In the Jimiverse, Sam still has his tattoo. Maybe Cas put it back afterwards. Dean will not be possessing his little brother. That would be just too weird. And poor Sam would have to spend a week in bed recovering from stuffing his face with double cheese baconburgers for a week. And possibly a case of Doingo Syndrome (which is a problem that Dean once told somebody that Jimi was suffering from, after he broke into an animal shelter and, er, entertained all the lady dogs in the place.)
...
You cannot possibly want Dean to possess his brother, can you? I mean, yes, you're Denizens, and you are depraved, but, you don't really want that...
Do you?...
Chapter Four
Bobby headed for the living room, poured a double for himself and one for Sam, pointedly didn't offer Crowley a drink, and dropped heavily into a chair.
"Okay, then," he said, "Take it from the top."
Sam did just that, with Crowley interjecting from time to time, and Bobby intervening when the two ended up squabbling, until the whole tale was told.
"You know, I wondered what the hell was goin' on," Bobby mused, "When that story about financial mischief in the office of the Kansas Secretary of State broke. It was a total change of character – not only did we suddenly get a full disclosure of the bribe taking on camera, we got a tearful admission of marital infidelity."
"He was just figurin' out the possession thing," Sam nodded, "Scared the shit out of me. I thought he was dead again, for real, just this body lying there on his bed, I was about to call you when he sat up and smiled. Fuck, it knocked five years off my life."
"I have been trying to discourage him," Crowley added.
"Well, you've failed spectacularly," noted Sam trenchantly. "I've been makin' him use a sign when he does it, but I swear, he waits until I'm close to sit up and scare me."
"Just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" Bobby grunted at Crowley, who flinched. "At the risk of channelling Dr Phil, what were you thinkin'?"
"Look, it seemed like a good idea at the time, all right?" Crowley yapped.
"The Streaker's Defence," Bobby noted judiciously, "Of course. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time, Your Honour'. Not washin' with me either."
"Look, I didn't actually do anything!" Crowley protested. "Much. Hardly at all. Just a bit. Sort of. Well, I might just have given the inevitable a wee little shove along, so we didn't all have to stand around and wait for the other boot to drop…"
"You called him back!" Sam snapped, "You put the First Blade in his hand, and called him back!"
"You should be grateful!" Crowley rallied magnificently. "The Mark doesn't completely let go. What would have happened if you'd built him a pyre, hmmmmmm? Cremated the body of the Living Sex God before he was hauled back? So he'd have had to go out and find another host? How pissed off would he have been about that? We'd never have heard the end of it! And how awkward would it have been to come up with a plausible explanation as to why your big brother suddenly looked suspiciously like the vocalist from Metallica? Because if you want to get around in the company of a guy with a beard and no moustache, that's your look-out, but I see facial topiary like that, I think Amish or some sort of pervert, and I don't know how many barns you raise around here weekly, but…"
"If we can just keep to the pertinent subject matter here, children," Bobby growled, "The issue is, Dean's now a demon. Or at least, he's been demonified."
"That is how one becomes a demon," Crowley nodded, "Don't waste your breath stating the obvious, darling, it's beneath you."
"I aint just statin' the obvious, asshat," Bobby snapped, "I'm readin' the fine print. You of all people should understand that. What I'm gettin' at is, yeah, technically, Dean's been demonified…"
"Technically?" echoed Crowley. "Technically? Look, being a demon isn't something you do on time share, or working from home. It's not like working a sex chat line. It's not like holding down a nine-to-five job. You don't kiss the wife and pat the dog goodbye in the morning, then catch the bus to Perdition, put on your horns and black eyes and clock on, spend a hard day slaving over a simmering lava pit or flaying the decaying skin from the backs of the damned, then hang up your pitchfork at the end of the day, then go home, kiss-kiss, hello dear, how was your day, oh, you wouldn't believe it, one of those rapists tried to get out again, I had to dent my pitchfork over his head, oh, look, you have lava splashed on your pants again, go and get changed and I'll put them in to soak, did you get a chance to ask Earl from the Pit of Perverted Predators over to dinner, yes, Beverly says not to worry about dessert, she'll do a cheesecake, that's wonderful, oh, could you have a look at Fluffy's backside, he's been scooting on the lawn again. Either you are, or aren't. You're a demon, or you're not. You can't be a little bit demon. Like you can't be a little bit pregnant."
"Some combinations of the oral contraceptive pill work by suppressing ovulation, by simulating aspects of the early stages of pregnancy," offered Sam, "So, you can, in fact, be pharmacologically a little bit pregnant."
Crowley eyed Sam warily. "You know," he said carefully, "The way his brain works, sometimes, I shudder to think what would actually have happened if he'd laid claim to the Red Throne. I suspect that some of the Hierarchy would have ended up hammering on the door of the Cage, begging for asylum." He paused. "I would probably have been the one trying to knock the hinges out in order to get in."
"What I'm tryin' to say," Bobby growled, rolling his eyes, "Is that Dean has been demonified, but, well, does his behaviour strike you as particularly demonic?"
"He keeps borrowing bodies," Sam pointed out in a disapproving voice, "And scaring the shit out of me. His eyes go black – he does it on purpose to annoy me."
"Those are physical properties of demons," Bobby waved a hand dismissively, "I'm talkin' about his behaviour. He can take a host, he can transport himself – okay, maybe not navigate so well – but now he can, what does he do?"
Sam looked nonplussed. "Well, he steals booze," he pointed out.
"He's been doin' that since he was sixteen," Bobby humphed.
"He steals really really good booze," Sam amended.
"What else?" prompted Bobby.
"He goes out prowling for sex," Sam went on. "Then comes back and wants to tell me all about it," he added resentfully.
"He's been doin' that since he was fifteen," Bobby chortled. "Anythin' else?"
"Oh, where do I start?" humphed Crowley. "He steals vehicles, and uses them to attempt to terrify me to death! He drinks like a fish! Getting into fights is his idea of a good time! He eats like a pig! He lives like a pig! He sings, mother of Mammon, he sings like a pig! He is a complete oik! The only culture he has is likely to be found growing in his laundry! He actively enjoys making me as uncomfortable as possible!"
"And he's been doin' that since, well, since forever," Bobby chuckled fondly. "So, would either of you regard this as particularly demonic behaviour?"
Sam and Crowley looked at each other.
"Because what I'm thinkin'," the old Hunter went on, "Is that, your average newly minted demon, when it manages to get out of Hell and lands Topside, tends to display certain behaviour patterns. Those patterns usually involve murder and mayhem. Revenge against someone, maybe, or killing, or tormenting someone for the fun of it. Vicious self-indulgence with nothing but its own enjoyment in mind, and hang the consequences."
"He's certainly been tormenting me for the fun of it," Crowley muttered.
"You're a demon," Sam spoke up, frowning in thought. "Demons with an axe to grind go out and try to kill whoever pissed them off. Or whoever happens to be just standing there." He cocked his head thoughtfully. "Dean has a lot of things to hold against you. By rights, he should be going after you with all guns blazing. Because demons hate other demons more than anything. They might occasionally make tentative allies, then double-cross them as soon as they can, but they don't go off to Europe for a cultural education. They don't go to very good pasta restaurants. And they don't go get headphones to play guitar."
"A demon wouldn't have brought you booze, Sam," Bobby opined, "A demon would've stayed around to taunt you, paradin' your brother's body around, showin' you what he'd become. He would've taken pleasure in seein' you get torn up about it, then he'd have beaten you to a pulp for amusement. But he didn't."
"No," Sam agreed. "He kept bringing me booze. And chicken salad. And Tylenol. For after I'd drunk the booze."
"Exactly," Bobby nodded, "That's why I'm thinkin', Dean may have been demonified, but he aint exactly a demon, as we understand the word."
"But… how?" asked Sam.
"We got a precedent," Bobby reminded him, "Cain. He had the Mark, and it happened to him. Only," he grinned, "He left, he walked away from Hell, turned his back on the Knights, for love. Coulda taken over Hell himself, or the planet, come to think of it, but he threw it all away for love. Now, how demonic does that sound?"
He sat back, and contemplated his drink. "Maybe it's because Dean didn't die through the damnable conduct of sinning or making a deal. Maybe it's because he didn't go to Hell to have his soul twisted and broken. Maybe it's because his death was a true self-sacrifice made for the greater good, the idjit. Hell, maybe it's just because o' quantum. But think about what demons become. They are selfish above all else, they look out for number one. They are not troubled by existential angst, or self-esteem problems, or a sense of worthlessness, and they sure as hell don't put everybody else's welfare ahead of their own, to their own detriment…"
"But Dean does," mused Sam. "Or at least, he did."
"But now, our Righteous Man, demonified, aint troubled by any o' that," Bobby reasoned. "He was even willing to leave you to look after yourself for a few days while he headed off with Crowley. How willing would he usually be to take time off for himself, especially if it meant he had to leave off mother-hennin' after you 24/7?"
He let that sink in.
"And he seems… happy," he went on quietly, almost sadly. "He's actually prepared to let himself do things for himself. No wonder he likes to sleep, even if he doesn't have to; because he can sleep, not just lie there in a pathological fug of self-loathing, worry and failure. He's not bein' cheerful just to annoy you, Sam, he's bein' cheerful because he's feelin' cheerful." He looked down to where Jimi was slouched comfortably on the rug for a snooze. "If he was truly evil, Jimi would've torn into him the moment he woke up. Jimi's a Hunter's dog, and he knows his stuff – he's got a nose for evil shit."
He's a Hunter," Sam said, a smile on his face. "That's what he said, when you asked about the First Blade killing Crowley. He's a Hunter, with a real good weapon for killing demons."
The implications of the situation dawned on Crowley.
"This is…" his mouth worked silently. "Bobby, this could be a disaster waiting to happen. If he's not a proper demon, and he still thinks of himself as, you know…"
"A Hunter," supplied Bobby, just a touch maliciously.
"Yes, just so," nodded Crowley. "A Hunter. Dean Winchester. Only with demonic attributes. And the First Blade. And the Hellhounds following him around like kids chasing an ice cream truck. He could…" he swallowed. "Bobby, he could do slaughter Downstairs. He could do slaughter Up Here, too. He could… Bobby, he could commit mass demonicide!"
"Quite possibly," agreed Bobby serenely.
"But… but… this is terrible!" Crowley wrung his hands. "He could absolutely decimate our ranks! He could exterminate my deal-makers, just for starters! He could quite possibly achieve the unthinkable – he could annoy Hell's Hierarchy enough to turn them into a united force!" He looked absolutely stricken. "Bobby, I could be killed! Worse than that, I could be deposed!"
"Gosh, wouldn't that be a shame," smirked Sam.
"Don't get your panties in a bunch just yet, Your Majesty," grumbled Bobby, "I aint completely happy with the idea o' one o' my boys bein' a black-eyed sumbitch, no matter how well-adjusted it seems to have made him. We got no idea of how this will play out. Is he still mortal, will he age and die, or is he like Cain? Right now, he's like a mastiff puppy, perpetually cheerful and doesn't realise that he's knockin' over the furniture – will he turn ornery as he grows up? I don't wanna find out. And, I suspect, neither do you two idjits. So," he poured himself another drink, "I shall contemplate the matter, then do some research." He glanced at his watch. "Maybe you could go fetch the puppy home before he chews up somebody's shoes, Crowley."
With a heavy sigh, the King of Hell stood up, but was forestalled by Sam's phone.
"Yeah. Dean! Where are you? What? Are you… okay, well, just come on in when you're ready. Shut down the compressor if you're not gonna be usin' it." He rang off. "Dean found his way back," he relayed.
"Where is he?" demanded Bobby.
"Outside," Sam replied, just as they heard a loud happy whoop.
Muttering under his breath, Bobby made his way to the kitchen window.
A bright yellow bouncy castle occupied a large area of his drive. Dean Winchester was bouncing up and down on it. He was wearing a London WPC's hat. He looked up, and gave Bobby a brilliant smile and a wave.
"Sam," sighed Bobby, "I'm gonna need some help with the research."
Hey, this is the Jimiverse - we couldn't have demon!Dean without the bouncy castle!
Send reviews, because Reviews are the Fun Interludes On The Bouncy Castle In The Driveway Of Life!*
*Yes, yes, with the W.O.Y.C. if you must. You depraved beldames. No, I don't know whether Dean brought back the handcuffs with him, you deviated pre-verts.