Chapter The Last
"I notice that nobody seems to be too perturbed about the mental trauma to which I have been subjected through this entire sorry episode," sniffed Crowley as he picked up the bottle of brandy, went to pour himself a drink, then necked the bottle instead. "From being chased by the Italian police, the German police and the US police to being chased by aspects of Winchester The Elder's mind, I have been traumatised!" He let out a shudder. "That motorcycle ride, I tell you, the first Moto GP rider I get Downstairs, I'm going to put him to work scaring the shit out of the Damned the moment I get him off the rack…"
"That's because it was largely your own fault, and we don't give a rat's ass about your well-being," shrugged Bobby, cross-referencing a passage in his book. He sighed, closed it, and took off his glasses. "Balls," he muttered.
"No luck, darling?" asked Crowley.
"Nope," Bobby eyed the First Blade warily – it sat on the table, just an old piece of bone, nonetheless managing to radiate malevolence. "Dunno how we're supposed to destroy it; Cain himself couldn't figure it out, the best he could do was throw it away as inconveniently as possible."
"Well, so long as nobody has the Mark, it's not going to corrupt any more humans," Crowley pointed out, "So it doesn't represent any danger to you lot Up Here. But if you're still worried about it, you know that I'd be willing to take it off your hands, and stash it somewhere safe, so that…"
At floor level, a low threatening growl brought him up short. Bobby had called Janis inside, and set her to guard The Blade. She might have been a yard dog, but she was nonetheless half-Hellhound, one of Jimi Senior's pups, and she was entirely capable of inconveniencing Crowley should he do anything so foolish as try to do what Bobby had told him not to.
"I'd sooner give a nuke to a rabid jihadist," Bobby growled as threateningly as his dog.
"Mind your tautology, love," Crowley commented, "There's no such thing as a jihadi who's not rabid. They're all as mad as spoons, Iblis says."
"Iblis?" frowned Bobby. "As in, the fallen Djinn who rules Jahannam, Islamic Hell?"
"The very same," replied Crowley. "Every time one arrives, demanding virgins, he has to explain it all over again. Some of them get quite agitated about it, and can be very rude to the ifrits. Orgle helped them to put an info-pack together, he's very good with that sort of thing, so now when some moron blows himself up and arrives, they sit him in front of a computer to do some self-paced online learning. Although using the mouse can be a bit of a struggle if your arms have been blown off. Iblis says it's done wonders for his stress levels."
Bobby gave him a level stare. "What is this, you do professional networking now?"
"It's more like an informal peer support program," Crowley explained. "Sometimes, it's a relief just to be able to talk to somebody who has to deal with the same issues, day in day out. Our fiends and their ifrits had a friendly football match a few months ago, if the amount of blood on the field was anything to go by, everybody had a wonderful time."
"Well, that's somethin' you won't get taught at Sunday school," decided Bobby, as philosophical as ever.
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Dean sat on the porch, idly stroking Jimi's ears, wrapped up in his own thoughts, when a bottle of beer bumped against his arm.
"I'm not gonna say penny for 'em," Sam said, sitting next to his brother, "Because I know what sort of crap you're thinking."
"I was a demon, Sam," Dean said in a desolate tone, "I was a demon."
"Yep," agreed Sam, "You was a demon. Was. As in, past tense, as in, not anymore."
"I'm supposed to be dead," his big brother stated woodenly.
"You too, huh?" commented Sam.
"This aint a joke, Sam!" snapped Dean, "I was a demon! I did demon things! I possessed people, Sam! I possessed you! I – was – a – demon! What?" He glared at Sam, who had started to laugh. "What?"
"You might've been a demon, bro, but you were still you," Sam chuckled. "You were like Dean Winchester Plus - just add some telekinesis, subtract some angst, and stir briskly."
Dean didn't seem convinced. "The worst bit," he said quietly, "The worst bit was… Sam, I liked it." He took a long drink. "I liked it. I liked being a demon. I was… happy."
"Yeah, I think you were," agreed Sam.
"How can you stand to look at me?" demanded Dean, "How the fuck am I supposed to stand lookin' at myself?"
"Because, you jerk, you chose to be undemonified!" Sam snapped, clearly losing patience with his brother. "Despite what you were, despite being happy, you chose to undo it, you chose to take back all that stupid guilt, and ridiculous self-loathing, and delusions of inadequacy, and all that angst that you've been carrying around for…"
"Delusions of inadequacy?" interrupted Dean, "What the fuck?"
"You got 'em," shrugged Sam. "Other people get delusions of grandeur. But you, noooooo, you gotta be different. You get delusions of inadequacy. Since you were a kid, you've spent your entire life thinking that you weren't good enough, would never be good enough." He nudged his brother's arm. "You were wrong then. And you're wrong now."
"You mean that?" asked Dean in a small voice.
"Totally," Sam grinned, taking another drink. "You're an awesome big brother. Always have been. Always will be." He paused. "Don't ask for it in writing, though."
Dean managed a small smile. "Thanks, Sammy."
"Your table manners still suck, you know that."
"I just enjoy my food, Sam," Dean replied, "I wouldn't expect a vegiesaurus like you to understand."
"I put a tray of fries in the oven," Sam told him, "So you could eat them with as much salt and ketchup as you like."
"Yeah? Awesome!" Dean stood up, managing his first genuine smile since he'd been dedemonified, and sniffing deeply. "Ohhhhh, yeah," he hummed happily, "Smell dat cholesterol, smell dat carb, smell dat gluten, it's all good! Whaddya say, J-Man, let's go check out what Samantha's cookin' for us?" Beside him, Jimi whuffed happily. "Great! Hey, Sam."
Sam turned back. "Yeah?"
"You're kind of an awesome brother too."
The hug was brief, and very manly, and if anybody asked about it Dean would've denied it.
But it happened.
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"Ohhhhhh, these are so goooood," moaned Dean, shoving more ketchup-covered fries into his mouth. "Have some more Sammy!"
"I tried them already," Sam rolled his eyes, marvelling at the restorative power that junk food could have on his big brother. "I can only taste salt and ketchup."
"I should probably be grateful that I didn't encounter his appetite for fried food," grumbled Crowley, "It would probably have taken the form of a Roomba the size of the Seattle Space Needle's disc."
"Well, it looks like he's back to his old self," Bobby chuckled. "Now, we just gotta figure out what to do with that damned Blade."
"We can't smash it, or break it," Dean noted, "If it was possible, Cain would already have done it."
"Drop it in a volcano, maybe?" wondered Bobby. "It's been a while since I went to Hawaii."
"You need to get lei-ed, Bobby," grinned Dean.
"Don't be a smartass, boy."
"Here today, gone to Maui?"
Bobby slapped him upside the head.
"Won't destroy it anyway," Dean pointed out, "Might lose it for a while, but, well, the frigging thing will just turn up again, sooner or later."
"Nothing on Earth can destroy it," Crowley ventured, "It's essentially demonic in nature, so Hell is the logical place to destroy it. Look, why don't you let me take it, and I can toss it into the Lake of Fire, and… yes, all right, forget I said anything," he subsided as Bobby gave him a glare that would've melted glass.
"Maybe we should ask Cas for help," suggested Sam, "He's got a whole lot more occult mojo than we could ever muster."
"Could be worth a shot," nodded Bobby, "If need be, he could haul in big brother Gabriel for a second opinion."
"Sounds like a plan," agreed Dean, "So, while you guys ask Cas for help, I will continue my recovery via delicious fried food, mmmmmm. Hey, I bet Jimi would like these." He looked around. "Jimi! Hey, J-Man? Where is he?"
Sam looked around too. "Usually, when anybody's eating, he's hanging around and hoping somebody drops an atom of food that he can snuffle up," he noted.
"Whatever he's found that he thinks is more interestin' than fries, it must be pretty damned interestin'," chortled Bobby, "That dog would eat anythin' that holds still for long enough…"
"Oh, no," groaned Sam, "Let's hope he hasn't gone out to snack on dead squirrel again, that was gross…"
There was a decided crunch noise from Bobby's study…
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"It's amazing, really," Sam cocked his head, "It's like watching a mincer."
"Well, he did teethe on old tyres," Bobby pointed out, "And Janis does love her a nice beef shin. Leaves nothing behind."
They stood and watched as Jimi and Janis companionably chewed on either end of the First Blade. Occasionally they'd hit a particularly tough spot, and one or the other would briefly extrude their Hellteeth, chomp on the resistant piece, then go back to efficiently turning demonic weapon into lunch.
"It must be the nose for evil shit," Dean grinned, "Wouldn't be the first time Jimi's disposed of an occult artefact by eatin' it." Jimi paused to look up, red crackles briefly arcing across his eyes. He gave Dean a doggy grin, burped, then went back to chomping up the Blade with his sister.
"It's something of a shame, really," sighed Crowley, "The things I might've achieved with that knife, the demons I might've stabbed, the havoc I might've wreaked."
"Well, you'll just have to go back to doin' it the old-fashioned way, with treachery, lies and deceit," gruffed Bobby, completely unsympathetic. "So, my boy's himself again, the Blade is bein' disposed of as we speak, I suggest that you get yourself off my property, Your Majesty."
"But Bobby," wheedled Crowley, "We've still got this bottle of marvellous brandy to finish, and I can always go and get us another one…"
"I'm afraid I'm gonna be busy," Bobby told him. "Workin' on the latest version of my Anti-Demon ammo."
Crowley's eyes bugged.
"You know how the Mark V rounds had sanctivied dog crap in 'em?" Bobby related eagerly, "Well, it occurs to me that dog crap derived from a demonic weapon bein' purified by bein' eaten by a half-Hellhound might have some pretty damned interestin' occult properties, so what I'm proposin' to do, as soon as nature takes its gastrointestinal course, is…"
With a brief shriek, Crowley disappeared.
"He's got such a man-crush on you," sniggered Dean.
"All the more reason to keep workin' on my Anti-Demon rounds," intoned Bobby. "I mean it. You can wipe that smile off your face, mister, because you are taking the first shift on pooper scooper detail."
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Two days later, while researching their next possible job, Sam heard a twang of strings, and headed for the living room. His big brother looked up from the guitar, and grinned happily.
"What, so the guitar thing stayed?" asked Sam.
"Looks like it," said Dean, playing another chord. His face clouded. "Maybe I should try to get these back," he murmured, looking longingly at the guitars he'd purloined, "I mean, I stole 'em while I was a demon."
Sam thought about that, and looked at his brother's worried face. "Nah," he replied, "It's probably better to leave well enough alone. Let those guys think they were just havin' nightmares – let it go at that." When he saw the happy look on his brother's face, he couldn't help but smile himself, and thought that if a couple of guitars was all it took to make his big brother happy, he'd just shoot anybody who tried to take them away. "Anyway, your new talent might even be useful – next time we run low on cash, we can put you on a street corner, and you can busk us back to solvency." He paused. "Just so long as you don't try to sing."
"Bitch."
"Well, it's true, keep your mouth shut, and you'll make money. Or I guess we could make a sign saying that for donations, you'll refrain from singing."
"Well then, you can be my trained monkey," beamed Dean, "We'll get you a collar, and a little hat, and you can hold the sign, and you can caper around with a cup for donations and go 'Ook ook eek eek' and pick fleas off yourself."
"Dean, that was organ grinders who had the trained monkeys. I am not gonna be your trained monkey."
"Hey, it's not like I'm asking you to hurl your own dung, or anything. Although there's probably a market for that too, with a very select clientele…"
"Jerk."
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Cain finished moving the last hive to a more sheltered spot, where the bees would be able to thrive without intervention. "I have to tell you, I wasn't expecting you."
"I wasn't expecting to be here either," Castiel replied. "Unexpected things seem to be a regular part of my job, these days."
Cain laughed as he pulled off his hat and veil. "It's those Winchesters, isn't it?" he chuckled. "They really are… unexpected."
"I believe they may be a… contributing factor." Castiel frowned and cocked his head. "Are you certain that this is what you want?"
"I've had a long time to consider the matter," Cain chortled. "The answer was 'yes' a long time ago."
"Very well." There was a flash of silver as Castiel's angel blade dropped into his hand. "Your wife will be pleased – she is waiting for you."
"Best not keep her waiting," Cain smiled, "I speak from personal experience."
The blade flashed once.
THE END
Wait… wait… wait for it…
SQUELCH
Aaaaaand with a very squishy, very squashy squelch, we say goodbye to Fergus the plot bunny as he gets finally stomped, which is the fate of all plot bunnies eventually. It may take time, but eventually we render them flat and harmless. So, I wonder if Fergus has a last bit to dictate? What could it be? A visit from the van? Or something else on HELL-TV? What do The Denizens think? Send lovely reviews to pile on Fergus's little coffin at the funeral, then we can get out the Ouija board.