Missingno. Master
Poison-type Trainer
Pokémon: An Unlikely Origin (Pokémon/Supernatural one-shot crossover) (PG-13)
DISCLAIMER! I do not own Pokémon or Supernatural, nor do I pretend to. I do not intend to profit off of this story in any way, shape, or form.
It was a night like any other, or so it would seem. The full moon shone brightly over a lonely, grass-choked landscape, accompanied by the billions of trillions of stars. As out-of-the-way places in the countryside like these were among a minority of locations where one's view of the night sky was never spoiled by streetlights or pollution, it truly was a sight to behold.
One young man, however, took no notice of this otherwise awe-inspiring sight as he drove down a lonely dirt road, which was flanked on either side by tall grass. He instead looked straight ahead, the expression on his face clearly stating that whatever he was about to do, he wasn't sure if it was the best idea. He seemed determined to go through with it, however, and drove on.
After a good ten minutes of boring, repetitive driving, the man finally came to an intersection. A second dirt road crossed over the first one. Upon seeing this, he stopped his vehicle- an extremely old and rusted car whose make and model he neither knew nor cared. The car wasn't his, anyway; he stole it from a junkyard shortly after leaving his home. He knew he was taking far too many risks, but at the moment, he didn't care. All he knew were the stories that were told in the local bar. And if there was even the slightest chance that they were true...
The man exited the vehicle, a small metal box clutched tightly in his increasingly sweaty left hand, and a small trowel in his right. He warily walked out to the middle of the intersection and started digging. This did not last too long; once he threw the trowel aside, he had merely produced a small hole in the road, just big enough to contain the metal box. Sure enough, this was exactly what he put into the hole. He then reached for the small pile of dirt he had dug up, but stopped.
"Oh, yeah," he muttered. "Almost forgot."
The man reached into the back pocket of his blue jeans and withdrew an ordinary brown wallet. He opened it up, and took from within a small, rectangular piece of plastic; his driver's license. Pausing only to reflect on the DMV's apparent talent for hiring the worst photographers in the world, the man opened the lid of the box and laid the driver's license down atop the odd assortment of items already within. Once this was done, he closed the box back up, and stood up to his full (yet rather unremarkable) height. Using his left foot, he pushed the dirt back into the hole, leaving a small bulge in the road.
Now very anxious, the man looked all around, beads of sweat falling from his head onto his black t-shirt, though the night was in fact rather cool. Indeed, it was the aforementioned anxiety which caused the youth's unruly black hair to be saturated. When nothing seemed to happen, the man became rather irritated.
"ALL RIGHT!" he roared into the night. "WHERE ARE YOU, YOU SON OF A *****?!"
"Temper, temper," came a strange voice from behind him. The man wheeled around, and found himself facing a man who had most certainly not been there two seconds ago. He thought the voice odd because even though it was slightly gravelly, it also had a refined air to it, probably due to the Cockney accent in which it was spoken. The source of the voice appeared to be approaching middle age, as evidenced by his receding hairline, and he was wearing what had to be a very expensive suit.
"So," the young man said, his own voice now shaking in nervousness, "are you-?"
"Indeed I am," the newcomer interrupted in that same voice. "The name's Crowley."
"I'm-"
"You don't need to introduce yourself to me," Crowley interrupted. "I know all about you. So... I heard you like Mudkips?"
"You know why I'm here, then," the man replied.
"Oh, yes," Crowley replied as he began to slowly circle the black-haired, perspiring 21-year-old. "I know all of your obsession with this... Pokémon thing all the kids are into. I know how your obsession cost you any semblance of a social life. And I know how your obsession grew so intense that it made real life unbearable by comparison."
Wordlessly, the man nodded. So far, Crowley had hit the nail on the head.
"Which brings you here tonight," concluded Crowley.
"Can you do it?" the man asked, a vague hint of excitement in his voice. "Can you make Pokémon real?"
"I could," Crowley replied after a moment of apparent consideration. "It's difficult, but overall doable."
"So what are you waiting for, then?" the man practically shouted.
"My word, didn't your lovely mother ever teach you any manners?" Crowley inquired. "Or your charming father? That is, when he wasn't too busy lamenting over what a disgrace you were turning out to be? Have patience. I happen to have an extremely good reason for not granting your wish on demand like a bloody fairy godparent."
"What would that reason be?" the man asked, now trying and failing to keep a hint of annoyance out of his voice.
"Because it would require boatloads of unpleasant work which I am simply unwilling to do," Crowley replied smoothly. "It's not enough for me to snap my fingers and bring over six hundred new species into existence just like that. Have you any concept of how I would need to rewrite history? And that's not even getting into what I'm going to have to do to the bloody laws of physics. Think about it. Logically, the mere presence of all those Slugma and Magcargo would turn this entire rock into a roaring inferno within hours, if all of those Ice-types don't freeze it over first. Assuming, of course, we live to see this happen, given the sheer number of Pokémon that learn Smog and Poison Gas. Need I continue?"
"No," the man snapped. "I don't even know why I bothered with this in the first place." And he turned around and began to storm back to his stolen vehicle.
"There's your lack of patience showing again," Crowley sighed, betraying a hint of impatience himself. "I may not be able to bring the Pokémon to you. But I can do the next best thing. I can bring you to the Pokémon." This made his potential customer stop abruptly and slowly turn back around.
"I'm listening," the man replied.
"I can transport you to the world of Pokémon," Crowley said simply. "In fact, I can even turn back the clock for you a bit. Shave eleven years off your age for you. You'd be ten again, same age as when you first discovered Pokémon."
"You can do that?!" the man exclaimed, all nervousness gone from him now.
"They don't call me 'King of the Crossroads' for nothing," Crowley replied. "Now then, let's talk price."
"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," nodded the man. "You want my soul."
"Not right away, no," Crowley assured him. "You get ten years. Ten years, then I come to collect."
"Interesting," the man nodded. "But see, I have an idea for an alternate payment plan you might be interested in."
"Do tell," Crowley said, mild intrigue showing in his voice.
In response, the man walked towards the rusted heap of scrap metal he had driven to the crossroads in the first place, and motioned for Crowley to follow. As he did so, he noticed a balding, black-haired man in the backseat. He was tied up, gagged, and at the moment, unconscious.
"Instead of getting me in ten years," the man explained, as he pointed at the figure in the car, "You get him, right here, right now."
"Hmm," murmured Crowley as he looked over the unconscious man's body. "Your dear father, I presume?"
"As far as I'm concerned, he's no father of mine," the youth replied, bitterness in his voice. "He's just nothing but an unsupportive, uncaring, selfish grouch who only cares about having a wealthy and successful son to carry on the family name."
"It's unorthodox, definitely," mused Crowley. "I've never had anyone offer up the soul of someone else. Then again, I don't believe there's a rule against it. It seems you're the first one depraved enough to think of it."
"And he's all yours," the youth stated, ignoring Crowley's murmurs.
"So you really wish to do this?" Crowley asked. "You're actually willing to sell me your father's soul- send him directly to hell- just so you can live your dream?"
"Yes," the man replied without hesitation. "Oh, and if it's OK, I have a few conditions to add on."
"Ordinarily I'd advise against pushing your luck like this," said Crowley. "However, I find your levels of depravity refreshing. It's a rare thing to behold, even in this day and age. Name your terms."
"Alright, you know how you're turning back the clock, making me ten years old again?" the youth said. "Make it permanent. I don't want to age."
"Don't want to age?" Crowley repeated in mild surprise.
"Aging has brought me nothing but trouble," the man answered darkly. "Puberty was awkward enough the first time around. Second, I want the same thing done to my mother. You send her with me, take off eleven years, and freeze her at that age. However, I want her memory modified. Make her think she's lived her whole life in the Pokémon world."
"A second age regression, a second age freeze, and a memory modification on top?" said Crowley. "A tall order, for sure."
"Taller than bringing Pokémon into this world?" retorted the man.
"Touché," Crowley nodded, betraying a slight grin. "It's a shame I'm not getting your soul. You've got the makings of a real crossroads demon in you."
"I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment," said the man.
"Take it any way you want," Crowley replied. "So to sum it up, you want you and your mother to be shipped off to the world of Pokémon and made younger by eleven years each."
"Yep," nodded the man.
"And you want to remain that same age for the rest of eternity?"
"Yep."
"And in exchange, I get to throw your dear daddy into that fiery pit right away?"
"Yep."
"It's a tall order," Crowley stated, "but I have to admit, you bring forward a most enticing payment plan. We have a deal. Oh, and I'll even throw one more thing in, just because I like your style. The memory wipe you've ordered for your mum? You'll get one yourself, free of charge. You won't have to recall a second of your wretched existence in this world."
"Good, good, that's good," nodded the man. "You won't wipe out my knowledge about Pokémon, though, right?" he added in a slightly worried tone.
"Not all of it, no," said Crowley. "I was thinking I wipe out a good chunk of it, however. Start you off with limited knowledge, add a bit of surprise and adventure to the mix. You like adventure, don't you?"
The man opened his mouth, clearly about to protest, then thought it over for a moment and shrugged instead. "Fair enough. I suppose it would put me at a bit of an unfair advantage to know all that I know right now."
"It strikes me as humorous," Crowley mused, "that anyone who would sell their father's soul for anything would care at all about whether or not something is fair."
"You never met him," the youth stated firmly. "You never had to live with the man. So how do we seal this deal anyway?"
In response, Crowley pulled his customer in close and kissed him passionately on the mouth.
"Bleah!" exclaimed the young man as the crossroads demon finally stopped. "What was that for?!"
"It's how these deals get done," Crowley replied smoothly. "They get sealed with a kiss. Or did those drunks who told you of this operation neglect to mention that bit?"
"Did you have to use tongue?" asked the now slightly nauseated man.
"Chin up," Crowley assured him. "This will be one of the first memories I wipe clean from your brain."
"Good," stated the man. "Do it, then. Now, if you please."
"Very well," nodded Crowley. "Bon voyage, Mr. Ketchum." Crowley snapped his fingers, and Ash immediately vanished into thin air. Smirking to himself in a satisfied way, Crowley turned around and walked off towards the car to collect his payment.
DISCLAIMER! I do not own Pokémon or Supernatural, nor do I pretend to. I do not intend to profit off of this story in any way, shape, or form.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a night like any other, or so it would seem. The full moon shone brightly over a lonely, grass-choked landscape, accompanied by the billions of trillions of stars. As out-of-the-way places in the countryside like these were among a minority of locations where one's view of the night sky was never spoiled by streetlights or pollution, it truly was a sight to behold.
One young man, however, took no notice of this otherwise awe-inspiring sight as he drove down a lonely dirt road, which was flanked on either side by tall grass. He instead looked straight ahead, the expression on his face clearly stating that whatever he was about to do, he wasn't sure if it was the best idea. He seemed determined to go through with it, however, and drove on.
After a good ten minutes of boring, repetitive driving, the man finally came to an intersection. A second dirt road crossed over the first one. Upon seeing this, he stopped his vehicle- an extremely old and rusted car whose make and model he neither knew nor cared. The car wasn't his, anyway; he stole it from a junkyard shortly after leaving his home. He knew he was taking far too many risks, but at the moment, he didn't care. All he knew were the stories that were told in the local bar. And if there was even the slightest chance that they were true...
The man exited the vehicle, a small metal box clutched tightly in his increasingly sweaty left hand, and a small trowel in his right. He warily walked out to the middle of the intersection and started digging. This did not last too long; once he threw the trowel aside, he had merely produced a small hole in the road, just big enough to contain the metal box. Sure enough, this was exactly what he put into the hole. He then reached for the small pile of dirt he had dug up, but stopped.
"Oh, yeah," he muttered. "Almost forgot."
The man reached into the back pocket of his blue jeans and withdrew an ordinary brown wallet. He opened it up, and took from within a small, rectangular piece of plastic; his driver's license. Pausing only to reflect on the DMV's apparent talent for hiring the worst photographers in the world, the man opened the lid of the box and laid the driver's license down atop the odd assortment of items already within. Once this was done, he closed the box back up, and stood up to his full (yet rather unremarkable) height. Using his left foot, he pushed the dirt back into the hole, leaving a small bulge in the road.
Now very anxious, the man looked all around, beads of sweat falling from his head onto his black t-shirt, though the night was in fact rather cool. Indeed, it was the aforementioned anxiety which caused the youth's unruly black hair to be saturated. When nothing seemed to happen, the man became rather irritated.
"ALL RIGHT!" he roared into the night. "WHERE ARE YOU, YOU SON OF A *****?!"
"Temper, temper," came a strange voice from behind him. The man wheeled around, and found himself facing a man who had most certainly not been there two seconds ago. He thought the voice odd because even though it was slightly gravelly, it also had a refined air to it, probably due to the Cockney accent in which it was spoken. The source of the voice appeared to be approaching middle age, as evidenced by his receding hairline, and he was wearing what had to be a very expensive suit.
"So," the young man said, his own voice now shaking in nervousness, "are you-?"
"Indeed I am," the newcomer interrupted in that same voice. "The name's Crowley."
"I'm-"
"You don't need to introduce yourself to me," Crowley interrupted. "I know all about you. So... I heard you like Mudkips?"
"You know why I'm here, then," the man replied.
"Oh, yes," Crowley replied as he began to slowly circle the black-haired, perspiring 21-year-old. "I know all of your obsession with this... Pokémon thing all the kids are into. I know how your obsession cost you any semblance of a social life. And I know how your obsession grew so intense that it made real life unbearable by comparison."
Wordlessly, the man nodded. So far, Crowley had hit the nail on the head.
"Which brings you here tonight," concluded Crowley.
"Can you do it?" the man asked, a vague hint of excitement in his voice. "Can you make Pokémon real?"
"I could," Crowley replied after a moment of apparent consideration. "It's difficult, but overall doable."
"So what are you waiting for, then?" the man practically shouted.
"My word, didn't your lovely mother ever teach you any manners?" Crowley inquired. "Or your charming father? That is, when he wasn't too busy lamenting over what a disgrace you were turning out to be? Have patience. I happen to have an extremely good reason for not granting your wish on demand like a bloody fairy godparent."
"What would that reason be?" the man asked, now trying and failing to keep a hint of annoyance out of his voice.
"Because it would require boatloads of unpleasant work which I am simply unwilling to do," Crowley replied smoothly. "It's not enough for me to snap my fingers and bring over six hundred new species into existence just like that. Have you any concept of how I would need to rewrite history? And that's not even getting into what I'm going to have to do to the bloody laws of physics. Think about it. Logically, the mere presence of all those Slugma and Magcargo would turn this entire rock into a roaring inferno within hours, if all of those Ice-types don't freeze it over first. Assuming, of course, we live to see this happen, given the sheer number of Pokémon that learn Smog and Poison Gas. Need I continue?"
"No," the man snapped. "I don't even know why I bothered with this in the first place." And he turned around and began to storm back to his stolen vehicle.
"There's your lack of patience showing again," Crowley sighed, betraying a hint of impatience himself. "I may not be able to bring the Pokémon to you. But I can do the next best thing. I can bring you to the Pokémon." This made his potential customer stop abruptly and slowly turn back around.
"I'm listening," the man replied.
"I can transport you to the world of Pokémon," Crowley said simply. "In fact, I can even turn back the clock for you a bit. Shave eleven years off your age for you. You'd be ten again, same age as when you first discovered Pokémon."
"You can do that?!" the man exclaimed, all nervousness gone from him now.
"They don't call me 'King of the Crossroads' for nothing," Crowley replied. "Now then, let's talk price."
"Oh, yeah, I heard about that," nodded the man. "You want my soul."
"Not right away, no," Crowley assured him. "You get ten years. Ten years, then I come to collect."
"Interesting," the man nodded. "But see, I have an idea for an alternate payment plan you might be interested in."
"Do tell," Crowley said, mild intrigue showing in his voice.
In response, the man walked towards the rusted heap of scrap metal he had driven to the crossroads in the first place, and motioned for Crowley to follow. As he did so, he noticed a balding, black-haired man in the backseat. He was tied up, gagged, and at the moment, unconscious.
"Instead of getting me in ten years," the man explained, as he pointed at the figure in the car, "You get him, right here, right now."
"Hmm," murmured Crowley as he looked over the unconscious man's body. "Your dear father, I presume?"
"As far as I'm concerned, he's no father of mine," the youth replied, bitterness in his voice. "He's just nothing but an unsupportive, uncaring, selfish grouch who only cares about having a wealthy and successful son to carry on the family name."
"It's unorthodox, definitely," mused Crowley. "I've never had anyone offer up the soul of someone else. Then again, I don't believe there's a rule against it. It seems you're the first one depraved enough to think of it."
"And he's all yours," the youth stated, ignoring Crowley's murmurs.
"So you really wish to do this?" Crowley asked. "You're actually willing to sell me your father's soul- send him directly to hell- just so you can live your dream?"
"Yes," the man replied without hesitation. "Oh, and if it's OK, I have a few conditions to add on."
"Ordinarily I'd advise against pushing your luck like this," said Crowley. "However, I find your levels of depravity refreshing. It's a rare thing to behold, even in this day and age. Name your terms."
"Alright, you know how you're turning back the clock, making me ten years old again?" the youth said. "Make it permanent. I don't want to age."
"Don't want to age?" Crowley repeated in mild surprise.
"Aging has brought me nothing but trouble," the man answered darkly. "Puberty was awkward enough the first time around. Second, I want the same thing done to my mother. You send her with me, take off eleven years, and freeze her at that age. However, I want her memory modified. Make her think she's lived her whole life in the Pokémon world."
"A second age regression, a second age freeze, and a memory modification on top?" said Crowley. "A tall order, for sure."
"Taller than bringing Pokémon into this world?" retorted the man.
"Touché," Crowley nodded, betraying a slight grin. "It's a shame I'm not getting your soul. You've got the makings of a real crossroads demon in you."
"I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment," said the man.
"Take it any way you want," Crowley replied. "So to sum it up, you want you and your mother to be shipped off to the world of Pokémon and made younger by eleven years each."
"Yep," nodded the man.
"And you want to remain that same age for the rest of eternity?"
"Yep."
"And in exchange, I get to throw your dear daddy into that fiery pit right away?"
"Yep."
"It's a tall order," Crowley stated, "but I have to admit, you bring forward a most enticing payment plan. We have a deal. Oh, and I'll even throw one more thing in, just because I like your style. The memory wipe you've ordered for your mum? You'll get one yourself, free of charge. You won't have to recall a second of your wretched existence in this world."
"Good, good, that's good," nodded the man. "You won't wipe out my knowledge about Pokémon, though, right?" he added in a slightly worried tone.
"Not all of it, no," said Crowley. "I was thinking I wipe out a good chunk of it, however. Start you off with limited knowledge, add a bit of surprise and adventure to the mix. You like adventure, don't you?"
The man opened his mouth, clearly about to protest, then thought it over for a moment and shrugged instead. "Fair enough. I suppose it would put me at a bit of an unfair advantage to know all that I know right now."
"It strikes me as humorous," Crowley mused, "that anyone who would sell their father's soul for anything would care at all about whether or not something is fair."
"You never met him," the youth stated firmly. "You never had to live with the man. So how do we seal this deal anyway?"
In response, Crowley pulled his customer in close and kissed him passionately on the mouth.
"Bleah!" exclaimed the young man as the crossroads demon finally stopped. "What was that for?!"
"It's how these deals get done," Crowley replied smoothly. "They get sealed with a kiss. Or did those drunks who told you of this operation neglect to mention that bit?"
"Did you have to use tongue?" asked the now slightly nauseated man.
"Chin up," Crowley assured him. "This will be one of the first memories I wipe clean from your brain."
"Good," stated the man. "Do it, then. Now, if you please."
"Very well," nodded Crowley. "Bon voyage, Mr. Ketchum." Crowley snapped his fingers, and Ash immediately vanished into thin air. Smirking to himself in a satisfied way, Crowley turned around and walked off towards the car to collect his payment.
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