BThere have been some questions raised as to how demon!Dean can do some of the things he's been doing here in the Jimiverse, so I can reveal that these things are possible for the following reasons:
1) Dean can occupy his own body, even with the anti-possession tattoo, because it's his. The anti-possession tattoo prevents anybody except the legitimate owner from using it. When demons possess someone, it's the equivalent of barging in unannounced while you're still in your pyjamas, going through the fridge and putting their feet up on your good cushions. An angel, by contrast, knocks on the door, wipes his or her feet, and brings a batch of home-made cupcakes. Since it 's Dean's body to start with, he has the title deed.
2) As to getting in and out of Bobby's house, the same charm that temporarily lets His Infernal Majesty past the wards works for Dean, too. However, if they annoy him too much, he may put both idjits in a devil's trap to get some peace.
3) It's my Jimiverse, and I can make the characters do whatever I want. Look, I can make Sam wear his hair in pigtails! tappitytappityclickclickENTER
Sam: Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!
And I can make Crowley tap dance! tappitytappityclickclickENTER
Crowley: *tappity tappity tappity tappity* Help! Help! Do something, Bobby, do something, this is humiliating, oh, the demonity! *tappity tappity shuffle shuffle tappity*
And I can make Bobby take off his hat! tappitytappityclickclickENTER
Bobby: Idjit.
And I can make Dean talk about his feelings! tappitytappityclickclickENTER
Dean: I like beer.
Okay, looks like there are limits even to a fickriter's powers. But mostly, I can do what I want in this sandpit. I reckon there's enough length on Stretch there to get a French braid happening, watch this.
*Sam runs screaming from the room*
Chapter Six
"So, who's that bint?" asked Crowley, reaching for another handful of popcorn and distractedly pushing the head of the Hellhound lounging beside him out of his lap. "Wasn't she just in theatre with Dr Whatshisname?"
"No, that's her twin, Nurse Grabbit," Dean replied, glued to the screen, "She doesn't know yet that her sister has come out of the coma and is trying to hit on the guy who's been trying to hit on her."
"On her, or the sister?" pressed Crowley.
"On Nurse Grabbit," Dean told him, "She doesn't think she's ready to love again, after her fiancé Dr Pullitt died in that terrible crash, oh, you should've seen it, even Dr Sexy couldn't save him with an emergency tongue transplant…"
"Hey, she's snogging him!" Crowley yelped, "She's making him believe she's her sister, and she's snogging him!" He grabbed more popcorn. "Well played, madam."
"It'll all come out later," Dean warned ominously, "If they end up in the janitor's closet, because the birthmarks aren't the same."
"Oh, not him again," complained the King of Hell as another character in scrubs bumbled into the scene, "Why does he keep turning up?"
"Dr Tony is kind of like the perpetual third wheel," said Dean, "Always a groomsman, never a groom, only, nobody knows about his tumour, and he wants to keep it quiet, but people have started noticing the Tourette's type symptoms, and Camilla in the pharmacy has been snooping in the records since she saw his name on a prescription for a chemo pill…"
"Why did she just slap him?" Crowley waved at another character who came striding into shot.
"Because she's in love with him," Dean explained.
Crowley looked confused. "Is she a Klingon, then?"
"She thinks he'll reject her once he finds out about her surgery," added Dean.
"What surgery?" Crowley demanded, "Is she the one who had the arse enhancement?"
"That was a cosmetic repair after the accident in the cocktail bar in Tijuana," Dean answered in awe, "A complete ass rebuild. Only Dr Sexy could have pulled that off. But Camilla in the pharmacy started snooping, when she saw her name on a prescription for anti-inflammatories."
"Wouldn't it be a bit, you know, obvious?" wondered His Infernal Majesty. "I mean, one day, there she is, completely Kiera Knightley, and then she goes on leave for a few weeks, and when she comes back, it's hellooooooooo Jennifer Lopez…"
"No, no, not that surgery," Dean cut him off, "The gender reassignment surgery. Nobody knows about that, either, but Camilla in the pharmacy has been snooping since she saw her name on a prescription for hormone therapy."
"Who's that, then?" Crowley pointed.
"Oh, that's her ex-girlfriend," Dean told him, "From before the surgery."
"They're all being terribly rude," His Hellside Highness sniffed, "Every time she comes into shot, people just ignore her! Is it because she's not a doctor?"
"It's because she's not alive," Dean said, "Nobody can see her. She's a ghost."
"Well, she's not very convincing," sniffed Crowley, "For an unquiet spirit. She's just standing there. Look, she's not trying to pull anybody's head off, or anything! Boooooo!" He threw a handful of popcorn at the screen. Some of the Hellhounds immediately scrambled to snuffle it up.
"Knock it off!" snapped Dean, "I can't see when they do that!"
"Sorry," Crowley apologised, "I'm from an era where entertainment was a lot more… participatory."
"What, like, plays, live music?" Dean asked. "If you didn't like it, you threw food?"
"Where I came from, if you didn't like it, you threw punches, or knives," Crowley shrugged, "But the sentiment's the same. Rubbish! Boooooooo!"
"Shut up! Shut up!" insisted Dean, "Here comes Dr Sexy!"
The series' protagonist strode into shot, looking commandingly assertive yet heartrendingly vulnerable, and made an incisively witty yet profoundly insightful quip about the way gender-reassigned-butt-woman was looking at Dr Tony, then the PA crackled, and he turned on his heel, with barely time to strike a manly pose, and hurried away, the others scurrying after him.
"They've got a cheek, bloody doctors," grumbled Crowley, "I mean, 'stat', indeed. Why can't they just say 'now'? Or 'immediately'? Or at least use the whole word, statim. Pretentious wankers, I'll bet you that fewer than one in a hundred can say anything beyond their school motto in Latin…"
"Is that where it comes from? A shortening of statim?" Dean turned to the demon king. "I always thought it stood for Shift That Ass Today."
"It was different when I was your age," Crowley was in full miffed mode, "Anaesthetic consisted of drinking until you puked, and hygiene meant the surgeon wiped the knife on his apron between patients, but damn it, they knew the difference between the perfect past and the progressive past and they ate irregular verbs for breakfast…"
"I think it's the boots," mused Dean, watching Dr Sexy's retreating form, then seeing him suddenly reappear in the scrub room, "There's something about those boots that makes women swoon."
"Is he wearing those into the operating theatre?" asked Crowley incredulously, "Is he… well, you can't tell me that's practical. Pretentious, yes, but not practical. WANKER!" He threw another handful of popcorn at the screen. "I hope they get covered in entrails!"
"I wish I had a pair of boots like that," sighed Dean.
"No self-respecting actual cowboy would be seen wearing those," scoffed Crowley, "Except maybe the cowboy from the Village People. Booooooooo!"
"Stop it! Dean griped, grabbing the bowl, "Oh, look, we're out of popcorn now." He suddenly brightened. "Hey, I just realised, a can just go and get myself a pair of cowboy boots!"
"Before you do, you can go and get more popcorn," Crowley waved a hand imperiously. "See if Bobby has something nice to put on it this time. I suppose furikake seasoning would be too much to hope for, see if he has any parmesan, and a little bit of black pepper…"
"Who in hell do you think you are, orderin' me around?" Dean snapped.
"Who in Hell, indeed," Crowley grinned smugly. "I am King of Hell, and therefore your boss, and I have told you to go and make popcorn. Grate the parmesan as finely as you can, dear boy."
Dean put down the empty bowl with all the care of a man in a bar carefully putting down his drink before inviting someone outside for a more in depth discussion about a matter of contention. "Excuse me, I think I heard something wrong," he said, "What did you just say to me?"
"I said," Crowley's smile didn't waver, "I am King of Hell, and you are a demon. Ergo, you know that one, don't you, ergo, you are to do as I tell you. Ipso facto, there's another one, you will now go and prepare more popcorn. Statim." He waved a hand airily. "Don't let me delay you."
Dean took a deep breath, as if holding on to his temper, and stood, then calmly headed for the kitchen.
"It's all in the eye, fellas," Crowley grinned at the Hellhounds as the sound of popcorn preparation came from the kitchen, "Everything I learned about dealing with demons, I learned from a Border Collie. And a Great White Shark." Jimi Junior, who'd been sitting on the sofa between them, curled his lip and growled. "I should've had your sire nutted when I had the chance," he scowled at the dog, "If I'd known he was going to turn into a Hunter's dog, traitorous bloody mutt."
"Popcorn's up, Your Majesty," announced Dean, carefully carrying a steaming bowl of fresh snack, "You want me to spit polish your shoes while I'm at it?"
"Not today, although I thank you for the offer," Crowley offered a smile, "Perhaps I'll take you up on that next time IiiiiiieeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Dean unceremoniously upended the entire bowl over Crowley, who discovered at that moment that the popcorn was not seasoned with a delightful mixture of piquant cheese and the crisp bite of ground pepper, but at least half a canister of salt. "Snacks are served, Your Royal Maj!" Dean trilled.
"Aaaaaaaaaargh!" yodelled Crowley, jumping up and performing a peculiar little shimmying dance as salt and popcorn went down his neck, his jacket and his shirt, "Aaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh!" Given that he was shedding deliciously salty popcorn, Jimi Junior suddenly decided that he didn't hate Crowley after all, or that he was at least prepared to tolerate him for as long as delectable morsels kept falling out of the bottom of his trousers. "Aaaaaaaaaaargh!"
"You want me to put some music on if you're gonna dance?" asked Dean. "Hey, that's the Watusi, right?"
"You little Yankee shit!" shrieked Crowley, "I'll see you spend a Topside month in the Lower Circles for that!"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm terrified," shrugged Dean, carefully retrieving the bowl. "Ow, I'll just put this back before Bobby gets angry."
Eyes blazing red, Crowley paused long enough in his lunatic gyrations to slap Dean upside the head.
"Don't you talk back to me, sonny," he growled. "I have spent more than three hundred years pissing on smartarse little worms like you."
Eyes flashing black, Dean gave him a predatory smile. "Ohhhh, I am gonna enjoy makin' you sorry you ever did that," he chuckled.
"Well, somebody has to teach you some manners," Crowley snapped.
"Not you, Lucky," Dean's snarl was matched by Jimi and the Hellhounds that assembled around him.
"Oh, am I supposed to be intimidated?" Crowley clucked solicitously. "I'm so sorry, I didn't get the memo. Gedda! Gedda my darling!" Never far away, the little comet of white smoke that was Hell's most vicious Hellpoodle materialised, took form, and stood between Crowley's feet, eyes glowing hotly, slavering right back at her contemporaries. "They won't stay in physical form, you pillock," he sneered, "She's a full Hellhound, and she'll go through you, your half-breed, and your little posse there like a Valley girl through a football team… oh, were you aware of the way that your top lip quivers when you get really angry, that's just adorable, I bet gay men pick fights with you just to see that."
With a wordless snarl of fury, Dean held out his right hand and called forth the Blade.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam's eyes were on the ancient tome he was reading as he made his way back to the living room, so he didn't see exactly what was happening until he nearly stumbled into the middle of it.
"Hey, Crowley, we've found something, but it's in something that looks like Enochian, but isn't," he began, turning the page, "Could you have a look at it a- HOLY SHIT! BOBBY! BOBBY!"
Bobby hadn't heard Sam call for him with a shriek like that since he was four years old and found a garter snake in the bathroom; he dropped his book, and headed straight for the living room.
"Sam? Sam? What is it? Wha- GOD'S TITS AND SATAN'S TOILET TISSUE!"
There was a Mexican stand-off of sorts going on in the living room.
At one end of the sofa stood Dean, eyes completely black, the First Blade raised for a killing strike as the quivering group of Hellhounds and Jimi strained as if on invisible leashes.
At the other end stood Crowley, eyes glowing malevolently red, drawing a bead on Dean's head with his angel-blade bullet gun, whilst Gedda the Hellpoodle, eyes as red as her person's, slavered.
The air between them hummed with infernal power as each held the other's weaponry and canine companionship at bay.
Bobby cleared his throat. "All right," he began calmly, "Whatever it is, we aint gonna improve the situation by havin' you two idjits kill each other…"
"I beg to differ, darling," Crowley grated out, "Means to an end, and all that."
"How about if I promise not to kill him outright?" rasped Dean.
Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, whatever you two ladies have been arguin' about, why don't you just loosen your corsets, and try to talk about this like rational beings?"
The air between the antagonists began to crackle.
"Uh, guys," Sam held up his hands in a plea for de-escalation, "Look, this, uh, can we just try to, you know, take this down a notch? I'm sure that whatever you said to each other was, uh, genuinely hurtful, and we all want the same thing here, so…"
squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt
Dean and Crowley fell to the sofa, wailing, as the holy water hit them.
"Idjits," grunted Bobby, lowering his spray bottle, "Is there any point me askin' why you two are swingin' your handbags at each other?"
"He's an arrogant little turd who needs to learn his place!" hissed Crowley, wiping at his face with his tie.
"You're not the boss of me!' yelled Dean. "Make your own damned popcorn, I WANT COWBOY BOOTS!"
In an eyeblink, he was gone.
"Dean? Dean!" Sam called anxiously. "Dean! Fuck!" His eyes narrowed as he glared at Crowley. "Where did he go?" he demanded.
"To blazes, if I'm lucky," sniffed Crowley, wincing slightly under the weight of the Sam Winchester Patented Bitchface™. "I don't know, all right? We were watching that show he likes so much, Dr Sexy, and he decided he wanted cowboy boots. So presumably he's gone to wherever one goes to steal cowboy boots. How should I know about cowboy boots? Go and ask a bloody cowboy!"
"Shut up, Crowley," sighed Bobby, as Sam fumbled for his cell and anxiously began trying to contact his brother. "I suggest that you, Your Majesty, do not do anything to provoke the boy. You wouldn't be the first demon he's killed. And he had the juice to hold you off, didn't he?" Crowley's resentful glower let him know he was right. "You're a demon, so the Hunter in him would be happy to kill you, and the demon in him would be happy to kill you, and the Dean in him will be sittin' on the sidelines, cheering 'em on."
"And throwing popcorn, no doubt," humphed His Miffed Majesty.
"Or rocks. Possibly grenades. So, you make nice with the little baby demon, because if you pull faces until it spits its dummy out again, I aint gonna intervene."
"He's not answering," interrupted Sam, "I'll leave a message, but he looked so angry."
"He'll come home when he gets hungry," Bobby chuckled. "Meanwhile, make yourself useful, Crowley, Have you ever seen anythin' like this before?"
They spent some time poring over the book that Sam had located, with Crowley musing over parts of it, when all of a sudden, there was a small fwoph of outrushing displaced air behind them.
"Dean," Sam let out the metaphorical breath he'd been holding, "Fuck, bro, you scared the shit out of me, where th- huh?"
On the floor of the living room sat a pair of hand-tooled cowboy boots.
Beside them sat a squirrel managing to look extremely sheepish.
"Uh, hi," it said in a cheerful voice. One of its paws raised in a little wave. "Um, Sam, Bobby, I think we might have a problem."
Isn't it nice when the plot bunnies play nice, and take turns? Both Fergus and Ulfric are sitting on poor little Bubba-Imogen, but plot bunnies are not easily squashed. I speak from bitter experience.
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