepted a cup of tea from a demon just so that said demon wasn't going to be disappointed. Because that was so screwed to hell, Dean didn't even have any words for it.

Earl Grey. Well. It couldn't be that bad now, could it? It was only tea, whether in hell or anywhere else. Hot water poured over some leaves, nothing much that could go wrong there. Dean took a tentative sip of the steaming liquid. It was only a small sip, but the liquid was so hot that it burned his tongue. But despite that, the taste was clear. Tea. Well, go figure.

Izzigor, on the other hand, looked pretty much as if he was going to burst with joy any second now. Dean smiled shakily at the demon, then pointed at the mug in his hand. "You give me more than one of those, you'll have to show me to the bathroom."

Izzigor barked a sharp laugh. "Mr. Winchester, though it might not look like it yet, but you're in hell. Believe me, bowel movements should be the least of your problems."

And that was something Dean really didn't know what to answer to. The scalding hot tea still clutched in one hand, Dean gestured around the empty room. Aside form him and Izzigor, nobody else was around. Even the middle-aged British guy who had been filling out his paperwork was long gone by now, whisked through the inconspicuous door when Dean hadn't been looking.

"Quiet night, huh?"

Izzigor looked around the waiting room and back at Dean.

"Quiet week would be more like it."

"Week?" Dean looked down at his watch, but it seemed to have stopped working at a minute past midnight. Of course, because that was just his luck. And it had been a gift from Sam, too. But watch or not, he could swear he hadn't been here for more than a couple of hours. Not longer than a night, and definitely not a whole day. He didn't even want to think about a week, because that was even more impossible than just impossible. "What do you mean, week?"

Izzigor shrugged uncomfortably. "Time passes differently down here than it does up topside. A bend in time-space continuum or something. To be honest Mr. Winchester, I wasn't quite paying attention during the briefing. I'm sure you know how these things are – a demon from Administration keeps droning on and on and on, and you're just too tired because you went out with one of the guys and you ended up at your place, it was late and…well. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. If you want the details on how much time passed, I'll be more than glad to look them up, but all I can tell you for sure is that time passes differently down here than it does topside. Besides, during check-in the normal day and night rhythm gets suspended. Otherwise we wouldn't get anything done here."

"So…you're saying that I've been here for a week now?"

Izzigor looked uncomfortable, but he cocked his head to the side and thought for a moment.

"I'm definitely not the resident expert on things concerning topside. I've never been there, and to be bluntly honest with you, I never stood the appeal of going there, either. I mean, it's really cold up there, and it's either the choice between possessing somebody else's body or existing as a cloud of black dust. Nothing against you humans, but your bodies are a bit too…soggy, for my liking. Not that the smoke version is a bearable alternative in my opinion. I mean, we're proud of every demon who's working up there collecting souls for us, but really. I think that's something best left to the field staff. Me personally, I wouldn't want to give up the comfort down here for working topside. But to come back to your question, by my estimation about four weeks must have passed since your demise. Give or take a few days. I could call up Central Administration if you want to know the exact timeframe."

Dean didn't. Four weeks. He would have guessed four to five hours, but four weeks? Damn it, Sam had been left alone for about a month now, and Dean didn't want to think about all the things that could have happened to his brother in that time. This wouldn't do. Absolutely not. He needed to figure out a way to get out of here.

Izzigor took Dean's silence as his dismissal from the tea-errand, and he shuffled back to his position behind the desk, claws clicking against the floor tiles with every step.

Dean looked back down at the mug he was still holding in his hands. It was a similar mug as the one he had seen on Izzigor's desk earlier, the one the demon had converted into a pen-holder. It was black as well, but unlike the one on the demon's desk this one read "Demons do it…with pitchforks" in bold red lettering.

Dean so didn't want to go down that mental road.

He took another sip of the slowly cooling tea. It wasn't coffee, but it wasn't half bad. Drinkable, at least, and it didn't taste like ass. But as he looked down at the stack of files on the seat beside him, he lost all interest in filling out the forms. By the rate he was going, it would take him another few long hours to get this done, and who knew how much time was going to pass outside of hell during that time. A few months, a year or more?

That wouldn't do. He couldn't leave Sam alone for so long. He never had, not even when Sam had gone to Stanford.

Suddenly, using the paperwork as an excuse to pass the time before he was tossed into the pit wouldn't do anymore. He needed to find a way to get out of here, not just a way to keep him out of hellfire for as long as possible. And he was sure he wasn't going to find that way out here in this paperwork. As if to prove that theory, he started to randomly skip through the remaining pages to see what else he was supposed to fill out.

Please list your phobias.

Rorschach-tests.

They had frigging Rorschach tests! Ink-blots that only proved one thing for sure to Dean: the bunny always got screwed in the deal.

Please rate these methods of torture according to your personal preference.

No. Screw this.

Dean put the forms he had completed on top of the ones that weren't yet filled out, tossed the pen down on the stack, and grabbed his mug. If hell was a bureaucracy, there had to be loopholes. Dean had lived his entire life by using loopholes in laws and regulations, he'd be damned if he didn't find one that was going to get him out of hell.

And if there was one person…well, one thing that was going to be able to help him, it was a demon with a love for paperwork. With newfound determination, Dean took his mug and carried it over towards the counter. In his seat, Izzigor was busy color-coding another file that was much smaller than Dean's.

"Mr. Winchester!" The demon practically beamed. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Dean drew a deep breath. "Yes Izzy, I think there is. You know your way around all this paperwork, right?"

Izzigor nodded. "Of course. I've been Desk Clerk Demon Grade 2 for nearly a millennium now, and my paperwork has always been exemplary. I can recite the entire rulebook for Admittance and the first twenty circles of hell by memory. I'm proud to say that I know every rule and regulation that concerns check-ins and general admittance regulation."

A smile spread on Dean's face. "Good. Then you're my…man, Izzy."

The demon's smile was so wide that Dean could see all the way to its pointy back teeth. "Anything to help, Mr. Winchester."

"Good. Because see Izzy, I need to get out of here."

Something like confusion showed on Izzigor's face. "I know that it seems like a lot of paperwork, but I assure you once it's completed, processing will only take a little while and then you can get settled. And in the meantime, rest assured that I will do anything in my power to make your stay here as pleasant as possible."

Dean shook his head. "No, you misunderstand me. I need to get out of here. Out of hell, I mean. And I figured, only someone who knows his way around paperwork as you do can help me."

Izzigor stared at Dean for a few long seconds, then his thin lips pulled down in a disappointed grimace.

"Oh. I see. Well, just a second then, I'll get the forms."

He got up from his swivel chair, and it took Dean's brain a moment to catch up on what the demon had just said.

"Wait, what?"

"The forms, Mr. Winchester. We need the release form 27B/XD. And if you already filled out page 1-3 of your admittance forms, I guess we can take those for the general information if I re-label them, otherwise you'd have to fill out that information twice, and of course we wouldn't want that."

Dean still couldn't quite believe his ears.

"Wait, you're trying to tell me that there are forms I can fill out to get released from hell? Just like that? Then why do people go to hell, if there's release forms?"

Izzigor shrugged. Dean was fairly sure that if the demon was going to pull its shoulders just half an inch higher, his clavicles were going to pop through the leathery skin.

"Well, to be honest, nobody ever asked for those forms before. And I didn't say it was going to be easy. It's going to be a lot of work, but I assure you that if anybody is going be able to help you fill out the forms in a satisfying manner, it's me. Just wait a second while I go get the paperwork."

Izzigor shuffled of to a huge filing cabinet on the back of the room, and Dean was left to stare after him in bewilderment. There were release forms out of hell. Who would have guessed? Well, nobody obviously, otherwise someone would have asked for them before.

Izzigor returned after a little while, three loose sheets of paper clutched in his left claw. He looked at Dean for a second, then his gaze strayed from the row of chairs at the wall of the room to the counter and back. With a sigh, he checked a small table calendar on his desk, then nodded to himself.

"Deary me, this won't do. But I have no check-ins scheduled for the next three weeks, and it should be unproblematic check-ins at that. The paperwork is already prepared, so they shouldn't be too much of an interruption, barring an unforeseen happenings. I tell you what, Mr. Winchester. I'll clear up my desk back here and set some more Earl Grey to stew. Why don't you go get your paperwork and we settle down back here and take a look at those release forms."

Without waiting for an answer, the demon started bustling around a desk a few feet behind the counter. There was a tea-pot and a box with tea-bags standing there, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach Dean watched how Izzigor blew a pair of flames from his nostrils against the pot until steam rose from the nozzle.

This was just getting weirder and weirder.

But there was a silver lining to it, and that was that this skinny, paperwork-obsessed creature who heated water by blowing flames out of its nose could help him get out of hell. And so Dean obligingly went over to his discarded paperwork, picked it up and carried it over towards the counter. Izzigor hurried over towards him and pulled up a partition of the counter so that Dean could pass through behind it. Izzigor gestured for him to take a seat and sat down in a chair beside him.

In all honesty, the demon was sitting too close. Way too close.

It wasn't normal, sitting with a demon at a table, discussing ways to get out of hell. Exorcisms, cursing, spitting and holy water, that was the kind of interaction with demons Dean had gotten used to over the years. Earl Grey had never figured anywhere into that equation.

But now it was, a seemingly endless supply of British tea while Izzigor worked his way through the paperwork Dean had already filled out, pulling out forms at random and placing them beside him while completely discarding others. After a few minutes, he was done, and the largest part of Dean's color-coded paperwork vanished in a cloud of smoke and flames, courtesy of Izzigor's nostrils.

"Good, good." The demon rubbed its claws. "We can work with that. Now we only need to carefully fill out those forms, and then we're done. But of course we need a reason as to why we're filing a complaint in the first place. I'm afraid it's impossible to get around that. Now, my advice is not to go with the emotional appeal. It might sound the easiest way to go for the argument that there's a family member in dire need of assistance, but from experience I can tell you that questions of the heart hardly ever get considered by the higher-up demons. I'd say we go trough the details of what brought you down here step by step, see if there is any glaring holes in that. Technicalities always have the best chances to get considered positively."

"Erm…okay. If you say so."

Izzigor nodded. "Trust me on this. Now, it says here…" He picked up one of the forms Dean had filled out earlier. "It says manner of death was a hellhound?"

"Yes."

"That means you're here because of a previous arrangement. I'm guessing a crossroads deal?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

Izzigor's face fell. "Ah, that's going to be a tough one. Those deals are mostly iron-clad. But we'll see what we can do about that. It's strange though, I only have a twelve month-prior notice to your arrival here. The standard deal-time as regulated by §37b of the rulebook should be ten years. That's extraordinary. Might I inquire as to what the reason of your closing the deal was?"

"My brother. He…he was killed. And that crossroads demon knew me from…well, we had prior dealings. She didn't want to give me more than a year."

Izzigor scribbled down some notes.

"Good, good. Emotional distress, of course that's not going to do much with the higher-ups. After all, that's a big part of how most of the deals are closed. Central Administration is not going to make a precedent out of your case for that. But that one year term is quite unusual. Maybe even against regulations. I tell you what, I'll check the duty rosters of a year ago and call down the crossroads demon you closed the deal with. Then we'll see whether we have a technicality to work with."

Dean grimaced. "See Izzy, we might have a little problem there."

"Might I ask why?"

Dean brought up a hand and rubbed it over his scalp. "My brother killed her."

Izzigor actually smiled at that. "That's good."

"Good?" Dean scooted back a little in his chair, fearing the demon had somehow misunderstood, and the penny was going to drop any moment now. "I just told you that my brother killed a demon and you say that's good?"

Izzigor waggled his head from side to side. "Well, of course it's regrettable to hear that one of our own perished. But that's one of the risks of being part of the field staff, and trust me that everybody who goes topside has been alerted to the dangers and has signed all the respective papers. Of course, in most cases the biggest danger is an arrival back here and some embarrassing explanations, but that demon definitely wasn't the first to get killed in the line of duty. No, but this could be good for your request to be released because it means that the demon who closed your deal definitely wasn't the demon who collected it."

"No, that would have been Lilith."

The area where Izzigor's eyebrows would have been if he had had any lifted remarkably, and Dean found himself wondering if that little fire out of his nostrils-trick was the reason why Izzigor didn't have any eyebrows in the first place.

"That you have a name saves us a lot of trouble. Now, of course I need to verify that she really was the demon who held our end of your deal. After all, demons are rather known for saying a lot of things. But Mr. Winchester, I think this could very well be grounds for a technicality."

While Dean was still wondering what the hell the demon was talking about, Izzigor pushed his swivel chair across the tiled floor to another filing cabinet in the back. He rummaged around for a little while, then he pulled a file out and pushed the chair back towards the desk. A cloud of dust rose up as he tossed the file flat on the desk, and even though Dean quickly leaned back, it got into his nose and mouth, making him cough.

"Here, drink some more tea Mr. Winchester, that will help. Now, you have to know that if a crossroads demon dies or gets killed in the line of duty, that is the important phrase here, all the contracts it holds are subject to a distribution under §24-9/b subsection 12 number 4. It's a firm rule. I'm assuming your brother encountered the respective crossroads demon in a situation that would fall under the description of 'in the line of duty'?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm fairly sure he went the whole nine yards. You know, burying the box with all the necessary stuff at a crossroads, and then waiting for the demon to show up."

Izzigor nodded enthusiastically. "Very good. Definitely in the line of duty, then. Which would mean that all the respective demon's contracts would have had to be passed on to the three senior demons on crossroads duty. Subsection 12 leaves absolutely no doubt about that. And let me do a quick check, but I'm fairly sure that no demon named Lilith is on that particular list."

Izzigor opened up the file he had brought, turned a few pages and then ran his claw along a long column on one page, searching.

"There we have it. As of May last year, there was a Griphock, a Barnaby and Daryon. I actually know Daryon personally. You remember that briefing I told you about when I went out the night before? Anyway, I know Daryon, and trust me that if there had been a distribution of contracts a year ago, I'd have heard about it."

He looked up, teeth flashing in a wide grin. "I'd say that's grounds for a technicality complaint. We might just be able to push this through. Of course, we'd need to invest a little more research, and work out the exact phrasing to make sure that it's going to fly with Central Administration, but I think we can work something out of this."

Dean was shaking his head in absolute bewilderment.

"So you're saying you can get me out of here? Because Lilith took over my contract and she wasn't supposed to do so?"

Izzigor nodded. "Mr. Winchester, if we allowed demons to do what they want, hell would be chaos. Well, don't get me wrong here – hell is chaos. But it's controlled chaos. As I told you earlier, lots and loads of red tape. Demons can't just do whatever the hell they want to, and especially the field staff occasionally forgets about that little fact. Losing a soul that was considered secure might just be the wakeup call this place needs because, and I'm speaking confidentially here, things have gotten out of hand a bit lately."

Dean was still shaking his head.

"But…you're a demon."

"Desk Clerk Demon Grade 2."

"Right…that. A demon. And I told you I want to get out of hell. So why are you helping me? Not that I don't appreciate the proverbial gift horse and all that, but shouldn't you simply toss me into hellfire and just forget that I ever said anything?"

Izzigor shifted back a little, an expression on his face that Dean couldn't quite read. From the dramatic way that one scaly hand was covering the demon's bony chest, it might have been feigned hurt. But of course, that couldn't be.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm this close to being offended. I'm first and foremost a Desk Clerk Demon. It's my responsibility that all check-ins are handled correctly. And believe me, it goes against my professional honor to admit a guest if the paperwork doesn't check out."

He scooted his swivel chair a little closer and leaned in towards Dean, as if making sure that nobody was going to be able to listen in. It was all Dean could do not to lean away. After all, that thing could breathe fire out of its nostrils, and he wasn't entirely sure he knew exactly how to read Izzigor yet. But the demon didn't seem to notice Dean's discomfort. Instead, he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Besides, my job is boring. I get the notice about upcoming arrivals, I prepare the paperwork, then it's "Welcome to hell, please fill out the paperwork, here's an extra pen because Central Administration won't give us the funds to afford better writing utensils. Please sign every page and be patient while we process your admission, enjoy eternity." This here," one bony claw tapped the papers lying on the desk. "This is a challenge. It's working the rules and regulations to their limits, and it's a task that takes all my knowledge about every law we demons have. So yes, probably my superiors won't be too excited if we manage to push this through and they have to let you go. But you know what, Mr. Winchester? The beauty of it is that I won't have done anything wrong. I'm merely doing my job here, and let me tell you that this is the most exciting thing that has happened here over the past three-, maybe even four hundred years."

Izzigor leaned back with a smile on his face, and Dean breathed a small and silent sigh of relief.

"So what now? We're going to fill out these forms and then?"

"Then they'll go up to processing, and we'll be told the results in no time. But we're not done yet, Mr. Winchester. There's still a lot of details we have to go through, just to make sure we've dotted all our –is and crossed all out –ts. It won't take too long once we've finished these. But oh, if I might offer a suggestion?"

Dean nodded. "Shoot ahead."

"While we're at it, we should add a Body Renewal Request. After all, some earth-time will have passed once the petition has run through the system. Human bodies are a wonder of creation, but I'm afraid they get disgusting rather quickly once the metabolism stops working. Also, while I haven't seen your physical shape after your demise, I know what the work of a hellhound looks like. After all, we're rather proud of our breeds and their training. Trust me Mr. Winchester, you will want the Body Renewal."

Dean swallowed dryly. That was one thing he hadn't considered before, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't particularly want to consider it now, either.

"Okay. Erm…if you say so."

Izzigor flashed another smile. "Good. Then I'd say we grab ourselves some more Earl Grey and get to work."

The demon scrambled off his chair, walked around the desk and poured some more tea into their cups. Then he sat back down again and started to do what he obviously did best – he got bureaucratic. Dean could only sit by and watch as the demon filled out form after form, occasionally stopping to think about the proper way to phrase something before he continued writing. Dean picked up his mug and took a long sip of the Earl Grey.

Not too bad. Still no substitute for coffee, but definitely better than Ruby's ass-brew. It could definitely be worse. And wasn't that something to say for a guy who was sitting behind the counter of hell's check-in (letters W-Z), sipping Earl Grey while a scaly red demon filled out the proper paperwork to get him released from hell on a technicality.

His life was so screwed.

But the really perverse thing was that, all weirdness aside, Dean knew for a fact that it still could be worse. So he silently sat and watched, not sure whether he should hope or be afraid that all this was nothing but a bad dream. After everything that had happened since his arrival here, he wasn't too sure about that anymore.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He and Sam were going to have a long talk after this.

Because seriously, this was a whole new level of screwed up even for a Winchester.

Dean had just spent the hellish equivalent of five or six hours brooding over his petition for release from hell with a demon called Izzigor who was more than just a slight bit odd, and who had a liking for paperwork that bordered on an obsession. And the big blow-out that Dean had expected to happen as a consequence of said petition, the reappearance of meat-hooks or maybe an army of demons who were trying to drag him into hellfire, technicality or not, hadn't happened. Instead, the quite unspectacular end of the whole thing, after about eight more cups of Earl Grey, had been a yellow slip from Central Admissions, delivered by a pneumatic tube of all things, which had granted Dean's request to leave hell because, in Izzigor's words, his deal and the way it had led to his demise, stood in direct violation to §24-9/b subsection 12 number 4 of the laws on Crossroad Deals.

And that had been it.

Izzigor had been beaming as if he had just been told that he had won the lottery. Considering the little Dean knew about the demon, it must have been the emotional equivalent of that for the scaly thing, and Dean wasn't ashamed to admit that he had been smiling along with Izzigor. Just a little, of course. But still. The little shit had just saved his ass, after all.

And then Izzigor had rubber-stamped the yellow slip with a big red stamp, had punched it and put it into a big folder, and that had been it. One enthusiastic handshake, or rather claw-shake later, Dean had been shown to a rather inconspicuous door that he could have sworn hadn't been there only moments ago, and Izzigor had told him goodbye with the cryptic remark that he really hoped for Dean that his brother had gone for burial rather than cremation.

The demon had flashed him another smile that was all teeth, had stuttered the typical phrases that it had been a pleasure meeting him and that he had enjoyed the challenge Dean had given him, then he had pushed Dean through the door and…

…he had found himself in a casket.

Which was part of the reason why Dean was going to have a really, really long talk with his brother once this whole thing was over.

He didn't even want to know why Izzigor would think that things would have been a lot worse if Sam had settled on burning Dean's body instead of just burying it. He really didn't want to know.

Because this had been bad enough.

The casket had been easy enough to break through, but seriously, had Sam deliberately buried him in the nearest clay vein, or had that happened purely on accident? Digging himself out of that grave had taken ages, he had torn his hands in uncountable places, and had nearly suffocated before he had even reached the surface.

Speaking of which.

Dean fully understood the concept of burying him in a place where no construction digging was going to unearth him in only a couple of days or weeks. But seriously, couldn't there have been a compromise between a mid-city grave and one in the middle of frigging nowhere?

It was a thirty minute walk to the nearest signs of civilization, which came in the way of an abandoned gas station, by the way. So his first real act after resurrection had been breaking and entering, which probably didn't bode well for anything to come afterwards. And while the gas station shop offered a huge supply of water and beef jerky, as well as the information that four months had passed since his passing, it wasn't exactly well-stacked on po…educational magazines.

But on the upside, the gas station also had a restroom. Obviously, not worrying about where all the Earl Grey went to was only a reliable concept for as long as you still were in hell. After that, it was every man fighting for his own bladder-control.

So, lost in the middle of frigging nowhere, Dean really had no choice but to up his count of felonies to three in less than an hour of resurrection. First the phone call to Sam's cell phone company with yet another cover story as to why he needed to know the location of his brother's cell phone. One of these days he was going to have to buy some real insulin if he kept on telling people that his brother was in fact a thirteen year old diabetic who had gone missing.

And then he had had to steal a car to get to where Sam's cell phone was. Unfortunately, the only car around for miles had been a beat up Toyota.

Seriously.

Either Sam hadn't been counting on a quick resurrection, or his planning skills seriously sucked. And considering the whole genius-intelligence, full-ride at Stanford thing, it actually couldn't be that Sam's planning skills sucked.

Hence the part about them going to have a long talk.

Because it hadn't ended with him stealing that crappy excuse of a car. Of course not. That would have been entirely too easy.

No, finding his brother had only been the first step. Then there had been the blatant disbelief. The location of Sam's cell phone had been a motel, just thirty miles away from where Dean had been buried. Finding his brother's room had been easy as pie. Sam had never been too creative when it came to thinking up pseudonyms. And though to Dean it had only felt like a few long hours that he had been to hell, seeing Sam again had been good. Really, really good.

If it hadn't been for the disbelief.

Dean guessed he should be glad that Sam hadn't forgotten everything their father and Dean had taught him over the years when Dean had suddenly shown up on his doorstep.

But still. A devil's trap. An exorcism. Holy water. And that thing with the silver knife that they were never ever going to mention again. It was a little overkill as far as Dean was concerned.

Definitely something they needed to talk about.

And then there was the hugging.

One moment Sam had been convinced Dean was nothing but some hell-spawn only pretending to be Dean Winchester, the next Sam had been clinging to him as if the only appropriate way to greet your brother after his return from hell was to suffocate him. Sam had been hugging him for nearly half a minute or even longer, refusing to let go. Dean was fairly sure his brother had been crying, too.

Dean hadn't cried, of course. Some of Sam's hair had gotten into his eyes, that was all. He had been far too busy trying to get air into his lungs to cry. Besides, Dean Winchester didn't cry. Period. And he especially didn't hug and cry at the same time.

Okay admittedly, the hugging had been kinda nice.

But still, he and Sam were going to have to talk about a lot of things once this whole thing was back to normal. Which, in Dean's estimation, could take a little while longer.

Because after the hugging, the disbelief, and then some more hugging, the clinging had started.

Honestly, Dean was glad to be back from the dead and everything. Really. And it hurt him to know that Sam had gone through four months of grief, and of being alone. He certainly didn't want to belittle that.

But seriously, this whole sticking to his side-thing that Sam had had going on for the past hour was slowly going on his nerves. Sam behaved as if he was afraid that Dean was going to vanish if he only blinked too long, and while Dean could sympathize, this was going too far.

"Dude, take a picture, that lasts longer."

Sam uttered a chocked sound that was somewhere between sob and laugh. "Sorry. It's just…man, I still can't believe it, okay? I mean, I tried everything I could think of to get you back, and nothing worked. And now you just…just appear out of nowhere. Don't tell me you'd be taking this any better than I am."

Dean shrugged. "Fair enough."

Still didn't make the clinging any more bearable. Not to mention the staring.

They were sitting on the edges of the two beds in the room so that they were facing each other – and Dean found it interesting that even after four months, Sam had still booked into a double room. Their position was mainly so that Sam could do his whole I stare at you because if I look away you're going to vanish-spiel, but inwardly Dean had to admit that it felt kinda good to have Sam within his sight again. Compared to Izzigor, Sam was definitely the sight Dean preferred. And not only because his brother was twice as tall and a lot less…scaly.

Sam anxiously ran his hands down his jeans-clad thighs and cleared his throat. He was nervous, though what he possibly could have to be nervous about Dean couldn't even begin to imagine.

"So…what was it like?"

That, of course, explained the nervousness.

"What, hell?"

Sam nodded, not quite meeting his brother's eyes. "Yes. And how did you get out?"

Dean shrugged. "Hell was…well, the actual hell part was bad. You know, being suspended form meat-hooks, pain, suffering, the whole shebang. Lasted for all of thirty seconds, though, then I was brought into the waiting room because I had to fill out my paperwork first."

Sam's eyebrows disappeared far below the shaggy hair covering his forehead.

"Paperwork?"

Dean could only guess that his own parroting attempts had been similarly unnerving for Izzigor. But he merely nodded.

"Yeah. Admittance forms. A whole stack of forms, color-coded as well. I was supposed to fill out about a ton of different forms so that they could decide which part of hell they were going to send me to. There was this demon called Izzigor, he was supposed to help me fill out the paperwork. In the end, he helped me get out of there. Seems that Lilith grabbing the contract on my soul after you shot the crossroads demon counts as a technicality down there. Who'd have thought, right?"

Sam was nodding slowly, and it was clear that behind all that shaggy hair, the gears were shifting in his freakishly huge brain.

"A demon helped you get out of hell. A demon called Izzigor."

Dean nodded. "Yup. He was kinda nice for a demon, actually. British, I think. And probably gay. But definitely a nice guy. A little obsessed with paperwork, but it's what got me out of hell, so I won't complain."

Sam nodded again, in that patronizing way that one would nod to an old and senile grandmother who had just told you that the Russians were coming, or to a little child when it talked nonsense. It grated on Dean's nerves.

"Dude, you don't believe me!"

"Dean, just listen to what you're telling me. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

He stretched out a hand as if to feel Dean's forehead for fever, and Dean angrily swatted it away.

"Stop that. I feel fine, okay? I told you what happened. If you don't believe me, it's your problem."

Sam got up from his perch on the mattress.

"All right, that's enough. I'm going to call Bobby."

"What? Why?"

Phone already in his hand, Sam turned towards his brother again.

"Dean, you just told me that a gay British demon helped you get out of hell. I'd say we could do with a little help from Bobby right now."

"I said he was probably gay, Sammy. Big difference there. I mean, it's not as if we talked about it or anything. We didn't get cozy or anything, we only talked for a couple of hours. Well, hours in hell because get this, time passes differently down there. Something about the time-space continuum, but Izzy didn't know all the details, either."

Sam nodded again, the raised-eyebrows-and-worried-expression-in-his-eyes-kind of nod, phone pressed to his ear. Then Bobby obviously picked up and Sam turned his attention to the conversation.

"Hey Bobby, it's Sam."

Dean waved his hands to get his brother's attention. "If Bobby says he'll come here, tell him to bring some Earl Grey."

Sam looked as if Dean had just suggested they go out and sacrifice some virgins to celebrate his return. And Dean could have sworn his brother had reached for the bottle with holy water again.

Seriously, he knew himself that he needed a shower. He'd have already gone for it if it hadn't been for all the hugging and clinging on Sam's part. Maybe Sam just needed some time to let it all settle a little. Yeah, that was probably it. He could as well take that shower in the meantime. And God help Sam if his brother had gotten rid of his clothes while he had been gone. There was just no way that he was going to walk around in his brother's freakishly large clothes.

And then he was going to check up on his car. Because he trusted Sam, but seriously, this was his car they were talking about. Trust was one thing, but his car was in another league entirely.

And then he was going to have to convince his brother somehow that yes, he was truly back and no, he wasn't going to vanish into thin air again. Because otherwise, he had the feeling that neither of them was going to get much sleep tonight.

But all things considered, it was good to be back.

Izzy had been nice, much nicer than Dean had ever suspected a demon to be. But he'd prefer Sam over the scaly guy any day.

Yes, it was definitely good to be back.

Epilogue

That year, Dean and Sam agreed to celebrate Christmas. This time, Sam was convinced a lot easier than he had been the previous year. So they took care to wrap up their current hunt as quickly as they could, and then they holed up in their motel room for the holidays. No excessive decorations, no big meals, nothing that would have been too un-Winchester like. But a small reprieve over the holidays was just what they needed.

Sam even organized a small tree. They had egg-nog, ate take-out for dinner, they exchanged gifts and watched the game.

And at 12.00pm sharp, a hellhound started barking right in front of their motel room door. Dean would have recognized the sound anywhere, and it made the blood freeze in his veins. The fact that Sam immediately put himself between Dean and the motel room door was a nice gesture, but it didn't help him any with keeping the fear at bay. What if those three months since his return had been all he had been granted by the paperwork Izzigor had handed in? What if this was the point where he was going to be sent back to hell? If he was completely honest with himself, that thought scared the crap out of him. But in the end, Sam and Dean did the only thing a Winchester could have done. They dug out their weapons, and opened the door.

The hellhound was sitting on the doorstep, just as ugly and vicious as Dean remembered the beasts to look like. And judged by Sam's startled gasp beside him – well, half in front of him actually – this time his brother could see it, too.

But instead of attacking, the hound gave another bark, then dropped a roll of parchment that was dripping with hellhound saliva onto their doorstep and vanished into thin air.

Huh.

Well, that was kinda unexpected.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Dean finally figured that if the thing had come to kill him, it would have done so by now. But it had merely left that parchment and vanished, so probably he wasn't going to die tonight. Which meant he could as well have a look at the message the hellhound had left. If there was one. But then again, leaving a parchment without a message was pretty pointless, even for a hellhound.

So Dean brought the saliva-dripping parchment into the motel room. And really, he never wanted to hear Sam complain about all that crap that he supposedly drove around in the trunk of his car again. At least the work-gloves had come in handy tonight.

It turned out that the parchment was a message from Izzigor. Holiday greetings from Izzigor, to be precise. Or, as the demon wrote, his way of saying Merry Christmas, in the hope that Dean and his brother were celebrating the holiday. Seemingly, Izzigor wasn't too sure about that since Dean had filed none under religious denomination in all the forms he had filled out during his stint in hell.

And really, who could say of themselves that they received Christmas cards from hell? The whole hellhound scare aside, Dean thought it was pretty cool, and he figured Sam would think so as well. Once he had stopped shaking and at least some of the color had returned to his face, that was.

Else Izzigor wrote that as far as hell was concerned, Dean's deal and everything attached to it was over and done with, his file closed and filed in the archive. Izzigor assured Dean that he didn't need to worry about anything any further. And not only had Dean come out of hell, Izzigor also had received a promotion due to his exemplary knowledge of hell's laws and their usage. The demon wrote quite proudly that he was now a Desk Clerk Demon Grade 1, responsible for overseeing the administrative process of all check-ins into hell, and that another promotion in the near future – the next century or two – was no unrealistic estimation. Dean had no idea if that meant hell-time or not, but strangely enough he found that he was happy for the little bugger. Without him, he'd be roasting over hellfire by now, after all. Or worse, he'd be still listening to Mozart.

The note was signed with Your friend, Izzy.

Only when Sam stared at the parchment for the better part of an hour, reading it again and again, did Dean finally understand that his brother hadn't really believed his story about hell and how he had gotten out, despite the fact that Dean had told it in detail. More than once. Well, Sam hadn't believed it until now at least, when he held the written proof in his hands.

Dean probably should be annoyed that his brother hadn't believed him. But it was Christmas, and he didn't have it in him to be angry with Sam for long on a normal day. So just for now, he was going to let it slide. After all, Sam believed him now, and that was all that counted.

And they had all come out of this whole deal business more or less intact.

Which was a good result in Dean's book. And on top of that, Dean had made a new friend. So yes, the friend was a demon, he was quirky and obsessed with paperwork, but he was also the demon who from now on was responsible for who got thrown into hell and who didn't. Which, in their line of work, might just prove useful one day.

It was always good to have friends in high places.

The End

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