Now, now, everybody play nice; the only rule we have here in the Jimiverse is that, no matter what ships we sail on (or if we don't ship at all, and prefer to paddle about on our inflatable mattresses), we come here for the fun, not for any arguments. Okay, two rules: 1) Play nice, and 2) Don't touch The Driver of Das Bus. So, let's all head over to Crack Island, for water balloon fights, bouncy castle silliness, transmission fluid checking and chocolate chip cookies afterwards. The Jimiverse is a broad church, and everybody is welcome.

Except for That Gamble Woman. She is NOT invited. If she ever shows up, you may pelt her with big stinky pieces of Crobby until she cries.

Chapter Thirteen

"So, problem puppy back in his kennel?" asked Crowley brightly from the back seat.

"Yeah," replied Sam, consulting inwardly. The soft snuffling sobs had subsided, but the inner silence indicated that Dean had moved on from snuffling to sulking. You didn't have to go straight for the tactical nuke option, came the disconsolate thought.

Yeah I did, Sam countered, You don't do subtlety. Now, behave yourself, or the next one will be a fusion device.

"I have not ever considered the possibilities of bad fan fiction as a tool of The Pit," remarked the King of Hell, "Although given the effect it had on Dean, I begin to see a whole vista of possibilities opening up."

"That was tame," Sam informed him. "I had to pick one that I could read myself without passing out or throwing up. And even then, it was a gamble that Dean would run for it before it got to the part where they…." he paused, and swallowed. "And there's much worse out there. And some of them draw… pictures."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Pictures?" he echoed. "Of… and… with… doing… really?"

"Anyway," Sam continued, keen to change the subject, "I think your idea is a good one. About Dean being a Jewish man with a pre-existing heart condition. And yes," he rolled his eyes, "The required, uh, customisation has been made to the meatsuit."

"Well, all we have to do is get you – and him – past the wards," noted Crowley. "Then we reclaim his body, wrap him up, and spirit him away for burial as quickly as possible."

"Don't tempt me," growled Sam.

The rest of the trip went more smoothly, with Dean sulking and not interfering with the radio. They arrived at the Sheriff's office in Gilette in the late afternoon.

"That's some impressive historical architecture," noted Crowley, taking in the building that was for the main part two hundred years old. "Not that Dean would appreciate it."

"Can you tell what's keeping him out?" asked Sam.

Crowley walked slowly across the parking lot, staring at the building. "Well, well, well," he mused. "This was done by somebody who knew what they were doing. You don't get craftsmanship like that these days."

"What?" demanded Sam.

"The building is warded," Crowley confirmed, "But it's how it's done that's impressive. It's integrated into the structure of the façade. All the windows, the doors, there's salt stone in the brickwork. That," he pointed to the impressive flagstones before the front door, "Is laid on top of a slab of salt that's almost entirely a single piece." He squinted. "Do you know, I think there might even have been holy water added to the mortar? This is a masterpiece."

"Yeah, but how do we get him in?" pressed Sam.

"I think that, with the same charm Bobby uses for me, it won't be a problem," Crowley replied. "But I'm not surprised the novice couldn't find a way in. I think it would take me a lot of time and effort. Thank Craig that so few people ever took, or take, this sort of thing seriously." He grinned. "I mean, if the Capitol, the Kremlin, The People's Great Hall, Westminster, or the Sydney Opera House had been warded this carefully, my job would be so much more difficult."

"What?" Sam gaped at him. "The Sydney Opera House? Why there? The Australian parliament meets in Canberra!"

"Oh, we've been able to go anywhere Down Under for two hundred years, ever since the whitefellas arrived and stuffed up the Clever Men's singing," Crowley waved, "I like to go to the Opera House and mess with the acoustics, just for fun. Don't look at me like that – it's actually a public service I'm doing. My efforts have kept a cohort of acoustic architects and engineers gainfully employed for decades!"

"Great," muttered Sam, "We thought it was just people who were nuts. The demons are all crazy, too. Fuck our life." He took hold of the small talisman in his pocket. "Come on, let's go invite ourselves in."

There was a strange sensation of walking into a room full of invisible molasses, and a salty tang in his mouth, but the Admit One Crowley ticket worked enough to let them into the building, where Sam identified himself to the receptionist, who gave him a sympathetic smile. Shortly afterwards, a tired woman in a white coat came to speak to them.

"Mr Winchester," she greeted him, "I'm Madeleine Rossi, I'm a pathologist working for the coroner's office here." She turned to Crowley, who gave her a brave, heartbroken smile.

"Reuven," he quavered, "Reuven McLeod. I'm Dean's uncle." His bottom lip wibbled.

"Now, I believe you spoke to Diana earlier, and she explained the situation to you?" the pathologist went on.

"Yes," Sam replied, letting the slightest tremor find its way into his voice, "She said you think you've found…"

"You've found our boy," Crowley moaned, beating his own breast in distress, "She said you'd found our boy, and he's, he's dead, oy vey, our boy…"

"That's what we have to establish, Mr McLeod," Dr Rossi said in a compassionate tone, "This has to be difficult for you, but we really do need somebody to identify him, and family is usually the best source of information."

"He has a tattoo," Crowley went on, tearing up, "Right here, and a silver ring on his right hand, please tell me it's not him…"

"We have to do this… Fet Fergus," said Sam resolutely, putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder. "For Dean."

Crowley looked up at him, and nodded." "You're right, bubala," he sighed heavily. "Please lead the way, Dr Rossi."

They sat in a small, cosy waiting room, presumably while Dean's mortal remains were retrieved from cold storage. "You sound like an Afrikaaner!" Sam hissed. "Reuven McLeod? What the hell kind of name is that?"

"There are Jewish people in Scotland," retorted Crowley, "Are you ridiculing Jews who happen to be Scots? Or Scots who happen to be Jewish? You bigot. You double bigot!"

"But you're not Jewish!" Sam protested. "You never were Jewish! You were Catholic!"

"But we might've been," Crowley countered. "Both of us. If it wasn't for Jesus."

Sam's mind boggled momentarily as it grappled with the convoluted logic of that.

"Anyway," Crowley continued, "I have to be convincing, because if we don't pull this off, Bobby will never speak to me again. And he'll shoot me with his latest anti-demon ammo."

"You are doing the most offensively stereotyped portrayal of a Jewish man since Fagin in Oliver Twist!" insisted Sam.

And being about as convincing as Keanu Reeves pretending to be an actor, observed Dean.

"Well, you look about as Jewish as a pork chop," Crowley snapped. "If you're going to grow your hair long like that, it's only supposed to grow long on the sides, not all over. We'll have to make up some story about you running off with a gentile girl who taught you bad habits, or something."

Sam gritted his teeth and prayed for patience. "You'll have to check that Dean's body is still, uh, demon-compatible, I guess," he muttered. "Having been in this warded building for so long. It feels weird in here, like walking underwater, and I can taste salt; we might have to do some sort of ritual to make it suitable for him to reinstall himself."

"I'll have a look when we get there," Crowley growled, as they heard Dr Rossi's footsteps returning, "Now, show some compassion for a grieving uncle who's just lost his favourite nephew."

I'm his favourite! I'm his favourite! crowed Dean.

Shut up, jerk.

The sight of his brother's apparently lifeless body sent a shudder through Sam that was not entirely feigned.

"Are you ready?" asked Dr Rossi. He nodded, and she carefully folded back the startlingly white drape to reveal Dean's features.

Damn, that's a seriously handsome corpse, chortled Dean. Well, go on, Sammy, show her how upset you are! Let's see those puppy dog eyes brimming! You need some help?

Stop it! demanded Sam, as Dean poked at his lachrymal ducts from the inside. A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he nodded. "That's… it's Dean," he said, his voice hitching, "It's Dean, my brother…"

Beside him, there was a wailing like a police siren on a failing battery, and Crowley burst into noisy tears.

"It's him! It's him!" he sobbed, reaching down to take Dean's face in his hands, "It's Dean, oh, my boy, my boy, my poor darling boy, what were you doing, bubala…" he swayed a few times, like a Jewish man praying, then moaned and fell forwards to bury his face in Dean's chest and cry in a very loud, very damp, and very public manner.

"Please, Fet Fergus," Sam began, but Crowley just shrugged him off, and howled inconsolably. "He was, uh," he gave Dr Rossi a small smile, "He and Dean were very close."

"It's all right," she smiled, "All sorts of reactions are perfectly normal in the face of bereavement. The experience is different for everybody. Now, under the circumstances, with an unexplained death like this, it is usual to do an autopsy…"

"I forbid it! It is forbidden!" wailed Crowley between sobs, "It was his heart. We always told him, remember your condition, Dean, but he loved life, this beautiful boy, oy, he loved life, and he wouldn't give up his bungee jumping…"

"He had a congenital defect," Sam explained.

"… Or his BASE jumping," Crowley howled in distress.

"Some sort of intermittent AV block," continued Sam.

"… Or his motor racing…"

"His cardiologist could never quite pin it down."

"…Or his free-climbing…"

"He suggested a precautionary pacemaker, at one stage."

"…Or his hang-gliding…"

"But Dean didn't want to do that."

"…Or his cave diving…"

"He always thought that when his time came, it would just be the right time."

"…Or his ironing…"

"Ironing?" Dr Rossi broke into Crowley's monologue of misery. "Ironing? As in, ironing clothes?"

"Extreme ironing," sniffled Crowley. "He could press a business shirt with set-in sleeves dangling upside-down from an overhang in a blizzard. He was just that talented. Oh, and his herpetology, those taipans are like his children, he doted on them, what will become of his poor, orphaned Oxyuranus? He raised them all from hatchlings …"

"Mr Winchester, Mr McLeod, I'm so sorry for your loss," Dr Rossi resumed, "But if you're absolutely certain that this is Dean, and that you want an exemption from autopsy on religious grounds, then we can begin the paperwork." They nodded, Sam wiping at his eyes whilst Crowley blew his nose extravagantly on a silk handkerchief. "All right, please come this way."

"So, what state is he in?" murmured Sam back at the cosy room, as the pathologist left to fetch the forms.

"He's perfectly habitable," Crowley muttered back, making to dab at his eyes, then seeing the state of his handkerchief and thinking better of it. "Which is something of a shame, because he seems to be so much more bearable when he's got the threat of dreadful prose hanging over his head."

"Okay, Operation Dean Retrieval, Stage One is complete," noted Sam, "So, next we get his body released. I'll ask the doctor about a suitable funeral home, then we'll organise transport back to Sioux Falls immediately, and he can probably get back into his own skin sometime tomorrow. Hear that, Dean? You'll have your own meatsuit back tomorrow, bro." There was a curious silence from within. "Dean? Dean? Come on, you can't still be sulking…"

But he wasn't sulking. With a growing uneasiness, Sam poked around in his own head, but found only his own thoughts.

"Shit!" he yipped. "He's gone!"

"What?" Crowley did a double take. "Did you just say, he's gone?"

"Yes!" snapped Sam, "Dean is gone! Dean is no longer in my head! Dean has left the building!"

"Well, that's unlikely," Crowley looked around. "He won't have gone far. No, he's definitely still in the building."

"If he jumps into that receptionist," growled Sam, recalling the young lady's pretty face and buxom figure, "And attempts to have sex with himself, I will end him…."

"Here we are," Dr Rossi returned with a sheaf of paper, and Sam quickly plastered a desperate smile on his face. "Now, if you can just fill in as much of the detail as you can, we'll be able to find the rest of it in the syste-" her voice broke off, and she stared past them, mouth agape.

"Er, Dr Rossi?" said Sam tentatively, "Is something wrong?"

"You're not messing with time, are you, Moose?" asked Crowley, waving a hand in front of the frozen woman's eyes, "Because I certainly can't do that…"

There was a terrible moment of anticipation, and they both turned to look towards the door.

"Hey, Sam! Shalom, Fet Fergus! Hey, do you think I could get a pair of pants? I'm cool with the whole sheet-toga thing, but it's kinda drafty."

Extreme ironing. It's real. Not really my idea of fun - I hate ironing.

Send reviews, because they are The Extreme Sport Of Your Choice On The Weekend Of Life! (What's your preferred 'extreme sport'? I think I'd like extreme bikkie eating, such as eating TimTams out the front of a WeightWatchers meeting, for example.)