Epilogue

Quite some considerable time later...

Bobby peered thoughtfully at the lure he was tying, then added another small dark red feather. It seemed like several lifetimes since he'd last found the time just to down tools and go fishing, but now he had the time, he would damned well enjoy it. Outside, the refreshing overnight rain had cleared, and the weather held the promise of perfect conditions for the next couple of days.

He was just finishing when the familiar rumble of a modern Classic pulled up by the house, and the barking of multiple dogs started up. "Idjits," he muttered to himself, smiling as he pushed away from his work bench and went to greet the Winchesters.

"Hey, Bobby!" called Dean sunnily as he banged through the door carrying a rod and tackle box in addition to his duffel. Half a dozen dogs followed him, wagging their tails and barging up to Bobby to greet him. "Guess what, Francis is going to join us!"

"Only because you wouldn't stop pestering me until I agreed," grumbled Sam, following his brother, "And I swear, if you start regaling us with stories of Chicks I Have Banged, just because you think you have a captive audience, I will push you overboard."

"You need some man-time, Sam," stated Dean firmly, "Otherwise you'll finally turn into a great big girl."

"It does do a body good to get a weekend pass from time to time," nodded Bobby, patting various big square heads. "Hey there, kids, you lookin' after these idjits?" He glanced out the window as two more trucks pulled in. "Although I'm with Sam on the 'no lewd recollections' thing, Dean. You'll scare the fish. Or at least, you'll scare me."

"Singer!" bellowed a voice from the door.

"Speakin' of scarin' the fish..." muttered Bobby. "We're all in the same grid square, Rufus, there's no need to bawl the place down, idjit!"

"Sorry," smiled Rufus, not sounding the least bit apologetic as he barged in with his rod. "Hey, who let the dogs out?" he called out over his shoulder.

"You mean, who let the dogs in," grinned Andrew, bringing up the rear.

"You're only in because you got let out," Rufus elbowed him. "Like Sam, and Bobby. So, what did you guys have to agree to in order to get weekend leave?"

"Jess made him promise to have sex with the lights on," leered Dean, as Sam shot him a Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "And Bobby had to promise to take his hat off to go to bed for a whole week..."

"Actually, I was abandoned," confided Andrew ruefully, "There's a canine obedience trial been organised, and she's taking the whole pack..."

"Cas said he might try to make it, too," Dean went on, "Depending on how busy he is."

"How has Feathers been, anyway?" asked Bobby with immaculate timing as the flap-flap of incoming trench coat sounded softly.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel in his usual gravelly tone.

"Gah!" Dean jumped backwards. "Cas! Personal! Space! How long have I been trying to teach you about it now? One century, two maybe, or does it only seem like that long? I nearly dropped the cooler, Cas! This is serious!"

"My apologies," the Sheriff of Heaven nodded seriously. "Thank you for the invitation to experience 'fishing', Bobby," he went on in the same grave tone, "It is not an activity that I have myself participated in before, and from Dean's description of it as a form of 'sacred man-time,' I am eager to see what profound insights into humanity it might provide."

"I don't know about profound insights," chortled Bobby, "But you will surely be treated to a level of bullshit that I doubt you've ever experienced before."

"I got you a hat," Dean told Castiel, removing a faded blue flannel had from his bag, resplendent with various small items associated with the pastime of fishing, and handing it to Castiel.

The Angel of the Lord peered at it with a vague air of confusion. "I do not need a hat," he commented. "Technically, neither do you."

"Come on, Cas," grinned Dean, putting on his own ridiculous fishing hat, "You can't go fishing without a suitable hat! It's a vital traditional requirement! It's like a uniform, a universal signal. You put on a hat like this, it tells the whole of Creation, the entire universe, in any dimension, 'This Man Is Fishing – Do Not Disturb Him Except To Bring More Beer'. You absolutely must wear the hat."

Castiel regarded him gravely, then placed the hat on his head with all the ceremony and reverence of an archbishop donning his mitre before a consecration ritual. "Thank you, Dean," he said, "For sharing this human tradition with me. I shall wear the hat, in order to partake most fully of the experience."

"Don't you pay any attention to him, Castiel," Karen said, emerging from the kitchen and pushing a hamper into Bobby's arms, "He's more full of crap than a Kentucky outhouse."

"Did you make pie?" Dean rolled his eyes wistfully.

"Yes, but like Sam, I only did it to shut you up," she rolled her eyes, then pecked Bobby on the cheek. "You lot behave yourselves."

"Yes, dear," muttered Bobby theatrically.

"Always," grinned Andrew, while Rufus fluttered his eyelashes beatifically.

It was only a short walk through a wooded area to the lake, where a small jetty jutted out into the still water. A modest but sturdy boat with an outboard motor, proclaimed by the plaque on the stern to be the Devil's Trap (Karen had named it, 'Because it seems that once you get into it, you just can't get yourself out again, you devil,') bobbed gently against the tyre bumpers. With a certain amount of bickering, teasing, and threats of dunking, they boarded as Bobby pulled the cover off the engine, started it, and motored them to the middle of the lake.

They dropped their lines, opened the beer cooler, and got on with the business of Sacred Man-Time.

"So Cas, how goes it with the standing in for your Father?" asked Sam.

"Administrative matters continue to require much attention," the Sheriff of Heaven answered. "Hell is currently still experiencing ongoing... I suppose you would call it political unrest," he related. "The Hierachy of senior demonic nobility are being particularly... vigorous in their pursuit of their petty power games, intrigues and plots against each other. It is getting to a point where the impact outside of Hell is approaching unacceptable levels. Crowley actually sent a diplomatic communiqué about it. In fact, Bobby, it is a topic that I wish to discuss with you..."

"Er, what the hell is that?" interrupted Dean, pointing back towards the shore.

"It looks a bit like a giant raccoon, and possibly a Kodiak bear," opined Rufus, squinting. "Do you have raccoons and bears in the woods?"

Whatever it was, the smaller figure, the postulated giant raccoon, appeared to be jumping up and down, and waving its arms.

"I don't think it's a raccoon," said Andrew uncertainly, sniffing the breeze, "I can't smell raccoon. Or bear."

"But if it is a raccoon, think what an awesome hat you could make!" suggested Dean enthusiastically, "You could have a raccoon coat! A raccoon bedspread!"

The light breeze picked up a little, and brought a faint drifting cry to them across the water.

"Bobbyyyyyyy! Oh, Bobbyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Sam's jaw dropped. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Bobbyyyyyyyyy!" came the anxious cry, as the figure on the shore saw that it had been notice, and redoubled its efforts. "Bobbyyyyyyyyy, yooohooooooooo!"

"God's tits," muttered Bobby darkly, "What's he doin' here?"

"As I was telling you, Crowley contacted me via official channels," Castiel went on. "He is having some difficulty in dealing with the governance of Hell at the moment, and..."

"What the fuck is he doing?" asked Dean incredulously.

"Wastin' his time," grumped Bobby, opening another beer and turning his back to the figure back on shore. "He can damn well wait. He's not interruptin' my fishing."

The small figure spent another few minutes trying to attract Bobby's attention, then gave up, and tried a new strategy.

"What's he doing now?" mused Sam.

"Looks like the mountain is coming to Mohammed," grinned Rufus.

As they watched, a small orange speck moved across the lake towards them. As it got closer, it proved to be Crowley, wearing a bright orange lifejacket, in a small rowboat, which was being rowed by an enormous diabolical fiend. He waved frantically, then the fiend drew carefully alongside.

"Bobby!" he beamed, "It's so good to see you mate!"

"Can't say as the sentiment's returned," Bobby grunted. "Hey there, Orgle," he went on in a more friendly tone to the fiend, "You still working for this asshole?"

"Hello, Mr Singer!" chirped the enormous fiend, all his mouths smiling, "It's wonderful that you finally made it Up Here! I like your lake! It's very calm, isn't it? Very serene. The colours alone are just marvellous, so many shades of blue!"

"How the fuck did he get here?" demanded Rufus.

"Oh look, it's the Sidekick, the Sisters Winchester, and Rin Tin Tin," sighed Crowley, as the various inhabitants of the boat sneered, scowled, or bared fangs at him. "Let joy be unconfined. I'll have you know that I am here on an official diplomatic mission." He reached into his jacket, and pulled out a passport. "See? Diplomatic visa. All official. Right now, I am Ambassador Crowley, here with my capable assistant, Attaché Orgle." Orgle beamed proudly. "Tell them, Castiel."

"It is true," Castiel said in a portentous tone, "Crowley is here to request divine assistance in quelling the current political unrest in Hell."

"They hate me, you know," the King of Hell said mournfully, "Everything I do for them, work myself to the bone to keep the place running, and they despise me. Ungrateful, selfish, utter, utter bastards."

"I can't think why," snapped Bobby. "So, what does this have to do with me?"

"Didn't you get my letters?" asked Crowley, looking a little surprised.

"Nope," Bobby told him, "Well, technically, yes, the herald angels did deliver 'em, but I didn't read 'em. Used 'em to start the fire on chilly nights. They were good for that, better than firelighters..."

"What about my p-mails?" Crowley queried plaintively.

"Nope again," Bobby grinned smugly, "I had a word with Senior Librarian Danael. She put a filter on the Inbox, so none of yours get through to me."

"Oh," Crowley looked reproachful. "I was trying to contact you."

"Well, now you're here, scarin' the fish, and ruinin' my day, I suppose the sooner I hear you out, the sooner I can tell you to screw off," sighed Bobby.

Crowley brightened visibly. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Now, it appears that His Acting Feathery Bigwigness has told you, there is a bit of squabbling in Hell..."

"In much the same way there was a bit of squabbling over Europe during World War Two," nodded Andrew.

"Well, yes," admitted Crowley sheepishly, "That sort of squabbling. Only not so subtle. Despite my best efforts, there is an unusually high level of diabolical shenanigans going on. Petty schemes, puerile power plays, pulling of pigtails and kicking over of sandcastles, as it were. Kick-The-King-Of-Hell-Off-His-Throne-And-Turn-Him-Into-A-Small-Smear-Of-Sulphur kind of squabbling. And, well, I'm not too proud to admit that I could use some help."

"Crowley has approached me diplomatically," Castiel explained, "To ask whether he might borrow you..."

"The phrase I used was 'retain your professional expertise'," Crowley interjected anxiously.

"Indeed, he asked whether he might retain your services as a visiting consultant, in order to bring some equilibrium back to Hell," Castiel finished. "However, I did not want to speak for you, and stipulated that he would have to ask you himself."

"And why exactly do we care if you're about to be deposed, Your Majesty?" asked Rufus.

"Because if there's nobody to keep a lid on it, the nastiness in Hell spills over," sighed Bobby.

"Exactly!" nodded Crowley. "And we don't want that, do we? I don't want that. Castiel doesn't want that. And I'm sure you don't want that. You lived on that maltreated little blue marble for your whole life, you have to feel some lingering fondness for it. And you're a Hunter, love, a Man of Knowledge, you'd be perfect for dealing with these ungrateful backstabbing arseholes..."

"Yeah, I'm a Hunter, who's retired," Bobby pointed out. "Retired, as in I Don't Do That Any More. I'm dead, Crowley! That's how retired I am!"

"Please, Bobby," pleaded Crowley, "I need your help. You spent most of your adult life keeping Tweedledum and Tweedledumber here under control, the Hierarchy of Hell will be a walk in the park for you! You'll have an office," he wheedled, "A big office, and a complement of staff, you can borrow Orgle if you like," the fiend nodded eagerly, "And your office can have a drinks cabinet, and you can have a bidet of your own if you like, you can bring as many of your dogs as you like, in fact, I think it would be a good idea to bring the ones with Hellhound heritage, their Auntie Gedda would love the company, and they scare the bejesus out of a lot of the Hierarchy..."

"As an official representative of Heaven acting in such an important position, you would be accorded the temporary authority and dignity appropriate to your posting, to grant you the wherewithal to deal with the recalcitrance of senior demonic nobles," Castiel told him.

"Yeah?" snorted Bobby. "And what would that entail? Giving me a super soaker full of holy water? A really big stick, maybe? Or sole custody of the Diabolical Library's photocopier counter?"

Castiel looked thoughtful. "I too pondered on how best to accomplish this, and prayed to my Father, requesting Revelation. The idea that came to me did not involve large toy guns, or blunt instruments as offensive weapons." He moved forwards to touch Bobby's forehead. "What I believe my Father suggested was more of..." Bobby's eyes bugged briefly, then his face broke into a radiant smile of understanding.

With a rustling flap, a pair of large, dark grey feathered wings stretched out behind Bobby. Grinning in delight, he flapped them twice, then with a snapping boom, he shot into the air.

"...A temporary rank of Acting Archangel," Castiel finished.

"Holy shit," breathed Dean, watching his ecstatic practically-father swoop and dive through the still air, "How are we supposed to explain this to Karen?"

"What do you say, Saint Bobby?" called Crowley. "Or should I call you Robertiel? Will you take the job?"

"Yahooooooooooo!" whooped Bobby, performing a barrel roll, which Orgle applauded energetically. "You betcha! Let me at 'em, Feathers!"

"Very well," nodded Castiel, "I shall make arrangements for you to be seconded to Hell in a temporary capacity."

"If he's going to be an Acting Archangel," mused Sam, "What other stuff can he do that's, you know, archangelic? If he's going to be able to take on any heavy hitters Down There, if the shit really hits the fan?"

Castiel answered, "He will deal with any uncooperative demons the way that we have always dealt with them..."

Bobby tucked in his wings and fell into a steep dive towards the small rowboat, making a noise reminiscent of a strafing fighter plane. At the last moment, he pulled out of the dive and swooped sharply upward. As he did so, there was a crackle of ozone and a flash of blue-white light.

Crowley let out a startled shriek as his lifejacket began to smoke. He stood up and slapped at it, still shrieking, as Orgle smacked his oars onto the surface and struggled to keep the small vessel from capsizing.

"...By smiting," finished Castiel matter-of-factly.

Bobby turned for another strafing run, this time adding in the sound effects of a Stuka's wailing descent siren and machine gun chatter. Crowley waved his hands over his head, howling in horror, and at the base of his parabola, Bobby smacked him smartly upside the ear.

Still howling, Crowley toppled into the water.

Bobby hovered just above the surface of the lake, as Crowley spluttered and dogpaddled in bewildered circles.

"You know," Bobby grinned mercilessly, "This lake is in my idea of Heaven, my little piece of the afterlife. I can make it however I like."

"Yes, yes, and a very convincing lake it is too, chum," griped Crowley, spitting out a mouthful of water, "Very watery, very wet, very lakelike indeed. You get full marks in Lake Construction 101. Well done you." He picked a piece of weed out from behind an ear, and made a disgusted face.

"The thing is," Bobby went on, "I could, if I wanted to, make it, say, a saltwater lake. Or a thermal lake. Or even a lake entirely filled with holy water..."

Crowley's eyes widened in horror. "You wouldn't!" he squeaked, "You wouldn't! Bobby, love, you wouldn't do such a thing!"

"Hmmm," mused Andrew, "Sounds like a blatant abuse of power to me."

"Yup," agreed Rufus, nodding, "He'll fit right in to Hell. When in Rome, and such."

"But that wouldn't be very sportin', now, would it?" Bobby continued.

"It most certainly would not, Robert Steven Singer," yapped Crowley irritably, "And I'm hurt, truly hurt, more than angry, that you could suggest doing such a thing."

Bobby peered hard at Crowley. "Did you just pee in my lake?" he demanded.

"What? No!" yelped Crowley, "At least, not intentionally. I mean, you scared me with the holy water threat..."

"Well, if we're gonna do this, there's no time like the present," humphed Bobby. "Orgle, be a good fiend, go back to the house, and tell Mrs Singer that I'll want my box, the one in the closet in the spare room, and ask could she pack me a hamper, please."

"I'm on it, Mr Singer!" declared Orgle diligently, turning the small boat, and putting his back into it, rowing rapidly back towards shore.

"I shall accompany Orgle, so as not to startle your wife, and to explain your posting to her," Castiel told them. "I am very grateful for your assistance in this matter, Bobby." With a flap, he disappeared, then reappeared sitting in the rowboat with Orgle.

"Hey! HEY!" called Crowley, "What about me?"

"I suggest you get the hell out of my lake before I change my mind about the holy water," growled Bobby, aiming a very small smite at the water just in front of Crowley. A hand composed of water rose from the surface, and slapped Crowley on the ear again. The King of Hell let out one last shriek, then began paddling as hard as he could for shore, with Bobby hovering close by and encouraging him with the odd smite.

"Well, that was unexpected," shrugged Dean, taking another drink of beer.

"Do you think he'll make Crowley paddle all the way back to shore?" asked Andrew, in a tone suggesting that if Bobby did that, it would at least make for an entertaining afternoon.

"Possibly not," observed Sam, as Bobby swooped in and grabbed Crowley by the collar of his lifejacket, hauling the howling King of Hell into the air and heading for shore. "Oh, it seems Crowley is not a happy flier. That's actually something he has in common with you, Dean. That, and getting smacked upside the head by Bobby."

They considered taking the boat back in, but then Rufus pointed out that being two men down meant that there were more fish, more food, and more beers, for each of them. And it was a nice day, so they decided to stay put for a couple more hours. Bobby really had done a good job with the lake; it would've been just plain rude not to make full use of it. And, they told themselves, none of them wanted to piss off Robertiel the Acting Archangel.

REALLY THE END

*Squelch* Aaaaand another plot bunny stomped. Huzzah! I just love the way their tender little bones go crunch under my boots... so, until the wretched rodents next pop out of my tea mug, my helmet, or some other unexpected hiding place, tata for now. Because you can't possibly want a visit from the DDD&SSS van while they're in their sixties, can you?...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Rowing You Across The Serene Lake* Of Life! With A Picnic Hamper.

*Don't push them in just to look at them in wet clothing, you depraved individuals.