Author's note: Thanks again to everyone reading. Here is Act Three. One more after today.

Looney Toons

by

Elfinblue

Act Three

"Dean!"

Sam tackled his brother, trying to wrestle his jacket off.

"Dude! What the hell?"

"It's in your clothes! The monster! It was on your jacket. It's in your clothes!"

Dean let Sam pull his jacket off. Sam shook the jacket and turned it inside out. Nothing. Dean, meanwhile, pulled his outer shirt off. He shook it out. Nothing. He peeled his tee shirt off. Sam grabbed for it and they stretched it out between them, flipped it over, looked at the inside and then tossed it aside.

In the middle of their hotel room the brothers stood face to face, staring at one another. Slowly, Dean turned around.

Baby Fang was flattened across his back like a vivid, fresh tattoo.

"Oh, Dean."

As he had in the hot dog stand parking lot, Baby Fang sprang into three dimensions. He sank his fangs into Dean's shoulder, raked down Dean's back with his back claws and arced his tail around to sting at Dean's arms. Dean whirled, wrestling him. It was like fighting an angry cat.

"Sam!"

Sam, frantic, dug among their discarded bags and came up with a jug of liquid laundry soap. He uncapped it and tossed the liquid at the monster. Immediately, Baby Fang lost his hold on Dean and slid down Dean's arm into a puddle on the floor. Like amoebas separating, the black pulled itself away from the milky white detergent and re-formed into Baby Fang.

Wary now, the monster backed away.

Dean, bleeding and breathing hard, was angry. He grabbed another bottle of soap.

"Come here, you little bitch! It's laundry time!"

The monster looked from brother to brother, feinted towards Sam, then melted back into a liquid and disappeared under the bathroom door.

They burst into the bathroom just in time to see Baby Fang, still a black liquid, swirl away down the drain. Sam lunged forward and poured soap after him but the drain knob popped up as the drain was forced closed from beneath, trapping the soap in the tub. Dean tried to push it back down. He pounded on it but it was stuck fast.

"Son of a bitch!"

When the drain finally gave, Dean cranked the water on and poured more soap.

"Think we got him?" Sam asked. His brother answered him with a look. "Yeah, me neither."

*SPN**SPN**SPN**SPN*

Dean straddled a chair, facing the back. While Sam cleaned and treated his injuries, he busied himself drawing devil's traps on a large book with an impressive leather cover and blank pages. He made sure it was completely covered with sigils - both covers, the spine and the cut edges of the pages.

"So how do you propose to get him into the book?" Sam asked.

"Just leave it lying open where he can get to it. Thing's artsy. Likes painting himself on things -walls, my car, my jacket. Me. You were artsy when you were a kid. Never could resist a nice, neatly-bound, blank book to play with. I'm betting this little bitch can't either."

"Okay, so say it works. Then what?"

"Salt and burn, baby! Salt and burn!" In the mirror he caught the look in Sam's eye. "What?"

"Nothing."

Dean tilted his head and gave his brother's reflection a look.

"Nothing! Really. Look, it's stupid, okay?"

"Well, I figured that. Tell me anyway."

Sam huffed a sigh. "I just... don't like burning a book. Okay? And I know that isn't really what this is. I mean, it's just a bunch of blank pages. And the only thing in it is going to be the thing we want to get rid of. It's just like... a gag reflex."

"I get it."

"You do?" Sam asked dubiously.

"Sure. I mean, basically, this is just a big, empty diary, waiting to be filled with all kinds of

stories and secrets. And it's only natural you should have a soft spot for a diary." His voice was kind. Too kind, and Sam knew where he was headed well before he got there. "After all, I remember you had one yourself, when you were a little girl."

"That wasn't a diary." Sam rolled his eyes. "It was a journal. Dad had a journal. You had a journal. I had a journal."

"Sam! Seriously? It had a pink silk ribbon bookmark."

"I was eleven! I got it for a nickel at a yard sale!"

"It had kittens on the cover!"

"Yeah, Dean. Yeah, it did. And you know what else it had? A lock!"

"Yeah..." Dean grinned, remembering. "But not a very good one."

"Dean!" Sam said, warningly.

Dean cleared his throat, put one hand on his chest like an old-school orator, and quoted from memory. "In all the school the prettiest lassie..."

"I mean it!" Sam said.

"Is the sweet and lovely Barbara Dassie..."

"Dean!"

"With hair like silk and lips like honey/ And eyes like marbles when it's sunny!"

Sam rounded the chair and leaned down, eyeball-to-eyeball with his brother.

"You're despicable!"

*SPN**SPN**SPN**SPN*

The Impala was parked in the driveway of the old lighthouse. Sam, wearing a loose coat and a long-billed hat with goggles over the bill, watched as Dean mixed up an elaborate concoction in a 5-gallon bucket.

"Water, laundry soap, dish soap, bleach... lemon juice?"

"I been cleaning up after my nerdy little brother since I was four," Dean said. "If I can't get rid of blood and ink stains, nobody can. Got the guns?"

Sam produced two super-sized water guns and they poured the mixture into them.

"We'll try the soapy water first. If it kills him, fine. If not, we'll use it to herd him into the book and get rid of him that way."

Dean tucked the book into his pocket and pulled out a jerky stick. They walked to the lighthouse, each carrying a gun.

"I still don't see why I have to wear this silly hat."

"It's not a silly hat," Dean said patiently. "It's a fishing hat. The road runs right by this place. Best way to keep people from wondering what we're doing here is to give them a reason to think we're fishing. You want people to think we're fishing, you've got to dress the part. Clothes make the man, my brother."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then why aren't you wearing one?"

"Oh, Sam! You know I don't do silly hats!"

As they neared the door, Dean peeled back the wrapper on his jerky stick. He tripped on a root and hit the wooden door with a solid thump and a soft curse.

Sam pulled out a lock pick and dropped to one knee, his long coat rucking up around his hips and giving him an odd, duck-like shape. He jimmied the lock, turned the handle and pushed. The door crashed open. He looked to his left and then to his right, then reached up to the wall on his right and turned a dial.

The light came up, casting them into silhouette, creating the illusion that Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck were standing in the doorway.

Dean shouldered his gun, raised his jerky stick and took a bite.

"Meh. What's up, Doc?"

TBC