Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sam went back to giving Bobby a hand with his translation. After they heard the door bang again and Dean come back inside, they left it for what they thought was an adequate interval for him to compose himself before emerging from the study, complaining about the rigors of research.
"God's tits, my eyes are crossin'," muttered Bobby, rubbing at the offending organs, "I gotta go get my prescription checked, or I'll end up permanently starin' at the end of my own nose."
"Coffee," moaned Sam, like a zombie droning its preference for cerebral substance or a student requiring neuronal caffeination therapy, "Coffee, coffeeeeee…"
Dean sat on the sofa with Jimi. "What's up, guys?"
"We need a break," said Bobby. "This translation is doin' my head in. I got a sentence that could refer to 'a low table covered with red paint', or 'a small angry dog covered in somebody's blood', I just can't get the context pinned down."
"And coffee," added Sam. "A break for coffee. Or a coffee break."
"I'll go put on a fresh pot," decided Bobby.
"Screw that," Sam waved a hand, dropping onto the sofa heavily, "Just get me a handful of beans." He let his eyes fall on the remote. "Oh, hey, why don't we watch HELL-TV for a bit?" he suggested. "Give the neurons a rest. And then Dean can decide what he wants to do about his demonization."
"Sounds like a plan," nodded Bobby, "I'll just get that pot on..."
"Uh, actually, I've been thinkin' about that," Dean told them, managing to look astonishingly sheepish for someone who was technically demonic, "And I've, uh, I've been thinkin', maybe it would be best if we could just turn me back to, you know, me. Original me. Factory settings."
Sam put on his most worried face. "Dean, are you sure?" he asked. "I know that I've been campaigning pretty hard for it, but Bobby's right, the final decision has to be yours, bro. You have to want this. I'll, I'll," he put a hand on his brother's shoulder, and gave his best Dean's Little Trooper expression. "I'll support you, whatever you decide."
"No, no, I mean it," Dean said quickly, "I've had a chance to think, and I think this would be the best course of action, for everybody, in the long run."
"Are you sure you don't wanna watch some HELL-TV, to make sure?" Bobby prompted. "You're entitled to have as much intel as possible to go on, before you make any sort of decision."
"I'm sure!" Dean trilled, nodding vigorously, "I'm totally sure, and totally decided, that it would be best to de-demonify me. Although," he sighed, "I will kinda miss having the First Blade. Just the look on Crowley's face whenever he sees it always makes me smile."
"Oh, I'm sure we'll spend the rest of our lives findin' ways to put that look on his face," chuckled Sam. "After all, it's what we do, right? Saving people, Hunting things, inconveniencing the King of Hell…"
"…The family business," Dean finished, smiling. "Well, a guy as awesome as me doesn't need demonic power to make him any better. Who can improve on perfection?"
"Who indeed," muttered Bobby, with a roll of his allegedly overworked eyes. "Well, aint no time like the present. Gimme a hand with the rug, we'll summon His Diabolical Dickness, and get to it."
The summoning was quickly answered, and Crowley stood in the markings, waving another bottle of the indecently expensive Black Pearl edition brandy. "Bobby, love, I got us another bottle," he smiled winningly, "So we can either celebrate, or commiserate. Either way, we get to drink!"
"We're hopin' to celebrate," Bobby told him without preamble, "Dean's decided he'd like to be undemonified."
Crowley stepped out of the devil's trap as Sam broke a line. "Well, I cannot say I'm disappointed," the King of Hell announced, "I think you've made the best decision for everybody concerned. Including me. Particularly me. Especially me. And since 'me' really covers everyone I'm concerned about, yes, well done you."
"Shaddap," growled Bobby, "He aint doin' this for your benefit. You just happen to be a necessary evil, and chances are, anything that destabilises your position will lead to somethin' we like even less."
Crowley's face crumpled in gratitude. "Bobby, darling, that's the nicest thing anybody has said to be in such a long time…"
"Idjit," muttered Bobby, shaking his head as he pulled together the ingredients for the charm to invite a demon temporarily into a body with an anti-possession tattoo.
Dean recited the charm, and wiped the strange goo across his tattoo. "So, now what?" he asked.
"Now, you just gotta give your permission, and His Majesty will go on in, and unravel the, uh, demonicness from your soul," answered Sam.
Dean took a deep breath, and let it out, squaring his shoulders. "Okay," he said, "Okay. Crowley, come up to the lab, and see what's on the slab."
Crowley did not so much quiver with antici….. pation as wince, and shudder. "You know, I've just suddenly thought that it might be wise for me to change before doing this," he said brightly, "Into a hazmat suit, maybe."
"Don't flatter yourself," snapped Dean, "You think I'm lookin' forward to this? Crackpot fangirls will have a field day! It aint natural!"
"Crowley, get your ass in there or so help me, I will drag your worthless self outta that smug-suit and shove you in there myself," Bobby growled. "No protective kit will help you, anyway – once you're in, it's all about perception, and context. So, don't let the door bang you on the ass on the way in."
Crowley sighed deeply in a long-suffering fashion. "If I return to find that your mutt has piddled on my meatsuit, I will be sending you the dry cleaning bill," he sniffed disapprovingly, giving Jimi a baleful glare. Jimi returned it, with an added growl.
"Don't you dare try anything creative while you're in there," warned Sam in a dangerous voice.
"Are you mad?" demanded Crowley stridently. "Are you completely mad? 'Try anything'? If I 'tried anythng' while he's the way he is, there's a better than even chance he'll just head straight Downstairs, and I'll be stuck with him forever! Compared to that, the fact that Bobby would Hunt me down and blast me to atom fragments with sanctified dog poo doesn't even register on the Oh Bollocks scale! Honestly, Moose, torture me, exorcise me, ruin my ties, but do not insult my intelligence!"
"Daylight's burnin'," stated Bobby firmly, "Time to haul ass, Crowley. Or haul smoke, as the case may be."
The King of Hell looked resigned. "Very well." He drew himself up. "I am just going out, and I may be some time…"
When it became clear that Bobby was preparing to slap Crowley upside the head, a long wailing column of black smoke shot out of his meatsuit, swirled around briefly on the ceiling with a drawn-out howl of Bolloooooooooocks, then speared down towards Dean.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Gingerly, Crowley opened his eyes. He appeared to be standing in one of the largest, most cluttered workshops he'd ever encountered. Turning carefully, he bumped against something under a drop sheet. It let out a grumpy rumble of protest, and he shrieked and whipped around.
Hey, careful! Dean's thought speared at him.
"You be careful!" Crowley shot back, "Something under a tarp just grumped at me!" He peered at the drop sheet – it didn't move. "I think something's snoring under there," he noted uncertainly.
That's my modesty. I hardly ever use it, so mostly it just naps.
"Figures." He looked around the perception of a large shed. "I might've guessed," he grumbled, attempting to brush dust from himself. "So, where do I find, er, you?"
Fucked if I know, he could hear the shrug.
"But I'm inside your head!" protested Crowley.
And I try to spend as little time as possible in there, intoned the disembodied 'voice'. Except for the really good bits.
Crowley looked along the well-equipped and carefully organised shelving. "And they'll be in a stack-a-crate marked 'good bits', will they?" he queried snidely, lifting the lid on a small plastic bin. A terrible smell wafted out. "Pfah! Oh, Lucifer's bum, what the blazes was that?!" He clutched an expensive hankie to his nose. "The Lake of Fire doesn't smell that bad!"
That's my hatred of all brassica vegetables, Dean told him. It's really, really strong.
"Yes, yes it is," muttered Crowley, opening a cupboard.
It didn't open onto a set of shelves; it was like a window overlooking an indoor spa. The water was bubbling, and a young lady wearing a skimpy red bikini and an inviting smile looked up and waved at him.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon, young lady," smiled Crowley, "Might I ask who you are?"
"I'm Sharon," the woman purred, "I'm one of the really good bits."
She sure was, the leer dripped from Dean's 'voice', We were on this Hunt in Maine, and we got snowed in, and Sam went to the library because it was warmer than our room, and…
"As much as I would love to hear all about your frisky frolics with the very lovely Sharon, I fear I must continue my search," Crowley interrupted. She blew him a kiss as he shut the cupboard, and moved on to the next one.
Unfortunately, what was behind it wasn't another nubile young lady – it looked like an amalgam of a rabid wolf, a Hellhound, and a chainsaw. With a small shriek, he slammed the cupboard shut as it lunged at him.
"Yeeeeeek!" gasped Crowley, "Tell me that's not one of the really good bits!"
That's loyalty, grinned Dean, Don't worry, you'll never have any contact with it.
"Thank Craig for small mercies," muttered the discombobulated diabolical Director. "Mental note to self, don't open any more cupboards." Taking care not to touch anything, he moved to a doorway at the end of the workbench.
It opened onto another space that looked very similar to the first, so resolutely he pressed on.
"It would help if you could just give me a clue as to…" he heard a growl from floor level, and looked down.
A small creature with lots of whiskers and lots of teeth sniffed his leg then sank said teeth into said leg, making the King of Hell squawk, then it pulled an unimpressed face, blew a raspberry, and whirled away in a miniature knee-high tornado.
"Do I even want to know?" groaned Crowley.
That, dude, was my appreciation of hamburgers in particular, and red meat in general, Dean chortled. Guess there's not enough lean meat on you. Too much marbling, and not enough salt.
"Of course," muttered Crowley, "Of course, how silly of me not to realise. If I'd known there were going to be feral creatures in here, I'd have brought an umbrella. Or a piece of lead pipe…
A tiny sound somewhere down at his feet caught his attention. He peered downwards.
Peering right back up with huge green eyes was a tiny black and white kitten, with cute little paws, cute little ears, and a cute little face that would've made anybody else's head explode with the cute.
Crowley resisted the urge to drop-kick it across the room. "What is… is…" Hesitantly, he bent down and looked closer. The animal was tiny; it let out an adorable chirruping meow, and rubbed against his ankle. Carefully, Crowley picked it up. It fit into his hand. It was so small and harmless and ineffectual, he found that he had to smile.
"So, what's this then?" he asked, scratching the little thing under the chin and hearing it purr like a tiny lawnmower, "It's miniscule, mate! It's tiny! So, is it your intellect? Your tolerance for classical music? Your capacity to tolerate delayed gratification?"
Don't be an asshole, griped Dean, That there is my sense of propriety. It's a lot less scary than Sam's, aint it? No tentacles to grab you, pull you into its clutches, and ruin your day by slimin' you with its mores. Sam doesn't have social mores – they're actual social morays, and if you try to break 'em, they'll have your arm off…
"Indeed," agreed Crowley, watching carefully as a small black speck – a flea, he realised – crawled out of the kitten's fur, and cheerfully waggled a couple of legs at him. "And what's that?"
That's my capacity to tolerate delayed gratification, Dean clarified.
"Naturally." He contemplated the kitten, who cocked its head in a mind-melting display of harmless cuteness, then put it down again. With a flick of its tiny tail, it wandered back into the dark recesses of Dean's mind whence it had come.
Carefully stepping over and around bits of what looked like garage detritus, he made his way across the room, brushing at cobwebs (That's algebra. Or calculus. Or European history, I don't remember very well), pushing around a teetering pile of pieces of rusted metal piled to the ceiling (Memories of injuries, I think) and emerging around a stack of musty, flaking suitcases that were held together largely with duct tape. A closer inspection showed that the locks had been glued shut.
I'd stay away from them, if I was you, warned Dean ominously.
"What's in them?" asked Crowley warily, not liking the malevolent ambiance of the pile of mildewing luggage. "Stories from road trips? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?"
Emotional baggage, Dean sighed. Crowley leaped backwards, and realised that the wall behind him was a door. Gratefully, he turned the handle, and stepped out.
He found himself in an open field next to the garage-shed type structure. It was grassy, and a slight breeze ruffled the surface of a nearby lake.
"Well, this is something of an improvement," Crowley decided, "Maybe you should open up the doors and let that place air out a bit…"
whoomp
As he spoke, he felt a definite vibration through his feet.
"Squirrel?" he said uncertainly, "What was that? Do you have a headache or something?"
whoomp
"I'm not imagining it, am I?" he went on.
Dean just sniggered.
WHOOMP
Crowley scowled. "All right, if this is some memory of a visit to a dinosaur park, and a T. rex is suddenly going to come stomping across the landscape, I'm telling you I will not be…"
The air was split by a noise like two rampant jumbo jets mating as they crashed. Crowley jumped, and whirled around.
"LUCIFER'S BOIL-COVERED BUM!" he screeched, "WHAT THE FUCK IS GODZILLA DOING IN HERE?!"
That aint the scourge of Tokyo, Crowley just knew that Dean was grinning, Although it might be, one day, if I ever go there. That's my libido. Oh, uh, looks like it's stomping in this direction. I better warn you, it tends to steamroller anything that happens to be in the way…
Run Crowley run! Will the King of Hell be stomped by Dean's rampaging rampantness? Feed the plot bunny reviews, because they are the Really Good Bits In The Cupboards Of Life!*
*I'm pretty sure that if anybody got into my head and opened the cupboards that store the Really Good Bits, every single one will contain, in some way, cream cheese frosting.