An author credit, or at the very least clairvoyance kudos, must go to ***LoraLee2*** for figuring out a potential strategy for derailing any attempt to do an autopsy on Dean's body.
Chapter Twelve
Crowley was not, on the whole, squeamish. Particular, and perhaps fastidious about his suitings, yes, but as someone who had clawed his way up off the rack, out of The Pit, via the crossroads, to crawl over the moaning, bleeding, cursing, mangled carcasses of his opponents, his rivals, or anybody who got between him and his objectives, giving their heads a good kicking on the way, he could not reasonably be called squeamish.
However, looking down at the culinary monstrosity before him, while watching Dean Winchester possess his little brother and eat a gigantic hamburger, was making him feel something that might have skirted around the edges of squeamish, tiptoeing through horrified fascination and leaving footprints in the garden bed of morbid curiosity.
"You know, when I was a lad, this would've fed my family for a week," he commented, picking up his knife and fork and carefully resecting the token bun perched atop the heap of dead animal product, "Assuming that Da didn't sell it off for booze." He poked at the top layer. "And that's what Americans call 'cheese'," he sniffed, "Somebody will be passing through my jurisdiction for telling a whopper that big."
Dean wasn't listening; he just picked his burger up and bit into it with practised ease, making vaguely pornographic noises as he did so. "Ohhhhh, thish ish sho good," he hummed, grease running down his chin, "What are you doing?"
"We are in a diner," Crowley replied, making a careful incision in the heap, "The implication being, it serves food on which we can dine. Ergo, I am working on the generous assumption that, somewhere on this plate, is something edible." A deft flick of the wrist, and a top-patty-ectomy was complete. "All I have to do is find it."
"Try the friesh," Dean demonstrated by picking up several and shoving them into his mouth, "Oh, hey, they're great, the oil has obviously been changed some time in the last calendar year."
"Be still my beating taste buds," muttered Crowley, carefully beginning a bilateral baconectomy. He eyed Dean dubiously. "You know, I never thought of the culinary possibilities that might enhance our protocols in The Pit," he mused, "I can think of certain circumstances where this sort of thing might be just as hideous, if not worse, than some of the tortures the more old-fashioned and uncreative demons favour. I mean, forcing people to drink large quantities of water was a popular method from the Middle Ages; why not update it, and use hamburgers?"
"You can't chorchure people witsh hamburgersh," Dean scoffed around another mouthful.
"Well, you're not doing too bad a job on me right now," Crowley observed in a resigned fashion. "Er, your brother doesn't eat things like that very often, does he?"
"Nope," Dean grinned, "He'sh practically a vegieshaurush. I mean, chicken doeshn't count ash real meat, doesh it? Courshe not."
"Well, the reason I mention it," Crowley continued, "Is that, er, well, enthusiastic consumption of what I can only describe as junk food might be a bit, shall we say, overwhelming to a digestion unaccustomed to consuming vast quantities of what was probably technically an animal at some point."
"Nah, thish ish doin' him a favour," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "He needsh the protein. And the iron. And the Vitamin Meat. I mean look at the shize of him! How doesh a guy that big shurvive on rabbit food and girly drinksh?"
"It was just a thought," shrugged Crowley, tentatively biting into a fry. "Oh, they're not bad, are they? Quite tasty." He contemplated the deep-fried potato chunk. "The seasoning is very moreish. I wonder what they put on them? Salt, a bit of rosemary, a sprinkling of methadone?"
"It'sh all good," smiled Dean, taking another huge bit out of his burger.
"I've seen werewolves eat more tidily than this," Crowley reproached him.
"I've killed werewolves more tidily than this," agreed Dean happily, taking another bite.
"Could you at least chew with your mouth shut? Oh, my mistake, you're not actually chewing, silly me."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
This is my body, Sam told himself as he typed, This is my body, and he has no right to take over like this. Especially if he's going to stuff it with crap like that.
With a wince, he looked through the search results list.
He was pretty sure he could make this work. He'd done plenty of speaking on his feet, debating, and Toastmasters at school and then at college – he'd been preparing to study Law, after all – and Sam Winchester was entirely capable of taking control of a conversation or and discussion. So, all he had to do was wait until Dean was distracted enough, and take control of his speech.
Trying not to look at the screen, he clicked on a link, then on another, until he found what he needed.
I'm sorry, bro, he thought as he opened the file, This is goin' to hurt me just as much as it hurts you. Well, actually, maybe not quite as much, but yeah, this'll hurt. For which I will make you pay. With interest.
He drew a deep breath, and reminded himself that he was a Hunter, and sometimes desperate situations required desperate acts.
Sam opened the document, and waited for his chance, watching the footage of what was happening on MeTube.
His big brother would order pie. Dean always ordered pie. And then, he would savour it, and at the same time he would probably take the time to appreciate the retreating waitress's backside…
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Crowley watched Dean make his way through the Burgerworx, picking at his own surprisingly tasty fries and speculating idly on the nature of the opioid derivative that had obviously been used to season them.
"Don't forget to leave room for pie!" trilled Dean, spitting out a slice of pickle and licking his fingers.
Crowley gazed levelly at him. "You cannot possibly be thinking of trying to fit in a slice of pie after you eat… that," he stated flatly.
"There's always room for pie!" stated Dean, as if that was one of the immutable laws of the universe.
"We are supposed to be making our way to Gilette with all speed," Crowley reminded him.
"There's always time for pie," Dean recited the Second Law of Deanamics confidently, giving the waitress a come-hither smile.
"Of course," Crowley rolled his eyes, "I should've known."
As Dean made his way through a large chunk of peach pie (with cream and ice cream), Crowley spoke. "So, I've been thinking, in order to get hold of your body ASAP, and before some nosy pathologist gets hold of it and starts trying to find out why you apparently dropped dead, we need a cover story. I suggest that we go with belonging to a sect of Judaism that has a strict prohibition on the performing of autopsies without clear suggestion that some crime has been committed. We can say that you had a pre-existing heart condition, or something. It might be an idea to consult Moose, get him to come up with a disease that sounds suitable unexpectedly-sudden-death-inducing. However," his face blanched, 'If that's the approach we go with, I have to ask you what, I'm afraid, is a rather personal question. Under any other circumstances it would be the last thing I'd ever want to ask you, except perhaps for participation in some depraved carnal cavorting of a perverted nature with a number of barely-legal nubile young women…"
'You flirt," Dean dragged his eyes away from the waitress and waggled his eyebrows.
"Do stop that," sighed Crowley. "What I'm getting at is, if you're supposed to be Jewish, then there is a certain something, or should I say, the lack of a certain something, that will be expected, and, since your 'corpse' will already have been outwardly inspected by the pathologist, if that certain something is not lacking, then the story will not hold, and we should think of something else…"
"As he stared into those eyes, he realised that he'd never notice how blue they actually were," said Dean, apparently enjoying his pie.
"…Because… what?" Crowley stopped, and blinked. "Did... did you just say something about blue eyes?"
"Huh?" Dean looked up. "I'm just eating my pie, and listenin' to you ramble on about how He raised a shaking hand to the shorter man's cheek," he said. There was a delay of three seconds, then he stopped chewing and looked confused.
Crowley's eyes bugged. "What?" he whatted again. "Cheek?" His hand went slowly to his own face. "Do I have something on my face?"
"Uh, not that I can see," said Dean warily, "But Tentatively, he ran his thumb across the quavering lower lip…"
The next mouthful of pie fell from the spoon he was holding.
"…And wondered, almost laughing to himself, why he'd never realised just how, well, kissable that mouth looked…"
Dean dropped his spoon.
Crowley's expression became one of horror. "Dean, that crack about depraved carnal cavorting was a joke, intended to convey just how much I didn't not want to ask you whether you are…"
"…I know that, asshat, Because usually, he never got past the tousled hair," Dean continued, his own eyes bugging in astonishment, "The tie that was never straight, and that tousled, untidy hair, but now he looked into those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, terrified and exhilarated at the idea that he might see his own yearning thoughts reflected back…"
Crowley's face relaxed, and his eyes first narrowed, then crinkled into a smile. "Oh, dear," he murmured. "Oh dear me."
"He was suddenly overcome with the desire to knot a fist into that hair," Dean quavered.
"I think you might've annoyed somebody," grinned Crowley.
"But settled instead for stepping closer, and pushing that ratty tan trench-coat off the other man's unresisting shoulders," Dean's voice rose an octave, and he clapped his hands over his mouth.
"Well played, Bullwinkle, well played," chortled Crowley, "I'll just call for the bill, shall I?"
Dean's arms suddenly clamped themselves to his hijacked Sam-suit's sides. "Moving slowly, because he feared that if he moved to quickly, he would frighten both of them into flight…!" he squeaked as the waitress arrived.
"So, how was everything?" she asked politely.
"Just wonderful," beamed Crowley. "Dean enjoyed his meal so much. It just does my heart good to see him so happy."
"He whispered, 'I just want you to be happy', his voice catching!" Dean trilled desperately.
"Oh, er, really?" The waitress gave him a confused look.
" 'You have given up so much for me,' he said, the tone low and pleading!" Dean's face was a rictus of agony, " 'Please, just this once, let me make you happy'!"
"Don't mind him," Crowley smiled indulgently, "He doesn't get out much, and doesn't interact very gracefully with the opposite sex. You know what these intellectual types can be like. It's concentrated 'Big Bang Theory', just add social ineptitude and stir briskly. It's his way of letting you know that he thinks you are an attractive woman."
"Oh, well, thank you," she smiled uncertainly and backed away casually.
"Closing the space between them, he walked forward until the fallen angel's legs hit the end of the bed!" Dean moaned as if in pain.
"I'll just get this, shall I?" Crowley tossed some bills onto the table.
Dean put his Samsuit's hands around the neck. "Hesitantly, he leaned in, barely daring to breathe!" His hands tightened around his own neck. "It was the barest brush of his lips at first!"
"I'll leave a tip," Crowley fished in his pocket for another bill, "You can't strangle yourself, Dean, you're a demon. You don't actually have to breathe."
"His breath caught in surprise when he felt the hand snake around his neck, and tangle in his hair!" screeched Dean, jumping up as people turned to look at him. "A low, needy moan started deep in his throat!" He looked around desperately, and picked up a knife from another table.
"We'll just be going now," Crowley tweeted brightly at the other patrons, "Toodle bye! Come along Dean." He took Dean firmly by the elbow and steered him out of the diner.
"The kiss deepened as he felt the hand, tentatively at first, slide down his neck!" Dean wailed.
"Dean, even you cannot cut your own throat with a butter knife," tutted Crowley, "Besides which, if you do that to your brother's meatsuit, Bobby will personally exorcise you with extreme prejudice."
"The touch moved down his back," Dean dropped the knife, and started to bang his head against the roof of his car.
"To say nothing of what Bullwinkle will do, if you damage that fine piece of all-American manflesh," Crowley went on.
Dean picked up the knife again, and appeared to be considering poking out Sam's eardrums with it. "It was light, and uncertain, until he gasped in surprise when it moved lower and firmly grabbed his a- AAAAAAARGH!"
"I mean, I think he's demonstrated a willingness to pull out all the stops as he deems necessary," Crowley reminded him ominously.
Dean collapsed to his knees in the lot, not willing to surrender. " 'I have loved you since the moment I laid eyes on your beautiful soul', Cas rasped, the gravelly voice in his ear making his knees go weak'," he moaned, clutching his head, " 'And I have never dared to allow myself to dream that you might love me back'…"
Crowley pushed up one sleeve to consult his expensive watch.
"With that, he pulled backwards to topple them both onto the bed!" howled Dean in anguish, "The kiss became crushing, and Dean felt himself growing immediately and helplessly har-AAAIIIEEEEEEE!"
Crowley watched the second hand tick around.
"As their tongues tangled, hetoreatCastiel'sshirtthenpausedtopullhisownoverhishead OHGODOHGOD MAKE IT STOOOOOP!"
"Three, two, one…"
Dean let out a last strangled sound of agony, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground.
Crowley waited until he roused, sat up, shook his head, and carefully got to his feet.
"So, ready to get going?" he asked with a pleasant smile.
"Yeah, and not before time," grumbled Sam, reaching for the keys and opening the driver's door. "And if the coroner hasn't started on his body, I may just tear him a new one with my bare hands."
Sam Winchester: he is prepared to make the tough decisions.
Feed reviews to the plot bunny, because Reviews are the Delicious Fries Obviously Laced With Some Addictive Substance On The Side Of The Plate Of Life!
And if somebody would just give the Destiel fans a bit of help, they appear to have beached their dinghy on StripperPirate Island and could be in need of assistance. Unless they've done it on purpose. At the very least, please give them a thermos of chamomile tea to calm them down.