Damned plot bunnies. Le sigh. I curse them, and the burrow they come from.


Chapter Three

"Uh-huh... okay... yeah, well, you take care with that, bye," Sam cut the call.

"No takers?" queried Bobby.

"Not so far," Sam replied. "All the Hunters in the immediate to middle-distance area are dealing with other things." He frowned at one of the tablets. "It keeps getting people hurt, anyway. We really need to get someone in to do a definitive recon before somebody tackles it. We still don't even know exactly what it is!"

"I've been wonderin' about that," said Bobby. "And I've been wonderin' if the problem might be the people who've been going after it."

"How so?" asked Sam.

Before Bobby could answer, they heard the yelling, the screaming, the barking, and then the crashing. And then more yelling.

Sam dropped what he was doing and headed straight outside.

"Dean!" he yelled, "Dean! Was that you?"

In the yard, he was greeted by the sight of a downed ladder, his brother sprawling on the ground yodelling in pain, and a young woman with black eyes also screaming in pain. Dean was presumably in pain because he'd fallen from the ladder. The young demon was presumably screaming in pain because she was dripping wet with holy water, and also because old Shiloh had hold of one of her arms and was growling almost subsonically, her clouding old eyes glowing the red of stoked embers, whilst the pups darted in and out, yapping and barking, their little eyes crackling red, to bite at her legs.

"Balls," humphed Bobby.

Sam went straight to his brother, and out of long habit went into triage mode. "Leg," he said, running his eyes over his brother's prone form. "Shoulder?"

"I'm okay," grimaced Dean, "But it feels like the trick shoulder got banged good on landing. Thanks to that black-eyed bitch!" he shouted. "She pushed the ladder over!"

"I didn't touch him!" the demon yelled back, "He was reaching for the hole under the eaves, and the ladder was too far to the left, so he leaned, and he fell! I didn't get near him before this animal grabbed me! Owwwwww!" she wailed, as Shiloh adjusted her grip. "Let go, you stupid old thing!" She glared at Dean. "And he drenched me with holy water! OWWWWWW! You little bastards! Stop that! Call them off!"

"Old don't mean harmless," grinned Bobby. "That applies to Hunters, and their dogs."

"Serves you right for pushing over my ladder, you fucking bitch!" yelled Dean.

"You fell off all by yourself, you stupid old bastard!" she shot back.

"I didn't! You pushed me!" Dean snapped.

"You did so, you doddering pensioner!" the demon insisted. "And you didn't have to soak me with holy water, asshole!"

"I didn't fall!"

"You did!'

"I didn't"

"You did!'

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Shaddap!" ordered Bobby. The demon and Dean glowered at each other.

"Hold still, Dean," Sam instructed, grabbing out his cell to call an ambulance. "Bobby?"

"I'll deal with missy, here," Bobby assured him, "You just get some responsible adults to deal with your brother."

"Get this damned dog to let go of me, and I'll deal with him," hissed the demon-woman.

"Get me on my feet, Sam, and I'll send this piece of shit right back to Hell," Dean snarled back. "I haven't even started on you, you chunk of infernal rack scum!"

"Okay, children, playtime's over," Bobby instructed, gesturing to the demon. "Come on you, let's get out of sight."

Bobby supervised the dragging of the demon into one of the sheds and into the middle of a demon's trap, and left Shiloh watching her.

"Sit! Stay!" he ordered. "I'll be back."

"If you think leaving a geriatric old mutt to guard me..."

"I wasn't talkin' to the dog, asshole," Bobby snapped. "Now, you just shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down and stay the fuck put, and maybe I won't let her tear you right out of your meatsuit and chew on you until you're reduced to nothing but a particularly fragrant dog fart." He left her protesting indignantly at the way the puppies kept darting in to bite at her, and went back out to where Dean was still frothing at the mouth with indignant anger.

An ambulance duly arrived, and a pair of paramedics began their assessment of the patient.

"Sir, can you tell me what happened?" one of them asked Dean.

"He fell off the ladder, didn't you Dean?" prompted Sam.

"Only because that asshole pushed me!" snapped Dean unthinkingly.

"You were pushed?" the paramedic frowned.

Imaginary friend, mouthed Sam over Dean's head.

The paramedics duly confirmed Sam's diagnoses of broken leg and dislocated shoulder, and duly attempted futilely to get Dean to calm down. For his part, Dean duly continued to insist that he wasn't that badly hurt, and to rant angrily and duly threaten to kill that bitch because goddammit she'd pushed him, while the middle-aged EMT who radiated a megawatt I've Seen It All Before field calmly put an inflatable splint onto his leg, helped her colleague to wrangle him onto the stretcher, threatened him with sedation if he didn't calm down, then made a discreet jotting of GOM (for Grumpy Old Man) in the margins of the Patient Assessment, along with a note that a psych consult might not be a bad idea.

Bobby waved off the ambulance, with Sam following in the Impala, having extracted a promise from the younger Winchester to keep him updated. Once it was out of sight, he fetched a few things from the house, then went back to the shed. Shiloh was still staring menacingly at the demon, who was still swatting at the puppies, who continued to dart in and out, nipping at her legs.

Seeing Bobby with the demon-killing knife, she eyed it warily.

"What are you going to do?" she asked tentatively.

"What I'd really like to do is put this pig sticker between your ribs and watch you burn from the inside out," Bobby chortled, "But I'm keen to try to get your victim out of this alive. You just hang on in there, girl," he added, "So I'm gonna do the equivalent of send you to the Principal's office," he smiled grimly. He nicked his hand with the blade, and let a few drops of blood fall into the goblet he'd set on the bench.

He didn't have to wait long before his call was answered; there was a small 'whoosh' of displaced air.

"Bobby!" Crowley smiled, and the teacup poodle at his feet wagged her tail. "Long time, no summons! How long is it now? It must be five years?"

"It's six," Bobby informed him gruffly, before smiling and bending to pat the little poodle, who greeted him happily. "Hello, pup, how you doin'?" She kissed his hand lavishly.

Crowley sighed, apparently saddened by the fact that his dog had received a welcome so much warmer than the one extended to him. "It's such a shame when people can't find time in their busy lives to stay in touch. I'd love to drop in more frequently, just when I'm passing through, pop in to say hello, maybe bring you a bottle of something more respectable than the rotgut you drink," he waved the bottle of single malt he was carrying, "I still have hopes of educating your palate, Bobby, but there's the little matter of getting through those pesky wards, darling, if you could do something about them..."

"Oh, I will," Bobby assured him. "For a start, I'll be putting a bit more oomph into the ones along the west fenceline."

You look great," Crowley went on, "You are ageing well, love, like a robust red, or one of those cheeses with personality that the French are so fond of. You are a great big wonderful chunk of Roquefort in a hat, Bobby, complete with blue streaks! Maybe the rotgut is having remarkable preservative results." He peered around behind Bobby. "Where are your pets? Don't tell me they've got themselves silver inlaid walking sticks and consecrated wheelchairs and are still harassing the restless dead?" He stepped closer as Bobby opened the trap he'd been summoned into. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this long-overdue-yet-much-appreciated invitation?"

"You can thank madam there," Bobby growled, waving a hand at the demon, who looked as deflated as a student sent to the office to explain her conduct. Crowley frowned at her, and she wilted further.

"I didn't touch him!" she complained, "He fell off all by himself!"

"Dean was up a ladder," explained Bobby, "He claims she pushed it over."

"I DIDN'T!" whined the demon.

"But you were going to, weren't you, hmmmmmm?" Crowley prompted. "Come on, I know the way your demony little mind works, I am one, remember?" The she-demon looked suitably guilty. "So, what were you doing pushing Winchester the Elder..."

"I didn't," she muttered sullenly.

"All right, what were you doing, lurking, watching Winchester the Elder fall off his ladder?" Crowley finished.

The demon's meatsuit actually blushed. "It was... it was a dare," she mumbled.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. "A dare?"

She nodded. "Some of the other new demons on my level," she went on shamefacedly, "They talked about the Winchesters, and there were these stories, and they were so far-fetched it was laughable, and, and, so they dared me to try to kill one, and..."

"And so you didn't want to look silly in front of your new friends," Crowley finished for her. "I'm so sorry, Bobby," he apologised to the old Hunter, "Youngsters, eh? Won't be told. We were never like that, were we? What are they teaching them these days? I'm quite sure," he turned back to the demon and bent a stern eye on her, "That the topic of the Winchesters would've been covered in your induction."

She looked guilty.

"And I am also quite sure that I mentioned it not three months ago, at the Departmental Meeting," he continued, "Which I'm sure you were at, since attendance is compulsory for all demons under the age of 100 Topside years, yes?"

She found something rivetingly interesting to look at on the ground.

"And it's a standing item on the weekly bulletin, which is sent to every address," he nodded, "And as a bright, eager young thing, fresh off the rack, I'm certain that you check your email at least weekly, don't you?"

She fidgeted uncomfortably.

Crowley sighed. "Kids today, Bobby," he lamented, "Kids today, they have no idea. No idea. None at all. It's very important, dear trembling little minion, to remember that there are various Infernal... contracts and arrangements in place," Crowley lectured the young demon. "And while they may seem peculiar, strange, incomprehensible or just stupid to you, they may be very important in the Grand Scheme Of Things, which is to say, MY Scheme Of Things, because as King of Hell, I put these things in place for a reason, yes?" The demon nodded warily. "Now, I don't expect you to understand, I just expect you to do what you're told. The embargo on trying to kill the Winchesters is in place because I say it is. That is all you need to know. You can be assured that there is method in the madness – at the very least it's an OH&S issue, because you're going to get yourself hurt – but you don't need to be appraised of the details..."

"By a strange twist of happenstance, Dean is the Dominican, Lord of the Hellhounds," Bobby cheerfully informed the demon, "And if a demon tries to kill him or his, he'll get annoyed, and he may summon the Alpha of the Infernal Pack to Hunt instead, and throw Hell's collection of wicked souls into chaos."

"Yes, well, as I said, you don't need to be appraised of the details," Crowley waved a hand dismissively as the demon's eyes widened, "The point here is, the point is, you have been a naughty demon, a very naughty demon, a very naughty demon indeed. And naughty demons must be punished, to teach them not to be naughty, and to set an example against naughtiness for other demons." Crowley paused and looked thoughtful. "So, for this act of naughty naughtiness, you will re-read the Standard Operating Procedures for you level, and for all Topside activities..."

The demon gasped in horror.

"...And spend the next Topside year as Litter Tray Monitor for my own dear companion, Gedda the Hellpoodle," he finished.

"No!" shrieked the she-demon, dropping to her knees with her eyes brimming, "Not the litter tray!"

"Yes, dear, the litter tray," Crowley confirmed. "You can start now. You might want to double glove, since Gedda has had a bit of a tummy upset recently, haven't you, poor thing?" He reached down to scratch the little Hellpoodle's ears. "I think she ate someone who disagreed with her..." With a casual wave of his hand, he sent the wailing demon smoking out of her meatsuit and back to Hell, presumably to begin her scatalogical duties.

"There really was no need to let that little piece of information out, Bobby," sighed Crowley a little reproachfully. "I have enough trouble keeping the Hierarchy of Hell out of my hair as it is. And the little devils, if you'll pardon the pun, do love to gossip. Honestly, I've been down to the lower Circles, it's worse than a hairdressing salon or a fashion workshop..."

"I'm sure you'll manage PR damage control, Your Majesty," Bobby answered dismissively, bending to check that the young woman the demon had possessed was indeed alive.

"So, now that we have that thoughtless little wretch out of the way, why don't you invite me in for a drink?" suggested Crowley, waving his bottle. "We have so much to catch up on. You can tell me all about Rocky and Bullwinkle and their slide into bickering senility. This is a particularly good Islay, Caol Ila, 25 years old, and while it's quite a peaty one, it's very smooth, and I think..."

"If I'd wanted to hear from an asshole, Crowley, I'd just have farted," Bobby snapped at him.

"Bobby, darling, you wound me," Crowley said in a hurt voice.

"Only in my dreams, and fatally," grunted Bobby. "While you're here, I need to know: do you have any asshat demons playin' merry hell, pardon my pun, in a retirement home north of here?"

Crowley looked thoughtful. "Let me check," he mused, pulling out a DPA and tapping at it. "Hmmmmm... I've got a few who've made deals. Quite good pickings, places like that – the reality of death concentrates the mind wonderfully once the arthritis fairy comes to visit, 'Depend' becomes a brand name and not just a verb, and people realise that they're not going to live forever after all. For those who've sipped life in their prime must gulp it down at closing time..."

"I'm not interested in your business model," Bobby growled.

"All right, all right, patience, love... no, none of mine," the King of Hell replied, "Whatever it is, it's not demonic."

Bobby grunted an acknowledgement. "Fine. You can go now."

Crowley looked surprised. "Bobby..."

"Don't let the door hit your ass on your way out," the old Hunter added, turning to leave the shed.

"Wait! Wait!" yelped Crowley. "Bobby, we haven't seen each other for six years, mate!" He waved the bottle of whisky like a lion tamer waving a chair at a particularly grumpy lion. "Wouldn't you at least like a drink?"

Bobby considered that. "I would," he conceded. "So leave the bottle."

"But I wanted to talk to you!" Crowley burst out, "Please Bobby!"

Bobby pulled up an old folding chair, and sat down heavily. "Fine," he snapped, "So talk. Quickly."

Crowley put on his most winning smile. "Bobby, you're not getting any younger," he began.

"Agin' at the rate of one day, per day, like everybody else," Bobby nodded. "So?"

"Well, what I'm getting at, is, well, you know," Crowley gestured vaguely, "The arthritis fairy, Depend, it doesn't have to be like that..."

"No," Bobby told him firmly.

"You haven't even heard my offer!" Crowley said hurriedly. "You could have another twenty, twenty-five years, with the health of an eighty-year-old, a seventy-year-old, you could just tell people that it was all that healthy living..."

"No," repeated Bobby.

"I'm getting to the good bit!" Crowley insisted, "I don't want you on the racks, Bobby, I want you on the Board! Senior Exec Management! I could use your help!" His voice turned pleading. "You have no idea what they're like, Bobby, no idea. Demons are so, so, so... recalcitrant!"

"Really?" Bobby raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

"They're unreasonable, they're archaic, they refuse to get with the program!" Crowley told him. "And there is absolutely no management talent Down There! Not that I can trust, anyway. But you, you have talent, Bobby, you can multitask, you don't take crap from anybody, and you have job relevant experience, and your corporate knowledge is extensive..."

"No," Bobby said again.

"It's not like you'd have to wear a suit," Crowley wheedled, "Every day can be Casual Friday! I can make peaked caps part of the uniform!"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" scoffed Bobby. "No!"

"I'm desperate, Bobby," Crowley said wistfully, "I'm surrounded by fools, morons, bullies and self-absorbed egotists who can't see past the end of the next private feud, they have no idea about running a business, and no vision beyond their own immediate interests, they drive me mad and I have nobody to confide in, it's lonely at the top..."

"I'm gonna count to three," warned Bobby, getting up and lifting a shotgun from behind a work bench, "Then I'm gonna test out some of my Anti-Demon Mark XXII rounds on you."

"I just want somebody to talk to!" cried Crowley, "I admit it! I get lonely! They're all idiots! I enjoy your company Bobby, love, and I desperately want to wean you off that kerosene masquerading as liquor and that's going to take longer than the rest of your mortal life!"

Bobby cocked the gun.

"I still have that photo on an old phone, you know!" squeaked Crowley.

"Three!" yelled Bobby, pulling the trigger.

Crowley vanished in a wailing cloud of expanding black smoke.

Bobby looked down at Gedda the Hellpoodle. "Go on," he told her, "He's had his feelings hurt. Go console him." She wagged her tail and woofed happily, then disappeared.

Bobby shook his head. Idjits. The idjits were everywhere. And he had confirmation that idjitry was not confined to the mortal plane – an idjit was running Hell. And a species of well-meaning idjit was running Heaven. Wherever he went after death, he thought glumly, he'd probably end up having to sort it out himself, because chances were, there would be idjits in charge. Some days, it was tempting just to go with the flow, put his shorts on his head, and head to the nearest cat shelter to stock up.

With that suitably gloomy thought, he headed back to the house to wait for news from Sam.


Reviews are the Ride With The Winchester Of Your Choice in the Ambulance Of Life!*

*There isn't much room on one of those stretchers, so you'll have to squeeze up.