Carhenge Apocalypse
Title: Carhenge Apocalypse
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, Sam, Death, Crowley
Warnings: Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.
Word Count: 6,400
Summary: Enter Crowley, stage left.
Notes: Carhenge is a real place, but it’s not limited to Chevys. This story is the sequel to Clowntime is Over and Spoon and takes place in the same universe as Generator and Save Rite. I guess I need a masterpost, huh?
“What do you think you're doing, Moose?”
Sam grabbed a towel to dab at his dripping face. “Crowley, what the fuck are you doing in my motel room?” Sam had stepped into the bathroom to wash his face, but glanced up into the mirror to behold the King of Hell peering over his shoulder. “Who do you think you are, anyway? Bloody Mary?”
“Welllll,” the demon told him, singsong voice, “I could have gone next door,” he explained, pointing in the general direction of Dean and Cas's room, “but I'm afraid it's rather ugly in there at present.” He made an exaggerated shudder.
Sam held up a hand. “No details.”
“What does that mentally-damaged angel see in your brother? No offense.”
“None taken.”
“It's not as if I didn't offer him my most sincere affection. What could I have done wrong?”
“And why am I suddenly Mr. Lonely Hearts?” sighed Sam. “It's not as if I currently have a love life.”
“Ah, yes. You and that vituperative animal doctor. Did you want me to smite her husband for you?”
“No!”
“Just a little? Around the edges?”
Sam stalked out of the bathroom, hoping that maybe Crowley was merely a hallucination and wouldn't follow him. Suddenly mental illness seemed a better fate than the company of the King of Hell. But at any rate, he was to be disappointed. “Crowley,” he repeated, with scarce hope of anything resembling a straight answer, “what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come about your ill-considered deal with Death.”
“How the hell do you know about-? Oh, right.”
Crowley strolled around the room, picking up an ashtray. This week's motel had a gambling theme for some reason, so the ashtray had a large picture of cartoon dice in the middle. Evidently, someone had rolled snake eyes. “You should have come to me first. That way you wouldn't have cocked it up.”
“How did we fuck it up?” Sam sat down on the edge of a bed. The bedspread was patterned with playing cards: the four of clubs, repeated over and over and over again.
Crowley crossed his arms and looked smug. “Well, it isn't a deal, is it?”
“It's not one of your deals. No twenty-mile-long contract to sign.
“It's not a deal at all!” Crowley raised an index finger. “And therein lies your problem.”
“What?”
But any reply to Sam's question was interrupted by the door that separated his room from the one next door suddenly flying open and Dean, clad only in boxer briefs and an AC/DC T shirt, appearing in the doorway like the Underwear Avenger. “Freeze, Crowley!” he bellowed, pointing a sawed off shotgun.
“Oh, bother,” tutted Crowley. He snapped his fingers and the shotgun flew from Dean's hands. But at the same time the main room door quietly slipped open to reveal Cas, dressed only in raggedy sweatpants that had the word, “JUICY” printed in script over the ass. He tossed something that looked like a small knit blanket at Crowley. It draped over the demon's head like a net.
Crowley stood in place, fuming and struggling with it. He turned around, a full 360 degrees, but didn't move from the spot where he was standing. “And what the ever living fuck is this?”
“Pull your head through the hole,” Cas told him.
Crowley found the opening in question. He stuck his head through, like pulling on a shirt, and then gripped the garment and stared, regarding the intricate pattern that had been incorporated into the design. “A devil's trap?”
“Devil's trap poncho!” said Dean, who had a big, silly grin on his face. He now also had a proud arm around Cas's shoulders.
“Well. Nice work, I supposed,” Crowley allowed. The stitches were very even.
“Yes, I designed a devil's trap, and executed the design utilizing the human hobby of knitting,” said Cas, utter gravity in his voice. “I have found crafts work to be relaxing.”
“Though it's kinda girlie,” Dean put in, giving Cas's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
Cas scowled. “As I have explained before, I am not a gendered being. Besides which, why should an association with the female sex necessarily be insulting?”
“Aw, it's not an insult. But it is kinda girlie.”
“Crowley,” said Sam, who had gotten a bit fed up. “Tell us: what the hell are you really doing here?”
Crowley spread his hands in supplication. “I am trying to do you chaps a favor, if you will simply allow me! As you'll recall from the previous thrilling episode, thanks to Moose’s ministrations, I am part human now....”
“Seriously, Crowley! You are not trying to make me feel guilty,” pouted Sam, throwing Standard Bitchface number 27E Crowley's way.
“...So I am trying to turn over a new leaf. In that regard, I hope to extricate you from the, er, situation in which you find yourself regarding that old phony, Death.”
“So, you regard me as a 'phony,' Mr. Crowley,” said Death, who was now standing in the room, munching on the Toblerone chocolate from the mini bar. “In what sense do I fail to meet your obviously high standards?”
Crowley didn't reply, but only emitted a small, feminine-sounding shriek and grabbed Sam, pulling the tall hunter to stand between himself and Death.
“By the way, that is a fetching ensemble you are wearing, Mr. Crowley,” said Death.
“Thank you,” said Cas. “I knit it.”
“Ah. I find crafts work to be calming.”
“Your deal with the boys,” said Crowley, peeking out from behind a rather unwilling Sam. “It's no deal at all!”
“I don't recall saying it was,” said Death. He touched a long, pale finger to his chin. “Is anyone else feeling peckish?”
“Well, a little,” Dean admitted, and henceforth he was transported, along with the rest, to a place that smelled of burnt cheese and Lysol. Dean flinched as two laughing children ran by and nearly collided with him. He winced as he felt his brother, sitting beside him on the wood-grained plastic bench, gripping his shoulder right on his angel-print scar. “Sammy, that's gonna leave a bruise.”
“Dean,” said Sam. The younger Winchester looked truly traumatized. Dean glanced around the premises and soon realized why.
“Oh, hey! This is Ratty McRattail's Good Time Pizza N Stuff,” said Dean, recognizing the grinning visage of the rodent mascot immortalized in fiberglass up on a dais above the sticky table at which they were seated. “Dude,” he told his brother, “I thought you were just freaked by clowns?”
“This is close enough!” said Sam, his voice cracking.
“I do apologize for the surroundings,” said Death, who was dabbing at a gooey pool of spilled Dr. Pepper on the table with a silk handkerchief. “And I should warn you, the pizza here is vile....”
“Uh, yeah, Death, pizza or not, I think my brother has been through enough today....”
“But the deep fried mushrooms are, surprisingly enough, exquisite.”
“Look, I gotta think of Sammy- Did you say deep fried mushrooms?” asked Dean, snatching up a menu.
Death looked prim. “Kindly look underneath the 'Snax N Stuff' section.”
“Dean!” protested Sam.
Crowley huffed, rubbing at an unidentifiable stain on the forearm of his suit jacket with a paper napkin dipped in ice water. “So, does nobody care about the deal?”
It was Death's turn to emit a small sigh. “You are crass, aren't you? Please be aware, Mr. Crowley, that you amuse me even less than Lucifer.”
Crowley scowled at Death. “Dean. Tell me now, if you complete this entity's little errands, what will you get in return?”
“What will I get?” asked Dean, who was still distracted by the menu and its promise of deep-fried fungi.
“Quid. Pro. Quo,” said Crowley.
Sam, who was now hyperventilating, grabbed a paper bag puppet off the table and breathed in and out of it repeatedly.
“Uhhh. Death said Cas gets the five cents back on his bottle of grace, and we get NyQuil for Sam's trial-sniffles. Right?” he asked, turning to Death.
But Death ignored Dean. His eyes were boring into Crowley. “So. You find I am untrustworthy now?”
“Where is the contract?” Crowley insisted.
“Contract? I find contracts to be demeaning. To all parties.”
“Wait,” said Sam, crinkling his paper bag puppet. “So, if there was no deal, why are we doing this?”
Death set down his menu, brows knitted together in and immortal sort of annoyance. “You are hunters. So then. Hunt.”
And then, to Sam's relief and Dean's intense annoyance, they were no longer in the restaurant. Instead they were all - save Death, who'd taken another poweder - standing outdoors near somebody's field, alongside the Impala. It was evening. Mosquitos were buzzing, a soft breeze was blowing, and the sun was just sinking over the horizon.
“Hey, I wanted my damn mushrooms!” wailed Dean, rubbing his hungry tummy.
Crowley, who was still with them, shot his cuffs and glared. “That was rather annoying. I haven’t much experience with playing ethical, but I can’t say I much care for it so far.”
“Where the heck are we?” asked Sam.
“Damn!” said Dean. “I'm still in my underpants.” He looked at Cas, who remained clad only in the “juicy” sweatpants.
“I don't mind him like that,” said Crowley, who was standing a little bit too close to the former angel. Dean stepped between them, staring down at Crowley.
“All right, all right. I'll take care of it.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and Dean was suddenly dressed in his flannel hunter finery. Dean looked down, pleased, and then glanced back over his shoulder at Cas.
Cas, who was looking especially perplexed, was dressed, head to six-inch-heels, as a French maid.
Sam clumsily tried to hide a guffaw with a cough.
“Crowley!” barked Dean. “Fix him! Now!”
Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers again. Cas was now dressed in his familiar old suit and trench coat.
“Crowley!” said Dean.
Cas surveyed his ensemble and smiled, touching Dean's shoulder. “But I like this, Dean.”
“Cas,” Dean said softly. “We've talked about this. They can yank on your tie. Or the coat could get caught in something!”
“Who is 'they,' Dean?” asked Cas sensibly.
“What?”
“He's got a point, Dean,” said Sam. “What are we doing here?”
“And I am not a hunter,” said Crowley. “Although I could adopt the attire.” He snapped yet again and emerged in plaid-draped glory. “Now, could someone kindly relieve me of this?” he inquired of the devil's trap poncho.
Dean and Cas looked at each other for a long moment, which was not anything unusual for them. Finally, Dean nodded, and Cas grabbed the poncho off Crowley.
“Now!” said the King of Hell. “To find our task, and accomplish it!”
It was Sam and Dean's turn to share a puzzled glance. “Crowley,” said Sam. “You didn't just zap out of here when we freed you?”
“No of course not. I told you, Moose, I've turned over a new leaf. I am a new man! I will assist you with your quest, out of the goodness of-”
“You are terrified of Death,” said Cas.
“Well. That too,” Crowley admitted.
Cas tilted his head at Crowley. “And your teleportation power is currently not functional.”
“You know, you could be annoying, angel,” Crowley told Cas. “Consider yourself fortunate I have a soft spot for ex-mental cases.”
Sam's expression was one of despair over supernatural bickering. “Can we maybe quit this and figure out where we are? And what we're supposed to do?”
“Oh, hey, I think I got that one!” said Dean, who was suddenly grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, and take a look!”
Cas had popped the Impala's trunk and was tossing the poncho inside. “Death said we were hunting,” Sam pointed out, pulling up the trunk's false bottom to display an array of weaponry. “Should we grab a couplel things first?”
“I doubt we'll need it, but sure,” said Dean, grabbing a 9mm from the trunk and shooing Crowley away.
“I like guns too!” the demon protested.
“Why would you need a gun, Crowley?” asked Sam, who had grabbed a sawed off.
“Thanks, I believe, to your pale friend's meddling, my powers are presently behaving in an unreliable manner.”
“Here. Have a pointed stick,” said Dean, shoving a wooden stake his way. Crowley grimaced, but accepted the stake. Cas stuck a small pistol in his waistband and then grabbed an iron knife.
Then, having extracted sufficient firepower from the car, they headed across the field towards some large obelisks arranged in a rough circle. “This seems … very familiar,” said Cas as they drew near.
Same stared up at the obelisks. “Are those … cars?”
“This is ChevyHenge!” said Dean, who ran ahead to stand in the exact center. “Built by some local lunatic, Bobby Joe Bumper. All of General Motors's finest is here.”
“Wow,” said Sam, who was genuinely impressed. He stood in the center near Dean, taking in the Caprices and Caddys and Skylarks and Vista Cruisers and, yes, Impalas. The heavy vintage cars had been planted in the ground, headlights pointing towards the sky, and some of these in turn served as supporting bases for additional vehicular crossbars.
“I've always wanted to get out here,” said Dean, who seemed lost in an automotive reverie.
“Does anyone else feel that something is not right about this place?” asked Crowley. At which point the ghost appeared before him, and he let out a rather undignified squeal. He didn't even have time to wave his pointed stick at it.
The spirit vanished. “Don't tell me you're spooked by a spook, Crowley?” taunted Sam. The demon glowered at him.
“Crowley is correct, Dean,” said Cas. “I feel we should leave this place.”
“But it's ChevyHenge, Cas!”
“Ow!” said Sam, as another ghost appeared behind him and yanked at his hair.
“Hey! No hair pulling!” Dean barked at it. Cas pulled out his iron knife and the phantom dissipated. “Told you to get it cut,” Dean told Sam, who was rubbing his head.
“They are most definitely more annoying than the mosquitos,” said Crowley, slapping the back of his neck.
“Dean!” yelled Sam, as another ghost appeared just behind Dean, wielding an axe. Before the spirit could behead him, Cas knocked Dean down with a flying tackle. The ghost swung and Sam aimed and fired into his midsection with salt rounds.
The ghost vanished, and Dean scrambled up to a sitting position. “That was not cool!” he groused.
“Dean,” said Sam. “Cas and Crowley are right. Something's definitely off here.”
“Son of a bitch.” Dean got to his feet and irritably shook dust from his jeans.
“Maybe we should go check out the visitor's center, over there,” Sam proposed, pointing at a building in the distance.
“With our luck, that's probably haunted too. Come on!” Dean said, giving Cas a hand up. “And let’s figure out why the hell would ghosts be hanging around ChevyHenge? Everybody, think.”
“Could be, they were killed in car accidents?” Sam proposed.
“That’s a possibility. But the cars all look fine,” said Dean.
“That’s true.”
“Cas?”
“Henges are thought to focus paranormal energy,” said Cas. “Perhaps that was the attraction?”
“But focus it for what, exactly? Crowley,” said Dean. “Theories? What's up with the ghosts?”
“Maybe the parties in question were all just terrific wankers during their former existences.”
“Okay, great, that's really helpful.”
“I'm running thin on patience at the moment. I hadn't penciled in running errands for the Grim Reaper on my day planner.”
“He's pouting, isn't he?” asked Dean, opening the door to the visitor's center. “Kings of Hell shouldn't pout. You should be a good sport.”
“I am the ultimate bad sport!” said Crowley, huffing his way through the door.
They entered the visitor's center and were confronted by racks and racks of commemorative T shirts, mugs, bumper stickers, postcards and the like.
There was a small, dark-haired woman folding the T shirts. “Hey, can you help us, ma'am?” Sam asked.
The woman turned around. “Sure thing, honey. And you can call me Beth.”
Dean, Cas and Sam all looked at one another. She was a ringer for the lady named Beth who worked selling tourist trinkets in the small town on the Olympic Peninsula they'd just visited. Washington Beth had been the one who tipped them off about the hazardous dam.
“Uh,” said Dean. “Beth. You don't happen to have a sister, or a cousin, or a close relative over in Washington state?”
“Nope. I'm Nebraska born and bred.”
Dean continued staring. “Well, anyway, we just arrived here at ChevyHenge-”
“Is that your Impala out back?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Good car, the Impala. Bobby Joe would approve.”
“Well, thanks. Anyway, we wanted to know if anybody had observed any … strange happenings in the evenings here?”
“Nope,” Beth assured them. “No tourist reports of strange happenings lately.”
“Oh.” Dean looked disappointed, and Sam shrugged. Cas eagerly browsed through the post cards.
“Nobody goes out to ChevyHenge after dark any more, 'cause of the ghosts.”
“That's good info,” said Dean, as Sam rolled his eyes.
“Does your town have a library?” asked Sam. “We're, uh, very interested in researching local history.”
“It's on Main Street. Just follow the signs into town.”
“Dean, you need to look at this postcard,” Cas told him.
“Uh, Cas, we're not really tourists,” Dean whispered. He reluctantly took a look anyway, expecting it was another Jackalope: Cas was fascinated by them. Instead, it was an aerial view of ChevyHenge.
“Do you see these marks, Dean?” asked Cas, pointing to the picture. There were several spots with bare earth around the monument's main circle. “It appears that they are spaces for additional cars.”
“Oh, huh,” said Dean. He turned back to the clerk. “Hey, Beth, is ChevyHenge not finished yet?”
“Would you like to make a donation to the completion fund?” she asked, pointing to a box on the counter that read, “Finish ChevyHenge.”
“So, they still need more cars?” asked Sam.
“Yep. The owner is real particular.”
“Huh. Well, good to know. Thanks! We'll be going- Oh, geez!” he sighed as Crowley shuffled up to the counter with an armload of ChevyHenge T shirts, key rings, snow globes, commemorative plates and tea strainers. Check out took several minutes, and Dean was growing ever more impatient.
“Since when are you into tourist trinkets, Crowley?” asked Dean after they had gotten everything loaded into the Impala’s capacious trunk and were finally driving into town.
“Oh, you know demons,” said Crowley, who was sitting in the Impala’s back seat fiddling with his ChevyHenge toy Cadillac. “Every time I go off they're always bothering me about bringing them something.”
“Your minions want … presents?” asked Sam.
“And you don't just smite their asses?” asked Dean.
Cas, sitting next to Crowley in the back seat, extended a hand, and Crowley gave him the toy car. Cas inserted a long, notched plastic strip into a hole in the plastic mechanism in back of the car. He quickly ripped the strip back out, and set the car down on the back seat, where it raced over and bumped Crowley in the leg. “That's brilliant!” exclaimed Crowley, picking up the car and staring at it. He leaned over the front bench seat. “Squirrel, we need to pull over right now and get out the other ChevyHenge cars out of the trunk, so we can have races.”
Dean glared at Sam. “You were supposed to make him human. Not a five-year-old.”
“Guess I would've failed the trials anyway,” laughed Sam.
“I feel I'm being patronized!” said Crowley as Cas ran the car along the back behind the seat. Crowley turned to the former angel. “Don't do that! It'll get lost!”
“It will be perfectly fine,” said Cas as Crowley snatched it away.
“You two!” shouted Dean. “Am I gonna have to turn this car around?”
“And go where, exactly?” Sam laughed.
“You're supposed to be supporting me, not undermining me,” Dean snapped.
Sam squinted at his slightly insane brother. “Dean. We've arrived.” As they had indeed just pulled into Main Street.
“Oh. Yeah. I knew that,” said Dean. He hastily parked the car. “And you two should learn to share!” he barked at the parties in the back seat.
“The demon started it,” said Cas, pointing an accusing finger at Crowley.
“All right,” said Dean, rubbing his hands together when they had debarked. “Sam, you take the King of Toy Cars and get to the library. Cas and I will check out the county clerk's office.”
Sam produced an epic eye-roll at being paired off with Crowley, but nodded and started towards the library.
“Won't these institutions be closed for the night?” asked Crowley as Sam hustled him off.
“Crowley,” said Sam. “Seriously?”
Cas and Dean soon found the records office, and, being careful that they weren't observed, went to open the back door. “Like I showed you,” said Dean, handing Cas the lock pick. He stood and observed Cas's work for a moment. “You know, Crowley is a bad influence.”
Cas ceased his motions and turned around to look at Dean. “Dean, I am attempting to concentrate.”
Dean impatiently motioned for Cas to continue. “And I think he's got the hots for you.”
Cas turned and glared, and then went back to the lock. “Crowley utilizes sexual innuendo as a means both for his own amusement and to throw other parties off guard.”
“Well, yeah, he's a dick in general. I mean, he is a demon. But, you know, the sexy maid outfit?”
“I am trying to push that incident aside in my mind,” said Cas, trying the knob, which he found, frustratingly, to be still locked.
“You gotta relax.”
“About the outfit?”
“About the lock! I don't wanna be here all night.”
Cas turned back to Dean once again, his scowl cleaving a deep fissure through his forehead. “You are distracting, Dean.”
“It's not the worst thing I've been called.” Dean tilted his head. “Besides, not as distracting as that outfit.”
Cas attacked the lock. ''Why do you continue to bring up that outfit?”
“I don't. I mean. I dunno.” Dean cracked half a grin. “You musta found it sorta hot, right? I mean, all silky....”
Cas whirled around, words frozen on his lips.
The door popped open.
“Come on, Cas,” said Dean, hustling inside. “What are you waiting for?”
Cas stood still for a very long moment, and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, followed Dean into the records office.
“This is weird,” said Sam, who was hunched over the microfilm viewer.
“You mean that anyone continues to use this outdated media,” asked Crowley, He stood in back of the desk and propped an elbow over the back of the screen.
“A lot of car accidents. Fatal car accidents. I mean, a ton, considering how small this town is. See, check this out.”
Crowley wandered around to stand in back of Sam. He leaned forward and squinted at the photograph. “That bears a passing resemblance to your brother's car.”
“Exactly! People with classic cars keep running into trees, stuff like that.”
“Do you have the names?” asked Crowley. Sam handed him a list, and Crowley scanned it. “I know none of these names.”
“Is that surprising?”
“Since becoming King of Hell I recognize the name of each and every soul that has descended to my realm. Comes with the territory. And none of these have, as it were, abandoned all hope.
Sam sat back in his chair. “What are the odds that none of these people went to hell?”
“Considering this is a random sample of humans, I would say, nil.”
“Huh. So they’re all ghosts, I assume? And, what about you? You found anything?”
“Since you have initiated me into this life of crime, Moose?” asked Crowley.
“Oh don't start!”
“Sadly, I lack your skills with any technology more recent than the seventeenth century. However, I also noted that this particular rural branch library still utilizes paper records. So I decided to take a look for local miscreants.” He held up a file, proffering it to Sam.
“Overdue library books?” asked Sam, raising an eyebrow. “You're talking some hardened criminals!”
“One name in particular stood out. A certain Mr. Robert Joseph Bumper.”
“Bobby Joe Bumper? What has he been up to?” asked Sam, leafing through the files. “Wait. He checked out the Grand Grimoire? This library has a grimoire?”
“Had a grimoire. Mr. Bumper was obviously a man familiar with the process of interlibrary loans.”
“But not so familiar with returning his damn books. So what do we make of this?”
“I think we should see what Squirrel and his angel found out at the clerk's office.”
“So is this OK?” Dean asked as they settled into a booth at the local diner.
“No clowns or giant rats in sight. I'm good,” said Sam, looking around as a sullen wait person distributed ice water and menus. There was a round of orders given and scribbled onto a pad, and then Sam glanced back at his brother and Cas. He leaned forward across the table. “Uh, Cas, you got your shirt on inside-out again.”
Cas glanced down at the shirt and then over at Dean, his face flushed.
“So I take it you didn't get a whole lot done at the records office,” Sam grumbled.
Dean smirked and slung an arm across the back of the booth, behind Cas's shoulders. “Oh, we got a lot done. It seems that there were a number of complaints filed by Bobby Joe Bumper.”
“Complaints agains whom?” asked Sam.
“Billy Ray Bumper.
“Um, any relation?”
“His brother.”
“They were twins,” Cas explained. “According to their birth certificates, Billy Ray was born approximately two and a half minutes prior to his brother. Thus, he inherited the estate when the parents passed away.”
“Bobby Joe versus Billy Ray?” said Crowley. “It sounds positively Shakespearean.”
“The parents didn't die in a car accident, did they?” asked Sam.
“Yeah,” said Dean. “How did you know?”
“There's been a rash of them. Oh, and Crowley found out Bobby Joe has been checking out arcane literature.”
Dean nearly spit out his coke. “Wait. Crowley actually did stuff?”
“Not like the 'stuff' you two were up to, it sounds like,” said Crowley, eyeing Cas.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” said Dean.
“Actually, I would. You didn't capture the encounter on tape, did you?”
“Crowley,” growled Castiel.
“Think of me as a kind of reverse Santa Claus, darling. I'm making my list of who's naughty and who's even naughtier.”
“Crowley, I thought you were turning away from the dark side,” said Dean.
“There is nothing sinful about connubial bliss.”
“Can we PLEASE not talk about this?” pleaded Sam. “Especially when there's food?”
Indeed, the wait person had just delivered a table-full of victuals. “I still miss those mushrooms,” grumbled Dean, stealing a french fry from Cas's plate.
“So, is ChevyHenge possibly Billy Joe's attempt to wreck revenge on Bobby Rae?” asked Cas.
“Wrong hillbilles, Cas,” said Dean, squeezing some ketchup onto Cas's plate and stealing more fries.
Sam huffed. “Those are Cas's fries, Dean.”
“But they always taste better off Cas's plate.”
“The feuding parties in question are Bobby Joe and Billy Ray,” explained Crowley. “But I believe the former celestial being has a point. It is, after all, what I have come to expect between siblings.”
“Hey!” chorused both Sam and Dean, who had continued their bickering over Cas's side dish.
“You must admit that relations between the two of you have been … contentious at times.”
“Naw!” said Dean. “It was always just minor misunderstandings.”
“Like triggering the apocalypse? That was minor?”
Dean waved his hand, as if swatting away a fly, but Sam looked pensive. “Maybe he has a point, Dean,” said Sam, his voice grown quiet.
“Sammy, he's the King of Hell. The only point is at the top of his head.” Dean was about to cut into his steak when there was a screeching of tires outside, followed by the roar of an engine.
Dean froze. And then he leapt up, sending his napkin fluttering off as he charged out the door. Sam and Cas exchanged a baffled look and ran after him, reaching the curb to find Dean there, breathing hard and staring off at the familiar-looking vehicle, now retreating into the distance.
“Baby! No!”
Both Sam and Cas stood on the curb near Dean, having no idea what to say or do.
Crowley wandered out, napkin still tucked in his collar, worrying a toothpick. “Don't worry, we'll recover it. You do have LoJack, don't you?”
Dean turned to face the demon. “No, I don't have LoJack.”
“Why don't you have LoJack?”
“I don't want cops to know where my car is!”
“Well, now no one knows where your car is!”
“Anyway, I can guess where it's headed,” said Sam, who had somewhat recovered himself.
Dean was quiet for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Son of a Bitch! We need to find it! Nobody turns my baby into a tourist trap obelisk!”
“Wouldn't it be more of a standing stone?” asked Crowley.
“Or it might possibly be used as a lintel,” suggested Cas.
“Can we quit debating architectural terminology and get my damned car?”
“Can I help you boys?” asked a fellow in a pickup truck who had just pulled up nearby.
“They stole my car!” said Dean.
“That Impala? That was yours, son?”
“Yes!”
The man nodded. “That was my brother, Bobby Joe. He's always getting into scrapes.”
“Are you Billy Ray Bumper?” asked Sam.
“The same. I could give you a ride out to ChevyHenge, get this all cleared up. But only two of you are gonna fit in the cab.”
“I shall volunteer to ride in the boot,” said Crowley.
“It's a truck, not a frickin' lorry,” said Dean.
“Along with the angel,” Crowley added, grabbing Cas by the back of the shirt and tugging him along.
Dean slapped Crowley's hand off Cas. “You're not going anywhere with the angel,” he whispered.
“Dean. I will be fine,” Cas assured him.
Dean glared at Crowley. “If he tries anything, poncho him,” he told Cas, who nodded. And then, with an “I'm watching you” gesture towards Crowley, Dean climbed into the cab of Billy Ray Bumper's truck alongside his brother, who was relegated to sitting on the hump.
Cas and Crowley had barely hopped up into the back when the truck peeled out. “That man is in haste!” said Crowley, who was thrown into Cas, though perhaps this was accidentally on purpose.
Cas maneuvered Crowley to sit down opposite of him, and Dean looked back and repeated the “I'm watching you” gesture, stabbing an accusing finger at Crowley.
“Jealous much?” grumbled Crowley.
Cas was leaning forward, his head tantalizingly near Crowley's. Crowley flushed: yes, he actually colored. It had been a while. “I find I do not much trust Bobby Sue Bumper,” came Cas's purr in Crowley's ear.
“You're referring to the person driving this vehicle?” asked Crowley. Despite the rather brisk air flow in the back of the truck, he had finally removed his napkin from his collar and was currently using it to fan himself. Cas nodded. “I don't much either.”
Cas inclined his head towards the driver. “Demons, or minor deities?”
“They're not any of mine, so I'd put my money on deities. Emphasis on the minor. Fortunately, I still have my wooden stake.” Crowley shot a cuff, and the stake appeared in his hand, causing Cas to spare a quick, disappointed glance at his own hand, which was empty of his angel sword.
It was Crowley's turn to lean forward. “So, how is it going for you, the whole, 'living as a human among yet more humans' thing?”
Cas was looking up the road. “I am … adjusting.”
“Still your old effusive self, I see,” said the demon.
Crowley found he was being stared at. Despite Cas's current not-so-celestial status, his eyes were still piercing. And a rather divine shade of blue. Crowley had always half thought, when he thought about it, that a fine evening would begin by tossing Castiel in a nice hot bathtub and maybe giving him a decent shave. And then dressing him up in a tailored suit or something that actually fit that slim frame, but wasn't too difficult to tear off at the appropriate moment.
“I am considering something.”
Crowley was jerked out of his reverie by Cas's words. “Wot?”
“An important decision.”
Crowley leaned closer.
“Whether or not … to grow a mustache.”
Momentary confusion was followed hard upon by approbation. Crowley snorted. “All right. All right. You got me.”
But there wasn't even a flicker of a smile on that face. “I am asking you, Crowley.”
“I don't give a rat's ass about your facial hair situation.”
Cas shrugged and leaned back, the amazing eyes now pointed up the road. Crowley was left to leer over the chiseled profile for a few minutes. Crowley sighed to the bottom of what would have been a soul, had he possessed one. “What does Dean think?”
“That's your advice?
“That … is my advice.”
“I have another question.”
“By all means. Considering a nose ring, perhaps?”
“When I retrieve my grace, should I return to heaven?”
That one threw Crowley for a loop. “That's … actually a rather good question.”
“That is ChevyHenge up there, isn't it?”
Crowley leaned back against the side of the truck’s bed and peered ahead. Abruptly, he turned to face Castiel.
“Yes, I sense it too,” said Cas.
“Why do I always have to ride on the hump?” Sam was whining.
“Because you're younger.”
“When will I stop being younger?”
The truck rolled to a halt, and Dean turned to find himself facing the barrel of a shotgun. “Seriously?” he asked. He looked back over his shoulder to see that his brother, up on the hump, was now being held at gunpoint as well. “Aw! Son of a bitch.”
“At least we found your car,” said Sam, pointing towards the Impala, which was parked near the outer ring of ChevyHenge.
“Go check on the fellas riding in back!” Billy Ray, in the driver’s seat, yelled at Bobby Joe.
Bobby Joe swiveled his square-ish head on his red neck. “What fellas riding in the back?”
Billy Ray rubbed the back of his own red neck. “I picked up four fellas. Where's the t'others?”
“Must've lost 'em on the road, brother.”
“Fuck my life,” grumbled Billy Ray. “We'll have to make do with two sacrifices.”
“Sacrifices? That doesn’t sound like an awesome Saturday night,” said Dean. “Are you sure you guys wouldn’t be happier with some Netflix and Jiffy Pop?”
“OK, boys, out of the truck, and keep those hands up,” ordered Billy Joe, waving the shotgun for emphasis.
“The ghosts,” Sam told Dean as the brothers Bumper led them towards the middle of ChevyHenge. “They were your victims. They were trying to chase us away for our own good.”
“So who are you? I mean, really?” Dean asked Bobby Joe.
“At one time, men called us Romulus and Remus.”
“Pagan gods,” said Sam. “That was gonna be my guess. After demons.”
“And what's up with the automotive art project?” asked Dean, who saw no down side to delaying these bastards as long as possible.
“Nothing personal, boys. It's about our father, Zeus.”
“Wait, Zeus is dead,” said Sam. “We saw Artemis kill him.”
“Welp, then I guess it is personal! We know he's gone: we're resurrecting him.”
“Yeah, so we can kill him!”
“That's … that's a really well thought out plan,” said Dean, shooting a baffled look at Sam.
“The old bastard raped our mother. He deserves to die!”
“Uh, I understand the resentment, but didn't that result in you guys being born?” asked Sam.
“So we're focusing paranormal energy into this field. Your car will be the final link!”
“You can't make baby into a crossbar!” Dean protested.
“Lintel,” said Sam.
“Shut up,” said Dean.
“Now, we need to consecrate the ground with your life blood, so if you wouldn't mind leaning over and stickin’ out your neck?” asked Billy Ray, who was now holding a rather large axe.
“Uh, any chance of a raincheck?” asked Dean. “It really looks like it's clouding up, and I hate getting wet when I die.”
“Now, die!” yelled Billy Ray, who held up the axe. And then he dropped the axe and looked down in surprise at the wooden stake sticking out of his chest.
“Remus!” yelled Bobby Joe, who found himself suddenly entangled in a knit poncho held over his head by Cas. Crowley yanked his stake out of Billy Ray, and leapt over to plunge it into Bobby Joe's chest. The god gasped, gurgled, and collapsed.
Cas pulled the poncho off of Bobby Joe and smiled smugly. It wasn't the devil's trap poncho: instead, it had arcane lettering incorporated in the design.
“Good timing, guys,” said Sam.
“Yeah, but how did you get away?” asked Dean. “I thought your zapper button was stuck, Crowley.”
“Crowley utilized the energy of paranormal nexus to teleport us to a safe location,” Cas explained.
“And … you had time for a knitting project?” said Dean.
“Yes, we took advantage of the relativistic time paradox to-”
“Cas! You just bloody saved his life.”
Cas glanced at Crowley, and then the light bulb apparently went on, and he grabbed Dean, pushed him up against an upright Vista Cruiser, and kissed him, deeply, twisting a hand into Dean's short hair.
Sam covered his eyes. “Ew. Crowley. Did you make him do that?”
“I can't force him to do anything. It was merely a suggestion. Oh, and here is something for you, Moose. It was my crafts project from Cas and my interlude in spacetime,” he added, proffering a piece of paper to Sam.
“What is it?”
“Your contract with Death.”
“A contract? Isn't it about thirty pages too short for one of yours?”
“Moose. New leaf. Now, I need to get back to the old grind. Toodles.” And with that, Crowley was gone in a puff of sulfur.
“But you forgot your CarHenge collectibles,” said Sam.
“That's a contract?” asked Dean, who had briefly paused making out with the ex-angel. “What's it say?”
Sam held it up. “It's actually just one line. 'I solemnly swear I will not be a wanker.’that is only two tasks, gentlemen,” said Death, who was now sitting at the head of a long banquet table, as he had, once again, translocated Cas and the Winchesters. “I seem to recall requesting three.”
“Oh, boy,” said Sam.
“Look, Sammy!” said Dean, holding up a dish, his eyes dancing with delight. “Fried mushrooms!”
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: tikific
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Cas, Sam, Death, Crowley
Warnings: Cursing. Spoilers up through S8.
Word Count: 6,400
Summary: Enter Crowley, stage left.
Notes: Carhenge is a real place, but it’s not limited to Chevys. This story is the sequel to Clowntime is Over and Spoon and takes place in the same universe as Generator and Save Rite. I guess I need a masterpost, huh?
“What do you think you're doing, Moose?”
Sam grabbed a towel to dab at his dripping face. “Crowley, what the fuck are you doing in my motel room?” Sam had stepped into the bathroom to wash his face, but glanced up into the mirror to behold the King of Hell peering over his shoulder. “Who do you think you are, anyway? Bloody Mary?”
“Welllll,” the demon told him, singsong voice, “I could have gone next door,” he explained, pointing in the general direction of Dean and Cas's room, “but I'm afraid it's rather ugly in there at present.” He made an exaggerated shudder.
Sam held up a hand. “No details.”
“What does that mentally-damaged angel see in your brother? No offense.”
“None taken.”
“It's not as if I didn't offer him my most sincere affection. What could I have done wrong?”
“And why am I suddenly Mr. Lonely Hearts?” sighed Sam. “It's not as if I currently have a love life.”
“Ah, yes. You and that vituperative animal doctor. Did you want me to smite her husband for you?”
“No!”
“Just a little? Around the edges?”
Sam stalked out of the bathroom, hoping that maybe Crowley was merely a hallucination and wouldn't follow him. Suddenly mental illness seemed a better fate than the company of the King of Hell. But at any rate, he was to be disappointed. “Crowley,” he repeated, with scarce hope of anything resembling a straight answer, “what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come about your ill-considered deal with Death.”
“How the hell do you know about-? Oh, right.”
Crowley strolled around the room, picking up an ashtray. This week's motel had a gambling theme for some reason, so the ashtray had a large picture of cartoon dice in the middle. Evidently, someone had rolled snake eyes. “You should have come to me first. That way you wouldn't have cocked it up.”
“How did we fuck it up?” Sam sat down on the edge of a bed. The bedspread was patterned with playing cards: the four of clubs, repeated over and over and over again.
Crowley crossed his arms and looked smug. “Well, it isn't a deal, is it?”
“It's not one of your deals. No twenty-mile-long contract to sign.
“It's not a deal at all!” Crowley raised an index finger. “And therein lies your problem.”
“What?”
But any reply to Sam's question was interrupted by the door that separated his room from the one next door suddenly flying open and Dean, clad only in boxer briefs and an AC/DC T shirt, appearing in the doorway like the Underwear Avenger. “Freeze, Crowley!” he bellowed, pointing a sawed off shotgun.
“Oh, bother,” tutted Crowley. He snapped his fingers and the shotgun flew from Dean's hands. But at the same time the main room door quietly slipped open to reveal Cas, dressed only in raggedy sweatpants that had the word, “JUICY” printed in script over the ass. He tossed something that looked like a small knit blanket at Crowley. It draped over the demon's head like a net.
Crowley stood in place, fuming and struggling with it. He turned around, a full 360 degrees, but didn't move from the spot where he was standing. “And what the ever living fuck is this?”
“Pull your head through the hole,” Cas told him.
Crowley found the opening in question. He stuck his head through, like pulling on a shirt, and then gripped the garment and stared, regarding the intricate pattern that had been incorporated into the design. “A devil's trap?”
“Devil's trap poncho!” said Dean, who had a big, silly grin on his face. He now also had a proud arm around Cas's shoulders.
“Well. Nice work, I supposed,” Crowley allowed. The stitches were very even.
“Yes, I designed a devil's trap, and executed the design utilizing the human hobby of knitting,” said Cas, utter gravity in his voice. “I have found crafts work to be relaxing.”
“Though it's kinda girlie,” Dean put in, giving Cas's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
Cas scowled. “As I have explained before, I am not a gendered being. Besides which, why should an association with the female sex necessarily be insulting?”
“Aw, it's not an insult. But it is kinda girlie.”
“Crowley,” said Sam, who had gotten a bit fed up. “Tell us: what the hell are you really doing here?”
Crowley spread his hands in supplication. “I am trying to do you chaps a favor, if you will simply allow me! As you'll recall from the previous thrilling episode, thanks to Moose’s ministrations, I am part human now....”
“Seriously, Crowley! You are not trying to make me feel guilty,” pouted Sam, throwing Standard Bitchface number 27E Crowley's way.
“...So I am trying to turn over a new leaf. In that regard, I hope to extricate you from the, er, situation in which you find yourself regarding that old phony, Death.”
“So, you regard me as a 'phony,' Mr. Crowley,” said Death, who was now standing in the room, munching on the Toblerone chocolate from the mini bar. “In what sense do I fail to meet your obviously high standards?”
Crowley didn't reply, but only emitted a small, feminine-sounding shriek and grabbed Sam, pulling the tall hunter to stand between himself and Death.
“By the way, that is a fetching ensemble you are wearing, Mr. Crowley,” said Death.
“Thank you,” said Cas. “I knit it.”
“Ah. I find crafts work to be calming.”
“Your deal with the boys,” said Crowley, peeking out from behind a rather unwilling Sam. “It's no deal at all!”
“I don't recall saying it was,” said Death. He touched a long, pale finger to his chin. “Is anyone else feeling peckish?”
“Well, a little,” Dean admitted, and henceforth he was transported, along with the rest, to a place that smelled of burnt cheese and Lysol. Dean flinched as two laughing children ran by and nearly collided with him. He winced as he felt his brother, sitting beside him on the wood-grained plastic bench, gripping his shoulder right on his angel-print scar. “Sammy, that's gonna leave a bruise.”
“Dean,” said Sam. The younger Winchester looked truly traumatized. Dean glanced around the premises and soon realized why.
“Oh, hey! This is Ratty McRattail's Good Time Pizza N Stuff,” said Dean, recognizing the grinning visage of the rodent mascot immortalized in fiberglass up on a dais above the sticky table at which they were seated. “Dude,” he told his brother, “I thought you were just freaked by clowns?”
“This is close enough!” said Sam, his voice cracking.
“I do apologize for the surroundings,” said Death, who was dabbing at a gooey pool of spilled Dr. Pepper on the table with a silk handkerchief. “And I should warn you, the pizza here is vile....”
“Uh, yeah, Death, pizza or not, I think my brother has been through enough today....”
“But the deep fried mushrooms are, surprisingly enough, exquisite.”
“Look, I gotta think of Sammy- Did you say deep fried mushrooms?” asked Dean, snatching up a menu.
Death looked prim. “Kindly look underneath the 'Snax N Stuff' section.”
“Dean!” protested Sam.
Crowley huffed, rubbing at an unidentifiable stain on the forearm of his suit jacket with a paper napkin dipped in ice water. “So, does nobody care about the deal?”
It was Death's turn to emit a small sigh. “You are crass, aren't you? Please be aware, Mr. Crowley, that you amuse me even less than Lucifer.”
Crowley scowled at Death. “Dean. Tell me now, if you complete this entity's little errands, what will you get in return?”
“What will I get?” asked Dean, who was still distracted by the menu and its promise of deep-fried fungi.
“Quid. Pro. Quo,” said Crowley.
Sam, who was now hyperventilating, grabbed a paper bag puppet off the table and breathed in and out of it repeatedly.
“Uhhh. Death said Cas gets the five cents back on his bottle of grace, and we get NyQuil for Sam's trial-sniffles. Right?” he asked, turning to Death.
But Death ignored Dean. His eyes were boring into Crowley. “So. You find I am untrustworthy now?”
“Where is the contract?” Crowley insisted.
“Contract? I find contracts to be demeaning. To all parties.”
“Wait,” said Sam, crinkling his paper bag puppet. “So, if there was no deal, why are we doing this?”
Death set down his menu, brows knitted together in and immortal sort of annoyance. “You are hunters. So then. Hunt.”
And then, to Sam's relief and Dean's intense annoyance, they were no longer in the restaurant. Instead they were all - save Death, who'd taken another poweder - standing outdoors near somebody's field, alongside the Impala. It was evening. Mosquitos were buzzing, a soft breeze was blowing, and the sun was just sinking over the horizon.
“Hey, I wanted my damn mushrooms!” wailed Dean, rubbing his hungry tummy.
Crowley, who was still with them, shot his cuffs and glared. “That was rather annoying. I haven’t much experience with playing ethical, but I can’t say I much care for it so far.”
“Where the heck are we?” asked Sam.
“Damn!” said Dean. “I'm still in my underpants.” He looked at Cas, who remained clad only in the “juicy” sweatpants.
“I don't mind him like that,” said Crowley, who was standing a little bit too close to the former angel. Dean stepped between them, staring down at Crowley.
“All right, all right. I'll take care of it.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and Dean was suddenly dressed in his flannel hunter finery. Dean looked down, pleased, and then glanced back over his shoulder at Cas.
Cas, who was looking especially perplexed, was dressed, head to six-inch-heels, as a French maid.
Sam clumsily tried to hide a guffaw with a cough.
“Crowley!” barked Dean. “Fix him! Now!”
Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers again. Cas was now dressed in his familiar old suit and trench coat.
“Crowley!” said Dean.
Cas surveyed his ensemble and smiled, touching Dean's shoulder. “But I like this, Dean.”
“Cas,” Dean said softly. “We've talked about this. They can yank on your tie. Or the coat could get caught in something!”
“Who is 'they,' Dean?” asked Cas sensibly.
“What?”
“He's got a point, Dean,” said Sam. “What are we doing here?”
“And I am not a hunter,” said Crowley. “Although I could adopt the attire.” He snapped yet again and emerged in plaid-draped glory. “Now, could someone kindly relieve me of this?” he inquired of the devil's trap poncho.
Dean and Cas looked at each other for a long moment, which was not anything unusual for them. Finally, Dean nodded, and Cas grabbed the poncho off Crowley.
“Now!” said the King of Hell. “To find our task, and accomplish it!”
It was Sam and Dean's turn to share a puzzled glance. “Crowley,” said Sam. “You didn't just zap out of here when we freed you?”
“No of course not. I told you, Moose, I've turned over a new leaf. I am a new man! I will assist you with your quest, out of the goodness of-”
“You are terrified of Death,” said Cas.
“Well. That too,” Crowley admitted.
Cas tilted his head at Crowley. “And your teleportation power is currently not functional.”
“You know, you could be annoying, angel,” Crowley told Cas. “Consider yourself fortunate I have a soft spot for ex-mental cases.”
Sam's expression was one of despair over supernatural bickering. “Can we maybe quit this and figure out where we are? And what we're supposed to do?”
“Oh, hey, I think I got that one!” said Dean, who was suddenly grinning from ear to ear. “Come on, and take a look!”
Cas had popped the Impala's trunk and was tossing the poncho inside. “Death said we were hunting,” Sam pointed out, pulling up the trunk's false bottom to display an array of weaponry. “Should we grab a couplel things first?”
“I doubt we'll need it, but sure,” said Dean, grabbing a 9mm from the trunk and shooing Crowley away.
“I like guns too!” the demon protested.
“Why would you need a gun, Crowley?” asked Sam, who had grabbed a sawed off.
“Thanks, I believe, to your pale friend's meddling, my powers are presently behaving in an unreliable manner.”
“Here. Have a pointed stick,” said Dean, shoving a wooden stake his way. Crowley grimaced, but accepted the stake. Cas stuck a small pistol in his waistband and then grabbed an iron knife.
Then, having extracted sufficient firepower from the car, they headed across the field towards some large obelisks arranged in a rough circle. “This seems … very familiar,” said Cas as they drew near.
Same stared up at the obelisks. “Are those … cars?”
“This is ChevyHenge!” said Dean, who ran ahead to stand in the exact center. “Built by some local lunatic, Bobby Joe Bumper. All of General Motors's finest is here.”
“Wow,” said Sam, who was genuinely impressed. He stood in the center near Dean, taking in the Caprices and Caddys and Skylarks and Vista Cruisers and, yes, Impalas. The heavy vintage cars had been planted in the ground, headlights pointing towards the sky, and some of these in turn served as supporting bases for additional vehicular crossbars.
“I've always wanted to get out here,” said Dean, who seemed lost in an automotive reverie.
“Does anyone else feel that something is not right about this place?” asked Crowley. At which point the ghost appeared before him, and he let out a rather undignified squeal. He didn't even have time to wave his pointed stick at it.
The spirit vanished. “Don't tell me you're spooked by a spook, Crowley?” taunted Sam. The demon glowered at him.
“Crowley is correct, Dean,” said Cas. “I feel we should leave this place.”
“But it's ChevyHenge, Cas!”
“Ow!” said Sam, as another ghost appeared behind him and yanked at his hair.
“Hey! No hair pulling!” Dean barked at it. Cas pulled out his iron knife and the phantom dissipated. “Told you to get it cut,” Dean told Sam, who was rubbing his head.
“They are most definitely more annoying than the mosquitos,” said Crowley, slapping the back of his neck.
“Dean!” yelled Sam, as another ghost appeared just behind Dean, wielding an axe. Before the spirit could behead him, Cas knocked Dean down with a flying tackle. The ghost swung and Sam aimed and fired into his midsection with salt rounds.
The ghost vanished, and Dean scrambled up to a sitting position. “That was not cool!” he groused.
“Dean,” said Sam. “Cas and Crowley are right. Something's definitely off here.”
“Son of a bitch.” Dean got to his feet and irritably shook dust from his jeans.
“Maybe we should go check out the visitor's center, over there,” Sam proposed, pointing at a building in the distance.
“With our luck, that's probably haunted too. Come on!” Dean said, giving Cas a hand up. “And let’s figure out why the hell would ghosts be hanging around ChevyHenge? Everybody, think.”
“Could be, they were killed in car accidents?” Sam proposed.
“That’s a possibility. But the cars all look fine,” said Dean.
“That’s true.”
“Cas?”
“Henges are thought to focus paranormal energy,” said Cas. “Perhaps that was the attraction?”
“But focus it for what, exactly? Crowley,” said Dean. “Theories? What's up with the ghosts?”
“Maybe the parties in question were all just terrific wankers during their former existences.”
“Okay, great, that's really helpful.”
“I'm running thin on patience at the moment. I hadn't penciled in running errands for the Grim Reaper on my day planner.”
“He's pouting, isn't he?” asked Dean, opening the door to the visitor's center. “Kings of Hell shouldn't pout. You should be a good sport.”
“I am the ultimate bad sport!” said Crowley, huffing his way through the door.
They entered the visitor's center and were confronted by racks and racks of commemorative T shirts, mugs, bumper stickers, postcards and the like.
There was a small, dark-haired woman folding the T shirts. “Hey, can you help us, ma'am?” Sam asked.
The woman turned around. “Sure thing, honey. And you can call me Beth.”
Dean, Cas and Sam all looked at one another. She was a ringer for the lady named Beth who worked selling tourist trinkets in the small town on the Olympic Peninsula they'd just visited. Washington Beth had been the one who tipped them off about the hazardous dam.
“Uh,” said Dean. “Beth. You don't happen to have a sister, or a cousin, or a close relative over in Washington state?”
“Nope. I'm Nebraska born and bred.”
Dean continued staring. “Well, anyway, we just arrived here at ChevyHenge-”
“Is that your Impala out back?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Good car, the Impala. Bobby Joe would approve.”
“Well, thanks. Anyway, we wanted to know if anybody had observed any … strange happenings in the evenings here?”
“Nope,” Beth assured them. “No tourist reports of strange happenings lately.”
“Oh.” Dean looked disappointed, and Sam shrugged. Cas eagerly browsed through the post cards.
“Nobody goes out to ChevyHenge after dark any more, 'cause of the ghosts.”
“That's good info,” said Dean, as Sam rolled his eyes.
“Does your town have a library?” asked Sam. “We're, uh, very interested in researching local history.”
“It's on Main Street. Just follow the signs into town.”
“Dean, you need to look at this postcard,” Cas told him.
“Uh, Cas, we're not really tourists,” Dean whispered. He reluctantly took a look anyway, expecting it was another Jackalope: Cas was fascinated by them. Instead, it was an aerial view of ChevyHenge.
“Do you see these marks, Dean?” asked Cas, pointing to the picture. There were several spots with bare earth around the monument's main circle. “It appears that they are spaces for additional cars.”
“Oh, huh,” said Dean. He turned back to the clerk. “Hey, Beth, is ChevyHenge not finished yet?”
“Would you like to make a donation to the completion fund?” she asked, pointing to a box on the counter that read, “Finish ChevyHenge.”
“So, they still need more cars?” asked Sam.
“Yep. The owner is real particular.”
“Huh. Well, good to know. Thanks! We'll be going- Oh, geez!” he sighed as Crowley shuffled up to the counter with an armload of ChevyHenge T shirts, key rings, snow globes, commemorative plates and tea strainers. Check out took several minutes, and Dean was growing ever more impatient.
“Since when are you into tourist trinkets, Crowley?” asked Dean after they had gotten everything loaded into the Impala’s capacious trunk and were finally driving into town.
“Oh, you know demons,” said Crowley, who was sitting in the Impala’s back seat fiddling with his ChevyHenge toy Cadillac. “Every time I go off they're always bothering me about bringing them something.”
“Your minions want … presents?” asked Sam.
“And you don't just smite their asses?” asked Dean.
Cas, sitting next to Crowley in the back seat, extended a hand, and Crowley gave him the toy car. Cas inserted a long, notched plastic strip into a hole in the plastic mechanism in back of the car. He quickly ripped the strip back out, and set the car down on the back seat, where it raced over and bumped Crowley in the leg. “That's brilliant!” exclaimed Crowley, picking up the car and staring at it. He leaned over the front bench seat. “Squirrel, we need to pull over right now and get out the other ChevyHenge cars out of the trunk, so we can have races.”
Dean glared at Sam. “You were supposed to make him human. Not a five-year-old.”
“Guess I would've failed the trials anyway,” laughed Sam.
“I feel I'm being patronized!” said Crowley as Cas ran the car along the back behind the seat. Crowley turned to the former angel. “Don't do that! It'll get lost!”
“It will be perfectly fine,” said Cas as Crowley snatched it away.
“You two!” shouted Dean. “Am I gonna have to turn this car around?”
“And go where, exactly?” Sam laughed.
“You're supposed to be supporting me, not undermining me,” Dean snapped.
Sam squinted at his slightly insane brother. “Dean. We've arrived.” As they had indeed just pulled into Main Street.
“Oh. Yeah. I knew that,” said Dean. He hastily parked the car. “And you two should learn to share!” he barked at the parties in the back seat.
“The demon started it,” said Cas, pointing an accusing finger at Crowley.
“All right,” said Dean, rubbing his hands together when they had debarked. “Sam, you take the King of Toy Cars and get to the library. Cas and I will check out the county clerk's office.”
Sam produced an epic eye-roll at being paired off with Crowley, but nodded and started towards the library.
“Won't these institutions be closed for the night?” asked Crowley as Sam hustled him off.
“Crowley,” said Sam. “Seriously?”
Cas and Dean soon found the records office, and, being careful that they weren't observed, went to open the back door. “Like I showed you,” said Dean, handing Cas the lock pick. He stood and observed Cas's work for a moment. “You know, Crowley is a bad influence.”
Cas ceased his motions and turned around to look at Dean. “Dean, I am attempting to concentrate.”
Dean impatiently motioned for Cas to continue. “And I think he's got the hots for you.”
Cas turned and glared, and then went back to the lock. “Crowley utilizes sexual innuendo as a means both for his own amusement and to throw other parties off guard.”
“Well, yeah, he's a dick in general. I mean, he is a demon. But, you know, the sexy maid outfit?”
“I am trying to push that incident aside in my mind,” said Cas, trying the knob, which he found, frustratingly, to be still locked.
“You gotta relax.”
“About the outfit?”
“About the lock! I don't wanna be here all night.”
Cas turned back to Dean once again, his scowl cleaving a deep fissure through his forehead. “You are distracting, Dean.”
“It's not the worst thing I've been called.” Dean tilted his head. “Besides, not as distracting as that outfit.”
Cas attacked the lock. ''Why do you continue to bring up that outfit?”
“I don't. I mean. I dunno.” Dean cracked half a grin. “You musta found it sorta hot, right? I mean, all silky....”
Cas whirled around, words frozen on his lips.
The door popped open.
“Come on, Cas,” said Dean, hustling inside. “What are you waiting for?”
Cas stood still for a very long moment, and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, followed Dean into the records office.
“This is weird,” said Sam, who was hunched over the microfilm viewer.
“You mean that anyone continues to use this outdated media,” asked Crowley, He stood in back of the desk and propped an elbow over the back of the screen.
“A lot of car accidents. Fatal car accidents. I mean, a ton, considering how small this town is. See, check this out.”
Crowley wandered around to stand in back of Sam. He leaned forward and squinted at the photograph. “That bears a passing resemblance to your brother's car.”
“Exactly! People with classic cars keep running into trees, stuff like that.”
“Do you have the names?” asked Crowley. Sam handed him a list, and Crowley scanned it. “I know none of these names.”
“Is that surprising?”
“Since becoming King of Hell I recognize the name of each and every soul that has descended to my realm. Comes with the territory. And none of these have, as it were, abandoned all hope.
Sam sat back in his chair. “What are the odds that none of these people went to hell?”
“Considering this is a random sample of humans, I would say, nil.”
“Huh. So they’re all ghosts, I assume? And, what about you? You found anything?”
“Since you have initiated me into this life of crime, Moose?” asked Crowley.
“Oh don't start!”
“Sadly, I lack your skills with any technology more recent than the seventeenth century. However, I also noted that this particular rural branch library still utilizes paper records. So I decided to take a look for local miscreants.” He held up a file, proffering it to Sam.
“Overdue library books?” asked Sam, raising an eyebrow. “You're talking some hardened criminals!”
“One name in particular stood out. A certain Mr. Robert Joseph Bumper.”
“Bobby Joe Bumper? What has he been up to?” asked Sam, leafing through the files. “Wait. He checked out the Grand Grimoire? This library has a grimoire?”
“Had a grimoire. Mr. Bumper was obviously a man familiar with the process of interlibrary loans.”
“But not so familiar with returning his damn books. So what do we make of this?”
“I think we should see what Squirrel and his angel found out at the clerk's office.”
“So is this OK?” Dean asked as they settled into a booth at the local diner.
“No clowns or giant rats in sight. I'm good,” said Sam, looking around as a sullen wait person distributed ice water and menus. There was a round of orders given and scribbled onto a pad, and then Sam glanced back at his brother and Cas. He leaned forward across the table. “Uh, Cas, you got your shirt on inside-out again.”
Cas glanced down at the shirt and then over at Dean, his face flushed.
“So I take it you didn't get a whole lot done at the records office,” Sam grumbled.
Dean smirked and slung an arm across the back of the booth, behind Cas's shoulders. “Oh, we got a lot done. It seems that there were a number of complaints filed by Bobby Joe Bumper.”
“Complaints agains whom?” asked Sam.
“Billy Ray Bumper.
“Um, any relation?”
“His brother.”
“They were twins,” Cas explained. “According to their birth certificates, Billy Ray was born approximately two and a half minutes prior to his brother. Thus, he inherited the estate when the parents passed away.”
“Bobby Joe versus Billy Ray?” said Crowley. “It sounds positively Shakespearean.”
“The parents didn't die in a car accident, did they?” asked Sam.
“Yeah,” said Dean. “How did you know?”
“There's been a rash of them. Oh, and Crowley found out Bobby Joe has been checking out arcane literature.”
Dean nearly spit out his coke. “Wait. Crowley actually did stuff?”
“Not like the 'stuff' you two were up to, it sounds like,” said Crowley, eyeing Cas.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” said Dean.
“Actually, I would. You didn't capture the encounter on tape, did you?”
“Crowley,” growled Castiel.
“Think of me as a kind of reverse Santa Claus, darling. I'm making my list of who's naughty and who's even naughtier.”
“Crowley, I thought you were turning away from the dark side,” said Dean.
“There is nothing sinful about connubial bliss.”
“Can we PLEASE not talk about this?” pleaded Sam. “Especially when there's food?”
Indeed, the wait person had just delivered a table-full of victuals. “I still miss those mushrooms,” grumbled Dean, stealing a french fry from Cas's plate.
“So, is ChevyHenge possibly Billy Joe's attempt to wreck revenge on Bobby Rae?” asked Cas.
“Wrong hillbilles, Cas,” said Dean, squeezing some ketchup onto Cas's plate and stealing more fries.
Sam huffed. “Those are Cas's fries, Dean.”
“But they always taste better off Cas's plate.”
“The feuding parties in question are Bobby Joe and Billy Ray,” explained Crowley. “But I believe the former celestial being has a point. It is, after all, what I have come to expect between siblings.”
“Hey!” chorused both Sam and Dean, who had continued their bickering over Cas's side dish.
“You must admit that relations between the two of you have been … contentious at times.”
“Naw!” said Dean. “It was always just minor misunderstandings.”
“Like triggering the apocalypse? That was minor?”
Dean waved his hand, as if swatting away a fly, but Sam looked pensive. “Maybe he has a point, Dean,” said Sam, his voice grown quiet.
“Sammy, he's the King of Hell. The only point is at the top of his head.” Dean was about to cut into his steak when there was a screeching of tires outside, followed by the roar of an engine.
Dean froze. And then he leapt up, sending his napkin fluttering off as he charged out the door. Sam and Cas exchanged a baffled look and ran after him, reaching the curb to find Dean there, breathing hard and staring off at the familiar-looking vehicle, now retreating into the distance.
“Baby! No!”
Both Sam and Cas stood on the curb near Dean, having no idea what to say or do.
Crowley wandered out, napkin still tucked in his collar, worrying a toothpick. “Don't worry, we'll recover it. You do have LoJack, don't you?”
Dean turned to face the demon. “No, I don't have LoJack.”
“Why don't you have LoJack?”
“I don't want cops to know where my car is!”
“Well, now no one knows where your car is!”
“Anyway, I can guess where it's headed,” said Sam, who had somewhat recovered himself.
Dean was quiet for a moment, and then exclaimed, “Son of a Bitch! We need to find it! Nobody turns my baby into a tourist trap obelisk!”
“Wouldn't it be more of a standing stone?” asked Crowley.
“Or it might possibly be used as a lintel,” suggested Cas.
“Can we quit debating architectural terminology and get my damned car?”
“Can I help you boys?” asked a fellow in a pickup truck who had just pulled up nearby.
“They stole my car!” said Dean.
“That Impala? That was yours, son?”
“Yes!”
The man nodded. “That was my brother, Bobby Joe. He's always getting into scrapes.”
“Are you Billy Ray Bumper?” asked Sam.
“The same. I could give you a ride out to ChevyHenge, get this all cleared up. But only two of you are gonna fit in the cab.”
“I shall volunteer to ride in the boot,” said Crowley.
“It's a truck, not a frickin' lorry,” said Dean.
“Along with the angel,” Crowley added, grabbing Cas by the back of the shirt and tugging him along.
Dean slapped Crowley's hand off Cas. “You're not going anywhere with the angel,” he whispered.
“Dean. I will be fine,” Cas assured him.
Dean glared at Crowley. “If he tries anything, poncho him,” he told Cas, who nodded. And then, with an “I'm watching you” gesture towards Crowley, Dean climbed into the cab of Billy Ray Bumper's truck alongside his brother, who was relegated to sitting on the hump.
Cas and Crowley had barely hopped up into the back when the truck peeled out. “That man is in haste!” said Crowley, who was thrown into Cas, though perhaps this was accidentally on purpose.
Cas maneuvered Crowley to sit down opposite of him, and Dean looked back and repeated the “I'm watching you” gesture, stabbing an accusing finger at Crowley.
“Jealous much?” grumbled Crowley.
Cas was leaning forward, his head tantalizingly near Crowley's. Crowley flushed: yes, he actually colored. It had been a while. “I find I do not much trust Bobby Sue Bumper,” came Cas's purr in Crowley's ear.
“You're referring to the person driving this vehicle?” asked Crowley. Despite the rather brisk air flow in the back of the truck, he had finally removed his napkin from his collar and was currently using it to fan himself. Cas nodded. “I don't much either.”
Cas inclined his head towards the driver. “Demons, or minor deities?”
“They're not any of mine, so I'd put my money on deities. Emphasis on the minor. Fortunately, I still have my wooden stake.” Crowley shot a cuff, and the stake appeared in his hand, causing Cas to spare a quick, disappointed glance at his own hand, which was empty of his angel sword.
It was Crowley's turn to lean forward. “So, how is it going for you, the whole, 'living as a human among yet more humans' thing?”
Cas was looking up the road. “I am … adjusting.”
“Still your old effusive self, I see,” said the demon.
Crowley found he was being stared at. Despite Cas's current not-so-celestial status, his eyes were still piercing. And a rather divine shade of blue. Crowley had always half thought, when he thought about it, that a fine evening would begin by tossing Castiel in a nice hot bathtub and maybe giving him a decent shave. And then dressing him up in a tailored suit or something that actually fit that slim frame, but wasn't too difficult to tear off at the appropriate moment.
“I am considering something.”
Crowley was jerked out of his reverie by Cas's words. “Wot?”
“An important decision.”
Crowley leaned closer.
“Whether or not … to grow a mustache.”
Momentary confusion was followed hard upon by approbation. Crowley snorted. “All right. All right. You got me.”
But there wasn't even a flicker of a smile on that face. “I am asking you, Crowley.”
“I don't give a rat's ass about your facial hair situation.”
Cas shrugged and leaned back, the amazing eyes now pointed up the road. Crowley was left to leer over the chiseled profile for a few minutes. Crowley sighed to the bottom of what would have been a soul, had he possessed one. “What does Dean think?”
“That's your advice?
“That … is my advice.”
“I have another question.”
“By all means. Considering a nose ring, perhaps?”
“When I retrieve my grace, should I return to heaven?”
That one threw Crowley for a loop. “That's … actually a rather good question.”
“That is ChevyHenge up there, isn't it?”
Crowley leaned back against the side of the truck’s bed and peered ahead. Abruptly, he turned to face Castiel.
“Yes, I sense it too,” said Cas.
“Why do I always have to ride on the hump?” Sam was whining.
“Because you're younger.”
“When will I stop being younger?”
The truck rolled to a halt, and Dean turned to find himself facing the barrel of a shotgun. “Seriously?” he asked. He looked back over his shoulder to see that his brother, up on the hump, was now being held at gunpoint as well. “Aw! Son of a bitch.”
“At least we found your car,” said Sam, pointing towards the Impala, which was parked near the outer ring of ChevyHenge.
“Go check on the fellas riding in back!” Billy Ray, in the driver’s seat, yelled at Bobby Joe.
Bobby Joe swiveled his square-ish head on his red neck. “What fellas riding in the back?”
Billy Ray rubbed the back of his own red neck. “I picked up four fellas. Where's the t'others?”
“Must've lost 'em on the road, brother.”
“Fuck my life,” grumbled Billy Ray. “We'll have to make do with two sacrifices.”
“Sacrifices? That doesn’t sound like an awesome Saturday night,” said Dean. “Are you sure you guys wouldn’t be happier with some Netflix and Jiffy Pop?”
“OK, boys, out of the truck, and keep those hands up,” ordered Billy Joe, waving the shotgun for emphasis.
“The ghosts,” Sam told Dean as the brothers Bumper led them towards the middle of ChevyHenge. “They were your victims. They were trying to chase us away for our own good.”
“So who are you? I mean, really?” Dean asked Bobby Joe.
“At one time, men called us Romulus and Remus.”
“Pagan gods,” said Sam. “That was gonna be my guess. After demons.”
“And what's up with the automotive art project?” asked Dean, who saw no down side to delaying these bastards as long as possible.
“Nothing personal, boys. It's about our father, Zeus.”
“Wait, Zeus is dead,” said Sam. “We saw Artemis kill him.”
“Welp, then I guess it is personal! We know he's gone: we're resurrecting him.”
“Yeah, so we can kill him!”
“That's … that's a really well thought out plan,” said Dean, shooting a baffled look at Sam.
“The old bastard raped our mother. He deserves to die!”
“Uh, I understand the resentment, but didn't that result in you guys being born?” asked Sam.
“So we're focusing paranormal energy into this field. Your car will be the final link!”
“You can't make baby into a crossbar!” Dean protested.
“Lintel,” said Sam.
“Shut up,” said Dean.
“Now, we need to consecrate the ground with your life blood, so if you wouldn't mind leaning over and stickin’ out your neck?” asked Billy Ray, who was now holding a rather large axe.
“Uh, any chance of a raincheck?” asked Dean. “It really looks like it's clouding up, and I hate getting wet when I die.”
“Now, die!” yelled Billy Ray, who held up the axe. And then he dropped the axe and looked down in surprise at the wooden stake sticking out of his chest.
“Remus!” yelled Bobby Joe, who found himself suddenly entangled in a knit poncho held over his head by Cas. Crowley yanked his stake out of Billy Ray, and leapt over to plunge it into Bobby Joe's chest. The god gasped, gurgled, and collapsed.
Cas pulled the poncho off of Bobby Joe and smiled smugly. It wasn't the devil's trap poncho: instead, it had arcane lettering incorporated in the design.
“Good timing, guys,” said Sam.
“Yeah, but how did you get away?” asked Dean. “I thought your zapper button was stuck, Crowley.”
“Crowley utilized the energy of paranormal nexus to teleport us to a safe location,” Cas explained.
“And … you had time for a knitting project?” said Dean.
“Yes, we took advantage of the relativistic time paradox to-”
“Cas! You just bloody saved his life.”
Cas glanced at Crowley, and then the light bulb apparently went on, and he grabbed Dean, pushed him up against an upright Vista Cruiser, and kissed him, deeply, twisting a hand into Dean's short hair.
Sam covered his eyes. “Ew. Crowley. Did you make him do that?”
“I can't force him to do anything. It was merely a suggestion. Oh, and here is something for you, Moose. It was my crafts project from Cas and my interlude in spacetime,” he added, proffering a piece of paper to Sam.
“What is it?”
“Your contract with Death.”
“A contract? Isn't it about thirty pages too short for one of yours?”
“Moose. New leaf. Now, I need to get back to the old grind. Toodles.” And with that, Crowley was gone in a puff of sulfur.
“But you forgot your CarHenge collectibles,” said Sam.
“That's a contract?” asked Dean, who had briefly paused making out with the ex-angel. “What's it say?”
Sam held it up. “It's actually just one line. 'I solemnly swear I will not be a wanker.’that is only two tasks, gentlemen,” said Death, who was now sitting at the head of a long banquet table, as he had, once again, translocated Cas and the Winchesters. “I seem to recall requesting three.”
“Oh, boy,” said Sam.
“Look, Sammy!” said Dean, holding up a dish, his eyes dancing with delight. “Fried mushrooms!”