Chapter Five

"So, her name was Elizabeth," as soon as he came in from the bouncy castle, Dean launched enthusiastically into a description of his London encounter, "And she's been in the Met, that's their cops, for six years now, and she's got some serious unarmed tactics moves, so…"

"What the hell, Dean?" interrupted Sam, shooting his brother a searing Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean), "What the hell possessed you to climb Nelson's Column?"

"It was… me!" Dean gave him a brilliant smile. "Ha ha! Get it? What 'possessed' me? Me!"

"Don't give up your day job, Chuckles," growled Bobby, "I think what Sam is getting' at is, why would you decide that you wanted to climb Nelson's Column?"

Dean's face became resolute. "Because it's there," he intoned heroically.

"That was a mountain Mallory was talking about," Sam huffed, "Not a public monument. And he died."

"Uh, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time?" Dean offered hopefully.

"It didn't work for him, it aint gonna work for you," Bobby informed him.

"Oh, come on, guys," Dean wheedled, "It's not like I'm gonna hurt myself, I was perfectly safe the whole time!"

"Dean, just because you can doesn't mean you should!" yapped Sam in exasperation.

"You never want me to have fun!" Dean's epic pout would've done a sulky six-year-old proud. He plonked himself down in a chair, and glared at Bobby and Sam. "You're the Fun Police, you know that?" Jimi butted his big earnest head against Dean, who patted him. "At least Jimi loves me," he humphed.

Sam ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Look, Dean, it's not that I don't want you to have fun," he began, "I'm all for you having fun, in fact, sometimes I wish you'd unwind and let yourself have more fun..."

Dean gave him a beautiful beaming smile of affection.

"…But right now, I'm just worried about you, because, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "You're not, uh, you're not… yourself."

Dean looked confused. "Of course I'm myself," he replied, "Who else would I be?"

"Well, for a start, your id has taken over the asylum," Sam said, "your superego has gone into hibernation, and your ego is not bothering to draw the curtains before you take off your pants, so to speak…"

Dean cocked his head. "I understood the bit about taking off my pants," he said eventually.

"I think what Dr Freud here is tryin' to get at," Bobby interjected, "Is that, right now, you're walkin' around, well, not to put too fine a point on it, demonified. Your socialised, ethical, moral compass aint pointin' North; but it aint pointin' Down South, either. If anything, it's pointin' due Dean."

Dean looked crestfallen. "Do you think I'm… I'm some kind of monster?" he quavered, his eyes brimming.

"No! No!" Sam hurried to reassure him, "Absolutely not! Look at Jimi," he went on, indicating the dog, who was panting happily while Dean scratched his ears, 'You know he's got a nose for evil shit. If you were really evil shit, he wouldn't be standing there being a total slut for attention as usual, he'd be tryin' to tear you right out of your, uh," he paused, "Does it even technically count as a meatsuit if you're inhabiting your own body?"

"The answer to that," sighed Bobby, "Is, I suspect, somewhere between 'yes' and 'no'."

"Very definitive," griped Crowley, "That's what I like about you, darling, there's no equivocation on your part…"

"Shut up, you," Bobby grumped, turning back to Dean. "Son, we don't really know what you are. There aint really a precedent for it. That alone is reason enough to try to undo it."

"But…" Dean looked down at his hands. "I can do all sorts of cool stuff," he finished plaintively.

"So could I, hopped up on demon blood," Sam reminded him, "And look how that panned out."

"Ah, the zealotry of the reformed," sighed Crowley, "It's always the ex-alcoholics who are the most vocally tee-total, don't you find?"

"Not helping, Crowley," Sam ground out between clenched teeth.

Bobby glared at Crowley. "O' course, if you're not on board with this, Your Majesty," he began judiciously, "Maybe you could take Dean Downstairs, introduce him around, turn him loose to win friends and influence people…"

"Yes, yes, you make your point," Crowley sighed dramatically, "Pray continue."

"So," Bobby returned to the topic at hand, "I think that it would really be for the best, Dean, if we could find a way to undemonify you, have you revert to completely human."

Dean turned heartrendingly soulful eyes on him. "Can I… can I keep the bouncy castle?"

Sam couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face. "Sure, bro, bouncy castles are cool."

A small smile made its way onto Dean's face. "And, can I keep the police lady's hat?" he asked.

"Well, a trip back to London to return it probably aint practical," chuckled Bobby, "So yeah. On you, it looks good."

"Awesome!" Grinning broadly, he reached for his back pocket. "Hey what about these handcuffs, can I keep these too?"

"I'll just leave you and the Special Needs child to it, shall I?" said Crowley brightly.

"Like hell," snapped Bobby, "You had a hand in gettin' him into this mess, you are gonna help with gettin' him out."

"But I have no talent for this sort of thing, love," protested Crowley, "You're the Man of Knowledge, and you've got Poindexter here, I don't see how I could possibly be of any assistance…" he broke off, and listened to a noise that had been progressively getting louder as they spoke.

"What the hell is that?" asked Sam.

"Sounds like a stampede," suggested Bobby, "But there aint been a cattle drive through these parts in nearly a hundred years… Crowley?" He saw the resigned look on the King of Hell's face.

"All I can say," His Infernal Majesty groaned, "Is, I hope you have a bottle of carpet spot cleaner."

The noise that sounded like a herd of wildebeest galumphing in their general direction hit the house, and the living room was suddenly filled with what could only be described as disembodied presences.

"Oh, hey, guys!" Dean called happily, "How you doin?"

"Dean!" yelped Sam, swiping at the insubstantial yet tangible entities that swirled and buffeted around him, "Dean, what the fuck is going on?"

"Oh, sorry," Dean grinned, clearing his throat. "Hey, guys, make yourselves presentable. Go on, I know you can do it if you want to."

There was a blurring of reality around the edges as the laws of physical matter wobbled…

Then the living room was filled with dogs.

There were big dogs, there were bigger dogs, and there were even bigger dogs. Their breeding was indeterminate – they had rough coats, large feet, grizzled and scarred faces featuring large snaggled fangs, and eyes that glowed faintly red, but their tails waved, and the ruckus was of happy greeting barks.

"God's tits!" yelled Bobby, as Jimi leaped to his feet and began to exchange excited butt-sniffs and growl-wrestles with the sudden influx of monster dogs. "What in the name of Crufts is this?"

"It's the Infernal Pack!" wailed Crowley, as a dog trod on him in an effort to get to Dean, who had gone down, laughing, in a pack of kissing tongues and waving tails. "Or some them, anyway. They've been following him around!"

"They're awesome!" Dean's voice announced from somewhere around floor level.

"They're slobbery!" complained Sam, as one creature that came up to his waist shoved its nose eagerly into his crotch, then jumped to put its paws on his shoulders and kiss him. "Ow! Aaaaaaaargh!"

"Stop that! Stop that!" shrieked Crowley, batting at another dog, as it nosed at him curiously, "Oh, you disgusting object, this is a cashmere-silk blend! The marks will never come out! Not the tie! Not the tie!"

"Balls," muttered Bobby, as a large foot trod on his boot, the claws leaving marks in the leather, "Dean, call the mutts to heel. Dean? Dean!" He grabbed at a lamp as a large wagging tail whacked it off the table, then raised his voice. "Enough! SIT!"

Two dozen Hellhound rumps hit the floor. One looked up guiltily from where it had slunk behind the sofa.

"Bobby, you must give me that spell," spluttered Crowley, making a futile attempt to dab the slobber from his suitings. His handkerchief began to dissolve.

"I've had dogs all my life," Bobby growled, "And if the Almighty had intended dogs – ANY dogs – to run riot indoors, He'd have made lamps shatterproof and dog crap Teflon," he announced sternly. "Either you learn to control yourselves indoors, or you all go outside. Including you," he bent a stern eye on Dean, then glared at the one who'd been lurking behind the sofa. "And if I find you've left an infernal deposit behind the furniture, I don't care if you're Lucifer's lap-dog, I will rub your nose in it."

"I'll, uh, get some rags and, uh, clean up," Dean scrambled to his feet. "It's not his fault, they ate quite a lot of tiramisu, I think for a couple of 'em the dairy didn't really agree with 'em…"

"Is there any point in asking why a contingent of Hellhounds is following you around?" asked Sam, pushing the nosy one's snout away from his groin.

"Probably not," grumbled Bobby, watching one of the Hellhounds sniff at the leg of the table. As it was about to cock its leg, he snatched a spray bottle from a bookcase, and gave it a squirt on the nose. It stopped, went 'snrf', and shook its head.

Dean's expression clouded. "Hey, don't scare him!"

Bobby turned, and gave Dean a squirt. "Don't you tell me how to manage dogs in my own house, boy," he growled, as Dean let out a yelp and fell backwards onto the sofa.

"Well, he eats like one, he snores like one, I suppose you might as well as train him like one," chortled Crowley, "You were quite possibly a dog in a previous life, Dean, in which case, one wonders, in order to be reincarnated as you, what sort of doggy sins must you have perpetra… OW!" The squirt of water hit him between the eyes. "Bobby!" he shrieked, "Bobby, how could you?"

"What did you put in that?" asked Sam curiously. "Lavender oil?"

"Holy water," Bobby grunted. "Never know when you might need it. Plus, it keeps the pot plants lookin' happy in winter, when they don't need so much waterin'."

Sam grinned. "Hey, I didn't think of that," he laughed. "All I gotta do is put a bit in my shower gel, and he can't use it. Or put some in the wash, and he can't steal my socks. Or, hey, if I sprinkle my bed, he can't short-sheet it!" A whole new avenue of pranking opened up before him. "Or, if I sprinkle his bed, or spike his booze…"

Bobby waved his spray bottle threateningly.

"It won't work on me," Sam grinned smugly, "Because I'm not a de-aaaaaaaaargh!"

"Just to neutralise any stray Hellhound slobber," Bobby beamed angelically as Sam wiped his astonished and dripping face. "Now, we will retire to the study, to make a start on figurin' out how to undo this little clusterfuck, while His Majesty and the new kid on the block will prevent these idjits from destroyin' my house, and we will make like a happy team to get this done."

"Well, as I was saying," Crowley replied, "I doubt I'm of any use to you here, so why don't I –"

squirt

"Just, sit down here, and, and, and, oh bugger," Crowley sank dejectedly onto the sofa, dabbing at his face and tie with the remains of his handkerchief. A large grizzled head dropped sympathetically into his lap, and he patted it dispairingly.

"Hey, let's see what on cable," Dean chirped, grabbing up the remote and flicking through channels. "Oh, hey, Dr Sexy! You'll love this!" he enthused. "Hey, you know what we need? Some of those angel wings pastries, they were awesome! Why don't I just head back to Rome, and…"

squirt

"Uh, okay, no angel wings. Hey, Sam, see if there's any popcorn in the larder before you disappear into the deepest darkest depths of the study."

"Hey, since when am I your damned servant? Send the dogs away, and get your own…"

squirt

"Uh, let me guess, you want butter, but hold the salt?"

Send reviews, because they'e the Crostoli* At The Morning Tea Of Life!

*If you don't know what angel wings, or crostoli, are, YOU NEED TO KNOW. Hie thee to Google or Wikipedia. They are deep-fried sugar-dusted** PERFECTION.

** Sugar-dusted Winchesters may not be substituted on calorie control grounds, you depraved beldames.