Chapter Four
Two days, a pot of soup and an avalanche of used tissues later, Bobby and Sam were no closer to figuring out what was going on.
"Nothing," Sam humphed, sitting back and rubbing his eyes, "I cannot find a damned thing that even hints at what's going on here."
"I'll second that," sighed Bobby glumly, taking off his hat and scratching his head.
"I mean, the closest I got was a description of the Spanish Flu, the global pandemic that went round the world in 1918," Sam continued, "But that wasn't the least bit occult, it was just a perfect storm of coincidental conditions: it was just a very ordinary and completely natural orthomyxovirus that probably jumped from poultry to humans, possibly via pigs…"
"I been thinkin' about that," mused Bobby. "If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…"
There was a sudden startling explosion of noise from upstairs.
"…And sneezes like a duck, maybe we aint lookin' for a phoenix after all, but somethin' more ordinary..."
There was a beep from Sam's watch, and he groaned and stood up.
Bobby headed for the kitchen and fetched two mugs of soup, while Sam headed for the laundry and returned with a bucket, a pair of gloves, and a pair of long-handled tongs. Together they headed up the stairs.
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The Sheriff of Heaven and the King of Hell did not look like death warmed up; death warmed up would have been a far more cheerful, hale and hearty sight.
"Why must I share a room with that feathered fool?" croaked Crowley, sounding like an overtired toddler. "He snores!"
"So do you," snapped Dean, paused in the act of trying to feed some soup to a mournful-looking Castiel, who was propped up with pillows in the bed on the other side of the room. "And you sneeze louder."
"And worse," griped Sam, as he moved about the room, picking up the numerous tissues with the tongs and dropping them into the bucket. "Just how many rainforests are we gonna go through before this is done?"
"Hankies aint gonna cut it," Dean declared grimly, offering Castiel an encouraging smile. "Come on, buddy, just a couple of mouthfuls, it'll make you feel better."
"Oooooh, you fibber," snuffled Crowley, reaching listlessly for the box of tissues by his bed and honking into one – he was about to drop it, but Sam pointedly held out the bucket, and the demon dropped it in. "Feeding him double-strength placebos."
"Shut up! Ignore him, Cas," Dean instructed, waving the spoon enticingly, "Demons lie, everybody knows that, so c'mon, here comes the heavenly choo-choo, open up the Pearly Gates…"
"First off, Your Majesty, you're in here because I only got the one humidifier," growled Bobby. "Second, the two of you got the same symptoms, so it's more efficient to have you both in here seein' as what one needs the other is likely to need as well, third, we got no idea of what we're dealin' with and it makes sense to quarantine the two of ya until we got more intel, fourth, this way I'll only have to do a heavy duty decon job on one room when this clusterfuck is over, and lastly but most importantly, if you want shelter under my roof, you'll get what you're given and take what you get and be grateful. Otherwise," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "Door's that way. Don't let the screen bang you on the ass on your way out."
"I'm hurt rather than angry," moaned Crowley, snuffling into another tissue, "That you would act so callously towards me when I am so terribly under the weather."
"Crowley, I would cheerfully shoot your scheming ass full of iron shot, whether you're under the weather or flyin' at thirty thousand feet above it in first class," Bobby told the drooping demon, "But what you got looks to be linked to Feathers, so I'm willin' to tolerate you as a house guest until we figure this out."
"You make me feel so special," Crowley muttered, extracting a hot water bottle from his bedding. "A refill if you please, my good moose."
Muttering something about filling the kettle with holy water, Sam took the hottie and stalked out of the room.
Bobby proffered the other mug of soup to His Miserable Majesty. "Whatever this is that's makin' you sick, it does seem to respond in a strangely human way – the meds seem to have some alleviatin' effects, and Dean is right about the soup. It is practically medicinal, if you can get a few mouthfuls down."
"Very well." Crowley looked up at Bobby expectantly.
The old Hunter quirked an eyebrow at him. "What?"
"I said, 'very well'," repeated Crowley, "As in, I shall rally myself to eat some of this soup."
When he didn't move, Bobby proffered the mug again. "Well, what are you waitin' for? You look like a baby bird waitin' to be stuffed with worms."
"Ah, well," Crowley's eyes slid sideways. "Whilst I am grateful for your assistance and indulgence, such as it is, I cannot help but notice that there is a certain… disparity here."
"Disparity?" Sam echoed.
"Indeed," snuffled the King of Hell. "Over on that side of the room," he raised a hand briefly and gestured in the direction of Castiel, where Dean was wiping the angel's chin with a washcloth, "The patient care being provided is, it pains me to say it, of a somewhat, shall we say, more… attentive nature."
"More attentive, huh?" mused Bobby.
"Well, frankly, yes," Crowley continued, casting a look over at Castiel's bed again. "For I cannot help but notice that on that side of the room, there is a generous amount of pillow plumping, bedclothes fluffing and blanket fetching going on…"
"Really?" asked Bobby solicitously.
"…There was also soup feeding, and what I can only call doting encouragement…"
"Indeed?" tutted Bobby.
"…The uncomplaining and unsolicited preparation of hot lemon drinks…"
"My word."
"… I think I may even have spotted some gentle sponging of a fevered brow when he thought I was asleep…"
"Well, just fancy that."
"… And as for the rubbing on of Vicks, well, I understand that there is a certain demographic amongst fans of Edlund Carver's Supernatural books who would tear each other to pieces in a stampede if somebody was selling tickets…"
"Nothin' I haven't done for Sam when he's been sick," Dean growled. "Cas is family, and you aint."
Looking thoughtful, Bobby sat down on the end of Crowley's bed and smiled at the demon. "Well, if you think that you aint gettin' enough attention, I think we can fix that."
"Really?" asked Crowley in a small hopeful voice.
"Really," Bobby smiled, and patted his leg through the blankets. "I can always send a d-mail to Verael, let her know what's happening, and maybe she'll come and look after you, I bet she could find a retired Matron, maybe somebody who worked in the prison system for forty years…"
Crowley let out a horrified shriek, then broke into a bout of coughing. "No!" he rasped, "You cannot let anybody Downstairs know what's happened to me! They're like wolves, the minute they think they spot weakness in the leader they'll tear me to pieces!"
"Much as your sneezing is doing to these tissues," muttered Sam, returning with a replenished hot water bottle. then grimacing as he went about his clean-up once more.
"… And if you really want somebody to rub the Vicks on, I'll call Orgle, I'm sure he'd be as careful as he could possibly be, so if you're lucky you'll probably escape with a minor appendectomy…"
Crowley clutched the bedclothes to his chin as Bobby stood up. "You wound me, Bobby."
"Don't tempt me," the old man muttered as he left the room. "Behave yourself, asshat."
Crowley turned large, sad eyes on Sam, who smiled back like a friendly shark before following Bobby.
"Crowley, I wouldn't sing 'Soft Kitty' to you if you were actually dying. In fact, if you were dying, the only thing I'd want to sing would be the Hallelujah Chorus."
The King of Hell slumped back against his pillows. "There are days," he moaned, "There are days when I think nobody cares."
"Don't think it, know it," Dean smiled humourlessly as he picked up the mug and spoon. "Try to get some rest, Cas, we'll have this thing figured out before you know it."
"Thank you, Dean," rasped Castiel, "I shall try to sleep."
"Good man." With a smile for the angel, and a pointed glare for the demon, he left too. Crowley let out a small sad noise and pulled the bedclothes up over his head as silence settled over the sick room.
"It is not true that nobody cares, Crowley," Castiel said eventually. "I care. I want you to be well as soon as possible."
"Really?" asked a muffled voice from under the covers.
"Really."
"That's…" Crowley's head popped out from under the sheet. "That's very charitable of you."
"My Father would wish me to practise Charity towards you, as towards all other beings, I am sure," Castiel added.
"Well… thank you, Castiel."
Silence descended once more.
"Also, Dean is correct; you do snore, and it is very annoying. And so are your sneezes."
With a small wail, Crowley burrowed into the bedclothes once more.
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Dean yawned and stretched, then looked up gratefully as Sam put a toasted sandwich in front of him. "Thanks, bro," he smiled, then yawned. "Those two are hard work. It's like havin' you sick home from school, only twice the tissues."
"Was I as bad as that?" asked Sam plaintively.
"Well, you weren't quite as bad as Crowley," Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas is more of the stoic school, but Crowley, huh, the big tough demon is whiny, he's cranky, he'd be clingy if there was anybody willing to be the, uh, clingee." He bit into his sandwich. "So, any progress on the research front?"
"None whatsoever," reported Sam with a sigh. "There is nothing in Bobby's library that we can find that refers to a celestial or diabolical entity suffering from something that resembles a very human ailment…" He paused at the sound of tyres on the gravel outside. "Hey, Bobby, are you expecting anybody?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Bobby replied as he refilled is coffee. "I've been thinkin' about the way this resembles a human illness; I think we need some know-how in a less esoteric idiom, so I took the liberty of callin' in some help on this one."
There was a knock at the door, and Jimi and Janis went to answer it, barking their happy woofs of greeting. Bobby followed the dogs, and there was the sound of muted conversation before he returned accompanied by a tall man carrying a duffel and a doctor's bag.
"Ian!" Sam smiled and rose to shake the newcomer's hand. "Dude, how have you been?"
"Hey Sam," the older man replied, "Still here, still Hunting, being run ragged by my latest apprentice, who as it turns out is a complete smartass, which is why he's off on a salt-and-burn by himself while I'm here."
"Young Ryan chafin' at the training wheels, then?" Bobby grinned, referring to the young pre-turned rugaru that Ian had taken under his wing when the boy's father had turned and murdered the rest of his family.
"He's got an aptitude," Ian replied, "And he's as cocky as hell with it. Can't wait to get out of the nest and fly solo. I've been thinking of setting him an assignment, maybe sneaking up on Ronnie and putting a collar on her, to bring him back to Earth with an educational thump."
"Hmmmm, who does that remind me of?" Bobby wondered out loud, looking pointedly at Dean.
Dean glared at Bobby. "Why the hell did you pull Doctor Dracula into this?" he demanded without preamble.
"And hello to you too, Dean," Ian smiled widely, and let his fangs descend briefly just to see the scowl cross the older Winchester's face.
"Before he was a Hunter, he was a doctor," Bobby said firmly, "And he was lived through the Spanish Flu."
"No he didn't," protested Dean, "He wasn't alive. He, uh, he might've undeaded through it, but he didn't live through it."
"The point is," Bobby glared Dean into submission, "He was there when the Spanish Flu epidemic came and went. He's got job-relevant experience, and we need to pick his brain."
"While it's still inside my head and attached to the rest of me," added Ian with a sunny smile.
Dean was about to say something that was probably not going to be polite when the sound of another car pulling into the yard distracted him. "Jesus, Bobby, what are you doing here, throwing a party?"
"I figured we could use all the help we could get," Bobby shrugged, following the dogs as they left off pestering Ian for attention and headed for the door once more.
"Maybe we should just put an ad in the paper," griped Dean as the vampire helped himself to coffee, "Wanted: help to look after sick angel and demon, must be a freak with medical experience."
"I resent that," said a female voice, which was quickly followed by a middle-aged woman in a nun's habit. "Watch yourself, little brother, I can whup your fluffy but and you know it."
There you go, everybody's favourite Jimiverse vampire and nun - well done Florence. Actually, it sounds like the start of a joke.
A vampire doctor and a nun walk into a bar. Unfortunately, there are some old-fashioned vampires in the Dracula tradition there, and they are having a fight amongst themselves, and breaking the place up.
"Brawling vampires!" yelps the nun grasping the crucifix around her neck for reassurance, "How do we stop it?"
"Quickly, sister," replies the vampire doctor, "Show them your cross!"
So the nun stands on a chair and bellows, "Stop ruining my evening out you assholes or I'll start breaking heads!"
Ahem. Maybe we shouldn't drag anybody else in if it's going to result in terrible jokes...
Please send reviews, because Florence the plot bunny loves to nibble on them while she dictates.