Aaaargh! Aaaaaaargh! The plot bunny has its teeth in my leg! Aaaaaaargh!

Chapter Three

Sam was right about one thing; once they were back in the US of A, Dean couldn't wait to start with the Chicks I Have Banged stories. And once they were in his Baby, on the way to Bobby's, he had a captive audience.

"We don't have to travel by old-fashioned internal combustion, you know," Crowley said hopefully from his position wedged into the corner of the back seat, trying to stay as far as possible from Jimi, "We can go by infernal combustion…"

"But that's no fun," Dean pouted, "And just zapping her around, well, it wouldn't be good for my Baby. An engine has to run – she needs exercise."

"It's actually quite cramped back here," Crowley protested, eyeing Jimi, who eyed him back, and growled. "He's taking up more than half the seat."

"Well, he thinks of it as his 'den'," Dean shrugged, "So I guess he figures he can take up as much space as he likes."

"He keeps growling at me," Crowley whined. "And he did wee in my shoes again last night." He shot a sudden horrified glance at Dean. "At least, I assumed it was Jimi…"

"That's because you're a demon, and he's a Hunter's dog," replied Dean. "It's just because he wants to kill you, no biggie."

"But you're a demon too!" protested His Infernal Majesty, "Why doesn't he want to kill you?"

"Because," Dean beamed, "I'm awesome, I'm his Alpha, I'm the guy who throws the Frisbee and feeds him wings." At the mention of the w-word, Jimi's ears pricked, and he began to bark. "You hungry, J-Man? Hey, Sam, watch for a drive-through, let's get food!"

"I don't suppose that we could stop somewhere that has proper cutlery?" Crowley didn't sound too hopeful.

"You could always go on ahead," suggested Sam brightly. "We promise to shovel you up after Bobby turns you into a smoking pile of slime." Crowley let out a small stifled squeak of horror at the very thought.

"Hey, I like to drive, so I'll drive," stated Dean, "Now, where was I? Oh, yeah the German cop. Her name was Angela," he bubbled, shoving another handful of Doritos into his mouth with his right hand, "Only not pronounced like we'd say it, but 'an-ge-le', 'cause she was German, and wow, I've been with some women in uniform before, and it's really hot when they take charge, so I just said, 'Yes ma'am', and..."

"Make him stop," moaned Crowley from the back seat, "For the love of Craig, make him stop." He gestured, and a bottle and a glass appeared in his hands.

"Welcome to my world," Sam glared at him, turning to snatch the bottle. "You wanted to steal my brother? Suck it up, buttercup."

"Guys," interrupted Dean, "Don't be like that, come on, this is a road trip! We're supposed to be havin' fun! Oh, hey, booze!" He grabbed the bottle from Sam, undid it with his teeth, and took a deep drink. "Oh, that's good stuff. We should go visit the distillery sometime, that'd be really cool!"

"Dean, it's in Scotland, in Morayshire," said Sam between clenched teeth.

"Well, yeah," Dean conceded, "But we could go visit. Scotland. Where they wear kilts. Hey, Crowley," Dean waggled his eyebrows, "Do the women go 'regimental' too?"

Crowley let out a sad little noise.

"Let's have some music!" chirped Dean, sliding a tape into the deck.

"Look at it this way," Sam said with all the composure of a Zen monk to Crowley's horrified face, "While he's singing along, he can't tell you about his sexcapades."

"Hey, I've got a great idea!" Dean smiled hugely, "Why don't I just pull over, and I'll go and borrow his body, and I can really do this properly?"

"No, no, you're doin' an awesome job all by yourself, bro," Sam assured him. "Just leave Mr Bon Jovi alone." Then, for the express purpose of rubbing salt into the wound, he began to sing along with Dean, taking a schadenfreudeful delight in watching Crowley's agonised grimace in the mirror, and, if he was honest, just enjoying seeing his brother so apparently carefree, even if he was technically not completely human.

A small comet of white smoke whizzed in through the window, and circled Dean's head a couple of times. "Hey, Gedda!" he greeted the little Hellpoodle, as she headed for the back seat, materialised, and plonked down in Crowley's lap.

"Hello, my darling," he crooned to the little dog, who climbed up his shirt to kiss him lavishly, "I'm so glad you're here. Protect me from your oik of a father, he wants to eat me."

Gedda turned around to sniff noses with Jimi Junior, then settled herself comfortably between his front paws for a snooze.

Crowley sighed. "Et tu, Gedda."

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

A fairly awkward conversation took place on the porch at Singer Salvage, as Sam explained why Bobby would have to use the charm to let Dean into the house the way he did for Crowley. There was murder in the old man's eyes as he glared at Crowley.

"You've really done it this time, asshole," he growled, "Turnin' one o' my boys into a black-eyed bastard, I will see you nailed for this…"

"It wasn't me!" Crowley yelped, clinging to Gedda, "It wasn't me! He was the one who wanted to use the First Blade! It wasn't my fault! Why do you always think that when something like this happens, it must be my fault?"

"Because you are an evil, schemin', immoral, vicious self-interested asshat who'd cheerfully screw over anybody for anything if it suits your ends," replied Bobby promptly, "And it usually is."

"Well, it isn't," Crowley griped petulantly. "It was his decision, his choice." Bobby continued to glare at him. "Well, I may have had suspicions, possibly even entertained small hopes, but it wasn't my fault."

"It's really cool," grinned Dean, holding out his hand and willing the Blade to manifest, then passing it to Bobby. "Just like Sampson, I slew Abaddon with the assbone of a Jew…"

"Jawbone of an ass," corrected Sam through clenched teeth, the tone of his voice indicating that this joke had already been done at least a dozen times.

Bobby turned the weapon over, examining it. "Interesting. Could this kill him?" he waved it at Crowley, who let out a small shriek.

"Sure," shrugged Dean, "But I'd have to do it. It doesn't work without the Mark. But you could watch. Maybe kick him once he was down." He smiled at his brother. "You too, Sam."

"Now just a minute!" yipped Crowley, "You can't kill me!"

"Pretty sure I could," Dean commented easily.

"But, but… I'm the reason you're not dead!" Crowley protested. "I'm the reason you didn't end up on a pyre, or Mr AP there didn't end up over his head in some deal or spell trying to bring you back!"

"Yeah, but you're a demon," Dean pointed out, "And I'm a Hunter, and now I got a real good weapon for killin' em. I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'." He gave Crowley a critical look. "You are kind of an asshole, though," he conceded thoughtfully.

"God's gyratin' tits and Satan's triple-ply toilet tissue," sighed Bobby, taking off his hat and scratching his head, "Look, I think for the moment, it would be prudent for nobody in this room to try to kill anybody else. However attractive the idea might be," he gave Crowley another withering glare.

"Listen to the Man of Knowledge," tweeted Crowley brightly.

"Shut up, you. So," he turned to Sam, "You'd better tell me how this happened, from the beginnin'."

"Hey, you know what we need?" Dean grinned hugely. "Booze! And I know just the place to get it from!"

"Dean!" Sam yelped, "Just wait, don't…"

Dean disappeared.

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

"He's just gone to get booze," sighed Sam. "He's still Dean, just even sneakier now. He's developed a bit of a taste for really good stuff."

"Well, it's nice to know that I've taught him something," said Crowley brightly, "Now, Bobby, if we could just do something about educating your palate, darling."

"It's okay, he won't get caught," Sam assured the old Hunter, "Although he might get…"

His cell chirped, and he scrabbled to answer it.

"Yeah… Dean! What the… yeah, I know, I've told you already, you should wait until… uh-huh… what? Where?... You… climbed it? Jesus H. Christ, why the fuck would you… well get down, right now!...Serves you right… uh-huh… uh-huh… yeah… oh, God, okay, just hang tight, bro." He gave the others a pained look. "He just headed for Bardstown. To get some bourbon."

"Idjit," muttered Bobby, "There's a 'but', aint there? I can just tell, there's a 'but'."

"Uh, yeah," Sam nodded. "Well, it's in Nelson County, Kentucky."

"And?" prompted Bobby.

"Well, he doesn't exactly have a real good handle on the whole, uh, diabolical satnav thing just yet," Sam admitted, "He says he's standing next to Nelson's Column."

Crowley let out a long-suffering groan. "I'll go get him."

"Great. But he said not to rush; he's met a hot chick with a really cute accent."

"Did he say how long he'd like?" Bobby asked sourly.

"Not exactly," Sam replied, "But he said he, uh, wanted to give her time to finish arresting him properly." He looked pained. "You know he's got a thing about women in uniform. And if there's handcuffs involved…"

Bobby looked down into his coffee. "I need something stronger."

That noise you heard? It was all the Deangirls going 'Ska-weeeeeee!' at the mention of Dean and handcuffs in adjacent sentences. It's the whole Ackles In Shackles thing; just like the Mark, it never completely let go.

Send reviews to get this little bunny to let go of my leg, because Reviews are the Inappropriate Anecdotes Told With Great Zest During The Road Trip Of Life!*

*Yes, yes, all right, if you must, you may have an Inappropriate Anecdote about a Winchester Of Your Choice. I'll stick with the one about the Volvo driver who thought I was a lesbian intent on corrupting her about-15-year-old daughter. Or the one about the ex-boyfriend you liked to measure his, ahem, yes, well, every couple of weeks, that always goes down a treat.