WARNING: Just so you know, I'm an atheist who was sent to an Anglican school - I'm going to do some reinterpretation of a certain religious book here. If you take This Sort Of Thing seriously, you'll probably be offended. I don't know why, because clearly I'm the one going to hell, but I know how Fundies react... incidentally, I'm married to a traddy Catholic. He hears Mass in Latin. We have all sorts of fun with Jehovah's Witnesses when they knock on our door: "I'm sorry, we have an atheist and a traditional Catholic here - I think you're self-deluding idiots, and he thinks you're heretics who should be set on fire..." Anyway, for anyone who's not hung up about Special Imaginary Friends, let's read on...
Chapter 10
"Here, drink this," ordered Dean, proffering the chipped mug. Sam dropped the towel he'd been using to scrub at his hair – "Damn, I still don't think I got all the seeds out" – and peered at the drink.
"What's this?" he asked suspiciously.
"Camomile tea. To help you recover from the terrible shock to your nervous system," Dean told him. Sam sipped carefully, and made a face.
"Blerh! That's not camomile tea!"
"Yes it is!" Dean stated adamantly, "I made it for you. Girly-hair delicate little fainting-flower camomile tea. With some medicine in it. It's good for you."
"Medicine? What medicine?" demanded Sam, narrowing his eyes at his brother.
"Just a teeny little dose of Dr Jasper Newton Daniel's Ethanol-Based Anxiolytic Solution," answered Dean.
Sam wrinkled his nose. "Dean, this does not even qualify as tea with booze in it…"
"It's not booze when you put it in tea, Sam – that's medicine," declared Dean firmly.
"Whatever, it's not tea with 'medicine', it's a cup of JD, and maybe you waved a teabag over it, but…"
"Just drink it, Junior," directed Dean, "I want your delicate sensibilities adequately recovered for my judging gig tomorrow."
"Look, why don't I stay here, you don't want me hanging around ruining your puerile amusement," suggested Sam, "I've been working on a translation for Bobby, and I've reached a particularly intellectually engaging passage…"
"You are coming with me and Jimi," Dean informed him, in a tone that brooked no argument, "The fun nun is going to throw off his wimple – you are coming with me and you will have fun, whether you enjoy it or not."
Sam blinked at his brother. "Did you hear what you just said?"
"C'mon, Sam, it's vegetables! You like vegetables! You admire vegetables! You enjoy vegetables! You practically live on vegetables! If you didn't move around so much, I might think you were a vegetable. If you ever have kids, it will be by vegetative reproduction, seeing as you are determined never to get laid again…"
"All right! All right!" agreed Sam, "I'll come with you, if only to shut you up. I'll even hold your clipboard."
"Great," smiled Dean, "You can be my steward. We'll get you a badge that says 'Judge's Assistant'. Or 'Judge's Bitch', maybe."
"Be still my beating taste buds," muttered Sam, turning on his laptop as Dean called Jimi.
"Me and the J-Man will go clean up," said Dean, peeling off his vegetable-impregnated clothes and heading for the bathroom, "I expect you to have taken your medicine by the time we finish," he instructed. Sam flipped him off.
The noises from the bathroom were those usually associated with the dog having a bath: the last-ditch reluctant whining, the stern order from Dean that Jimi man up and get in the tub, a bit of splashing, then the gurgling whoonk whoonk of the waterlogged toy Jimi chewed on for distraction, and finally, the cheerful rendition of the Rubber Ducky song.
Sam was removing a tenacious pumpkin seed from his hair while a slow page loaded, when he heard Jimi bark twice sharply. That was followed by a bang, a very loud 'SPLOSH' and Dean's yelp of "Yaaaaaaarghsonofabitch!"
Sam crossed the room, and knocked on the bathroom door. "Dean? You okay in there?"
It was only when he heard Dean exclaim in exasperation, "Dude, how many times do I have to say it? PERSONAL – SPACE," that he pushed the door open.
Dean sat at one end of the tub in his boxers, with Jimi in front of him. Castiel sat in the other end, wearing a serious expression, and all his clothes, including his trench coat.
"My apologies, Dean," he said, "But might I point out that the dog is in fact between us, so I am not as far into your personal space as he is..."
"Cas, I'm in the bath!" barked Dean, "I am in – the – BATH! What are you doing just poofing in on me when I'm in the bath?"
"Before arriving here, I checked that you were not having... Special Cuddles, or Special Me-Time," explained the angel, "So I did not think it would be a problem."
"Hey, what have I told you about being a pervy angel, Cas?" Dean frowned at him, "We're never at home to the Angel Of Pervy! New rule: never, NEVER look at me when I'm in the bathroom!"
"Of course," Castiel replied, as serious as ever, "But I did not 'look' at you at all before arriving."
"Then how did you know that he wasn't, you know, doing something... Special?" asked Sam, intrigued in spite of himself.
"I listened," replied Castiel. "It was not difficult to ascertain. He only ever sings that song when he is washing the dog..."
"You HAVE been spying on me in the bathroom!" Dean burst out indignantly.
"... and the noises he makes during... Special Cuddles are quite distinctive, and in fact slightly different from the vocalisations associated with his Special Me-Time..."
"CAS!" roared Dean, "SHUT – UP!"
"So, why are you sitting fully dressed in the bath, Cas?" asked Sam, as Dean spluttered in outrage.
"Because my vessel was wearing these clothes when I arrived," answered Castiel, looking slightly puzzled.
"No, that's not what I meant," began Sam, "Although admittedly it is traditional to, er, undress before one gets into a bathtub..."
Castiel looked back to Dean, and understanding dawned on his face. "Ah," he said, "Again, Dean, my apologies. I have discomfited you by not behaving according to your culture's customs in the bathroom. That was remiss of me. Next time, I shall try to be more considerate."
"Cas, there had better not be a next time, or..." Dean started, but he was interrupted by a wet, squelching noise.
"Oh. Er," stuttered Sam, looking down at the pile of sopping wet but neatly folded clothes that had appeared on the floor beside him.
Dean goggled at Castiel, who now sat in the tub wearing nothing but his serious expression.
"Gaaaaaaah!" was all Dean could manage. "Gaaaaaaaah! Pervy, creepy angel!" He started splashing around furiously in the water. "Bubbles! Bubbles! Must make more bubbles!" he babbled, "Sam, do something!"
"Like what?" asked Sam, equally discombobulated and looking everywhere except at Castiel.
"Something! ANYTHING!" wailed Dean, "Saaaaaam, there's a naked guy angel in my baaaaaaaaaath!"
Jimi turned around, regarded Castiel seriously for a moment, then moved in to kiss his nose.
Castiel frowned. "I believe we have discussed this previously," he told the dog in a stern voice, "I do not wish to be licked by you. Also, if you stand in my vessel's groin again, the discomfort will be considerable – I am not wearing any clothes, your claws are probably sharp, and the hot water in this tub seems to be having a... relaxatory effect, and..."
"Noooooooo," howled Dean, clapping his hands over his ears, "Make it stop! Make it stop!"
"What I meant before, Cas," Sam resumed, "Was, 'Why have you come to see us?', so perhaps you could, you know, get out of the bath, and we'll wait for Dean to finish, then you can tell us?"
"Yes, I can do that," answered Castiel, making to get out of the bath. Dean's short horrified shriek stopped him.
"Look," suggested Sam with forced cheerfulness, "Why don't you, um, poof yourself out of the bath, into your clothes, and dry them on the way to the room?"
"Very well," agreed Castiel gravely. With a slightly damp-sounding flapping noise, he was gone. His voice drifted in from the other side of the bathroom door. "I will wait out here until Dean finishes his ablutions."
Sam turned back to Dean. "Kill me now," squeaked his big brother.
"It's okay, Dean, the nasty pervy naked angel is gone," said Sam, rolling his eyes.
Dean turned on his own version of the kicked-puppy expression. "I want my Mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyy," he moaned piteously.
"Just finish up," Sam told him. "I'll have a nice cup of camomile tea waiting for you. With medicine in it."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Some time later, when Dean and Jimi emerged clean and Dean had bypassed the camomile tea step and gone straight for the 'medicine', Sam asked Castiel again,
"So, why have you come to visit us, Cas?"
"I have uncovered more information about the Wands of Bethany," answered the angel, managing to look slightly sheepish. "It seems they may not represent the massive potential for destruction that I first feared."
"Oh?" said Sam, raising his eyebrows, "Really? Is that so?"
"Yes," continued Castiel seriously, "In fact, it appears that a Wand of Bethany does not so much kill off plants as have... unusual effects on them."
"Unusual effects?" asked Sam, his eyes wide, "Goodness me. Did you hear that, Dean? 'Unusual effects'. Heavens above. Whatever can you mean? Please, do elaborate," he added earnestly, cocking his head and giving Castiel his undivided attention.
Castiel seemed to hesitate for a moment. "The effects manifest as certain... malformations of the fruiting bodies of plants," he replied.
Sam's face was a picture of astonishment. "Malformation of fruiting bodies?" he echoed, "Gosh! What sort of malformations might that mean, Castiel? What do you think, Dean?"
"Hmmmmm, let me guess," mused Dean aloud, tapping his chin reflectively, "Could it possibly be that a Wand of Bethany is not so much an earthly equivalent of a heavenidium bomb, but the occult version of the whoopee cushion? Don't tell me, don't tell me – it makes fruit and vegetables grow in shapes suggestive of certain... human anatomical features. Could that be it, Cas? Could that possibly be it?"
Castiel might've been an angel, but he had spent enough time around the Winchesters to have a reasonable chance of recognising sarcasm when it cocked its leg and pissed on his shoe.
"That does, in fact, appear to be the case," he confirmed.
"Well, thankfully, we can report that the Wand in question has been destroyed, broken, and generally FUBARed, so Creation as we know it is safe," Dean reassured him, "Humans can sleep safe in their beds, and angels do whatever it is they do on their clouds, secure in the knowledge that no more vegetables are going to be transformed into anatomically correct assets. More's the pity, because I like a laugh as much as anyone else, and tangling with demons and hellhounds is something I do for fun, usually before breakfast, several times for preference, and the whole getting coated with premature compost, well, that was a bonus, I'm told that pumpkin is full of enzymes that are good for the skin, and a clear complexion is so important in my line of work and God knows my self-esteem can do with all the help it can get and there's an old wives' tale that says getting bruised by a high velocity parsnip is a sign of good luck and WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU THINK TO TELL US THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?"
"It's a fair question, if expressed somewhat gibberingly," commented Sam, "This information would've been useful before tonight. How did 'cosmic whoopee cushion' somehow get translated into 'threat of death, destruction, mayhem, mass outbreaks of line-dancing', that sort of thing?"
"It appears that translation, or perhaps transmission, is the problem," Castiel told them. "The Bible, which I have told you before is the flawed work of men, was somewhat... coy about the incident with the fig tree on the road out of Bethany."
"Coy? Coy? What do you mean, 'coy'?" demanded Dean.
"The early fathers of the church were seeking to establish a new dogma, a new narrative," explained Castiel. "They were traditionalists, conservative men, with definite... ideas about how the ideals expounded by our Father's Son should be represented, taught and disseminated. In some ways, they were the very... establishment that he sought to challenge and demystify."
Sam's expression suggested that he was Working Something Out. "Are you saying," he began slowly, "Are you saying that the stories of the Bible have been... Bowdlerised?"
"The New Testament's value is as a series of parables, intended to offer spiritual instruction," Castiel continued, "It is not an accurate historical record..."
"The flawed work of humans," put in Dean.
"Yes. I spoke to a Keeper of the Archives, tracked down the original Heavenly account. It differs considerably from the cursing of the fig tree, and causing it to become barren."
"Okaaaaay, so what actually happened?" queried Sam.
Castiel paused, then went on. "The tree on the road out of Bethany was a fig tree, but it was not barren. It was a sport, an horticultural mutant. Considering the harsh terrain and climate, it is not surprising that plants would undergo mutation in such an environment..."
"What happened, Cas?" repeated Sam.
"The tree had fruit on it, but they were... misshapen," the angel elaborated, "To the point where they resembled certain human male anatomical features. Our Lord saw this, and remarked that he hoped the tree did not reproduce, because it's... organs were clearly Roman."
Dean thought for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"He further suggested that if he was to eat something shaped like that, his disciples would never let him hear the end of it, so it would be less trouble just to pretend that the tree had no fruit on it." He looked at Sam's astonished face, and Dean's laughing one. "The Son of God lived, walked and talked among ordinary people," said the angel, "He was both divine, and human. Apparently, he had a... very human sense of humour."
"Jesus had a sense of humour?" asked Dean, suddenly more interested.
"My Father has a sense of humour," affirmed Castiel firmly, "Of that, I have no doubt."
"How can you be so sure?" asked Sam.
"Platypuses," replied Castiel. "Lemurs. Stinkhorn mushrooms. Televangelism."
"Televangelism?" both Winchesters echoed.
"I believe so. Uriel always found televangelists to by hysterically amusing, and he was the funniest angel in the garrison," Castiel told them seriously. "I find them... ludicrous."
"That could be considered another way of finding something funny," Sam suggested.
"There are many such examples," sighed Castiel, "Which is a shame. Even my Father's Son's last words were not recorded correctly."
"The gospels differ," Sam pointed out, "It's 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?', or 'Into your hands I commend my spirit', or possibly 'It is finished'."
"You paid far too much attention in Sunday school, geek boy," commented Dean with a roll of his eyes.
"Er, Cas," Sam continued casually, "What actually were his last words, then?"
"He cried, 'Peter! Peter! I can see your house from up here!'," quoted Castiel.
There was a moment of silence.
"You're shitting me," declared Sam.
"I did tell you, my Father has a sense of humour," repeated Castiel.
"Well, the only lingering effects are an obscene vegetable contest tomorrow, which I am judging, with my capable sidekick here to hold me clipboard, and I am anticipating that the occasion will be decidedly humorous," announced Dean, "So I will finish my medicine, and go to bed. You've saved me the trouble of sending you a p-mail. Frankly it would've been difficult to do without a certain amount of bad language. It's been one of those nights."
"It's been one of those weeks," commented Sam tartly, looking at Jimi.
"Very well, Good night." Castiel disappeared with a flap of trenchcoat and an inrush of air.
"I can see why that bit might've been, er, edited," mused Sam, shutting his laptop.
"Yeah. It would've totally altered the tone of the whole thing," agreed Dean, pulling on his sleep t-shirt.
"I'll be glad to see the back of this job," sighed Sam, "If we never have to be the men from See-Rap again, it'll be too soon. Still, at least we might have the dog's behaviour under control in the near future, that'll be a relief." He grinned at Jimi. "Do you think I should get him a 'Happy Orchidectomy' present for the occasion?"
Dean suddenly burst into a fit of coughing. He waved away Sam's concern.
"Just a bit of medicine going down the wrong way," he wheezed, "I'm okay."
Sam eyed him dubiously.
As they settled for bed, Dean called Jimi, and the pup happily hopped up and snuggled next to Dean. At Sam's enquiring look, he said,
"Hey, I'm the one who's been traumatised by a naked guy angel, I get dibs on the furry hot water bottle."
"He's all yours, bro," sighed Sam, turning over, "I just hope he doesn't start kissing you in your sleep. I don't want to be woken up by distinctive Special noises."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
Nearly there. Reviews are the naked guy angels in the Bath Of Life. (No, I have no idea what it means either, it's late and I'm tired and it's been a long week at work...)