Watch where you put your feet people, we have a plot bunny named Gediel gone missing, and he could be anywhere. I'm afraid that's the difficulty with plot bunnies; sometimes Denizens send them to me, and they just lurk, and never pop out for long enough to whisper even the start of a story. I have one that keeps bobbing up from behind a bookcase and yelling a really catchy title at me, but gives me absolutely no idea about an accompanying story. Some of them take months to grow up. Some of them never mature enough to dictate. But they keep hopping around, and I don't condone meaningless cruelty to plot bunnies: I won't stomp them until they've finished dictating an entire story. So if you do send them, I'm not maltreating them; the plot bunny pen is a bit like a Steiner school: the bunnies have to be left to do their own thing in their own time.
Except for the one carrying the feather duster and the fluffy handcuffs: the moment that one arrived, I gave it directions to Tumblr, and showed it the door...
Chapter Twenty-One
"I wish you coulda been there," sighed Dean, the dreamy look still on his face as he sat absently stroking Jimi's ears, "It was just… awesome. She was… awesome. I've never seen anythin' like it before, the whole thing was totally… totally…"
"Awesome?" suggested Sam with a roll of his eyes.
"Yeah," Dean smiled his beautiful smile again, "Totally awesome."
"Most folks who have a rapturous vision see the Holy Virgin," Bobby chuckled, "You must be the only one who's ever had an inspirin' vision of a Hellhound."
"I doubt there'll be a market for it if they start showin' up on pieces of toast," commented Sam. "So, how come he's had some sort of religious experience, and he," he jerked a thumb at the sofa, "Uh, hasn't?"
"Bollocks to you, Winchester the Younger," mumbled Crowley, who was lying on the sofa with an ice-pack on his head and his silk handkerchief across his face. Gedda was curled up at his feet, snoozing. Without looking up, he reached to the floor, picked up a glass, and waved it imperiously. "Somebody make themselves useful."
By an astonishingly evocative act of mime, Dean managed to convey the suggestion that he take a leak in Crowley's glass.
"If you do that, Winchester the Elder, I will make you sorry," the prostrate Patriarch of Perdition grumbled, "Possibly with a lecture on the postulated introduction of multiple drones to the highland bagpipe sometime in the 13th century as a cultural import from Spain…"
"Yeah?" Sam queried. "I didn't think there was any hard evidence for the existence of the great highland pipes before the 15th century, where they were used in a military context, as opposed to…"
"Shut up," Crowley cut him off, "Or I'll make you sorry too. I'll make my way through Monty Python And The Holy Grail and misquote every damned classic line! A sparrow can't carry a coconut! She turned me into a frog! Your mother was a gerbil, and your auntie smelled of loganberries!"
"Shaddap, idjits," growled Bobby, as both Dean and Sam squawked in outrage at what Crowley was threatening to do. "Maybe it's because Dean is technically the Dominican, wrangler of the Infernal Pack. Maybe it's because Crowley here is an honest-to-Cas demon, and the whole concept of unconditional love is poison to them. Or because he's a truly Damned soul – it could be that a Hellhound's truest and most pure form only works on them. Or, maybe it's because he's a genuine asshole..."
"You wound me, Winchester the Practically," moaned Crowley, "After what I went through at your behest for these two ungrateful pillocks – I'll never be the same. Every time my dear little doggie wags her tail at me, part of me will shudder."
Bobby treated Crowley's complaint with the ignore that he clearly felt it so richly deserved. "Whatever the reason, the first Trial has been completed, and he's back here, more or less in one piece."
"And dying from alcohol deficiency," Crowley waggled his glass meaningfully.
With a humph, Bobby picked up the bottle of single malt from the table, and refilled it. "So, now we can move on to the Second Trial."
"What?" Crowley sat up with a squawk, clearly startled, but not agitated enough to spill his scotch. "What? I've barely recovered from the first one! I need time, and booze, to convalesce, darling…"
"What you'll get is my foot up your ass, idjit," Bobby snapped.
"Will I at least get time to change?" Crowley wheedled, "For some reason, I'm sure I can smell goat on this suit."
"Oh, yeah," Bobby's grin was like the face of a shark that's just spotted a crippled nudist splashing in the shallows, "In fact, you'll definitely have to change before you tackle the next one."
"Well, that's a relief," sighed Crowley, reaching down and hesitantly patting Gedda. She licked his hand, and he let out a small shriek. "So, moving on to Trial Number Two, save an innocent soul from Hell, yes? Should be straightforward enough: I'll just have one of the less useful demons abduct a soul bound for Upstairs, lock it in the Pit for a few hours, then, ta-dah,I shall appear – Crowley to the rescue! Soul is saved, trial is done, pour me another drink." He looked up at Bobby expectantly. "What?"
"Well, it aint exactly that simple," Bobby clearly tried to repress a chuckle. "You've got the guts of it, though. Saving a soul from Hell. But in this case, you gotta convince a person to avoid damning themselves."
Crowley groaned. "Oh, it figures," he groaned, "I, the King of the Crossroads, have to convince somebody NOT to make a deal." He let out a sigh. "I'll never live it down if anybody finds out, of course – but that's the whole point, isn't it? It's not a proper Trial if it doesn't come out of Fate's Big Book Of Let's Kick Crowley In The Cobblers." He reached into his jacket, and pulled out a small PDA. "Let me see… and I suppose that it has to be somebody who's really, really determined to go through with it… all right, I have a man here who wants to sell his soul for a cure for his son's inoperable and inevitably fatal brain tumour, I suppose that will fit the bill, yes? I can gazump the demon responsible for the deal, say I'm just out to do a bit of fieldwork, keeping my hand in, leading from the front, inspiring the troops, that sort of thing." He squared his shoulders. "Well, I'll just go and change my suit – yes, definitely goat – then go and save this man from himself. I'll just close my eyes, and tell myself that it's just a different type of deal…"
"I hadn't finished, idjit," Bobby cut in, "You don't have to break off a would-be deal, here – you gotta save somebody who's damnin' themselves through their everyday conduct. You gotta find a sinner, and convince them to repent."
"Repent? Repent?" Crowley's eyes bugged. "Did you just say, repent? As in, be sorry for your sins, promise not to do it again, that sort of repent?"
"Don't forget the makin' amends bit," added Bobby, his amusement leaking into his tone. "It aint proper repentance unless you try to make restitution for the wrongs committed."
"But… Bobby, I'm a demon," Crowley said, looking bewildered, "I'm the Student Least Likely. I couldn't even convince myself to avoid damnation – how am I supposed to convince somebody else? No, seriously, what could I possibly say? 'Stop it, you're making God sad'?"
"That'd be a good start," nodded Bobby.
"Not for a person who's a hardened sinner," snorted Crowley. "I know, love, I was one. We're not just talking somebody who's nicking pens from the stationery cupboard at work, are we, what with this being a Trial, it's bound to need somebody who's up to their neck in the Seven Deadlies. Well, I can tell you, from experience, that If some git in a suit had shown up in front of me and said, 'Look, what you're about to do, it really upsets the Man Upstairs every time one of His mortal children is lost to Him this way, and I have to tell you, the consequences are pretty damned, ha ha, yes, pretty damned unpleasant. It's Hell. There is fire. There is brimstone. There is torture. There are anatomy lessons like they've never been taught before, up close and very personal. There are multiple opportunities to get to know your own internal organs very well indeed. You have no idea what you're letting yourself in for', I'd have laughed in his face. And tried to steal his wallet, because he would clearly be some sort of religious loony, and therefore deserving of being robbed."
"Yup, I figured as much," nodded Bobby, "So, while you were flingin' computer game characters off cliffs, and these two idjits were in the panic room, I organised some help."
Clearing his throat, he knelt stiffly by the sofa, and put his hands together.
"Now I kneel by sofa bed,
Crowley's back and isn't dead,
Ready for the second Trial,
Which could take a little while;
As you know, for this pursuit,
He'll have to change more than his suit…"
There was a flap-flap noise…
"Hello, Dean."
"Gaaaaaaaah!" squawked Dean, jumping in startlement. "Jesus, Cas, how many times, dude? Personal! Space!" He gave the angel a reproachful stare. "You whacked me," he muttered resentfully.
"You deserved it," Castiel replied serenely. "Seeing as I am an angel, and technically, you are demonic, be grateful that I did not smite you."
Dean leered. "I get all tingly when you go all assertive like that," he grinned.
"Hiya, Cas," Sam greeted the angel more politely as he shot his brother a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "What are you doin' here?"
"After answerin' Dean's completely unreasonable p-mail – don't look at me like that boy, anybody who dials 911 to complain about a broken coffee cup deserves anythin' they get – Feathers here dropped by to see if he could offer any assistance. To a worthwhile cause," he added, frowning at Dean.
"And I believe that I may be able to help with this second Trial," Castiel intoned.
Crowley drooped with relief. "Oh, Clarence, I never thought I'd ever say this, but I'm glad to see you – having an angel manifest and give the Hell and Damnation speech will be so much more effective."
"I am not proposing to undertake the Trial for you," Castiel told him, "But I believe I can assist you to achieve success."
Crowley stopped drooping with relief, and drooped instead with resignation. "It had to be too good to be true, didn't it?" he moaned. "So, what are you proposing to do? Conduct a Heavenly choir at the dramatic juncture? Make the tea? Or stand behind me, and be like one of those nodders who stand behind politicians and look serious while they make policy speeches?"
"I was thinking of offering more practical help," replied Castiel. "When Bobby explained what the second Trial would involve, it became immediately obvious that you were not capable of succeeding such as you are…"
"Thank you so very much for the vote of confidence," grumped Crowley.
"…And so I suggested a strategy for making you more… convincing."
In one move, the angel stepped forward, putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder, and there was a brief but intense flash of Heavenly illumination.
"Aaaargh! " Crowley clutched at his face. "You might've warned me that you were about to use the flash, you fully fledged fool…" he took a moment to look down at himself. "Oh, bollocks."
Oh dear, what next? Poor Crowley. I could almost feel sorry for him. Except I'm too busy pointing and laughing.
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*Leaving out the feather dusters and the fluffy handcuffs.