Halp! Halp! I'm being double-teamed by plot bunnies! Haaaaaaaalp!
Chapter Twenty-Six
"Well, of course my idea was always going to work better," Crowley declared breezily, pouring himself another glass of the ridiculously expensive brandy. "This really is marvellous stuff, can I interest you in some, Bobby?"
"You did have some help," Sam pointed out.
"Yes, yes," Crowley waved his other hand dismissively, "Bobby and his collection of strolling players was adequately convincing. But I think it might have been the trip back to Purgatory that really did it. Seeing you in your true form really showed him the error of his ways, didn't it, darling?" he crooned to Gedda, who sat in his lap, gazing up at him adoringly.
"They let you back in?" queried Dean.
"Only because I had Gedda with me," Crowley told him. "She has truly astonishing powers of persuasion: she can bring people around to my way of thinking just by looking at them, and wagging her tail. Or by tearing out the seats of their trousers."
"She gets it from her dad," grinned Dean, scruffing Jimi Junior's ears, "He's a very people person."
"She is a dog of many talents," chuckled Bobby. "So, Feathers is pretty sure that the second Trial has now been successfully completed, which just leaves the last one, which is what we really wanna do – curing a demon."
"I really don't want him squirting his blood into me," Dean screwed up his face. "I mean, what if I catch some blood-borne disease? What if I catch total jerk?"
"Whoops, too late," smiled Sam sunnily. Dean flipped him off.
"I'm afraid I'm with the problem child on this one," Crowley added, "I have absolutely no desire to sacrifice myself to restore Winchester the Elder to his usual angst-riddled self, as amusing as that can be. Besides which, I share his concern about sharing needles – what if I catch angst? What if I catch self-loathing, or overwhelming feelings of failure and inadequacy?"
"Don't be an idjit," growled Bobby, "There's about as much chance of you catchin' any humanisin' features as there is of that Justine Bieber girl learnin' to sing."
"Uh, that's actually a guy," Sam pointed out.
"Coulda fooled me," muttered Bobby. "Anyway, when we say, 'cure a demon', what that really means is, purge the demon of demonicness. Restore its humanity. Cleanse the taint of Damnation from its soul."
"So, like, put it back to factory settings," mused Dean.
"More or less," nodded Bobby. "O' course, in this case, Dean aint your typical demon. He don't have the whole self-inflicted Damnation thing staining his soul."
"Well, according to what Sister Josephus used to say in Confirmation classes about the sins of onanism and fornication," Crowley mused, "He should technically be the one running Hell."
Sam looked bemused. "She actually used the word 'onanism'?" he asked.
"Oh yes," nodded Crowley. "Unfortunately, at seven years old none of us had any idea what it meant. Malcolm Douglas asked her what it was, once, and she beat him until he could barely stand, so we knew it had to be something pretty bad. It always sounded vaguely Arabic to me. I decided that it had something to do with camels, which led to some confusion over the arrival of the Magi at the birth of baby Jesus. And as for 'fornication', I decided that it had something to do with baby deer…"
"You pervert," purred Dean.
"Idjit," growled Bobby. "What I'm gettin' at is, this aint a classic case of demonisation. And we're only interested in dedemonifying as an end, not just a means to achieve something else."
Crowley's face fell. "Why do I get the feeling that you're going to tell me that I have to do something that I will not enjoy?" he sighed.
"I'm not sure either of you is gonna like it much," Bobby muttered. "The thing is, you don't gotta inject your blood into him, to drive out the demonicness – you gotta inject yourself into him."
There was a moment of silence as Sam's face turned green.
Dean's face clouded. "Uh, don't get me wrong, here, Bobby, I aint no prude, but if Cuddles here even thinks about tryin' to inject himself into me…"
"Cuddles?" yapped Crowley. "Did you just call me 'Cuddles', you oaf?"
"…He can think again, because I don't swing that way…"
"I am King of Hell, and you call me 'Cuddles'?"
"…And even if I did, which I don't, he sure as hell wouldn't be my type…"
"The only thing I'd ever consider sticking in you would be a knife, you oik!"
"… So if he even tries it, I swear I'll clench and tear it right off…"
"Like I'd ever lower myself to consorting with you! I may be a demon, but I have standards!"
Dean's eyebrows performed their lewdest pas de deux. "Oho, savin' yourself for Bobby, huh?"
Sam let out a little shriek.
Crowley turned a glowering scowl to Bobby. Will you, or will I?
Bobby shrugged. On this one single peculiar occasion, go ahead.
Crowley slapped Dean upside the head.
"Now, shaddap, the pair of ya," Bobby ordered. "I'm not talkin' about the sort o' thing that woulda given Sister Josephus conniptions. That's just your depraved minds. I'm talkin' about you, Crowley, the essence of you. You gotta get in there, in that meatsuit, and unravel the demonicness that's tangled up in his human soul."
The expression on Crowley's face suggested that the idea to him was just as outrageous as anything less metaphysical and more actually physical would be to Sister Josephus.
"I don't want him pokin' around inside me!" yelped Dean.
"I think Bobby made it quite clear that's not what he meant," began Crowley.
"No, no, I mean, I don't want you pokin' around inside any bit of me!" Dean clarified, his eyes wide. "Not in my head, not in my soul, it's… it's… not natural!"
"Dean, you walkin' around being demonified is not natural!" snapped Sam in exasperation.
"Why is it so bad, huh?" demanded Dean, "Why is me bein' demonified so bad? I'm still your brother, I'm still a Hunter, I'm still the Living Sex God, I'm still awesome! And I got this!" He put out his hand, and called forth the First Blade. "I can kill all kinds of fuglies with this, Sam! I could even kill Crowley!"
Crowley let out a little squawk, and scuttled behind Bobby.
"That may be, Dean," Sam turned on the puppy-dog eyes, "But you're not… you're not really you."
"Yes I am!" protested Dean, "But without all the unhappy stuff. You said it yourself, I'm happy like this!"
"Dean, you're only happy because you've had the diabolical equivalent of a lobotomy," Sam said between clenched teeth, "And we don't know if you'll stay like this, a, a, a functional demon, a benign demon, a decent person, my brother…"
"We don't know that I won't," Dean countered.
"The matter aint open for discussion," snapped Bobby, "So don't bother arguing. His Hellside Majesty is goin' in, like it or not..."
"Uh, no I'm not," said Crowley, a note of regret in his voice.
"…So you can just… huh?" Bobby blinked at him.
"Look, there are difficulties," Crowley explained. "For a start, getting into the same meatsuit as another demon, not easy, even for one as powerful as the King of Hell. Especially if the other demon doesn't want me in there."
"Difficulties?" echoed Sam.
"Think of two rabid ferrets down the same pair of trousers," suggested Crowley, "Or two duckfaced airheads trying to use the same tanning booth. Only it can be a lot less polite than that. Then, there's the anti-possession tattoo; he has to complete the charm and invite me in, so to speak. Then, there's, well, I can't help but wonder if he has a point."
"What?" boggled Sam.
"You heard him," Crowley waved a hand at Dean, "He says he's contented enough being a demon. And you've said it yourselves, he's a much happier individual like this. Just as unbearable, more so in many ways, but within himself, happier. Do I – do you – have the right to take that away?"
"People with brain tumours can have seizures that make them think they're seeing Nirvana," Sam shot back, "That doesn't mean you don't try to cure their cancer, because you know they're sick!"
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Crowley drew himself up, "I think I've been clear that I'm really not actually keen on having him in my tent, as Lyndon B. Johnson put it. And the thought of him hanging around in my tent for eternity is truly horrifying. I am on your side in this matter, I really am, me and my haberdashery both want him out of the club house, but I can't, and won't, do it."
"Crowley," Bobby growled, "You miserable double-crossing asshole…"
"I'm not double-crossing anybody," Crowley sniffed disdainfully, "I'm merely saying that I can't force this on Dean without him wanting me to do it."
"What the fuck is this?" demanded Sam, "Honour among thieves, or something?"
"Smokes before blokes, I'm afraid," Crowley smiled at him. "Demonics before platonics. Black eyes before Puppy-Dog Eyes. You have no way of knowing whether this 'brain tumour' will actually be fatal."
"Nope," said Dean, crossing his arms and pouting, "Nope, nope, nope nope nope."
"Dean," Sam began in a pleading tone, "Can we talk about this?"
"Whole lotta nope!" grinned Dean, giving his brother a cocky salute then disappearing.
"Dean? Dean!" Bobby turned to Crowley with murder in his eyes. "For this, I will end you," he said quietly.
"I don't see why," shrugged Crowley, "All you have to do is find a way to look into a possible future and convince him that he doesn't want to stay demonic. Shouldn't be too difficult for a Man of Knowledge. My word, is that the time? Come along, Gedda, toodle bye love!"
With that, he was gone.
"Crowley? CROWLEY!" Sam yelled in frustration. "That asshole! That back-stabbing, black-eyed, self-serving asshole!" He looked around. "Come on, we have to summon him back."
"What for?" asked Bobby thoughtfully.
"So I can, I can, I don't know, beat some answers out of him!" Sam waved his arms around. "Like, why the fuck chicken out now? Or at least I could throw rocks at him until I feel better!" He took out his cell, and dialled his brother.
"There will be no throwin' of rocks in my livin' room, thank you very much," grumbled Bobby. "No, I'm afraid The Emir of Asshatness has a point. For this to work, Dean has to agree to it."
Dean's head appeared carefully around the door. "Is he gone?" he asked suspiciously.
"Him and his dog," Bobby replied.
"Good." The rest of him emerged, holding another guitar. He played a melancholy chord. "I don't want him pokin' around inside my head."
"I can relate to that," Sam agreed, "But Dean…"
"Sam," Bobby interrupted, "You aint gonna convince your brother of anything by badgerin' him, so give it a rest."
"Huh?" Sam gawped at Bobby. "Are you serious? He's a demon, Bobby, and we have a way to fix him, so we gotta…"
"We don't gotta do anything," Bobby stated firmly. "Unless you can come up with a new argument, let it go, son."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this!" snapped Sam, turning to storm out of the room.
"Hey, thanks, Bobby," grinned Dean, playing a happier major sequence of notes. "I know he means well, he's my brother, but…"
"Don't thank me too soon, boy," Bobby grunted, "I just don't see any point in retryin' what already hasn't worked. I don't want you to stay like this either, but, well, if we can't convince you of that by rational discussion, we should just save our breath."
"I knew there was a reason you're a Man of Knowledge," Dean smiled even more widely, and strummed his new acquisition. "Hey, I'm gonna go get some pizza, you want some?"
"Pizza is always good," nodded Bobby, "But before you do that, there's two things I'd like you to do for me."
"What?"
"Well, first of all, I'd rather you went into Sioux Falls in your car, rather than takin' DemonAir to Naples, or some such place."
"Well, of course! Actually, I didn't like Naples much, couldn't get a decent stuffed crust Meat-Lovers with extra cheese, although Crowley went on and on about one of the museums there."
"Good. And before you go, it would really be best if you could just take that body back to where you found it, and get back into your own. And before you ask, yeah, you can keep the guitar."
Dean turned large, pleading eyes on him. "Can't I keep it for just a little while? Just to learn what I can?"
"No," Bobby answered sternly, "Because somebody might find your body, and I aint havin' you wanderin' around lookin' even more well-used than me. Besides, sooner rather than later, Mr Richards' absence will be noticed. So, git."
With a melodramatic sigh, Dean put down the guitar and disappeared again.
"Idjits," Bobby muttered, taking out his cell and looking up a number that would not appear on any database or call record anywhere, no matter how hard the FBI, CIA or National Security dug. He hit dial.
"Hey, Orgle, how's it goin'? Yeah? Well, congratulations! Phlegmgob's such a cheerful little guy, he was bound to knock the judges dead. Listen, I got a request, buddy, I really need your help with somethin'…"
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