BOO!

Yes, I'm back, having spent two weeks in a distant antipodean wilderness, far from civilisation, let alone internet connectivity.

I've been to Tasmania.

The wifi is lousy, but the scenery is great.

So is the cheese.

And the cider.

And the cheese.

And the cider.

Did I mention the cider?

So, here's the next chapter – I'll get right onto the next one, as soon as I finish this bottle.

Chapter Twenty-One

With the air of a neurosurgeon placing the final superficial sutures after he has just implanted the experimental brain electrodes that will either a) enable his patient to walk again or b) turn said patient into a raving super-strong unstoppable homicidal maniac burning with hatred for all of humanity, Dean replaced the last access hatch on Reactor Number One. A group of demons had gathered to watch The Boss work, and were eyeing the gigantic plant warily. Two of them at the back of the group took a bet on whether he would go 'Bwahaha' when he was finished.

"Okay, we're done here," Dean announced, giving the enormous machine a final pat, "Get a couple of your asskissers up there to recouple the feed lines, and drop dampers one through five into the primary chamber – if we can do this at working pressure, we can avoid havin' to prime it from scratch." He paused. "Maybe you better send a couple you really don't like, just in case."

Snotty the Chief Engineer of Hell eyed him carefully. "She's stoon coold, Borss," he pointed out, "Ye try tae prrrrrraime 'er a' fool prrrrressurrrre, she cuid blorwback, orrrr worrrrrrse, roon awee, and ye dinnae want tae hafta deal wi' a melt-up, the paperrrrworrrrrk would be jooost drrrreadful..."

"Nah, she aint goin' anywhere," Dean replied breezily, "Not with the dampers engaged. Besides which, this will save a lot of time." He paused. "What's a melt-up?"

"I's wha' Kyoo in Rrrrr and D has theorrrised wou' harppen, if a rrrrred enerrrrgy rrreaction ge's ooutta contrrrrool," Snotty told him, "Theorrrrre'ically, it coould rrrrresoolt in the liquefied rrrremairns o' a larrrge choonk o' Heell forcin' i's way as farrrr as Oopstairrrs, and oozin' oop thrrrrough their drrains."

"Well, let's hope my baby bro is standin' by with the mops," shrugged Dean, smug in the knowledge that he wouldn't be affected by such an event and that Crowley would be absolutely ropable. He gestured at two demons. "Go on, get the fuck up there before I decide what the décor in this place needs is more demon guts strung from the ceiling." They scrambled to obey, instantly deciding that the idea of possibly being melted up was far preferable to being definitely carved up by The Boss.

Snotty had been overseeing the furnaces of Hell for centuries in Topside reckoning, long enough to see what could result from an infernal version of an industrial accident. "Per'aps we cuid considerrr waitin' tae recombobulate 'er igniterrrrs, Sirrr, we can geet verrrah guid quality woons frrrrom Jahannam noo, wha' wi' the exchairnge prrrogrrrram, their suicide bomberrrrs are joost the ticket forrr the jorb..."

Dean put a hand on the worried demon's shoulder. "Snotty, I understand that you are very good at your job, doin' the practically impossible with the practically unworkable for the definitely ungrateful, but dude, technology has moved on a bit since you were sent Down Here. Including this little thing called the internal combustion engine."

The old demon nodded. "Aye, ah've hairrd o' them things," he mused, "They soound a bi', weeell, oonsophistica'ed."

Dean smiled. A female demon swooned. "They can be, but that has its advantages. Snotty, I am gonna introduce you and your infernal combustion engine to the concept of the push start…"

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When it had become clear that Senior Librarian Danael, Senior Secretary, Archivist and undisputed Overlady of the Celestial Library and Archives, was not affected by the strange sickness afflicting Castiel and Crowley, she had emerged from her office to take up her duties once more, overseeing the running of the Library with an iron fist in an iron glove wielding her Red Pen Of Fury.

Ameniel was vaguely uneasy when The Dean announced that he was heading to the library to pay his respects. Danael was a fearsome and imposing senior Virtue, not an angel to cross: he was worried that she would not be in a hurry to receive pleasantly the individual who had been fated to rule Below, the Tainted One, the Abomination, The Boy King of Perdition, Lord Samuel, Ruler of Hell.

And yet The Dean had brushed aside his concerns, picked up a pile of files (saying he might as well do something useful while he was going) and headed for the Library. He had headed in, found his way to the door of Danael's office, knocked, and entered…

And not come out.

Ameniel had sought advice from his siblings.

"What if she has smited him?" he worried, "What if she deems him an abomination unto Father?"

"If that is the case, there is nothing we can do," Maveriel sighed regretfully, "Should she wield her ruler in wrath, it will be beyond my ability to heal him."

"Might we retrieve him?" asked Ameniel, appealing to his sister. "You are a Warrior of Heaven."

"I cannot be certain," Zariniel replied, "I am not at all confident that I could best Danael on his behalf. I recall her actions during the Rebellion, when she took up her ruler to fight alongside us against Lucifer's followers; I did not personally witness it, but there was tell afterwards that at one point she confronted the Morningstar himself, and did strike several mighty blows against him with her slide rule…"

Ameniel was a Herald, more given to wordfare than warfare, but he drew himself up, face resolute. "We must intervene," he pronounced, "Though it may be the ending of us, we must save him, in the service of Father, who granted Revelation unto Castiel that he might send The Dean unto us."

"He might've begun with The Dean," Maveriel muttered, "Why the Michaelsword was sent is beyond my ken."

"Father does work in mysterious ways," Zariniel pointed out.

"So did the Michaelsword," Ameniel conceded. "But now, we shall need a pretext – think of something that we may say needs The Dean's immediate attention, and follow me!"

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"What?" Crowley blinked, "What? Die? As in, run out of living?"

"I'm afraid so," Sister Fic told him regretfully.

"But that's… that's…" the demon let out a humph of irritation. "That's terribly inconvenient."

The nun eyed him. "I would've chosen a different word," she said eventually.

"That's because you are not a demon, dear lady," Crowley managed a small smile. "It is a pity, because I have grown quite attached to this meatsuit – despite its somewhat Elizabethan hairline, and somewhat avuncular appearance, and perhaps slightly Rubenesque waistline, I find that I have become accustomed to it. Oh well," he shrugged philosophically, "If maintaining it once it dies becomes too much of an imposition, I suppose I could go and find another one. Maybe a Scandinavian, this time, those viking types always seem to have such luxuriant hair…"

"That isn't exactly what I meant, Crowley," Fic cut in.

"…Or maybe I could offer that Trump person an upgrade to his deal, it's all his own hair, apparently…"

"Crowley, I'm not talking about your meatsuit…"

"…That Pommy twat, whatshisname, was Mayor of London, Boris, Boris somebody, I wonder if he'd like to make a deal for something…"

"…I'm talking about you, the actual you, inside the meatsuit…"

"Oh, oh, I know, who was that bloke in that series, what was it called, Playing With Chairs, or Match Of Seats or something, and he was this leader of people who ride horses and kill each other, it had dragons in it, if I recall, dragons and incest and politics and nudity, quite a lot of nudity…"

"…The person, the identity, the self that is 'Crowley'…"

"And a midget killing his father on the bog, I have to tell you, I laughed like a drain at that, although he wasn't nude at the time, just had his pants down, presumably, so that horse bloke, his name was Carl, I think, Carl Drongo, the actor was a New Zealander, maybe he'd like to make a deal for a prettier sheep, or something…"

"Crowley your meatsuit isn't going to die but you are!"

"…Oh, I would so love to see Moose's face when I could look him straight in the eye, and possibly even punch him straight in the face…" Sister Fic's raised voice finally cut in on Crowley's fantasy about taking a towering Antipodean host body; his voice stuttered to a halt. "What?" he whatted again.

"I said," the nun repeated, "That it's not your host body that is going to die, Crowley – it's you. Your self, the essence of 'Crowley'. Your… youness. The Individual Formerly Known As Fergus. You, Crowley, you are going to die."

The demon gawped for a few moments – if Dean had been present, no doubt he would have made unkind comparisons to fancy goldfish. "But… but… I can't die. I'm a demon!"

"I'm afraid you can," Sister Felicity reiterated. "Whatever this 'disease' is, its demonicness seems to be at the root of the problem. It will make Castiel chronically unwell, whereas you, well…" she shrugged with a defeated air. "It will progress until you… cease to exist."

"But… but…" Crowley gave up whatting and got on with butting. "But... I don't want to die!" He peered at her anxiously. "There must be something you can do!"

"Crowley, we still have no idea what exactly this thing is," she reminded him. "We cannot approach Hell for information, without provoking an extremely uncivil civil war. Given the lack of information about where this 'infection' came from, how it arose, I'm sorry, but there is nothing more we can do." She took his other hand

Castiel's voice cut in. "It is not entirely certain that this infection will cause you to cease to exist entirely, Crowley."

"Oh, now you chime in, Dr Pasteur," snapped Crowley, "Has Daddy Dearest granted you Revelation?"

"Not just now, no," Castiel managed a small smile, "But we know for certain that He holds out hope for your Redemption."

Sister Fic turned to the angel. "Really? Can a demon be Redeemed?"

"Generally, I would say 'no'," Castiel replied, "But Crowley did once spend some time as a new-fledged member of the Host."

"Oh, don't remind me," moaned Crowley, "It was the most terrible ordeal, Sister, I caught a nasty case of angel, and was abducted, and forced to take flying lessons, and music lessons, oh, it was just awful…" his eyes grew wide with horror. "Do you mean to tell me that I might not actually just disappear in a puff of non-existence, but I could be…"

"Returned to us," Castiel's tired face smiled again, "Returned to us, our lost baby brother coming home to us, to be with his new family in the Kingdom of our Father, for eternity."

Crowley was too horrified to what or but. "Are you saying that when this thing finally 'kills' me, I might," he swallowed, "I might become… an angel?"

Hope bloomed in Sister Fic's eyes. "Could this… Castiel, could this disease have been, you know, sent by your Father, in order to Redeem Crowley? I mean, He does have form. Murraine, boils." She peered at Crowley. "Are you your father's first-born son, by any chance?"

At the mention of the b-word, Crowley wiggled uncomfortably.

"All things are possible in His infinite wisdom and mercy," Castiel's face was serene. "If this is His will and intention, then my own small affliction is a price I will gladly pay to have a lost one returned to the glory and love of His Heavenly Domain. The joy of having you returned to us as Crowliel, an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven, will give me comfort in my own infirmity." He paused. "Gabriel will be so happy to see you, he developed quite a fondness for you, I think – if I am unable to do so, I believe that he will offer you extensive flight tuition for as long as you need it, he has always been so good with the fledglings, so infinitely patient, he is a most wonderful big brother."

Sister Fic wiped a tear from her cheek, and smiled. "I shall pray for you, Crowley," she told him earnestly, "I will pray for you, and if necessary, I will give my Father-In-Law a damned good talking to. Believe me, I know how to read somebody the riot act."

"Don't you dare!" yelped Crowley. "Don't you dare pray for, at or about me! Do you seriously think I want to be whisked away to Stepford-Upon-Cloud? They're not normal Upstairs! They're so literal, you cannot have a sensible conversation with any of them – I told one of them to kiss my arse, and the most dreadful thing happened…There's so much love, and compassion, and, and, and hugging, I'm feeling faint just remembering it!" He pointed accusingly at Castiel. "And he put training wheels on me! I don't want you to pray for me – I want you to cure me!"

Sister Fic laughed. "Oh, Crowley, how is any mere mortal supposed to 'cure' the will of The Lord?" She patted his hand. "Deus vult. God wills it."

"But it's demonic!" Crowley whined, "You said so yourself, the one thing you were able to determine is that whatever this 'disease' is, it's diabolical in nature, not celestial!"

"Mysterious ways, and all that," she shrugged. "There's no point trying to second-guess The Man Upstairs, Crowley, just remember that ultimately, what He wants is for all His children, mortal or otherwise, to be happy." She stood up as Crowley collapsed with a keening moan against his pillows. "So, I can go and give Bobby and Ian the good news, poor things, they've been busting their brains trying to figure out how to fix this. Don't worry," she smiled at the wailing demon, "I'll keep the boiled eggs and toast soldiers coming until you… well, until you don't need them any more."

A number of expressions chased each other across Crowley's face: despair, horror, disbelief, calculation, irritation, hesitation, and many other words ending in –ation, until finally he finished up with resignation. Forcing himself to smile his most charming smile, he looked up at the nun.

"Er, before you go, Sister, it has just occurred to me, that is, I have just remembered, that perhaps there is a tiny little snippet of information that, due to the acute nature of my terrible affliction and the dreadful suffering it has engendered, might have slipped my mind earlier…"

Crowley takes Jason Moama as a host body. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Although I'm sure that a number of SPN fans would be agreeable, from there, it can only be a hop skip and jump to HBO…

Denizens, Lurkers, Visitors and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recall the story 'In A Flap', where Crowley did indeed catch a nasty dose of angel, and go Upstairs, where he was very unhappy learning to be an Angel Of The Lord – his first appearance unto a mortal went very badly indeed.

Meanwhile, I think Florence the plot bunny is nearing the finishing line. Go, Florence, go! Just finish this bottle first.