Chapter Twenty
"Go find an off-lead park, he says," grumbled Crowley, "Go play, he says." Standing in the middle of the open green space, he looked down at Gedda, who looked back, tail wagging, with adoration in her soulful eyes. "The one individual in the entire cosmos whose unconditional affection I have, and I have to be scared out of existence by you. I'm glad I'm Damned. I'm glad I'm a demon. Because if I'd gone Upstairs, I'd have had a few choice words for Himself, because what sort of imbecile would screw the whole karma thing up so badly?"
"I don't think karma is a Christian God thing," said a voice behind him. He whirled around to see Dean standing behind him, looking thoughtful. "It's from India's gods, isn't it? Guys with blue skin, chicks with four arms, they do karma. I think God just does Heaven or Hell. And guilt. You could ask Sam, he'd know all about it."
"Spare me a lecture on Eastern religious philosophy from the world's most educated moose," groaned Crowley, "I'm already a demon, I don't need to be tortured any further."
"I hear ya," commiserated Dean, "Hey, do you think it's something to do with bein' the potential Boy King? You know, if he was Lord of Hell, he could torture demons or souls just by, you know, talking to them and stuff? He'd be like, 'Today's seminar will be about the place of music in the funeral rituals of the tribes of central Africa prior to European settlement of their ancestral lands, with particular emphasis on the use of percussion techniques', and the demons would be all 'Aaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaargh! Stop, stop, we'll bow down and worship you!' and the souls would go 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-pop! Oh, hey, we're demons'."
Crowley gave Dean an appraising look. "There's actually a brain in there, isn't there?" he said eventually. "You do your best to sabotage it, and pickle it gently in alcohol, but those neurons actually shake hands from time to time. Astonishing."
"It's the GED and the kick-ass attitude," grinned Dean, looking around. "You can't do the Hellhound love thing here."
"I know that," snapped Crowley, "I need to find a para-dimension, somewhere not limited by the laws of physics. I'm not going Downstairs: if anybody sees me, I'll never live it down. They'll be sticking up pictures of Barbara Cartland and her little dogs, with my head superimposed, forever."
"Would your head be on her, or on the dogs?" queried Dean.
"Does it matter?" replied Crowley gloomily. "So, we need somewhere else, away from mortal reality, where we won't scare the horses, so to speak…"
"I know just the place!" chirped Dean happily, putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder, "Let's go!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Crowley shouldn't really have been surprised at the speed with which Dean had taken to demonic transportation: he'd kept a classic car running in top condition since he was sixteen, after all, so transport was something he understood. Even if his navigation was still perhaps a little bit creative.
The beaming smile fell from his face as they reappeared in front of a large, heavy wooden gate.
"Um," said Dean.
"Um?" repeated Crowley. "Um? Um, he says? What the hell is this?"
"It, uh, wasn't here, last time," answered Dean, looking just as perplexed as Crowley.
Crowley marched up to the gate, to inspect it. It was tall. It was solid. It gave off an impression of being very, very gate-like.
"I haven't seen anything like this since that feathered fool Gabriel dragged me along to Valhalla to meet his meatheaded stepbrother, the one with the hammer," Crowley muttered. "Talk about a phallic substitute. Where in blazes are we supposed to be?"
"Well, I was aiming for Purgatory," shrugged Dean, running a hand over the enormous wooden structure, set into an equally enormous fence. "But this definitely wasn't here…"
"Oh, bollocks," groaned Crowley.
There was a small scuffle of noise, as might be heard from a cluster of individuals trying to keep quiet until somebody else went away.
"Hello?" called Dean, knocking on the heavy wood. "Hello? Is, uh, anybody in?"
There was another, barely audible scuffle, followed by a muffled "Ow!"
"Hello?" Dean tried again. "Uh, we're not Mormons. Or selling Tupperware, or anything."
A several feet above their heads, a tiny port opened; a suspicious face with pale inhuman eyes peered down warily. "What do you want?"
"Could we come in?" asked Dean.
The face disappeared, and there was the sound of furious whispering. Another face, with rather more teeth than might be expected in a human, appeared at the tiny window.
"Why do you want to… oh, shit!" the face disappeared, and they heard more furious whispering, which quickly escalated to raised voices.
"It's him!"
"What?"
"It's him!"
"Him? Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure! If you don't believe me, have a look yourself?"
Another face, long and vulpine, appeared at the small gap, peering down at them. Dean gave it a happy smile and a wave. It let out a little shriek, and disappeared.
"Fuck, it is, too. It's really him!"
"You're joking."
"Would I joke about that?"
"Shit."
"It gets worse – he's got his dog with him."
"What?"
"And some sidekick."
"Jesus K. Reist, it's not the tall one, is it? Is there another Apocalypse, or something?"
"No, he's short. And he's got a dog, too."
"Well what do we do?"
There was more furious whispering…
The original pale-eyed face appeared at the window.
"So, uh, can we come in now?" asked Dean.
"Piss off, Winchester," snapped the face.
"Huh?" Dean blinked. "Why?"
"Because we remember you!" hissed the face angrily. "So go on, bugger off! You and your pal!"
Crowley put on his most winning smile. "Look, he's just tagging along with me," he began, "He doesn't need to come in at all. What about if I come in, and we'll just leave the problem child out here, where he can't… inconvenience anybody."
"Who are you?" demanded the pale face.
"I am Crowley, King of Hell," replied His Mephistophilic Majesty.
"Never heard of you," snapped the face.
Another voice was audible through the wood. "Who's the other coot?"
The pale face looked down. "He says he's the King of Hell."
Another face, with rather a lot of hair, crowded into the small space. "Isn't that Lucifer?" it asked.
"No," Crowley rolled his eyes, "He's on sabbatical, and I'm doing his job while he's away."
"What, did he delegate?" asked the furry face.
"No!" spluttered Crowley, "You don't delegate the position of CEO of Hell!"
"Well, how did you become king, then?" asked the pale-eyed face.
Crowley ran a hand down his face. "Look, we don't have time for a meeting of the Monty Python Constitution Peasant Scene Appreciation Society, let us in!"
There was a general babble of questioning voices behind the gate, and both faces dropped away out of sight.
"He says his name's Crowley."
"Crowley? Crowley? Do we know a Crowley?"
There was more whispering, then chuckling.
"Really? That was him?"
"Yep."
"So, what's Goatboy doing here with him?"
The furry face reappeared. "What are you doing with him?" it demanded.
Crowley's eyes began to glow red. "Goatboy?" he breathed, then again, in a more shrill tone, "Goatboy? Who are you calling Goatboy?"
"Look, uh," Dean kicked Crowley in the leg, "We're here to, um, we're here to, uh, apologise."
The monster at the window gawped. "Apologise?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded vigorously, "We're here to apologise. For the whole, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "Uh, for, for slaughtering so many of you, and for the hostile real estate takeover attempt. Isn't that right, Crowley?"
"Goatboy?" squeaked Crowley.
"See?" beamed Dean, "He's so chuffed that you remember him, and you've even given him a nickname, that he can't speak!"
The furry monster narrowed its eyes suspiciously. "Why can't you just apologise from out there, then?" it demanded.
"Because, uh, because it's, it's… it's more polite to apologise in person, face to face," stammered Dean, "My brother says so, and…"
"He's the tall one, right?" the hairy face interrupted.
"Yeah, that's him," Dean confirmed.
"He's not with you, is he?" the monster looked around anxiously.
"No, no, definitely not," Dean assured in a soothing tone, "But it'll take forever if we have to do this with you guys at the window one at a time, so it would be more efficient if we came in."
"You won't kill anybody?" pressed the demon.
"No," said Dean, "Provided nobody tries to kill me. I get a bit irritated when that happens."
"Hang on." The face dropped out of sight, and there was more hushed conversation behind the gate.
"He says they want to come in to apologise."
"What? They're demons! Demons never apologise!"
"Maybe we should just let them in to say their piece, then they'll go away."
"Are you nuts?"
"Look, there's only two of them, and one's quite, well, cuddly. How much damage could they do?"
"You haven't been here long, have you?"
"I don't think we should let demons in – remember what happened last time."
"What happened last time?"
"They wanted to sell us Amway, and they wouldn't go away until we bought something."
"It was good shampoo, though; it really got the gore out of my fur without stripping the natural oils, leaving my pelt smooth and silky."
"Don't mind him, he ate one of the brochures."
"Is there any way at all to get rid of them?"
"Could we try the thing with the goats?"
"No, we don't know the spell."
The discussion went on for some time, but eventually there was a creaking and groaning, and the gigantic gate swung open a few feet. What looked like a wendigo cautiously poked its head out.
"Okay," it said warily, "You can come in. But no slaughtering."
"Promise," beamed Dean. "Come on, Goatboy."
Muttering dire imprecations against whatever quirk of the universe had him born into the same existence as Dean Winchester, Crowley followed him.
The Denizens of Purgatory clustered around them, looking hairy, scary and wary.
"Well, uh, hello again," Dean smiled. Jimi woofed and wagged his tail.
"Go on, then," a grumpy-looking djinn crossed his arms, "Let's hear it."
"Oh, yeah, sure." Dean cleared his throat. "For, uh, for killing, mauling and dismembering so many of you last time I was here: I'm sorry. Really." He looked around. "I would much rather have never been here myself. But it happened. And I'm a Hunter, you know, but… yeah. I'm sorry. Really." He paused. "And I apologise for any inconvenience that my presence might have caused. And if I offended anybody by killing them, I'm sorry for that, too."
There was a general muttering amongst the gathered monsters. "What about him?" asked a ghoul.
"He's sorry too," Dean prompted, "Aren't you, Crowley?"
"You will never know just how sorry I am," Crowley intoned through clenched teeth. "I am sorry I ever tried to take over Purgatory. I am sorry I ever found Purgatory. I am sorry I ever even considered that it would be worthwhile expanding into this disgusting dump of a place…"
There was some agitation in the crowd, and Dean nudged Crowley. "I think you should apologise for that, too," he suggested.
"For what?" demanded Crowley.
"For that last bit," Dean clarified, "About Purgatory being a disgusting dump."
Crowley's face assumed a penitent expression. "Oh, of course," he said, dripping sincerity, "How remiss of me." He turned to the assemblage. "I DO beg your pardon. I am SO sorry that Purgatory is SUCH a disgusting dump…"
"I think that's enough apologising," Dean cut in breezily, "So, now, why don't you all, you know, go about your business, just get on with it, and we'll just, uh, take the dogs for a walk before we go."
The inhabitants of Purgatory faded back into the shadows, with one or two more comments – "Are you sure we don't know a witch who could do the thing with the goats?" :Shut up!" – then Crowley and Dean were alone with their dogs.
"I cannot think what madness possessed me," griped Crowley, as they headed through the perpetual gloom, "That I was ever interested in this place. They clearly remember you, though."
"Well, a guy as awesome as me comes through, he's bound to make an impression," Dean replied cheerfully as they arrived at the bare, stony bank of a river, "Oh, hey, this would be a good place."
"The omens here are particularly auspicious for being scared to death, are they?" demanded Crowley tartly.
"Well, I was thinkin', that if your brain explodes and you catch fire, you can jump in the water," shrugged Dean, "But it's up to you, Cuddly."
Crowley bristled at the name, but sighed, and squared his shoulders. "What's the point?" he muttered to himself, "What's the point? When you're a titanic intellect, trying to steam through a sea of icebergs, sooner or later somebody will punch a hole in your hull…" he sighed and looked down at Gedda, who wagged her tail and yipped in adoration. "Well, let's get this over and done with." He turned to Dean. "She knows what to do?"
"Course she does," Dean grinned, "All she's gotta do is show you how much she loves you!"
Crowley nodded glumly. "Well, then," he said, "Let's get this love-in rolling." Giving his little dog a smile, he crooned to her, "Who's Daddy's gorgeous girl, then? Who's a good girl? Who's a good girl? Would that be Gedda? Would that be Gedda who's a good girl? Yes? Yes?"
The little Hellpoodle had been getting progressively more excited as he spoke, yipping and jumping and working herself into a frenzy of affection.
"Is it Gedda? Is it you? Is it? Is it? It's Gedda! Who's a good girl, then? Show Daddy who's a good girl!"
The happy little animal spun in a circle, barking her happiness, and as Crowley steeled himself for what was coming, she changed…
Crowley was right about one thing: he had been chased by Hellhounds set on him in their truest form before. It would be wrong to say that he had 'seen' them, because it's nothing as crudely physical as the sense of sight: it's an experience, at the deepest, most fundamental core of one's being, an existential mortar attack on one's sense of self, battering at the consciousness with searing waves of panic, bloodthirstiness, anger, violence and fear. Such attacks had left lesser demons as nothing more than dispersed shreds of wailing, dissipating energy, fading into the background of the cosmos as the very atoms of their identity were blown apart by the force of unstoppable, slavering hate.
What Crowley hadn't taken into consideration was that the last times he'd been chased, he'd taken care to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the juggernaut of infernal destruction. Plus, the Hellhound that a demon had been able to control was one of the more diminutive members of the Infernal Pack. This soul-searing experience was far more intense, for three reasons.
This was one of the best-bred Hellhounds of the Pit.
This was up close and personal.
And slavering, blind hate is nothing compared to what the power of love can do. Especially to a demon.
So when the essence of Gedda's adoration tore through his very being, Crowley just screamed…
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Later, some of the braver inhabitants of Purgatory came out to investigate. Nobody, not even a vampire-witch who'd been there for longer than anybody could remember (including herself) could figure out exactly what happened there.
After that episode, sunshine seemed to beam there in a way it never did in that twilight land of between, the river burbled soothingly over shiny pebbles, and the greenery grew lush and fragrant. For some reason, a small herd of tame goats also turned up. Even the most demented, slavering monsters who strayed into what came to be known as Goatboy's Glade ended up shaking their heads in bemusement, then sitting down to watch the river and pet the goats, who nibbled at their talons and wagged their little tails in greeting.
They also nailed the gate shut afterwards, just in case one of the Winchesters ever came back, but they decided by a majority vote that if Goatboy ever showed up, he'd be allowed in, so long as he brought his dog.
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