Chapter Eight
It didn't feel nearly as bizarre as it should've, thought Sam, and having been possessed by an actual evil demon, and later an even more evil archangel, he thought he was in a position to hold an informed opinion. Or maybe it was because he and Dean had lived in such close proximity for as long as he could remember, given the odd interlude; when you are close enough to know the most minute details of somebody's everyday life, from the amount of your shower gel he steals to the time it takes, to the minute, for a bad bacon cheeseburger to travel through him at high speed, maybe it's a form of intimacy like possession that just doesn't include sharing an actual body…
His hands suddenly flew into the air of their own accord, and his voice bellowed,
"ROAD TRIIIIIIIIP!"
Bobby gave him a look. "So, can I take it that he's in there?"
"Oh, yeah, he's in here," Sam humphed, feeling the strange sensation of what he could only describe as essence of Dean lodged in his being. "That was him, in case you didn't know." Knock it off, he sent the searing thought inwards, Let me drive.
"Oh, I think we figured that one out, Moose," Crowley winced, wiggling a finger in one ear, "I'd recognise the dulcet tones of his mellifluous voice anywhere."
"Dean, you okay in there?" asked Bobby cautiously.
Sam felt the thought as if his brother had spoken to him. "He says he's fine," he relayed, "He says… what? Screw you, jerk, this is your fault anyway…"
"He says…?" prompted Bobby.
"He says… he says 'It smells like Dora the Explorer shampoo and lentil stew in here'," grumbled Sam, "And he's demanding that I eat a bacon double cheeseburger. With onions."
"Yup, he's fine," grunted Bobby, "So, you idjits will be leavin' immediately…"
"ROAD TRIIIIIIIIP!" Sam yelled again. His face went from a beaming smile to a scowl at the speed of outrage. "Dean, knock it off!"
Sorry, came the small thought. Is there any more popcorn?
"We'll leave right away," Sam checked his watch, "I don't think it would be a good idea for Dean to try to transport us; I don't want to end up in Gillette, in France, by mistake."
Are there any public monuments there? chirped Dean's voice in his head.
"And flying is not an option," Sam went on firmly, shuddering at the thought of having his brother's pteromerhanophobia bouncing around in his head, "So, if we're gonna drive…"
Hell yeah we're gonna drive
"It'll take us, uh, about seven hours, I guess, so we'd better get going."
"Well, at least you won't have to argue about who gets to drive," Crowley smiled sunnily. "Call us when you get the meatsuit back, I will be so interested to know what story you concoct."
"You'll be right there to hear it for yourself, Your Majesty," Bobby instructed, "Because you are goin' with 'em."
Crowley suddenly looked panicked. "What? Me? Drive? With… him? In his car?"
"The very same," Bobby nodded.
"Drive?" repeated Crowley. "Drive? As in, get into that antiquated piece of machinery out there…"
Sam felt his right hand ball into a fist, and his top lip start to quiver.
"…And spend many tedious hours trapped inside it with him, inside him?" He gave Jimi a wary look. "With him?"
"That's generally what 'drive' means, yeah," agreed Sam.
"I don't think so," sniffed Crowley, "Believe me, I have spent enough time with him behind the wheel or the handlebars to last me a lifetime! To last me several lifetimes! There is no way I am playing Thelma to his Louise again! If I had a heart, I'd've had several coronary episodes by now!" The demon king crossed his arms. "I'm not going."
Chicken, said Dean. Hey, it's really kind of crowded in here. What's that?
Sam consulted the memory. Calculus.
What about that?
Uh, irregular French verbs.
Whoa, what's that great big tentacly thing over there, it's HEY! It tried to bite me!
That's my sense of propriety, Dean.
Well, I don't like it.
That's cool, bro, sometimes it doesn't like you, either.
"We don't know what's keepin' Dean out o' the building," Bobby reasoned, "It could be more than a hundred years old. They won't have the time or wherewithal to be researchin' it while they're there, so a demon who's been around the block a few times, so to speak, may be needed."
"But Bobby, darling," wheedled Crowley, "I can be of so much more use here with you – I can help with the research, I can make the coffee, I can fetch the Speyside single malts, pop over to Japan to pick up some authentic unagi no yanagawa for lunch, if you find you need a break, there's this marvellous little onsen at the foot of Mount Aso, and they also do the most relaxing pedicure there…" he stuttered into silence at the withering glare Bobby gave him.
"You will go with Sam and Dean," Bobby stipulated, "And you will do whatever you can to help them get Dean's body back, so we can get on with undoin' this screw-up which is in a large part of your making." He stood up, and turned back to his study. "The only 'help' I'll use you for it to amuse the dog," he added, "She does love her a big meaty bone, I can only imagine how much a half-Hellhound would enjoy chewin' on an actual demon."
"You'll regret this, Bullwinkle," warned Crowley, "You'll regret this, the first time he gets us pulled over, and we have to wait around while he hijacks the meatsuit and screws the female police officer, you'll wish you'd listened to me… Bobby, love, you wouldn't really feed me to your dog, would you?" asked the deflated King of Hell mournfully.
"Crowley, I'd smear you with meat paste and peanut butter first," Bobby snapped.
"Oh, you flirt…"
"Shaddap," Bobby snarled, "Now, I will be in the study, and you idjits will get your shit together and get going."
"I'm hurt rather than angry," sniffed Crowley, disappearing.
"Asshat," muttered Bobby. "All right then, now, Dean, you listen to me boy and you listen good, you let your brother deal with…"
Crowley suddenly reappeared, clutching several bottles. He looked back at their bemused faces.
"Well, you don't expect me to spend any more time with him completely sober, do you?"
"You can't get drunk," Sam pointed out, "You're a demon."
"Maybe I've just never tried hard enough," Crowley opined disdainfully, opening a bottle. "It's entirely possible that this little expedition may well be the motivating factor required to spur me on to my most diligent effort yet."
Sam's hand reached out and grabbed the bottle. "Dean," he growled, "I have to drive, and I'm still more or less human."
But it's really good stuff, Dean wheedled, Just a bit, Sammy, go on, just a mouthful, please? Pleeeease?
Sam shrugged, and lifted the bottle to drink. Yeah, this is good stuff. Good call, bro.
"Maybe not a good idea," contributed Crowley, "Because if we get pulled over, and he wants to use your body to bonk a plod, a case of Distiller's Droop might make her just annoyed enough to arrest you, and that will be plain awkward."
We could stick the Blade in him, Dean suggested. We can both savour the moment, this way.
Not in the living room, Sam thought back, taking another swig, The blood would never come out of the rug.
"So, Dean, like I was sayin', don't you go pesterin' your brother," cautioned Bobby. "Don't you make a damned nuisance of yourself…"
"Jesus, Bobby," Sam grinned, "I put a leash on Lucifer, you think I can't squelch my own big brother if I have to?"
Don't you dare go squelching me, bitch, came the annoyed yap, I will not be squelched! In fact, let me make it clear right now, that if any hot chicks come into our grid square, I reserve the right to take over, you might even learn something, so…
Sam cast his mind back to an afternoon he'd once spent reading Chaucer whilst sipping a skinny decaf mocha pumpkin spice latte with extra froth.
Aaaaaaaaaaargh! Aaaaiiiiieeeeeee! came the anguished wailing, Stop it! Stop it! Make it stoooooop!
Sam added in the thought of tucking into a nice bowl of silken tofu banana pudding, just to make the point.
"He says he'll behave," he relayed.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
They were ready to leave in under half an hour, Crowley protesting at being relegated to the back seat.
"Jimi likes to ride shotgun whenever he can," said Sam firmly, with Dean's thoughts behind him.
"But he's a dog!" complained Crowley.
"And you're a demon," Sam replied, "Much lower down on the scale of worthwhile beings."
"You've got a demon sitting in your head," griped Crowley, "I don't know why you're being so prissy about having one sit in the front seat."
"Because you're an asshole, Crowley, it's that simple," snarled Sam, feeling Dean back him on that too. "Now, you can go on ahead if you want, I don't give a damn, just stop bitching, or fuck off."
I go all tingly when you take control like that, came Dean's thought. Jerk, Sam sent back.
"Bobby would never forgive me for abandoning you," sighed Crowley, "And I really don't want to do anything that might inspire him to try out his latest batch of anti-demon ammunition."
"He's up to Mark VI," Sam informed him.
Crowley looked startled. "Mark VI? What's in those?"
Sam beamed hugely. "Ah, it's a surprise!" he trilled, feeling Dean's laughter bubble at the back of his own throat. He started the engine.
A strange but not unpleasant sensation, a frisson of affection, anticipation and enjoyment, ran through him as the engine rumbled to life, and settled into its normal deep, gurgling idle.
Was that you? he queried.
Yeah, came the reply. Listen to her purr. That's V8 American iron, that is. One of the horniest sounds in the world.
Sam paused in bemusement. Does that… you get that when you start the car?
Every damned time. It felt like a happy sigh.
I don't know if that's amusing, or just disturbing. He put the engine into gear, honked a farewell to Bobby, and steered the Impala carefully out of the yard.
Put on some music, demanded Dean, so Sam poked at the radio until he found a station he liked. Inside his head, Dean made a noise of disgust.
"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," Sam murmured sunnily.
Bitch. The radio suddenly snapped off. Frowning, Sam turned it on again.
Twenty seconds later, it turned off again.
"Dean," he growled, "Stop messing with the radio."
Well, find some proper music, griped his brother.
"I find I must side with the squirrel on this one," Crowley screwed up his face in distaste, "I mean, what is it with young people today? The music's all the same. It's angry black men and gyrating women, or oh-I'm-so-in-love and gyrating women, or twelve-year-olds trying to pretend to be angry black men, hold the gyrating women, maybe but not always, not that I have anything against gyrating women, in fact I'm in favour of gyrating women, but as temptation goes, it's so, so, well, clumsy, crass, I find it professionally embarrassing…"
The radio clicked on again, and dramatic music burst from the speakers. Crowley smiled.
What the fuck is that crap? squawked Dean. It sounds like kitchen appliances being tortured!
Mussorgsky, recalled Sam. Well, Rimsky-Korsakov's reworking of the themes, anyway…
The radio cut out.
"Hey!" snapped Crowley, "I was listening to that!"
The radio turned on.
"You might learn something," suggested the King of Hell.
Yeah, like how to pull my own eardrums out through my nostrils.
"Dean, it was one of the most provocative pieces of music of its time," protested Sam, "The reworking of 'Night on Bald Mountain' is one of the most widely acclaimed pieces of music from the Russian Romantic period…"
The radio turned off.
"You see what I've had to deal with?" humphed Crowley.
The radio turned on.
I'm gonna kick you in the music appreciation, growled Dean, I'm gonna find whichever bit makes you listen to this crap, and I'm gonnaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!
Dean! The anxious thought speared through Sam.
'S okay, muttered Dean, I just tripped over 'Lord of the Rings'. Seriously, there's books lyin' around everywhere in here. You really need to have a spring clean.
You really need to stop poking around in my head, countered Sam.
The radio turned off.
The radio turned on.
The radio turned off.
The radio turned on.
"Will you two knock it off?" snapped Sam. "I'll tear the damned thing out!"
You touch my Baby, growled Dean, You hurt a single wire on her precious little loom, and I'll…
Sam thought about the first act of the ballet 'Spartacus', with lots of men in ballet tights leaping across the stage.
I hate you, Dean subsided.
So, now Fergus is out-yammering Ulfric. How the worm - or the plot bunny - turns. Send reviews, because they are the Dramatic Musical Interludes During The Interminable Car Trips Of Life! (Motorhead gig, bring your own gear, chamber music appreciation with the vicar, bring a strawberry sponge.)