Oh, we has been whacked most heavily by the Annoyingly Solid Parsnip Of Real Life, here at Chez Lampito: werk has been a horror, and our Greyhound got mauled at a dog park, poor pup. But I know what Teh Denizens want (Teh Denizens: they has teh pushy), and they won't be happy until they get the story finished off with a nice long juicy…

SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE!

Deleted scene from the end of 'The Streaker's Defence'

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"Hey, Sammy, thought I'd have a look at HELL-TV, see if I could find a reality where I got chased through a really luxurious hotel by a whole bunch of strippers!"

"What? What reality? In what reality could you possibly be chased by a whole bunch of strippers?"

"An alternative reality, you know, one that never actually happened. Sadly."

"Oh, God, we've had this talk before Dean: there's porn, then there's reality. Porn, then reality. Porn, then reality. Completely separate. In no reality would you ever get chased by strippers – anyway, you would be the one doing the chasing."

"The Living Sex God does not have to chase women, Sam, they chase him."

"You have a one track mind, Dean."

"Two track, Sam, two track. I think about food a lot, too. Speaking of which, pass the popcorn…"

*click*

Lydia was scanning a spreadsheet when the phone buzzed. "Mr Winchester's lair," she answered, completely straight-faced, "This is Lydia, how can I help you?"

"It's just me, Lydia," Sam's familiar voice sounded in her headset.

"Sam!" she smiled, genuinely pleased to hear him. She liked Sam. Well, she liked Dean, too, and Bobby, and especially the dogs, but Sam was the one who had given her the job as Dean's PA after deciding he needed one.

She'd been desperate for a worthwhile job at the time; when her deadbeat husband had cleaned out the joint account and taken off with the bartender at his favourite haunt, he'd left her with a mortgage, two kids and a car that threatened to fall apart every time she started it. She had worked a succession of badly paid dead-end jobs to keep herself and her kids afloat, never quite able to find better employment until her kids had pointed out that the man who'd caused such a stir when he'd publicly identified himself as a Knight of Hell had advertised for a PA. Apparently, not many people wanted to apply for the job of PA To The Man Who'd Identified Himself As A Demon On Earth, but she'd been desperate, and apparently her CV ("I've spent my adult life organising and picking up after a man and two children who seem to think that their own arms are painted on") and an interview in which she had taken Dean to task over his eating habits had convinced Sam that a pleasantly plump middle-aged divorcée who wasn't going to take any shit from an ex-husband or her children was just the person to wrangle his brother. As it had turned out, there wasn't much that scared Dean Winchester, but he took care not to rouse the ire of his PA.

"I'm home," Sam went on, "But there's something over the door, I can just smell it."

"Hang on, I'll come down and look," she rang off, took off her headset, and made for the door.

It was a large, sprawling place, not far from Singer Salvage, but far enough that the religious whackos, paranoid survivalists and fangirls couldn't inconvenience Bobby if he wasn't of a mind to be inconvenienced. Sure enough, perched in the shadow above the security door, a bucket balanced precariously on the sill. With a sigh, Lydia fetched a broom and carefully hooked it down, then let Sam in.

"Oh, not again," she wrinkled her nose.

"Demon blood," groaned Sam, putting down his suitcase, "Seriously, you'd think that becoming demonified would have helped with his imagination, but no, my luck's not that good. So, how's life wrangling the world's newest power figure?"

"Well, I'm glad you're back," she said honestly, "He's been… teasing those televangelists again."

"Oh no," Sam sighed, "What did he do this time?"

"Well, you know that guy in the loud suit who keeps on telling his tele-flock that Dean is the Antichrist?" she said.

"They all wear loud suits," Sam pointed out, "And they all say he's the Antichrist. I wish they wouldn't. He's just a demon, for fuck's sake, it's not like his ego needs to get any bigger. Seriously, he's not the anti-Messiah, he's just a naughty boy."

"Well, one of them was preaching a sermon on the evils of letting children go to Halloween parties, because they're pagan rituals," Lydia related, "And Dean kept popping in and out of the set, wearing a sheet over his head, running around going 'Woo-woo!' and generally being disruptive."

"That's kinda tame, for Dean," Sam commiserated.

"Then he announced that anybody under the age of sixty who comes trick-or-treating to our door will be given a kilogram of candy or a double bacon cheeseburger," she told him. "I've been flat out organising the catering and crowd control ever since." She gave him a long-suffering look. "And he wants a Halloween bouncy castle again this year."

"What?" yelped Sam. "No! No! Absolutely not! Where is he?" He dropped his suitcase, and went striding off through the house, yelling for his brother.

Dean was in the large living room that he used for most of his activities as Demon Knight Manifest On Earth. When he saw his brother, he jumped up and smiled. "Sammy!" he yelled, grabbing his brother in a hug, "You're back!" He let go of his brother, and looked at Lydia. "She told me off," he said in a sad voice, "She's really mean when you're not here."

"You cut holes in the linen, Dean," Lydia frowned at him, "You could've found an old sheet to make your Let's-Go-Tease-The-Televangenist costume. And the bucket-over-the-door thing? You pull a stunt like that again, young man, and I will soak you in holy water and use you to mop it up!" Dean winced.

"What's this about a Halloween bouncy castle?" demanded Sam without preamble.

Dean threw an accusing look at Lydia. She just cocked an eyebrow at him. "Well, it was such fun last year, I thought it would be awesome to do it again this year," Dean said, a touch defensively.

"There will be no repeat of last year's Halloween bouncy castle, Dean," growled Sam.

"But Saaaaam," Dean practically whined, "Why not? It was fun, nobody got hurt or anything…"

"On the Whitehouse lawn, Dean!" Sam snapped, "You put your bouncy castle on the Whitehouse lawn!"

"It was nice and flat," shrugged Dean.

"Without asking, Dean, that makes it trespassing!"

"It's supposed to be the house of the people, right?" Dean protested. "It was good clean fun!"

"You took strippers with you," recalled Sam.

"Well, it was a big bouncy castle," Dean defended himself, "I wanted somebody to bounce with me. Bouncy people for bouncing, it made sense."

"You were naked, Dean!" yapped Sam. "Nobody wants to see naked bouncy castle antics on the Whitehouse lawn!"

"The First Guy was takin' pictures, you know," Dean grinned infuriatingly. "He'd have come out to join in, if the Prez had let him. And anyway, if nobody wants to see that, then why were all those media helicopters buzzin' around?" he asked.

"His title is 'First Gentleman', Dean," Sam dropped heavily to a sofa with a groan.

"Do I hear the dulcet tones of the returnin' idjit?" asked Bobby, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of coffee.

"Hey, let me get you a beer," Dean chirped to his brother, cheerful once again, "You're probably just jet-lagged. So, how was the Vatican library?"

Sam looked up and smiled. "It was amazing," he said. "They got manuscripts that even the most expert scholars thought were lost. You should go, Bobby. Or maybe not, we might never get you back out again."

"Dunno if I could ever go there without experiencin' debilitatin' flashbacks to catechism classes," Bobby shuddered. "All them nuns and priests, it'd be enough to give a body nightmares."

"They got books that nobody even knows about," Sam told him. "Oh, His Holiness says hi," he added to Dean when his big brother reappeared with beer, "Wants me to thank you for your help."

"Well, nothin' inspires asses on pews like a demon manifesting overtly on Earth," grinned Dean. "I'm happy to help. They still all prayin' for me to get smited? Smited? Is that past tense of smite? Smited? Smote? Smoten? Smitten? Smat? Could you look that up for me, Lydia?"

"The participle is 'smitten'," Lydia informed him, handing over a clipboard, at which he groaned. "Don't give me that, this is your correspondence for today. Sooner you start, the sooner you finish."

"Oh, don't be like thaaaaat," Dean wheedled, standing behind Lydia and hugging her, "Can't we just put this off for today? I don't feel well. My tummy hurts."

"Don't make it any worse," she told him, "If I have to nag you, you'll just get a headache too."

"Do you do this to your kids too?" he whined.

"Absolutely," she stated. "And let me tell you, after bringing up two kids on my own, getting a Knight of Hell organised is an absolute walk in the park. So, get on it, mister."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, sitting down with the sheaf of papers. "Explain to me again why I need a PA?" he asked his brother.

"Because," Bobby growled, "You don't think things through before you do them, and you need somebody to organise your sorry ass and clear up the chaos you leave behind you."

"You're never goin' to let me forget that thing with the ISIS dudes, are you?" grumbled Dean.

"No," stated Sam firmly. "For a start, you nearly started a demarcation dispute: dealing with them is the prerogative of Iblis, you know that."

"Well, nobody else was havin' any luck stopping them," griped Dean, "They were massacring people, Sam! They were cuttin' people's heads off!"

"For which they should be brought to justice," Sam agreed.

"Well, it was. Kind of," Dean mumbled.

"Dean, the whole point of claiming the moral high ground is to behave in a more civilised fashion than those you accuse of atrocity!" Sam threw his hands in the air. "Rounding them up, pulling their arms off, then dousing them in itching powder did NOT constitute taking the moral high ground!"

"Sam, hello? Knight of Hell here, remember?" Dean reminded him brightly. "Anyway, they didn't send me pigmeat tribute."

"They're Muslims, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, "Of COURSE they didn't send bacon! Not only have they decided that you are a demon made manifest…"

"But I am a demon made manifest!" protested Dean.

"…Pigs are unclean for them!"

"Well, they could've sent lamb instead, like everybody else from the Middle East. Or halva. That stuff is good. We better hope Crowley never finds out about that stuff, it'd be perfect ammo for all sorts o' temptations."

"One day you'll get yourself Hunted," grumbled Sam.

"Not before I do my correspondence," sighed Dean gloomily, "Lydia won't let anybody get close enough before then, will you?"

"Damn straight," she said. "After that, you're on your own."

Dean started to flick through the papers on the clipboard. "What we got here, Lydia?"

"Item, letter from the President," Lydia replied, "The gist of it is, if you pull your Halloween bouncy castle thing again this year, the full force of the military of the United States of America will be brought to bear against you." She paused. "The actual language was a bit more colourful."

Dean's eyebrows raised as he read what the nation's leader had actually written. "Wow," he breathed, "She's scary… 'With a rusty blunt razor blade'? 'A dead skunk rolled in broken glass'? And she'll shove it up my… okay, maybe a new location for the bouncy castle this year." He looked up. "Are you related to the Prez? It would explain a lot."

"Next, another request regarding Vladimir Putin…"

"He's not possessed," Dean interrupted, frowning at the letter, "I've checked."

"It's not about that, keep reading," Lydia cut him off, "It's from a delegation of Eastern European countries. They want him to stop taking his shirt off in public. It's embarrassing."

"Maybe I'll pop over and have a word with him," Dean decided. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with losing hotness as you get old. It's perfectly normal. Well, for any guy except me. Anyway, the look on his face when I just appeared like that, and he had his goons try to shoot me, priceless!"

"Another rather strongly worded communiqué from the Democratic People's Republic of Korea…"

"Ooh, ooh, hang on, I know this one," Dean waved a hand and frowned in thought, "They call themselves democratic, but they're not, right, so that's… North Korea!"

"Well done," smiled Lydia. "Now, apparently their Supreme Commander is…"

"The fat dude in charge, yeah?" asked Dean.

"Yes, Dean, the fat dude in charge," she sighed, "He's kind of pissed about you turning up at that military parade."

"Heh heh, have you got any idea how many of those assholes shot each other tryin' to kill me?" chortled Dean.

"Well, your determination to re-enact Cher's 'Turn Back Time' video on one of their missile launchers annoyed them," Sam pointed out. "Although not quite as much as your spanking their Supreme Commander in front of everybody like that."

"It wasn't spanking, it was fat-shaming," shrugged Dean. "He's an asshole. An obese asshole, who's obese because he starves just about everybody else in his country. He deserved it."

"Look, Dean, you're heart, what's left of it, is in the right place," Sam began, "But you cannot single-handedly deal with every asshole on the planet!"

"Maybe not," Dean smiled with infuriating cheerfulness, "But I can have a lot of fun startin' at the top of the food chain with the biggest ones."

"There's one from Garth, too," Lydia continued. Dean flipped the paper, suddenly serious. "There's another group of demons congregating."

"Speaking of assholes," muttered Dean.

"It was gonna happen," Bobby opined, "Sooner or later, they were gonna figure out that they might find safety in numbers against you. There's a limit to how many even you can take on, even with Sam as your wingman."

"I been workin' on that," Dean told him smugly, turning back to Lydia. "Is she ready?"

"She's upstairs," Lydia replied, "But I don't think she's completely… happy."

"Course she isn't," chuckled Bobby, "Wouldn't be her if she wasn't cranky. Why don't you go and see how she's managing?"

Sam regarded his brother suspiciously. "What are you up to?"

"Delegation, Sam, delegation!" Dean beamed. "Aren't you always tellin' me that I can't tackle all the assholes by myself?"

He heard feet coming down the stairs, and Andrew sauntered into the room. "Sam!" he enthused, extending a hand, "How was Rome?"

"The coffee and the manuscripts were amazing," Sam replied. "And the art, it's impossible to describe – pictures just can't do it justice…"

"Figures," sighed Dean, "He goes to Rome, and doesn't look at the women. You need to get laid, Sam. Where is she?"

Andrew pulled a sheepish face. "I think she's gone… shy."

"Shy?" Dean looked confused. "Shy? Did you just suggest that Ronnie's… shy?"

"Well, she's spent her entire life trying to stay off the radar," Andrew pointed out, "And now you want her to break cover in a pretty spectacular way."

"It's just another way of doin' what she's always done," Dean waved a hand, "Come on out Ronnie!"

A grumpy voice drifted to them from the hallway beyond. "I feel silly."

"Crap," humphed Dean, "Come on in here."

Hesitantly, with Lydia for moral support, Ronnie entered the room, giving her bustier a final hitch. "Isn't this a bit… revealing?" she asked. "And I'd rather leave my hair in the braid – it's going to get hopelessly tangled like this."

"What the hell?" asked Sam, bewildered.

Dean turned to him. "Look, you're always on at me to delegate to other Hunters, right?" he explained. "Can't be in two places at once. There'll always be more demons, no matter how many I kill. So, I figured, why not call in the Infernal Pack?"

Sam gawped at his brother, then at Ronnie, then back again. "Are you suggesting…"

"I'm appointing a Dominicana on Earth," grinned Dean. "I can do that. I'm a Knight of Hell. Well, I'm the Knight of Hell. It's only a part time position, anyway."

"I'm really not sure about the 'uniform'," Ronnie commented.

"I don't mind," Andrew commented.

"Come on, this sort of thing is all about appearances," Dean wheedled. "You have to look the part. And you look totally hot, and totally intimidating."

"Totally hot," grinned Andrew.

"You think?" Ronnie asked, smiling ever so slightly.

"Absolutely!" chirped Dean. "What's the point of havin' all those tatts and muscles if you don't use 'em to intimidate people? Haven't you watched the Twilight films?"

"No," she snapped, "And I have no desire to look that ridiculous! What if people start comparing me to a llama or something? I'll just die if somebody sees me, and puts pictures of me next to a llama all over the internet!"

Dean stood behind her and put his chin on her shoulder. "They won't," he grinned, "Because you're a proper werewolf, and you're properly scary. Anyway, you'll be scaring demons, not civilians. Pleeeeeease?" he put on his most pleading expression. "Go and wipe out some demons for me, pleeeeeease?"

She smiled at him. "Well, I do kind of like the boots," she admitted. "You really think I look hot?"

"I'd do you," he leered, "Well, if I wanted to get my meatsuit shredded by your mate."

Bobby shook his head. "Have you noticed how much better they get along since Dean's been demonified?" he muttered to Sam.

"I suppose they're a couple of abominations finding common ground," sighed Sam. "It's definitely better than them throwing things at each other."

Ronnie looked down at herself, and sighed. "All right then, I'll give it a try, and see how it goes." She prodded at the bustier again. "But at the first sign of slippage, I reserve the right to deploy the Hollywood tape."

"That's the spirit!" Deam encouraged, giving her a hug, "Now, let's see some fang action."

Ronnie let her upper canines slide out over her lower lip.

"Yeah," nodded Dean, "Now, do the smile thing… oh, yeah, you're scarin' me, those demons will totally shit themselves." He let out a loud piercing whistle, and Jimi Junior began to bark with excitement as the distant sound of galumphing feet heralded the arrival of a contingent of the Infernal Pack.

The room was suddenly filled with a swirling mass of Hellhounds in physical form, milling around Dean and barking in excitement. Lydia noted with resignation that the one the size of a horse had shown up again, and made a mental note to get out the vacuum and clean up the sulphur deposits later.

"Hey, guys!" Dean patted the gnarled, misshapen heads that butted at him for attention, "I want you to meet somebody, this is Ronnie. Ronnie, this is Chevy, the Alpha dog of the Infernal Pack."

Entranced, Ronnie stretched out a hand to the huge creature, which sniffed at her, then wagged his tail. "He's… wonderful," she smiled, reaching up to stroke his neck, "Hello, Chevy! Hello! Aren't you a big boy! Look! Look!" The massive monster leaned down to sniff noses with Ronnie's dog. "It's your Auntie Joni!

Chevy wagged his tail harder, and Lydia deftly caught the lamp he knocked off a side table.

"Now, how would you guys like to go Hunting with Ronnie?" asked Dean. Several of the Hellhounds pushed forward to nose at her, rumbling their enthusiasm as she laughed and ruffled their ears. "Yeah, they're goin' for it. So, these assholes are doin' their demon schemin' at…"

"Oi!" an irate voice broke through the throng. "What the blazes do you think you're doing, Winchester?"

"Crowley!" Dean beamed at the King of Hell, who shot back what came perilously close to a Sam Winchester Trademarked Bitchface™. "Hey, Your Maj, how's tricks?"

"I'll tell you how tricks is," growled Crowley, pushing the muzzle of a Hellhound away, "Aaaaargh! Stop that! Somebody has summoned away the Alpha of the Infernal Pack, and a dozen of his closest relatives! Stop it! I said stop it! Stop tasting me, you wretched creature!"

"Yeah, I got a job for 'em," Dean waved a hand casually, "Got a pack of your black-eyed assholes scheming Topside, so I'm gonna send these guys to drag 'em back Downstairs."

Crowley brightened. "Does this mean you've rethought taking the post of Dominican?" he asked cheerfully. "Mate, you don't know how glad I am to hear that…"

"Nope," Dean grinned, "I got my own Topside Hellhound wrangler." He indicated Ronnie, who let her fangs slide out again, and gave Crowley a little wave. He let out a small shriek.

"What? What?" Crowley whatted in agitation, "You can't do that!"

"Pretty sure I can," Dean beamed, "I think she'll be great at it."

"Whose idea was that outfit?" Crowley sniffed, "She looks like the lovechild of Mad Max and Frank N. Furter!"

Andrew snarled, and burst into his wolf form, lashing out a Crowley, who let out a little scream and jumped backwards as claws like sharpened gardening forks swished through the air.

"Bullshit," Dean said casually as Crowley dodged a blow intended to take his head off, "She looks totally hot, real dominatrix-biker chick hot." He grinned at her. "You can put me on a leash anytime, you know," he purred.

"Oh, you," chortled Ronnie, slapping him on the arm.

"Yeeeeep!" went the King of Hell, "Winchester, call your dog off!"

"He aint mine to call off," Dean grinned even harder, as Andrew growled, "I think you should apologise."

"Apologise to that?" Crowley sniffed disdainfully, jumping backwards again and only just dodging a disembowelling strike. "Hey, watch the suit, you oik, this is Italian silk blend… oh, look what you've done to my tie!"

"It could be worse," Bobby shrugged, "He could be assailin' you with his Latin." The gigantic werewolf glared at him reproachfully. "I'm just sayin'," Bobby went on, "Your declensions could use some work, I know they're tough, but you gotta get your subjects and objects sorted out…"

"Mr Crowley," Lydia cut in, "Perhaps on this occasion, you should let well enough alone. We don't want a repeat of The Unfortunate Incident With The Trousers."

"I dunno," mused Sam, "I thought it was kinda funny."

Crowley glared at them all. "I am the King of Hell," he announced snippily, "And you owe me some respect."

"I am the Knight of Hell," Dean gave him a predatory smile, "And it was your idea to put the Blade back in my hand."

"Yeah, this is technically all your fault, Crowley," Sam reminded him.

"Et tu, Moose," sighed His Infernal Majesty. "Well, don't be too long, we can't have the population Downstairs thinking that the Infernal Pack is under the control of somebody else."

"I'll send them all home when we're done," Ronnie smiled sweetly, "And anyway, they'll always come home when they get hungry." She cocked her head. "And you do look quite well marbled, don't you?"

With another little shriek, Crowley disappeared.

Ronnie looked up at her mate. "My hero," she smiled, "Come on, you can shift back now."

The embarrassed rumbling suggested that Andrew was stuck again.

"Never mind, Mr Jaeger," Lydia reassured him, "We have plenty of beer in the cold room…"

"Hey, why don't you go with her?" suggested Dean, "You look totally scary, dude, you can tag along and stand behind her and glare at everybody, and maybe carve up some demons!"

Ronnie smiled brightly. "What do you say, dear?" she asked.

"The couple that slays together stays together," intoned Dean.

The seven-foot-plus monster managed a recognisable chuckle.

"All right then," Ronnie announced, "We should probably get on with it. Although," she sounded doubtful, "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to get all these guys in the truck, plus himself…"

"No problem!" beamed Dean, "Just hang onto Chevy, and let him take care of the transport."

Ronnie put her arms around the Hellhound's neck, and he turned to lick her face. "Okay then, fella," she gruffed to him, as Andrew stood on the other side of the creature, "Let's go drag some demons back to Hell." Chevy wagged his tail, and woofed excitedly. "Ready? Okay, aaaaaaand…. Fetch!"

With a swirl of dark vapour trails, the Infernal Pack, the Dominicana-On-Earth, her Consort, and Joni disappeared.

Lydia looked down at the floor. "I"ll just get the vacuum," she sighed, "Before the sulphur gets tramped into the rug."

There was a loud honk from outside; Dean moved to the window, and smiled hugely. "Oh, hey, it's here!"

"What's here?" asked Sam.

"Das Bus!" Dean chirped happily, "Come on, get upstairs and get into your swim shorts, they've upgraded the custard tub to a spa, and…"

With a small shriek, Sam threw open the window and jumped out.

"I don't know why he bothers," sighed Bobby, "Them crazy wimmen always catch him." He adjusted his hat. "I'd better go see The Driver," he went on, "The suspension's been givin' him trouble, I said I'd give him a hand."

Lydia deftly threw him a garland of Brussels sprouts. "Just in case," she told him, "You never know if that fickriter might be around."

"Thanks, Lydia," he chuckled, settling the brassica necklace into place.

"Tell 'em I'll be out in a minute!" Dean's voice drifted down the stairs.

A shriek from outside suggested that the Denizens had caught Sam.

With a Tarzan-like yodel, Dean came thundering down the stairs, wearing his swim shorts and an inflatable pool ring around his midriff, and headed outside.

Through the window, Lydia could see Das Bus begin to rock, and hear the giggling, cheering and screaming. Bobby was deep in conversation with a guy wearing a shirt reading DO NOT TOUCH THE DRIVER. After a few minutes, the fickriter came wandering along, seemingly confused by the brassicas that Bobby wore; Jimi grabbed up a bedraggled toy and lured her away from Bobby for a game of Fetch, because he was a Hunter's dog, and a Hunter's dog's job is to protect his people from ghastly monsters, and he thought of Bobby as being one of his people.

Shaking her head in bemusement, she closed the window, and went to find the vacuum cleaner.

*click*

"Aaaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaargh! What is it with them?"

"You freak! You went willingly! You encouraged them!"

"Demonified me did that, Sam! Oh, God, thank fuck you convinced me to undemonify."

Huh, you seemed to be enjoying the idea…"

"Only because I was a demon! Is there no reality in which we can escape?"

"What are you idjits hollein' about? Oho, HELL-TV! What's on?"

"The most hideous, awful, disturbing and evil alternative reality."

"What, where Dean was still a demon?"

"That was the least of it…"

"Well, you idjits can both shut the hell up, you'll be scarin' people."

"What people?"

"The people outside. There's a bus broken down just up the road, and I'm gonna…"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Bobby watched the Winchesters sprint for the stairs, and heard them lock themselves in their room.

"Idjits," he muttered, heading for the shed to fetch his toolbox to see if he could help get the commuters back underway.

FIN

Well that's the last we'll hear from Fergus the plot bunny, we shall leave him to rest in peace – or in pieces, I think, as he was so thoroughly stomped – while we wait for Imogen-Bubba to finish dictating 'On Yer Bike'. I suspect that actual canon Deanmon is not going to be nearly as amusing, come the start of Season 10 (which we won't be getting Down Here, but I'm sure that I'll be able to keep up with the gist of it). I suggest you all prepare to get kicked right in the feels.

After that, we'll just have to wait for another plot bunny to come along, since the pen is empty at the moment. However, I just know *insert resigned sigh here* that sooner or later one will pop up, or one of Teh Denizens will fit yet one more of the wretched creatures with a lifejacket and an outboard motor and send it Down Here, or deploy it via UAV. Until then, reviews attract plot bunnies!