Chapter Fourteen
"So, Host reassured," Dean said in satisfaction, leaning back and putting his feet up on the desk, "Now, how do I get in touch with Zari, chase up my beer?"
"I shall send a Herald to check upon the progress of her mission," Ameniel assured him, "But perhaps you would like a coffee while you make a start? It is a habit that Castiel has cultivated."
"Nah, I'd rather get straight to the beer…" Dean's brain moved on from the thought of alcohol, and caught up with the conversation. "Make a start? On what?"
"On your duties of course, Michaelsword," smiled Ameniel.
"Right, right," nodded Dean, "Duties. Of course. After all, bein' the Deputy Sheriff don't mean I can sit around here and do nothin' all day."
"Just so," Ameniel inclined his head.
"There must be lots of things that need doin', to keep Heaven runnin' smoothly," Dean mused, "Like makin' sure no demons try to assault the place – there have to be demon detection patrols around the clock, so to speak, I bet – and keepin' Heaven's weapons secure, the last thing we want is celestial nukes in the wrong place, I know what I'm talkin' about here."
"Oh, you are completely correct," agreed Ameniel.
"Okay, so, if there aint beer yet, I might just have that coffee first…" he paused. "Uh, how do I get a coffee?"
"Our brother Castiel calls one forth when he wants it," Ameniel informed him. "Usually in a brightly decorated mug. I am reliably informed that the mugs are deemed amusing, by human standards."
"Well, I dunno if you noticed, but I aint exactly the real deal," Dean sighed. "I'm only temping here. I aint a real angel, I'm like, you know, Angel Lite – not as powerful, but better for your cholesterol."
"And yet, being proxy for Castiel, you will be able to perform those functions necessary to carry out your duties," Ameniel reminded him, "So, perhaps if you think very hard about coffee…"
"You think?" Somewhat doubtfully, Dean shrugged. "Well, I guess I got nothin' to lose, except maybe a minute or so, so…"
He closed his eyes and thought about coffee.
He thought about coffee the way he thought coffee should be: not one of those frothy syrup-tainted abominations that his brother favoured, but coffee the way the gods of The Bean had intended it to be – black, properly black, not just black because there wasn't any milk in it, but black because the very soul of the bean was black, dark and bitter, having been spawned by a plant that has been raised on compost and hatred, coffee that jumped up out of the cup and slapped you if you tried to put froth on it, coffee that could not be tainted with milk, because if you tried it would just sneer 'Fuck your milk' and not change colour at all, coffee that could practically be served by the slice, provided it didn't dissolve the knife, coffee the way he liked his coffee…
He opened his eyes again when his nose twitched at the wafting scent reaching it.
On the desk beside his feet was a cheerful blue mug emblazoned with 'I'M NOT ALWAYS A SMARTASS – just kidding, go fuck yourself', and it was filled with a dark, thick liquid from which arose the enticing aroma of pure caffeine-filled fuck off. Emitting small inarticulate noises of happiness, Dean reached for the mug, sniffed deeply, and tasted it.
"Oohhhhhh, that's so good, I think my tongue just came…"
"Er, yes, Michaelsword," said Ameniel, "Does that mean that the beverage is satisfactory?"
"It's more than satisfactory, Am, I think this stuff could successfully get an entire Freshman class through the year without sleepin' at all." He smacked his lips in satisfaction. "So, I'll just finish this then…"
He let out a small yip and jumped as there was a very loud and very solid THUMP in front of him. His eyes bugged as he looked up at the angel who had arrived in his office, and then at what appeared to be a very large, very tall, and above all very numerous pile of folders.
"Uh, what exactly is that?" he asked tentatively.
"This is one of your tasks, Michaelsword," Ameniel explained, "These need to be reviewed before they can go to the Archives."
"Reviewed? What, by me?" The angel nodded smilingly. "But I've got something more important to do, I gotta go patrol the borders, inspect the magazine, keep Heaven safe from incursions…"
"Oh, there are many Warriors of Heaven, Soldiers of God, to do that," Ameniel told him dismissively, "You are too important for that drudgery."
"I am?" echoed Dean in a small voice.
"Oh, yes, Michaelsword, it would be beneath you to spend your time on lowly sentinel patrols, while the business of Heaven requires your attention."
Dean picked up the top folder as if it was a poisonous snake, hoping that it would be Enochian and he could plead ignorance, but there was no such luck. "So, uh, what's this, then?"
Ameniel craned his neck to look at the document. "Ah, that one is an Incident Report, Michaelsword. Let me see… yeeeeees, one of the fledglings clipping the Pearly Gates again, I'm afraid, it happens at that age, they're all confidence but no experience."
"And this one?" Dean selected another folder.
"Oh, that will be the stationery requisition and reconciliation," the angel answered, "From Danael." His voice became hushed. "See, it has the Library stamp on it? I suggest that any documents from The Senior Librarian be dealt with and returned to her as promptly as possible."
"Returned?" Dean looked perplexed, "Why do they have to be returned?"
"Well, for the Archives, naturally."
"Why doesn't she just file 'em right away, then?"
Ameniel looked shocked. "Oh, she couldn't possibly do that until they've been reviewed and approved."
"What?" Dean eyed the folder again. "Why do they have to be reviewed and approved?"
"Why, so they can be filed in the Archives, of course! In all seriousness, I do recommend that you deal with that one as speedily as possible."
"Oh, come on, Am, it's a tab for usin' paper clips or something," Dean rolled his eyes, opening the folder, "How damned important can the statistics on glue stick usage be in the grand scheme of thi-"
A gloved had emerged from the folder and cuffed him upside the head. "Deal with this at once!" boomed an emperious voice. "Deal with this at once! Deal with this at once! Deal with this at once!"
Dean picked himself up off the floor and slammed the folder shut. "What the fuck?" he yelped.
"I did warn you," Ameniel commiserated. "Senior Librarian Danael does not like the messaging system that some of the younger Heralds have devised; she would prefer to speak to you – or at you – herself."
"But she's not even here!" Dean complained. "She just made a piece of paper yell at me!"
"It could have been worse," the angel shrugged.
"How?" demanded Dean, thoroughly peeved, "A, a, a stationery receipt just slapped me! And is yelling at me! How the hell could it be worse?"
"Well, there was one time, a folder slid down the side of the desk, and Castiel did not notice it for some time," Ameniel's voice became hushed, "And when he finally saw it and picked it up to review it, her True Voice came out. It was… not nice." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I really do strongly recommend that you give it your immediate attention."
Dean had been living with his little brother for long enough to know when he was never going to win an argument. "Right, right." he sighed, taking in the pile before him. The angel was wearing the optimistically expectant expression that Sam usually did after plonking down a huge pile of newspaper back issues in front of him in a small library or civic records office when they were researching a job. "Well, I better get started, I guess, at least there's coffee."
"Excellent! The Heralds shall bring you the next batch when you are done."
"What?" Dean's head snapped round in anxiety. "What next batch?"
"Well, obviously, this is just the first task, the Incident Reports," Ameniel explained, "After the library receipts, of course." As he spoke, two more young Heralds appeared, bearing armfuls of paperwork. They murmured salutations, deposited the folders, then bowed, and withdrew as discreetly as very expensive and teddibly British butlers.
"Am," Dean stated firmly, eyeing the workload, "The only way I'm gonna get this lot out of the way is with a leaf blower. Or possibly a flamethrower. I bet my sword would set this lot on fire."
"Oh, er, well, perhaps you could, er, postpose those for a short time, and make a start on the correspondence," suggested Ameniel, gesturing at a teetering pile in a tray on the edge of the desk, and holding out an ornate fountain pen and what turned out to be a piece of parchment.
"Okaaaaay," Dean regarded this new horror warily. "Uh, who exactly does Heaven Inc., you know, correspond with?"
"Oh, other pantheons, Michaelsword," replied Ameniel, "If it would be helpful, I could ask Senior Librarian Verael to come and speak to you about the importance of maintaining good diplomatic relationships with other gods. She can be quite… emphatic on the topic."
"No, no, that's fine," Dean cut in hurriedly, "No need to disturb Her Librarianness, she's a busy angel, got all those books to stamp, all those documents to correct, all those imps to bite the heads off…" Gingerly, he took the sheet off the top of the pile. Frowning, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed. "Ya know, I'd swear that this one has had beer spilled on it…"
"May I?" Ameniel took the note, and peered at it. "Oh, yes, I recognise this stationery. See the little motif of ravens around the border? 'Hail Castiel, Child of Yahweh, Warrior of His Hall and Carl of His House', it's from Valhalla…" he scanned the document. "Oh dear, it appears that an occupant of the Garden of Companions has been causing… ructions again."
"Ructions?" Dean looked perplexed. "What sort of ructions?"
"He is a most peculiar beloved soul," Ameniel began, "For though he was spawned of a diabolical nature, yet he is deemed by many to be one of the most likeable Companions we have ever had come to Wait in the Garden…"
As he spoke, a distant woofing came to their ears; Ameniel's face became concerned, as Dean's lit up in a beautiful smile.
"I know that bark!" he cried happily as the noise became louder.
"Indeed, Michaelsword," sighed Ameniel, "So do I, and so does every Herald in Heaven."
A moment later a large black shape burst into the room, making a beeline for Dean.
"Jimi!" he yelled in happiness, "Jimi Senior! How ya doin', fella!"
Jimi Senior, full blood Hellhound-turned-Rottweiler-shaped-Hunter's-Dog, jumped to put his front feet on Dean's lap, tail wagging furiously, as he greeted the Alpha for whom he Waited.
"Oh, it's so good to see you!" enthused Dean, scratching the dog's ruff and ruffling his ears, "Oh, you'd be so proud of your kids, they're doin' so good, especially Jimi Junior, he's the best Hunter's dog on the planet…"
Giving another happy woof, Jimi Senior left off greeting Dean, and turned a cheerful face to Ameniel, dropping into a cheeky play-bow, his entire rear end waggling in the air with excitement.
With a pained expression, the angel leaped expertly into the air and hovered just out of range as the dog jumped up at him, woofing excitedly. Ameniel reached into the recesses of his robe, and pulled out what proved to be a liver treat, tossing it across the floor. Jimi immediately gave up on trying to catch the angel, and shot across the room to retrieve it.
"It would be gratefully received if you could contrive to persuade the animal not to chase Heralds, Michaelsword, at least until such time as his Waiting is over, and you come to claim his companionship permanently," commented the angel in a voice suggesting that the speaker was doing his very best to inject tact into the tone, if not completely succeeding.
"Cas has a theory about that," mused Dean, watching as Jimi snuffled across the carpet in search of the treat, "He thinks it could be because, uh, Jimi here had such a short mortal life as a dog, he didn't get to do enough doggy things, like chase mailmen, so now he's here, he chases Heralds instead, because they're Heaven's mailmen."
"Be that as it may, his antics, as innocent and devoid of ill intent as they are, can be… disruptive to our duties," Ameniel said as sternly as he dared. "And seeing him here now, I suggest that you make a start on your correspondence, particularly that first epistle."
"Yeah?" Dean grabbed Jimi by the collar as the dog finished the treat and turned back to the angel. As he did so, he noticed that the collar was shiny, finely crafted, intricately decorated, and generally a lot more expensive looking than a dog's collar should be.
"Yes," confirmed Ameniel, "I do not anticipate any long-term difficulties as a result of this incident – after all, they are dog people in Valhalla, and Jimi Senior likes to visit them, Father help us – but I believe that if you inspect that closely, you will find that he is wearing Freya's dwarven necklace. Again."
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Crowley let out a mournful noise, then stopped quickly when he heard the growling.
"He doesn't like me," he complained, eyeing Jimi Junior warily; with the Winchesters absent, Jimi had decided that Castiel was the next closest thing to One Of My Pack Who Needs My Attention And Protection, and had taken up station on the end of the angel's bed. "Send him out."
"It's just because he's feeling worried about one of his people," Sister Felicity reassured him with a small smile.
"What? Clarence?" scoffed Crowley. "He's not a Winchester. He's not even a people!"
"Neither are you," said Castiel, his voice still raspier than usual.
"Family don't end with blood, asshat," snapped Bobby, handing the angel a mug of soup.
"I wish mine would," sighed Crowley, "I'd pay good money to see my mother end in blood. Preferably her own, but I wouldn't be picky, so long as she ended…"
"And you got Gedda with you," Bobby indicated the little teacup Hellpoodle snoozing in His Demonic Majesty's lap; at the sound of her name, she lifted her head, and wagged her tail.
"Yes, well, yes, well," humphed Crowley, reaching down to pat the fluffy little head , "That's different. She's my dog, and she loves me, don't you my darling?" The little teacup Hellpoodle rolled over for belly rubs. "I'm an important demon, she's an important Hellhound, it's entirely appropriate for her to attend me. Cujo there is not even your dog!"
"And yet I find his presence to be somehow… reassuring," Castiel mused. "I cannot explain why, but his presence makes me feel less dreadful."
"There have been many studies on the benefits of having a companion animal visit the sick," said Fic firmly, "So both of you will keep your furry friends. Now, it really would be good for you if you could try to eat some of this soup."
"Soup," moaned the demon, "Soup. I'm the King of Hell, when I decide I want to eat, I dine at the most expensive establishments, on the finest and rarest and most environmentally unsustainable delicacies, and wash it down with obscenely priced alcohol…"
"If your nose is a stuffy as it sounds, it would be wasted on you at the moment," Fic said sympathetically, "Your sense of smell is very closely interlinked to your sense of taste. So, don't be a diva, Crowley, come on," she held out a spoonful of soup.
"Ohhhh, I feel so dreadfuuuuuul," whined the King of Hell.
"I know," she sympathised, "But I'm afraid that until we can work out exactly what is wrong with you, all we can do is manage your symptoms as best we can. So…" she waved the spoon.
With the air of one who is doing a favour by selflessly performing a task that is well beneath one's dignity, Crowley ate the soup. "Actually, I must admit, that is quite good. Somewhat restorative."
"Excellent," smiled the nun, handing him the mug.
The demon turned a face like a mournful blood hound to her. "Do you think I could get some more grilled cheese?"
"Of course, Crowley."
"Thank you, Sister."
"Triangles or squares?"
"Oh triangles."
"Crusts on or off?"
"Off, please."
"I'll be right back," she stated, heading out of the room with Bobby. "And maybe some tea, or a lemon drink, with perhaps a medicinal tot of something in it?"
"You read my mind, dear lady."
"Not really," the nun grinned, "But I recognise a fellow appreciator of the good stuff when I see one. Eat your soup."
Crowley dutifully began spooning up his soup as Fic and Bobby left the room.
The smile fell off her face as they headed down the stairs. "If you don't get some sort of award for this, there aint no justice," he chuckled.
"An Oscar," scowled the nun as she began to prepare grilled cheese. "At least one Oscar. I hope my, "Father-in-law is watching, I expect some serious Days of Indulgence to be granted for this."
"Not sure that bein' nice to a whinin' demon counts as doin' good works," Bobby pointed out, "Weren't mentioned at all in Catechism classes, if I recall."
"I'll get my Husband to write an addendum," Fic waved a hand dismissively, "He is the head of the Catholic Church, you know, the guy in the dress and tiara is just keeping the seat warm until He gets back."
Ian looked up from where he was studying one of Bobby's books. "What's He going to do, if He does return and find out just how many 'wives' he has?"
"What He's told, if He's got any sense," Bobby grunted, shuddering somewhat at the thought of having more than one wife, "Any progress?"
"As good as none," sighed the vampire, shutting the book and yawning. "How's Operation Housetrain Crowley going?"
"I'm three quarters of the way to sainthood," griped Fic, "Mother Theresa has nothing on me."
"I've been wondering if we might try a very simple test to determine whether this, whatever it is, is of demonic origin," mused Ian, "Something simple, like an old-fashioned blood grouping agglutination test."
Fic considered that. "What, get a blood sample, and look for some sort of reaction with, with, with what? Holy water, versus holy oil?"
Ian shrugged expressively. "I'm grasping at straws here; any information, no matter how general, might help."
"Could be worth a try," nodded Fic, "After all, what's the worst that could happen?"
"Well, since we have no idea what we're doing, we could inadvertently perform a working, blow Bobby's house up, transform ourselves into malformed and bloodthirsty undead travesties of humanity, or maybe just tear a hole in the spacio-temporal fabric of physical reality and release a swarm of vengeful demons upon the world to tear the defenceless human race to pieces and reduce this planet to a burnt wasteland."
"So, just another day in Paradise, then," observed Bobby. "Whaddya need for this test?"
There, Jimi Senior makes an appearance - The Denizens do seem so fond of him. Don't feel bad for Crowley, it could be worse; he could have Rowena looking after him. What are Ian and Fic up to? Will Dean ever get his beer? Feed Florence the plot bunny reviews to find out, because Reviews Are The Delicious Grilled Cheese Snack In The Kitchen Of Life!