So, now that Ulfric (the plot bunny who was dictating 'Dude Were's My Apocalypse?') has been well and truly and finally and very very flatly stomped, Fergus is piping up again. He came up with this just today.
In the last chapter, the song 'My Cowboy Boots Of Croc Skin' that Dean sang in the last chapter was set to the tune of Dolly Parton's 'My Coat Of Many Colours'. But the 'Barefoot Cowboy Song', that was all Dean.
Chapter Seventeen
"Is this going to take much longer?" asked Crowley, hovering in the doorway of the study.
"It takes as long as it takes," growled Bobby, not looking up. "And each time you interrupt us, it'll take longer."
"Is it absolutely essential for me to babysit the problem child?" the King of Hell whined.
"Yeah, it is," Sam smiled humourlessly, "Seein' as it's your fault he's like this."
Crowley opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "He really is an oik, you know," he said wistfully. "He chews with his mouth open, he wants to watch porn, the music he listens to, the movies he watches, the junk he eats, the last two weeks of my life have been hell…"
"Bitch, please," Sam rolled his eyes. "Come back in thirty years."
"His dog doesn't like me," moaned Crowley.
"Nobody likes you, Crowley," Bobby snapped, "Now get back in there, before…"
There was another sudden burst of guitar chords, and the three of them groaned.
"What did I tell you about not letting him out of your sight?" said Bobby.
"Look, I can't stop him!" Crowley complained, "He wants doughnuts, he wants beers, he wants more guitars, what am I supposed to do?"
"You're the King of Hell," snarked Sam, "Put your foot down!"
"I tried that," Crowley replied in a small voice. "Laying down the law, setting the ground rules, establishing the pecking order, putting my foot down. It didn't work."
"What happened?" asked Bobby.
"He summoned the Blade, and put it through my shoe," griped Crowley, extending one punctured extremity to be examined. "Right through my shoe! With my foot still inside it! That's Italian leather, that is! And he left a hole in your rug."
"Balls," muttered Bobby, pushing back his chair, "Come on, then, I'll talk to him."
Dean was playing a new guitar in the living room, pausing occasionally to take another doughnut from one of the boxes stacked in front of him.
"Dean," Bobby began in the voice of a man who was hanging on to his patience by a tenuous thread, "II really think it's important that you stay here, and don't go zappin' yourself around."
"But I was hungry," protested Dean. "And Sam broke my guitar," he added reproachfully.
"Nonetheless, I think it would be better if you stayed put," Bobby reiterated.
"But I'm boooooooored!" Dean howled. "It's okay for you two, you like to have sex with books, I'm boooooooored!"
Bobby sent a small prayer Heavenward to whichever saint was in charge of assisting people who were being vexed by idjits. "Well, maybe we can make a compromise, here," he suggested, "If you get hungry, Crowley can go and get you something to eat…"
"What?" whatted Crowley in disbelief. "When did I get promoted to catering courier?"
"…And if you get bored, you can always ask him to arrange you something to do," Bobby finished, giving Crowley a brief but meaningful eyebrow waggle that clearly indicated that if the demon wanted to make it through the day with all his limbs still attached, he would do it.
"What about arranging me somebody to do?" asked Dean hopefully.
"Why don't you get a gaming platform?" suggested Sam, ignoring his big brother's libidinous suggestion. "You like that sort of thing. Tell Crowley what to get, and he can go and pick one up for you."
"Awesome!" Dean beamed with a beautiful smile. "Okay, let's go for the PlayStation, and get some really cool games, and get some wings, 'cause I love wings, and Jimi loves wings, don't ya, J-Man, and get some booze, hey, hey, get some from that place I was headed, you know, Nelson County, and get some snacks, and get some beer…"
"Would you like me to make a list, so I don't forget anything?" asked Crowley in an acid tone between clenched teeth.
"It's okay, I'll write it all down for you," offered Dean generously, "Hey, we can have a real good time while these two nerd it up!"
"That's a great idea, Dean," Bobby nodded encouragingly, "But while Crowley's out doin' his errands, there is one little thing I think you should take care of yourself."
"You think I should go out and find me somebody to do?" Dean said brightly.
"Well, I'd really rather you didn't," Bobby frowned, "But what I think you really should do, is take Mr Santana's body back to where you found it. Yeah, yeah, before you ask, you can keep the guitar, I'm sure he's got dozens and he won't miss just one."
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With much protesting and complaints about the general quality of Dean's dietary preferences, habits and disgusting practices, Crowley did as he was told. You don't survive to become King of Hell without figuring out that sometimes discretion is the better part of valour, it's not always best to stand on your principles if that gives somebody a clear shot at your head, and generally behaving in a way that keeps your arms and legs firmly attached to your meatsuit is frequently the desirable option.
However, within an hour of his return, it was Dean who was at the study door, complaining.
"What now, Dean?" Sam glared at his brother, resenting the interruption, and shooting him a searing Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean).
"I don't want to play PlayStation with Crowley any more," Dean pouted.
"You can't be bored already," huffed Bobby.
"He cheats!" whined Dean.
"How does he cheat?" asked Sam, intrigued in spite of himself.
"I don't know!" Dean practically wailed, "But he is! He keeps winning!"
"Maybe he's just found something he can do," shrugged Bobby, turning back to his books, "Now, stop pestering us, and go amuse yourself. Without leaving the house, bringing anybody else here, or doin' anythin' that might be interpreted as bein' in any way demonic, sinful, otherwise unnatural or at all likely to make me call you an idjit," he added, seeing the sly look on Dean's face.
Dean pouted so epically that his bottom lip was in danger of dropping off as a cheerful call from the Living Room drifted to them.
"Yoo hoo! Deeeeean! Where are you, problem child? Let's have a try with this one. Come on, do you want to be the Aliens, or the Predators?"
"I hate him so much," muttered Dean.
"I thought he was your demonic bestie?" asked Sam with deadpan solicitousness.
Dean shot back a rejoinder suggesting that, not only had John and Mary Winchester somehow ceased to be married when Sam was conceived, but his little brother reliably cried his way through sex. With goats.
"It's your own fault, son," observed Bobby, "If you weren't bein' so irresponsible with your, uh, current situation, I wouldn't have to ground ya. So, suck it up."
"Can't I play games with Sam instead?" asked Dean. "I always beat him at stuff like this."
"No you don't!" Sam shot back.
"Yeah, I do," Dean asserted, "You're hopeless at these things."
"I am not!" protested Sam.
"Yeah you are."
"I'm not!"
"You are."
"I'm NOT!"
"I'm afraid you are."
"Not!"
"Are!"
"Not!"
"Are!"
"Not!"
"Shaddap!" bellowed Bobby, looking up from his book. "I need your brother to help me with this, becau- GOD'S TITS!"
When he turned, he saw Dean, eyes angry black, glaring at Sam. Sam, for his part, had one hand extended towards his brother, and was grimacing right back at him.
The air crackled with the ozone and sulphur tang of clashing demonic power.
"You boys stop that right now!" snapped Bobby, "Don't you DARE do this in my house!"
"He started it," Dean ground out between clenched teeth.
"I did not," growled Sam.
"You did!"
"I did not!"
"You totally did!"
"I – did – NOT!"
"Did!"
"Didn't!"
"Did!"
"Didn't!"
"Did!"
"Didn't!"
"Di-"
squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt squirt
As the Winchesters broke off their argument, shrieking about being sprayed with holy water, Bobby grabbed one by the scruff of the neck in each hand and marched them to the panic room, shoving them in and shutting the door.
"Bobby!" called Dean, "Bobbyyyyyy! Don't leave me down here!"
"Nice going, jerk," humphed Sam, sitting down heavily on the bed, "Now we're stuck here."
"Not my fault," mumbled Dean, bending to the slot in the door. "Bobbyyyyyy! Can we at least have the PlayStation?"
"Good luck with that," commented Sam glumly, "I think we made him really angry. We'll be lucky if we get dinner, let alone your gaming stuff."
A minute later, the door creaked, and Bobby, with a face like thunder, thrust the tangle of electronics through the door.
"Uh, thank you?" said Dean, picking up a controller. "Oh, hey," he called through the slot again, "We, uh, we need the TV to run it through, can we have the TV as well?"
"He won't be carting a TV down here," Sam cautioned him, "Look, our best bet is just to sit tight, and work on the wording of our apology, so when he's cooled off, we can…"
The door opened, and a TV set came sailing through to land with a tinkling crash on the floor.
"Oh, er. Thanks," said Dean to their stony-faced jailer, gazing forlornly at the wrecked set.
"I don't suppose you can, you know," Sam waved a hand vaguely, "Use your freaky demon mojo to, uh, fix it?"
"I don't think so," sighed Dean regretfully. "This whole demonified schtick, it's more about destroying things than doin' anything useful. I mean, I think I could probably reduce it to atoms, but not actually make it work again." He plonked down beside his brother. "I'm, uh, sorry," he began, "For doing the demon thing at you."
"That was damned stupid," muttered Sam, "You know I hate doing that! I don't want to remember that I can do that! And what if I'd really hurt you?"
"I was more worried that I might really have hurt you," admitted Dean shamefacedly.
Sam made a noise of disbelief. "Dean, I put Lucifer on a leash, and threw him into the Cage!" Sam reminded him, "What would happen if I unloaded on you? Like, if I didn't mean to, but you lost your temper and threw your mojo at me, and, and, and…" the idea made him shudder to a stop.
"Bobby would call us idjits?" predicted Dean.
"At the very least," sighed Sam, looking around.
"So, how was the, uh, dedemonification research goin'?" asked Dean.
Sam gave him a rueful grin. "Well, I think we'd just about figured out a way to do it," he told his brother. "It's like Bobby said, it's all about context, the means being just as important as the end."
"Well, that's, that's great," Dean nodded encouragingly, "So, uh, what do I have to do?"
Sam's face turned sheepish, but perhaps just a little bit evil. "Well, the thing is, you're not the usual run-of-the-mill demon, so Bobby thinks it will work better if we have Crowley do it, seeing as he's tangled up in the whole mess himself. But I really don't think he's gonna like it."
Dean grinned. "Well, then, if Crowley aint gonna like it, I like it already," he stated, staring up at the Devil's Trap on the ceiling. "So, are you up for getting your ass kicked at I-Spy?"
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Bobby wandered out to the living room, where Crowley had resumed game play on another haul of electronics he'd zapped out and purloined. "Bobby, mate!" he beamed hugely, "I had no idea that this sort of mindless crap could be so entertaining! Do you want a turn? I'm given to believe that this is an absolute classic! Here, I'll show you, see, you run over here, then climb this cliff, then go into this cave, like so, aaaaaand pick up the uzis, now, we go back out of the cave, and shoot the dinosaur, then we can go across the valley and climb up the other cliff to get the cog, or we can just throw her off the cliff and listen to her scream all they way down, look, she makes such a funny scrunching noise when she hits the ground… wait for it…"
"I aint here to play games, asshat," snapped Bobby, "I'm here to fix what happened to my boy, before one of 'em kills the other, or they both kill each other. Because if anything happens to 'em, you will be the first thing I kill.
"But Bobby, darling," Crowley put down his controller, "It's hardly my fault if Dean's a bit of a hothead. And we've known that Sam is one of the Special Children with serious anger issues for a long time now… er, quite," he wilted under Bobby's withering stare. "So, what news from the research front?"
"As it happens, I think we're onto somethin'," the old Hunter continued, "It's a long shot, but I've been around for long enough to get a feel for how spells and rituals like this work." He put down the sheaf of notes he'd made. "It's like the Trials. Only not shutting any gate. And you, Your Majesty, are neck deep in this."
"All right, all right," sighed Crowley, standing up, "I know what I have to do. First Trial, kill a Hellhound, bathe in its blood, blah blah blah, disgusting but straightforward. I'll just pick a small one, drop off my suit at the dry cleaners, actually, better idea, do you have anything I could borrow Bobby, one of your cheerful plaids that wouldn't even show the stains, perhaps…"
Bobby gave him a smile holding so much amusement that he drivelled to a halt.
"Like I said, idjit," the old man's face screwed up with merriment, "It's all about context. For you, the First trial isn't to 'kill a hellhound and bathe in its blood'."
"It isn't?" Crowley let out a small sigh. "Oh, Bobby, you are naughty, you really had me going there for a moment. I mean, I like a bit of meaningless slaughter as much as the next demon, but…"
"That's exactly the point," Bobby smiled wider. "You aint supposed to enjoy it. It's a Trial, remember?"
"Oh. Er, yes, well, quite," stammered Crowley, "So, er, what exactly do I have to do, if not kill a Hellhound and bathe in its blood?"
"Somethin' remarkably similar," Bobby grinned, "Or analogous, anyways. You gotta kiss a Hellhound. And bathe in its love."
Poor Crowley. There had to be a catch, didn't there? What will happen? Send reviews to feed to Fergus, because Reviews Are The Doughnuts Fetched For You As You Sit On The Couch Of Life!