Characters: Sue Sylvester (Glee), Zachariah, Dean, Castiel
Ratings/Warnings: PG/Spoilers up to 5.02
Word Count: 1900
Summary: Sue Sylvester is the next choice for the Michael Sword, and she doesn't appreciate this misogynist apocalypse!
Sue Sylvester had a lot on her mind. The Cheerios, for starters, and where to acquire Europe-quality drycleaners in the tri-state area. How to bring down the glee club. The annoying whine of Sandy Ryerson’s last voicemail (she was fairly certain he was sexually harassing her). And rat poison - Principal Figgins had taken a stance of nasal disapproval on her caning feature on WOHN, but he hadn’t said a thing about rat poison. He was always complaining about too many students, packed classrooms, not enough budget money for everyone, blah, blah, wah. Tip a little rat poison into the cafeteria fryer, and all those fat kids who clogged up the hallways would get sick off their fries. Then they’d either develop an immunity - adaptation to the betterment of the species - or they’d stop clogging the hallways with their “Husky Fit” jeans. Husky her ass. Why didn’t they just come out and say fat when they meant fat? Candy ass jeans companies, trying to spare fat kids’ feelings. Pathetic. Sue took another sip of her protein shake as she stepped into her office.
As the door opened, she almost choked on her shake. Sitting placidly on the edge of her desk was Mr. McClung from WOHN, one hand on his knee and a pleasant smile on his face.
“Hi there,” he said.
“Well, hey,” Sue said, throwing on her most competitive smile. A winner’s smile. Because she was a winner, and if McClung didn’t see that, her future at WOHN would be shot. “Good to see ya! I meant to give you a call - got some really great fan mail this week.”
“That’s great,” McClung said, pinching his brow slightly. That was probably why his face was so full of lines, she thought - making those little fake concerned expressions all the time. He probably didn’t exfoliate, either. Leave it to men to ignore the important crap. “I came by to talk to you about something else, actually.”
“Oh?” Sue said, taking a seat at her desk. If he had ideas to expand Sue’s Corner, she’d be open to it, she decided - so long as he wasn’t going to try to control her content. Women’s voices had been oppressed in this country for too long for Sue Sylvester to give in to some male chauvinist censorship.
Hm. Maybe that would be a good topic for her next feature.
“It’s about your destiny, Sue.” McClung looked her dead in the eyes, still smiling. “You have a calling far greater than that of competitive cheerleading.”
“Oh no,” Sue said, frowning back at him and planting her feet on the desk. “If you’re going to tell me that other sports are greater than cheerleading, you can leave my office right now, mister, because there is no sport greater, more exhausting, or more filled with glory than cheerleading.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” the man answered, and leaned in closer. Sue was pretty sure he was hitting on her, and she didn’t appreciate it. “I’m talking about the apocalypse,” he said, and extended a hand to her. “Hi, I’m Zachariah, I’ll be your guardian angel for the evening.”
Sue scowled at him, her fingers firmly planted around the cup of her protein shake. “Are you some kind of head case, McClung? I don’t like head cases - not on my squad and not in my office.”
“McClung is a character we made up to get close to you. He doesn’t exist. Sue, the world is ending and I’d really like you to be on board with the side of Heaven.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is it proof you want? I can give you proof.”
The florescent lights flickered and crackled overhead, and a pair of monstrous shadows extended to either side of the man in the shape of wings. Somewhere deep within her chest, Sue sensed an energy unlike anything she’d ever felt before - even international cheerleading competitions didn’t have that kind of bite to them. The cup slipped from her hand, and Mango Berry Rumba splattered across the floor. “You’re—”
“An angel.” Zachariah folded his shadow-wings back and then stopped with the lights show entirely, folding his hands on his knee. “And you’re the Michael Sword. Well, not ‘the’ - ‘a.’ But, you know, semantics.” He waved a hand.
Okay, so this was a lot to take in. But Sue Sylvester was a winner, and winners could think on their feet. “What exactly is a Michael Sword?”
“When Lucifer defected from Heaven, the angel Michael defeated him, casting him into Hell, yadda yadda yadda, and now Lucifer’s risen from his cage, so we need another hero type to defeat him on this mortal plane.” Zachariah raised his eyebrows. “A strong human vessel. A champion. Do you want to be a champion, Sue?”
Sue had never fought the apocalypse before. Actually, aside from a regrettable incident in Tai Pei in 1994, she’d never fought anyone - at least not with swords. But it couldn’t be hard. Dodging extradition requests from the Taiwanese government, now that was hard. Leaning forward, she narrowed her eyes dangerously at the angel. “I am a champion, Zach.”
“Great! Perfect. So, I’ll just give Michael a ring, let him know he’s got your permission to come in—”
“Hold on a second.” Sue raised a hand. “Come in where?”
“Well—” Zachariah motioned toward her, raising and lowering his hand as if appraising her body.
“Are you trying to sell me into the angel sex trade?” Sue spat, leaning away. “No one makes Sue Sylvester into a pleasure object!”
“I bet,” the angel muttered, and before Sue could object to that, he raised his voice and said, “Sue, Michael needs a human vessel to enter this plane of existence - a container to channel his essence while on earth. This is the most important and meaningful thing you could possibly do with your life.”
“Be a container?”
Zachariah raised his eyebrows. “Not just any container, Suzikins. You’re Gladware - extra-sturdy. You’re the second best candidate of a very small number of human beings strong enough to handle Michael’s full power.”
Second best? Sue scowled. “What, you’re telling me I’m your second pick?”
“I—I didn’t say that,” Zachariah said, backing away slightly. “The first guy—we tried tapping him mostly out of convenience, but he was a putz, so—”
“‘Him’? Nobody makes Sue Sylvester a bench-warmer because of her gender!” Sue said, slamming her hand on the table. She was so angry she felt her cheeks burning, and something inside her was roiling to the surface - something not unlike a pre-New Horizons pep rally. “Sue Sylvester is a winner! Sue Sylvester will not play angelic second-stringer to some idiot with dangling genitalia! SUE SYLVESTER IS GOING TO SHOW THIS MISOGYNISTIC APOCALYPSE WHO WEARS THE PANTS!”
“That’s the spirit!” Zachariah said, pumping his fist. “Let’s get you to Heaven’s green room. There’ll be as many protein shakes as you can drink, a platter of fat-free corn dogs, and CNN sports anchor Larry Smith. We can mute him if you like.”
Mmm. Sue licked her lips. But wait— “Hold on just one second, Bird Man. I want the number of this putz you pigs tried to tap before me.”
“No problem.” Zachariah complied, tapping her cell phone with two fingers and lighting it up with a phone number. “Any particular reason?”
Sue Sylvester hit the Talk button, her lips curling up in vicious delight as she raised the phone to her ear. “I’m going to rub his nose in it like a piss-happy puppy.”
Dean Winchester took a heavy seat in the driver’s seat of the Impala and breathed a sigh. It had been a difficult hunt; every hunt these days was. They should be child’s play, the crap he was dealing with - routine hauntings, minor possessions, curse objects, vamps. But without Sam at his side, it felt like he had to relearn everything. He couldn’t count on his pain in the ass, kind of a genius hunter little brother to back him up. Hell, half the time he couldn’t even count on himself. His hands had been shaking for days. Life had taken on the strained, heavy feeling of a car running on fumes, and Dean just wanted to pull off to the shoulder and hit the brakes.
“We need to talk about armageddon,” Castiel said, appearing in the passenger seat.
Dean rubbed his eyes, exhausted. “What else is new?”
“My phone’s casing. I got it ‘pimped out’ with ‘cool’ decals.” The angel drew his flip phone from his pocket to show them off. Glittery flames and a peace sign. “They were only $2.99 per pack.”
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cas, we gotta keep you away from mall kiosks.”
“Why? I find them full of useful—”
Dean’s phone started ringing.
“Your phone is ringing,” Castiel informed him helpfully. “You know, you’re due for a new ringtone. There are thousands available for download for only $1.99 apiece, from Top 40 hits to TV theme songs.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean grumbled. He didn’t recognize the incoming call number. It was probably that girl he’d given his number to back in Cheyenne. They were only half an hour’s drive away. If she was up for something, he might as well— “Hello?” he said, putting on his smoothest voice.
“Who’s this?” said a woman’s voice on the other end. An abrasive woman’s voice. He almost recoiled at the syllables.
“This is Dean Winchester,” he answered, shooting Castiel a confused look. “Who’s this?”
“This is Sue Sylvester, award-winning coach of the Cheerios cheer squad, featured twice in the sports section of USA Today and about to save the world like you couldn’t, mister.”
“I’m the Michael Sword, downstairs brain! I’m standing here with Zachariah, talking strategies.”
Dean smirked. Until this point, he’d thought maybe a crazy person was calling him. Now he was pretty sure of it. Catching Castiel’s eye, he said into the phone, “You’re telling me you agreed to be Michael’s new angel condom?”
“Angel condom?” barked the voice on the other end. “I find that sexist!”
“LADY?! No, you look, you little bitch! I’m not going to bend to your macho epitaphs. I’m going to win this apocalypse, because Sue Sylvester is a winner! Sue Sylvester is going to shake things up!”
“Okay,” Dean said, pursing his lips hard. “You have fun with that.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she spat.
“Uh-huh,” Dean said tightly, sending Castiel frantic eye signals. Castiel just furrowed his brow and tipped his head curiously at him.
“We took the trophy in Singapore, and we’ll do it again in the End Days!”
“The next time you’re fondling yourself as you cry alone in your room, you think about how a woman showed you up as the earth’s champion.”
“I—uh—I’ll do that?”
Sounding satisfied, Sue replied, “See that you do.”
The other end of the line clicked. Dean pulled his phone away from his ear and stared hard at it, unable to form a coherent sentence even in his head.
“You should get Caller ID for that,” Castiel offered. “It’s only $4.99 per month.”
“Cas,” he said slowly, “you’ve got a problem, man.”
“Everyone has problems, Dean.”
Dean shook his head at the screen of his phone, his mood weirdly lightened. Everyone had problems. That was for damn sure.