Fergus is a noisy little plot bunny, he's drowning out Ulfric and Imogen-Bubba...

Chapter Two

Sam found himself standing in the middle of a strange design on a wooden floor, looking down at Crowley, who broke into a little jig.

"It worked! It worked!" chirped the King of Hell.

"Crowley!" Sam snarled, "What the fuck?"

"It worked! It worked! Hello, Sam," Crowley smiled broadly (and just a little desperately), "How are you, mate? Long time no attempt to kill me, ha ha..."

Sam glared at him incredulously. "How am I?" he echoed. "How am I? Oh, I'm just fine, runnin' myself into the frigging ground trying to find a way to undemonify my brother, since some short balding asshole decided to go all Butch and Sundance with him..." he paused, and looked around. "Where the fuck is this?"

"We're in Italy," Crowley told him.

"What the... why the hell are you in Italy?" demanded Sam. "Come to think of it, why am I in Italy?"

"I summoned you," Crowley replied, looking pleased with himself, "I wasn't sure it would work, but desperate situations, and all that."

"Huh?" Sam looked bemused. "How did you summon me?"

Crowley pointed to the accoutrements he'd used. "There. A plaid shirt, a tofu burger, and a rather fetching if somewhat long and scruffy wig. An honest-to-Clarence moose trap!"

With a pointed scowl, Sam stepped deliberately out of the design on the floor. "Of course, the actual 'trap' bit might need a bit of work," said Crowley sheepishly.

"Well, you can just send me right back," Winchester the younger growled.

"No! No!" yelped Crowley, "I need your help! Sam, I need your help!"

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Do you," he said flatly.

"Yes!" Crowley nodded vigorously, "Yes, I need your help, with your brother."

"Do you," repeated Sam.

Crowley turned his most pleading look on Sam, who just huffed, and said, "Bitch, please, you're not Dean. You don't look like you're pleading. You look like you're constipated."

"Sam, I am genuinely begging you for help, here, chum," admitted Crowley.

Sam's smirk was predatory. "You know, I can't help but think we've been here before," he smiled like an amused shark. "One of us desperate for help, and the other one not the least bit interested..."

"All right, all right, mea maxima culpa," Crowley raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, "But now we're in the same boat, on the same page, singing from the same hymn sheet, yes? We both want to help Dean turn back into himself."

With an inward groan, Sam knew he was right.

"So, what have you found?" asked Crowley eagerly.

"Nothing yet," sighed Sam, running a hand through his hair distractedly. "The thing is, Dean hasn't been, uh, demonified the way that demons are usually demonified: damned through your own conduct, by sinning or makin' a deal, then sent to Hell until a human soul becomes twisted, warped, perverted into one of regular you black-eyed assholes."

"You can't talk about your big brother like that!" sniffed Crowley disdainfully.

"I said, regular black-eyed assholes," Sam growled. "Regular, vicious, evil bastards who take delight in causing mayhem and hurting people. Dean's... different."

"Tell me about it," Crowley drooped sadly.

"So, your brand new BFF turned out to be a bit much, huh?" smirked Sam. "Not so much Thelma to your Louise, more like Oscar to your Felix?"

Crowley drooped all over. "You have no idea," he groaned. "I was hoping for a fellow wolf to go have a prowl, howl at the moon. I wasn't expecting Ozzy bloody Osbourne!"

"Actually, having grown up with him, I think I do," Sam replied breezily. "Are you familiar with the concept of cosmic comeuppance?" He looked around the room. It appeared to be a room in an upmarket hotel or pension. "A twin? Seriously?"

"He likes to sleep," Crowley shrugged. "Even though he doesn't have to. He snores," he added resentfully. "And he doesn't have to eat, but he likes to do that. Often. He chews with his mouth open."

"Feel my pain," Sam chuckled meanly. "So, what, you came to Italy to play guitar?"

"Well, after he dragged me to some of the most awful concerts of what was allegedly music, I thought that a change of scenery would be good for him, broaden his horizons," explained Crowley. "Apparently, sneaking into concerts is one of his favourite activities. If I never hear another band name that starts with M, it'll be too soon..."

"Did he, uh, borrow the guitar, then?" asked Sam.

"No. He borrowed the guitar's owner. He stole the actual guitar."

"So, why Rome?" Sam pressed. "What is this, take your new demon pal on the Grand Tour?"

"I thought that some culture might be edifying," Crowley answered, "This is Rome, one of the most cultured cities in the world! The history, the architecture, the museums, the galleries, the sophisticated women..."

"What did he do?" Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"He locked me out while he screwed a waitress, then stole a Ferrari. Only he didn't tell me he'd stolen it, not before we had a good number of the Polizia chasing us and he'd frightened me to death with his driving."

Sam gave Crowley a look up and down. "You still look, uh, undead to me."

"At least that had four wheels," muttered Crowley, "I thought Germany would be a good introduction. You'll like the beer, I said. You'll like the buxom women, I said. You'll like the fried food, I said."

"And did he?"

"Oh, yes, a lot. And after having partaken generously of all three, he stole a BMW, and we hit the Black Forest road. I think I might've left my fingerprints in his ribs. I certainly left my arse print on the pillion seat and the sounds of my screams are probably still echoing around inside that helmet. Plus, I had to get my leathers dry-cleaned afterwards. Only first, I had to wait around while he had sex in the back of aLandespolizeicar with the female officer who eventually managed to pull him over." He looked like a kicked puppy. "We have to do something, Sam. Before he funs me to death."

"I'd be happy to wait until he's done that," remarked Sam casually. Crowley let out a mournful noise. "Yeah, yeah. all right, so, I've been doing some research, but I haven't turned up anything useful." He squared his shoulders with a resolute expression. "I think our best bet is to go 'fess up, and ask for help."

Crowley let out a little shriek. "No! No! We can't do that!" he yelped. "He'll call me idjit! He'll call me asshat! He'll drench me in holy water! He'll shoot me with his Anti-Demon Rounds full of salt and sanctified dog poo! He'll let his dogs bail me up! He'll let those gargoyles strafe me!"

"Of course he will!" Sam snapped angrily, "Because this is all your fault, you scheming, evil piece of shit! Turning my brother into a demon, you'll be lucky if he doesn't turn you into a little puddle of sulphuric goo!"

"Noooooo!" wailed Crowley, "I fear for my haberdashery!"

Sam shrugged. "Well, okay, just send me back, and I'll leave you and Dean to get on with your bromance, and I'll wait until he comes home again. He will eventually, when he's got enough Chicks I Have Banged stories that he wants to tell me."

There was the slam of a door, and a voice yelling, "Hey, Crowley! I'm back! I got the cans, so I can cut some really awesome riffs but be quiet, and... Sammy!" The moment he laid eyes on his little brother, Dean was across the room and hugging him. "Hey, bro, it's great to see you!" His smile was beaming, but faded a little. "Hey, have you been eatin' enough? You're lookin' a bit tired."

"I'm, uh, fine, Dean," Sam assured him.

"What are you doin' here?" Dean asked as his sunny smile reasserted itself. "I was just gonna do some guitar practice, you know, pick up some new riffs."

"Uh, Crowley... contacted me," Sam said, waggling his eyebrows at the cringing demon, "He thought it might be nice for us to, you know, catch up."

"Yeah, he's turnin' out to be kind of okay," Dean grinned, giving Crowley a playful punch in the arm. Crowley let out a yip, and rubbed his arm. "Whoever thought he'd be such fun? Hey, you wanna go get something to eat? Crowley found this place yesterday, the pasta is awesome, and they do really big serving sizes. Which reminds me," he reached into his pocket, "You know that guy from breakfast a few days ago? I saw him again."

He withdrew his hand from his pocket, and plonked a toupée onto Crowley's head.

"That's... very thoughtful of you, Dean," trilled Crowley through gritted teeth as Sam laughed out loud, "But for now, why don't we go and get lunch?"

"Awesome!" Dean smiled. "Three-way man-date, that sounds totally demonic!"

"Definitely, definitely," nodded Crowley, with the desperate smile of a man who'd rather crawl into a hole and pull the dirt in on top of himself, "But just before we do, would you humour me?"

"Sure," Dean smiled.

"Wonderful, wonderful. Well, you know how we've talked about not drawing attention to ourselves, you know, keeping our demony little secrets from the population at large? Can't have them realising that we're swanning about enjoying ourselves Topside, ha ha ha."

"Oh, yeah," Dean nodded seriously, "Stay under the radar, so nobody notices."

"That's exactly it, gold star for you. So, why don't you just pop out, and put Mr Mustaine's body back where you found it, there's a good lad."

Whoever would've guessed that Crowley whumping would be such fun? No doubt the Man of Knowledge will help them figure something out. Maybe the King of Hell might even have to do some trials to cure Dean of demonage. I wonder what that would entail?...

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