Chapter Twenty-Eight
*click*
Sam pushed the door to their room open. "Okay, so I found some old newspapers archived at the library, and there wa- Jesus Christ, Dean, what the fuck'?"
The bed closest to the door was covered in bills of all denominations. But that wasn't what had startled blasphemy from Sam. He was prompted to take the Lord's name in vain by the fact that Dean was rolling around on it, making happy little noises, like a dog rolling in a particularly fragrant dead skunk.
Wearing only his shorts.
"I cleaned up, Sammy," Dean grinned up at him, "I used my awesome poker skills, and my awesome people skills, and…"
"And your awesome mess-with-people's-heads-because-you're-a-demon skills," wailed Sam, clapping his hands over his eyes. "Will you at least put some pants on?"
"Hey, if you got it, flaunt it," Dean just grinned harder, then sprawled, with a happy sigh, across his winnings.
"Dean, we've talked about the whole 'flaunting' thing," Sam growled, sitting down on his own bed, "Word will leak out. Word has already leaked out. As if there weren't enough other Hunters – and other demons – just itching for an excuse to gank us both."
"Let 'em try," shrugged Dean, sitting up and reaching for his jeans, "I'll just gank them first."
"That's all right for you to say," humphed Sam, "I'm just a squishy mortal mud-monkey, and the whole metabolism-homeostasis-being alive thing? I'd like to do it for a while yet."
"No problemo, Sammy," Dean beamed at his little brother, "You got me, and you got the J-Man to watch your back. Aint that right, Jimi?" The dog, a grizzled veteran of the Hunt, wagged his tail and stiffly got to his feet, moving to drop his greyed muzzle into Dean's lap. "See? You can relax, Princess Samantha, Sir Jimi and his faithful sidekick Deano will protect you, so you can just worry about lettin' down your hair for the handsome prince."
"Ha ha," muttered Sam without humour. "At least tell me you didn't set anybody on fire this time."
Dean studied the ceiling. "Well, set them personally on fire, so they were burning, you know, flames, smoke, screaming and third degree burns, not as such…"
"Dean," Sam scowled, "People's pants count."
"I may just have raised the temperature a little bit, in very highly localised areas of the room," Dean gave Sam his I'm-Too-Adorable-For-You-To-Be-Mad-At-Me face.
Sam returned fire with a Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child). "Anyway, I think I got a lead on our case," he went on, "From the library archives. But I gotta chase up some more info, and there's a lot of it not been transferred to digital format yet, so you can help me."
"Oh, joy," grumbled Dean, his grin wavering only momentarily. "Well, if I'm gonna spend all day tomorrow up to my eyeballs in old papers, I gotta fortify myself." He picked up his jacket and his keys. "So, I might just go find me a bar, drink me some beer, chase me some tail. Don't wait up," he waggled his eyebrows, and headed for the door, where he stopped and turned, looking at Sam expectantly.
With a sigh, Sam got up, broke the salt line, and let his brother out of the room.
Then with another sigh, he took the brush and pan, and swept up the small trail of sulphur that his brother had started to leave behind.
*click*
The Living Sex God was still the Living Sex God; it would take more than the trivial matter of acquired demonicness to change that. And he had never had trouble finding female company.
"I don't know what's gotten into her," apologised the busty blonde when they got back to her place. The moment he'd walked in the door, the woman's Dobermann had started to growl at him, "She's usually okay with strangers."
"Well, I'm comin' into her den, so she's entitled," Dean said, the Killer Smile sliding onto his face.
The busty blonde hustled the dog outside, then hustled Dean upstairs. The prelude to a beautiful natural act began…
"Oh, my, GOD," she suddenly sad up, grabbing at her nose, "What is that?"
"That," the Living Sex God purred, "That is the most talented organ of my body…"
"Not that! That smell!" she gasped, "Can't you smell it? It's like, it's like rotten eggs." She gave him a disgusted look. "Was that you?" she demanded.
"What? No! At least, I don't think so."
"It's not funny!" she snapped, "Men think farting is so funny, but it's not!"
"I don't think it's funny!" Dean insisted, "It's not funny at all! Whoa, you should meet my brother, the nerve gas factory, I can tell you, it's totally not funny."
Another wave of pungent sulphuric stench washed over them.
"Aaaaaargh!" she yodelled, getting out of bed and reaching for a robe, "It's getting worse! It is you!"
"No it's not!" Dean yelped.
"It's coming from you," she snapped.
"Hey, I think I'd know if I was farting," he defended himself a bit more stridently than he'd intended.
"Then it's leaking out of your pores, or something!" she shot back. "Jesus, even Tilly isn't this bad after she's had a chicken carcass!"
"Hey, come on," Dean deployed the Killer Smile, "Let me show you a good time. I aint doing a proper job if your toes don't curl at least twice…"
"The only thing you're making curl is the hair in my nose!" she scowled, opening a window. "Get out! It'll take a week to air this place out! You're disgusting! Go on, get out of here! Before I let Tilly back in!"
Dean gawped at her, then got out of bed and began to dress.
When he got back to their room, he decided to spend the night in the car, because Sam pulled really really mean Bitchfaces™ if Dean had to wake him up in the middle of the night to break a salt line.
*click*
"I got no idea, bro," Sam said from shotgun, "But you've been leaving sulphur wherever you go for a while now– maybe it's just a development of that."
"Well, you gotta find a fix," growled Dean, "That's three times it's happened, now. The Living Sex God cannot undertake beautiful natural acts with frisky women if things start to smell like you after a Volcano chilli as soon as the friskiness gets, uh, frisky."
Sam opened his laptop and tapped at it. "Approximately one-point-two percent of the population suffer from anosmia, or lack of a sense of smell," he announced, "So, you'll just have to target them. Or pick up women who have colds or hayfever."
"Real helpful," muttered Dean.
*click*
"This tastes funny," complained Dean, screwing up his face at the piece of fried chicken then dropping it. "Like the burger I had yesterday tasted funny." He looked thoughtful. "Come to think of it, the food I had all last week tasted funny."
"Well, it's full of salt," shrugged Sam, digging into his chicken salad, "You're getting more sensitive to it. Could be because you have such an intake of it every day. Maybe you're sensitising yourself. Like somebody developing an allergy to bee venom after being stung on multiple occasions."
"But I asked for no salt!" complained Dean, poking a fry into the ketchup. "Blah, that tastes funny, too. But they didn't put salt on my fries."
Ketchup is full of salt," Sam pointed out, "All processed food is. All fast food is. That's part of what makes people crave it, along with the fat and sugar."
Dean stared at his plate in despair. "But, if I can't eat burgers and wings and fries, what am I supposed to eat?"
"You don't have to eat," Sam pointed out.
"But I like to eat!" Dean almost wailed, "How am I gonna do that if it's all got salt in it?"
Sam pushed his chicken salad across the table.
*click*
Sam burst through the bathroom door, gun in hand, the moment he heard his brother's horrified scream. "Dean!" he yelled, looking for the threat.
His big brother stood in front of the mirror, gazing at his reflection in horror. "My… my hair," he breathed, touching his hairline, "My hair, it's… it's…"
"What?" demanded Sam, looking around wildly, "What?"
"It's… I think…" he turned anguished eyes to his baby brother. "Sam, is… is my hairline further back than it used to be?"
Sam blinked at him like a bewildered owl. "Your hair?" he managed to say, dumbfounded, 'You're in here screamin' like you're being murdered, and it's because of your hair?"
Dean returned to reflection upon his reflection. "I can't lose my hair!" he wailed, "The Living Sex God cannot lose his hair!"
"Jesus, over-reaction much?" growled Sam, putting up his gun.
"I'm not supposed to lose my hair!" howled Dean, "I'm a demon!"
"Have you looked at Crowley recently?" chortled Sam.
"Stop it! This isn't funny!" snapped Dean. "I'm not supposed to get older, on the outside…"
"Well, you're not a common-or-garden demon," Sam reminded him. "There's lots of things about you we just don't know, because you're, well, you're unique. The salt intolerance that got worse is one thing."
"Ohhhh, I'd kill to be able to eat a bacon cheeseburger," moaned Dean. "I've tried to like avocado omelette, I really have, but it's just not the same, and fries without salt and ketchup, it's like peaches without cream, Batman without the Batmobile, Motorhead without Lemmy, bondage without the discipline…"
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's melodrama. "Then there's the whole, uh, excretion of sulphur wherever you go, especially at moments of, uh, intimacy, that's another thing."
"Don't remind me," Dean griped, "The Living Sex God, reduced to paying for it! And even that doesn't work; I got thrown out that brothel on the grounds that I was a health hazard! And Mistress Amanda won't even talk to me. It's not right, it's against the natural order of the universe…"
"And it's unheard of for a demon to have their own body as a meatsuit," Sam continued. "So, you're still inside, uh, you. Maybe that's why you're showing signs of ageing."
Dean looked absolutely stricken. "You mean, I'm gonna be a demon, forever, and I'm gonna, you know, look old?" He turned back to the mirror in a panic. "I'm gonna lose my hotness?"
"We don't know, bro," shrugged Sam, "You might age slower, or you might age normally. You spend all your time Topside, which is really unusual for a demon. Technically, we don't even know if you count as physically 'dead'. We just don't know."
"But that means… I'll have to find another meatsuit!" Dean's anguish knew no bounds. "I'll have to go out, and, and, and find another meatsuit! Preferably one that doesn't have somebody still inside it, that's really annoying. But I'll never find one as hot as my own! I'll never find one as awesome as the original Living Sex God!" he seemed on the verge of tears.
Suppressing a groan, Sam tried to think charitably empathetic thoughts. He failed miserably. "Bro, I think you're worrying about nothing, with the hair. I think it's just the light in here, or the angle of the mirror. I'd say that your hairline hasn't gone anywhere."
"You sure?" asked Dean plaintively.
"Yeah, I'm sure." He paused. "Although you are going grey, you know."
"Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!"
*click*
Dean took another drink, hiccupped, and slid gently sideways until he was horizontal on his bed.
"Everybody hates me," he moaned.
"Dean, that's not true." Sam prayed desperately for patience. Or a sedative that worked on demons. He wasn't fussy.
"It's totally true," Dean insisted, wallowing in alcohol-enhanced misery, "Everybody. Everybody we know, everybody we meet, everybody hates meeeee."
"Bull," countered Sam, thinking maybe a human-compatible sedative would do it, because then he wouldn't have to listen to his brother's maudlin rambling.
"Ronnie hates me," Dean continued, not to be diverted, "She took one look at me, and decided that she hates me."
"Oh, that's just her," Sam said dismissively, "You know what she's like."
"She got one whiff of me, and attacked me," Dean complained.
"Well, you know how cranky she is."
"She tried to stick a knife in me."
"Well, that's, uh, look, you know how 'physical' werewolf communication can be – for her, that's practically her way of saying hello."
"It was her demon-killing knife," whined Dean.
"Yeah, but, but, but," tried Sam, "She didn't actually stab you, did she?"
"Only 'cause you got in the way. Her dog attacked me," Dean went on.
"Lita's just a puppy, Dean," Sam answered, "Puppies chew on everything at this age."
"Your dog attacked me," Dean glared, in a somewhat cross-eyed fashion, at Lars, the three-month-old puppy that had Chosen Sam. The dog boldly returned the favour with a brazen stare that was a combination of utter cuteness and rat cunning.
"Dean, puppies play rough," Sam told him, "They were just playing with you like you were another puppy."
"They all attacked me," Dean droned resentfully. None of 'em picked me, they just attacked me, and tore my pants."
"Well, they don't understand that you're not a dog, and that your, uh, 'fur' can be torn off."
"They tore my shorts."
"Well, they must get it from their Auntie Gedda," shrugged Sam.
"They tried to bite me on the ass!"
"Well, it's probably a Hellhound thing," Sam suggested. "You are, after all, a demon."
"Your dog hates me," Dean returned to the chorus like an annoying pop song.
"He doesn't hate you!" Sam tried not to snap, "You're part of his pack!"
"Oh, yeah? Well, how come he keeps pissing on my boots?"
"That's because, that's because, it's because you're one of his pack, right, so, he wants to make it clear that he thinks of you as, uh, being his," declared Sam as convincingly as he could.
"Cesar says that pissing on things to cover scents is a dominance thing," mumbled Dean, "Just like staring." He turned back to his staring match with the pup, who didn't blink. "He hates me." Dean took another drink. "Just like Cas. Hic!"
"No, Dean, Cas doesn't hate you," Sam managed to avoid rolling his eyes only by a great effort of will, "Don't be silly."
"He tried to stab me, too," Dean went on mournfully.
"He did not try to stab you!" said Sam firmly, "Don't make shit up, Dean."
"Oh yeah?" Dean pouted. "Oh yeah? Well, how come when he turned up at that job, he had his angel blade out, and he was all, like, Smitey McSmiterson, and he gave me his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom?"
"He always gives you his Eye Sex Stare Of Doom," Sam pointed out. "It's what the fangirls love about him."
"Well yeah," Dean waved the bottle eloquently, "But, yeah, but, he, you know, he always used to give me the Profound Bond Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. The Eye Sex Stare Of Doom he gave me was the hic! I'm A BAMF Angel Of The Lord Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. The I'm Gonna Smite Your Ass You Evil Sonofabitch Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. The I'm All Out Of Bubble-gum Eye Sex Stare Of Doom."
"Cas is on the Asperger's spectrum," Sam replied, "He's got no idea about human communication."
"He said I had chosen to become a corrupted abomination and a blight upon his Father's Creation," Dean reminded his brother. "And he said that if he ever saw me again, he would dispatch my worthless essence back to the Pit where it deserved to be."
"See? He didn't try to stab you at all!" Sam said emphatically.
"They all hate meeeeeee," moaned Dean again. "Even Chuck's fangirls hate me."
"They think you're totally hot, bro, just like always," Sam said through gritted teeth. "Some of 'em even like you better this way. Because they don't have to live with you," he added under his breath.
Dean's face crumpled into a picture of misery. "They write stories about me and Crowleeeeeeey!" he howled in distress. "That's so unfair! He's a guy! And he's totally unhot!"
"It's no worse than the ones they write about us," opined Sam.
"It totally is!" insisted Dean. "At least you're hot."
"Dean!"
Ignoring his brother's outraged shriek of horror, Dean took another deep drink, then burped sonorously and upended the bottle. "I'm outta booze," he complained.
"Good," humphed Sam.
"Will you go and get me some more?" Dean asked hopefully.
"Absolutely not!" Sam stated firmly. "You've had enough. Even for a demon."
"Huh," grumbled Dean, "It's not as if I drank, like, a whole liquor store, or anything. Hic!"
"Maybe not far off," muttered Sam, eyeing the cases of empty bottles that his brother had earlier purloined from a nearby liquor store and wondering how the hell he was going to dispose of the evidence.
"Fine," scowled Dean, standing up and swaying, "Fine, I'll go and get some more for myself."
"Dean, I really don't think you should drink and, and, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "Transport yourself. You might get lost."
Dean fixed his brother with a haughty stare. "I will have you know," he intoned in a wounded tone, "That I am in perfect control of myself."
With that, he toppled to the floor, as slowly and impressively as a majestic redwood being felled, and began to snore.
Lars got up from his blanket, and headed for the prostrate form. He sniffed at Dean's leg, then turned around and squatted strategically.
With a sigh, Sam got up to put out the smouldering Hellhound pee on his brother's leg, then manoeuvred him onto his bed.
*click*
"Who do I have to kill?" demanded Dean, eyes bleeding to black in anger, "Who do I have to kill to stop this, this, this manifestation of pure evil?"
"That's rich, coming from a demon," chuckled Sam, adjusting his glasses.
"I'm serious, bro," Dean growled, "Come on, you understand how this Congress stuff works, tell me who to kill, and I'll just go do it."
Sam frowned at his brother over the top of his glasses – even in his seventies, he could pull a scorching Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Even if you could stop it by killing somebody, which you can't, I wouldn't tell you," he said. "You've known this was coming. You shouldn't have kept it on the road for as long as you did…"
"She! She! My Baby isn't an it, she's a she!" Dean yapped irritably.
"And the prohibition on internal combustion engines in cars of any size will come into effect next week," Sam finished.
"But…" Dean turned tortured eyes to his brother. "This is my Baby, Sam, she's… she's… they can't put her off the road!"
"They can," Sam shrugged, "You won't be able to get gas for her, anyway, there isn't any."
"But what am I supposed to do?" asked Dean in a small voice.
"There are conversions available," Sam reminded him, "A lot of people want to keep their own cars rolling, apparently."
"I aint turnin' a mechanical work of art into a battery-powered toy!" Dean snapped.
"Then turn her into a garden installation," humphed Sam, annoyed at having the conversation again, "You're just gonna have to face the fact that your car can't run anymore."
It took a number of weeks for the awful reality to sink in for Dean; his regular Egyptian cruises up Denial had not been wiped away by his demonification.
When it did, he cleared a wide area in the middle of the salvage yard and built a pyre for his Baby. He figured she deserved a Hunter's send-off, and he didn't think he could bear to see her rusting away with the other junkers.
*click*
He had once thought that setting the flame to Bobby's pyre was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
He was wrong.
Sam's was much worse.
He stood, the lighter in his hand, and looked down into his brother's face, and he didn't have to try very hard to be able to see the kid who'd looked up to him, and called him the best big brother in the world. Maybe Sam would get his night of fireworks in Heaven.
Dean would never know. He'd never see his brother again.
Demons didn't cry. They didn't care enough about anything, except themselves, to ever have reason to do it. Which is why the slow, fat drops of dark blood dripping down his face and onto his brother's took him by surprise. But then, Dean was a different kind of demon; what sort, he'd never really know, now that his brother was gone.
He'd have the rest of forever to wonder about it.
Without Sam.
Also, without decent food, without decent sex, without a decent car.
And with grey hair.
As he flicked the zippo, he'd never felt so alone…
*click*
Dean threw the remote across the living room, and went running outside. In the yard, he hugged his dog, and then his car.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
When they heard the door bang, Sam and Bobby cautiously poked their heads out of the study.
"You think it worked?" asked Sam anxiously.
"I guess we'll know soon enough," Bobby said philosophically. "I thought Crowley did a pretty good job. Very slick. Some very judicious editing. And of course, Orgle is a whiz with the DGI, the diabolically generated imaging. A real tearjerker, in the end."
"Well, Crowley says he has lots of PR people in Hell, and plenty of political advisers and spin doctors, and they know how to put a spin on a story," Sam reminded him. "The grey hair thing was a fun touch. And the look on his face when he couldn't eat junk food? Priceless!"
"The thing about the car, though," Bobby chortled, "That was just mean."
"I think that in this case, it's being cruel to be kind," noted Sam. "Because really, deep down inside, I think that if Dean can't be the Living Sex God, he'd rather not exist."
"Let's just hope it was cruel enough," gruffed Bobby. "Because if he sees the timeline where he takes over the Northern hemisphere, and demands annual tribute in tons of bacon every year, we're screwed."
I can only hope that a bit of Jimiverse silliness is therapeutic for anybody traumatised by the S10 preview – yikes! Not everybody will mind too much, I suspect; go on, I know that some of you are thinking that demon!Dean is hot. I know how you think, you depraved beldames.
Now that was a nice long chapter, so send reviews, because they are the Batteries In The Energiser Plot Bunny Dictating The Crack Antidote To Canon Angst In The Supernatural Episodes Of Life!