Aaaaargh! Aaaaaargh! I HATE nested plot bunnies! I've got two on the go, but this little bastard jumped out of the dog food hopper and sank its teeth into my hand.

I'm pretty sure I know whose fault it is...

Denizens of the Jimiverse, as well as our Visitors, Lurkers and Droppers-In, will all be aware that the Jimiverse is well and truly AU; Bobby is alive and well, Singer Salvage was rebuilt, and Crowley, poor lonely Crowley, just wants a friend. This is partly because I haven't really watched the show since Season 5 (although it's impossible not to remain appraised of story arcs), and partly because I just don't do not-happy endings. Everybody has to be alive and happy at the end of the story (or, in Crowley's case, undead and no more miserable than is absolutely necessary for narrative continuity and hilarity). The Jimiverse has very little angst, and much more amusement than canon. Also more dogs. And better werewolves. And actual nudity. These are just a few of the reasons why I will never be employed on the writing team.

However, whenever there's some pivotal event in SPN canon, amongst the Denizens there is often an expression of interest as to what would theoretically happen if that event had taken place in the Jimiverse. And apparently, the last scene of the Season 9 finale (yikes!) is one of those moments, because somebody sent this little plot bunny. It jumped out of the dog food hopper.

So, if Season 10 was to kick off in the Jimiverse, with a good dose of crack, how would it unfold...?

Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, I'd have sent Dean to a self-esteem workshop, and Sam to the barber, by now.

Title: The Streaker's Defence, Or, A DEMONstrably Bad Idea

Rating: T. Because becoming a demon is unlikely to have improved Dean's language any.

Summary: The Streaker's Defence: It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it had; what he'd been hoping for was a fellow wolf to go for a bit of a prowl, not Ozzy bloody Osbourne with a muscle car, and no appreciation of Italian architecture. How I think Season 10 should kick off, with an absence of angst and a healthy dose of crack.

Blame: Lies entirely with whoever sent the damned plot bunny. I have my suspicions.

The Streaker's Defence, Or, a DEMONstrably Bad Idea

Chapter ONE

It was quiet. Too quiet. The sort of quiet that happened when a puppy went quiet: the absence of mayhem was just an indicator that it was doing something you just knew would finish up with a mess on the carpet.

The problem being, Dean was a demon, and whacking him with a rolled up newspaper just wouldn't help. (He knew that, because in a fit of desperation, a few days earlier, he'd tried it over breakfast. Dean had just laughed, and gone right back to practising his telekenesis on the toupée of the man sitting two tables away, whilst lifting piece of bacon from the plate of an extremely fat woman and transporting them to a stray dog in the street outside.)

With a small sigh, he made himself ignore the too-quiet quiet, and turned his attention back to the ancient tome he'd been combing for some way fix what had happened to Dean.

Not easy to do, when it was so quiet...

A sudden burst of raucous guitar music made him jump in his seat, and stifle a little scream. With an inward groan of despair, he left his book, and went looking for the noise.

Dean sat on a stool, holding a guitar. He played another arpeggio, turned it into a power chord, then looked up with a sunny smile. "Hey!" he chirped, "What do ya think?"

"That's... great, Dean," he sighed.

"I always wanted to play guitar," Dean positively bubbled with enthusiasm, "But there wasn't ever time or money for it, obviously." He played another chord. "But who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"

"Well, I'm... glad you've, er, found something of a, uh, hobby," he said, the strained smile plastered onto his face. "But, don't you think it might be better to, well, you know," he flapped a hand vaguely.

Dean's face became confused, his expression like that of a puppy who's just had a toy taken away and doesn't know why.. "What?" he asked.

"Just, you know," he waved again, "Play the guitar a bit more... unobtrusively."

Dean looked down at the guitar. "Oh. Oh. I get it." He reached down, and unplugged the small amplifier. The next chord he played sounded tinny, but a lot softer. "Hey, I'll get a set of headphones, and I can just jack into it, and be totally quiet!"

"That's a great idea," he nodded encouragingly, as Dean stood, clearly intent on heading to the nearest hi-fi store to grab a set of headphones.

"Hey, can we go have lunch at that place we went to yesterday?" asked Dean, with an engaging smile. "The food was totally awesome!"

"Maybe," he frowned sternly, "If you promise me that, in the event of somebody coming in to try to rob the place again, you do NOT suddenly make all their clothes tear off their body."

"I stopped the robbery," Dean said in a small voice.

"Yes, you did," he agreed.

"And it was totally hilarious!"

"Well, for a given value of 'hilarious', possibly," he said reluctantly, "But it would've been better to have done it, how do I put this..."

"More unobtrusively?" suggested Dean.

"Yes! Yes! That's exactly it!" he forced jollity into his tone, and Dean smiled sunnily once more. "So, why don't you head out, and get yourself a pair of headphones. Unobtrusively."

"I'll be right back," bubbled Dean, putting the guitar down.

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?" that sunny smile turned back onto him.

"While you're out, why don't you take Mr Hetfield's body back? Somebody's bound to notice he's not there. And he will probably want to use it again sometime. When he wakes up and resolves never to eat pizza before bedtime again, because it gave him such nightmares. And you don't want to leave yours lying about, somebody might get suspicious."

"Can I keep the guitar?" The wistfulness in Dean's voice would've melted the heart of Lucifer himself.

"Yeah, sure – no doubt he's got dozens, he won't miss one."

"Okay!" With a small fwomp of inrushing air, Dean disappeared.

He let out a long breath, and with it, another little noise of despair. His eyes turned back to the book he'd been reading, and he squared his shoulders. He was running out of ideas; he'd have to try the summoning, even though he'd rather chew through his own arm than face that smug face again, and wring some answers out of that bastard.

He grabbed the edge of the rug, to move it...

squelch

He let out a small yodel of outrage – Dean had acquired an entourage of Hellhounds that followed him around, like a litter of puppies following their biggest, cheekiest, and naughtiest sibling. Spending so much time topside was starting to teach them bad material plane habits, such as a taste for fried food, and that had inevitable gastrointestinal consequences.

With a determined scowl on his face, and Hellhound poo on his shoe, Crowley picked up the chalk, and began to mark the floor.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

I should cut back on this, mused Sam, contemplating the glass of liquor he held. Trouble was, the stuff that Dean kept bringing back with him was really good, not the cheap rotgut that they could usually afford, but really classy single malts. Smooth and delicious. And decidedly deadly.

Getting hammered didn't lift the despair over what his brother had become, but it did make it a bit fuzzier around the edges for a while.

He opened another book, and began to read. It was in German, which he didn't read well, but strangely enough, being on the way to three sheets to the wind made it less of a slog. But he was prepared to read it. Hell, he was prepared to eat it if it would help him find a way to dedemonize Dean.

He reached for his sandwich – less drinking and more proper food, he told himself sternly – and turned a page. Was this what it had been like for Dean, when his little brother had been wandering around soulless?

Well, it wasn't exactly the same thing, he reminded himself. Dean wasn't wandering around soulless. He wasn't without feelings. Demons weren't; they retained a lot of their human characteristics, and feelings, and lost others. Demons were self-interested, hedonistic creatures, with high opinions of their own self-worth. They definitely had what could only be called a twisted sense of fun, and they had no qualms about following their own whims for their own amusement. And they enjoyed nothing better than fighting with other demons.

He drew in a sharp breath as he felt momentarily dizzy. That's it, he told himself, putting down the glass, No more of this until Iiiiieeeeeeee...

There was a sudden sense of sideways...

Le sigh. Plot bunnies - the are as persistent as herpes. This one might even be named Fergus. Feed him reviews, and let's see where this goes.