A/N: The voices in my head tell me this is the third and final part.

"Sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin." Yes, I lifted, I mean borrowed that from Adam Sandler's movie "Anger Management".

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Really? I don't?

TUESDAY NIGHT

Yep, they certainly did vaccum the damn carpet.

Every damn night.

Sometime later a disheveled black eyed Sam Winchester re-formed and managed to drag himself out of the dumpster behind Phil Thompson's building. By this time Sam was sticky with orange juice that had spilled out of a bottle in the trash. A banana peel got stuck in his hair and it was just his luck that somebody had thrown out their left-over tuna fish salad.

In short, Sam reeked.

It took him several hours to hitchhike over to the townhouse he and Dean shared. Sam's cellphone didn't survive being smashed and he had to dive back into the dumpster to retrieve his house keys.

And the keys to the Impala.

"Hey, Dean." The grin on Sam's face was wide and forced as he opened the door and stepped inside the front hallway.

Dean frowned up. "Hey yourself. You ditched me today, Sammy. Where the hell did you get to?"

"Oh, ah…I was around." Sam shrugged.

Dean put his hand out. "Keys?"

"Keys?" Sam repeated blankly.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "Keys. To. My. Car? I had to hotwire my baby. She didn't appreciate that, Sammy."

"Oh. Oh yeah." Sam dug into his pockets and pulled the keys out, dropped them into Dean's outstretched hand.

Dean wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air. He gingerly took the keys and dangled them carefully between his thumb and forefinger. "What the hell, Frances? You smell like a friggin' landfill."

Sam's shit-eating grin got a little wider.

"So…ah," Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Dr. Phil. You ah, goin' back tomorrow?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah."

"Is ….ah, is Dad going to have to make you go back?"

Dean sighed. "Why? You got some secret kink about seein' me in chains that I don't know anything about? No. You're supposed to drive me over there. Again."

"Then could I --"

"Hell no. You sit your ass in the waiting room like Dad told you. Don't disappear like you did today, okay? Give me my damn car keys before I go in and I'll give 'em to you when I come back out." Dean jingled the keys and was already thinking about how the hell he was going to clean the damn things off. Ugh. "I don't like hotwiring my girl. She's sensitive that way."

"Disappear?" Sam repeated absently.

Invisibility. Better than the transformation spell. What the hell had he been thinking?

A good idea is a good idea.

WEDNESDAY

Same crap, different day.

"I cry during sex," Dean whimpered.

Uh huh, Meg thought. Figures.

"You need to listen to your body because your body is listening to you," Thompson said, and even Meg frowned up when she heard that one. What the hell?

The good doctor was on a roll. "Giraffes are green and blue. Sometimes you just got to give yourself what you wish someone else would give you. The sun's in a box and I lost the key."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "I see somebody didn't take their medication today, Doc."

You're off topic, Meg hissed in Thompson's ear. Get him to tell you what he's afraid of.

It happened sometimes, when she possessed somebody but let them retain just enough control. Sometimes their brains got scrambled, like now.

If I do that, Thompson's thought voice was small, timid, can we use those silk ribbons tonight? The red ones?

Meg rolled her eyes. Oh, all right.

"Sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin, Dean. This is all about you. We're talking about you interacting with the rest of us. This relationship needs a hero. You gonna just coast through life like this? You gotta let people know who you really are."

Dean then launched into a long, drawn out stream of consciousness thing about something that happened to him when he was younger. "And one time, in band camp, there was this girl named Michelle, and I stuck a flute in her …"

He went on and on. Meg actually started wondering why John Winchester didn't have his eldest son neutered. At age nine.

"I like pie." Dean was clearly warming up to the subject. " 'specially apple pie. You know why? It feels like third base. All warm and juicy. Yep, her apple pie was freakin' worth it."

Meg didn't want to admit it, but this was getting tedious. Sex sex sex. It was all this chucklehead talked about. She liked sex just as much as the next depraved hell demon out here, but this was ridiculous.

The real entertainment was Sammy, and he didn't fail to disappoint.

Invisibility was so last century, and so lackluster, man.

The thing is, Sam must have written the damn spell down wrong. It didn't work. Not only that, he had a terrible headache for the rest of the day and his balls turned bright orange.

Sam decided to quit while he was ahead.

Ten o'clock couldn't come soon enough on Wednesday.

THURSDAY

Thursday was a bust. An epic fail.

"I want to help you help me to help yourself."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Dean looked like he was ready to bolt out the door.

"What did you want to be when you grew up?"

"A lawyer," Dean whimpered.

There were holes in Dean's defenses, sure enough, but overall he hadn't given up a thing. He wouldn't talk about his fears, and even Sam was having an off day, apparently. The schtick for today was astral projection. When Meg sensed him coming through the wall she cast a blocking spell that bounced him right back into his body.

Then, just to teach him a lesson, she made his balls turn sunflower yellow. And shrink to the size of raisins. She saw what happened to him yesterday. A good idea was a good idea.

Meg was feeling mean.

The only thing she could think of was, One more day after this. One more day to find out Dean's weaknesses so she could use them against him. She decided right then and there that when the end came she was going to torture Dean slowly. Very, very slowly. She was going to make him suffer, because Satan knows she'd suffered these last few days.

Doc Thompson was one needy so-and-so.

FRIDAY

At nine seventeen a.m. Dean suddenly looked all hollow-eyed and haunted. "I'm…I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, Dean?"

"Clowns. Ronald McDonald." Thompson watched with interest as Dean's broad shoulders began to shake.

Even though she didn't have lungs in her current state, Meg held her breath. Dean was on the edge, and the walls came tumbling down.

He shed one perfect tear and let it all out.

000

He'd followed Dad's orders. He'd done his time and had some fun doing it. Now he was in the clear.

Plus, he'd whupped Sammy's ass this week. That fly transformation bit was so damn juvenile Dean felt embarrassed for him. What was he, freaking four? And that invisibility spell? It would have worked but Dean knew the countermeasure.

He'd thrown in that bit about Sam's color coded privates just for grins.

Orange balls, Dean thought with glee. Am I velvety smooth or what?

He was pretty pleased with himself. He kept his sunglasses on and allowed Sammy to drive his girl. Sam fidgeted around behind the wheel, but he stopped when Dean growled softly, "You better settle yourself, Samantha, 'cause if you put one scratch on my baby I will kick your ass from here to Florida."

Sam settled himself.

If Sasquatch didn't hear anything when he was that damn fly, when he was ghosting through walls, or when he tried to become invisible, Dean sure in the hell wasn't going to do him any favors and fill in the blanks. What goes on in Doc Thompson's inner office, stays in Doc Thompson's inner office.

It was all according to Dean Winchester's Theory of Relativity: Your family can run you crazy if you let 'em. But remember, boys and girls, that door swings both ways.

No doubt about it. Dean sighed contentedly as he settled back against the seat cushion.

LIFE. WAS. GOOD.

Meg was next.

Who the hell did that skank think she was fooling?

On the second day he could see Meg hiding just underneath the good doctor's skin. Right then and there Dean decided that he really didn't have very many options. He could have gone back to John, of course, and he had no doubt that Dad would have believed him, but then that meant that Meg could always come back at him another day, another way.

Besides, only a bitch would go running off like that, running off to Daddy, expecting him to handle his problems. Say what you will, he might be evil now, and bound for hell, but Dean Winchester was no bitch. No way, no how. Never had been, never would be.

He had been feeling tired and run down, even though he'd never admit it. And really, once he figured out what was really going on, just the idea of fucking with Meg and Sam was more than enough to put a spring back in Dean's step. It was just what he needed, something devious to occupy his time and his mind. It was something useful, not those emo bits and chick flick moments.

He'd always been able to cry on command, and instead of blubbering all over himself like some big old girl, that single tear running down his cheek was a hell of a lot more effective than totally breaking down like a girly man, all red-eyed and snot-nosed.

It worked on just about everybody. Every single damn time.

And everything he'd told Meg had been Sammy's stuff. Not his. Of course the bitch was going to try to use it against him, and when she did you could put a fork in her, 'cause she was done.

Dean Winchester for the win, Dean crowed to himself. Everyone else? A big fat zero.

000

Marie the receptionist came over later and spent the night. Sam didn't get much sleep, what with the banging and squeaking and the yelling and the moaning ("Oh, Dean! Dean! Yes! Yesss!") but neither Dean nor Marie had much sympathy for him.

Sam finally gave up and went over to Ava's house.

Earlier that same day Dean went to John to ask a favor. John quirked an eyebrow at him but he didn't ask Dean why he needed to borrow those chains from earlier in the week.

000

TWO DAYS LATER:

The Evil Clown Apocalypse hit the West Coast at approximately 9:45 in the morning. It was an independent operation, one not sanctioned by John Winchester and his demon horde. Dean and Sam were dispatched to clean up the mess. Sam reportedly balked until he received formal orders from his father: "You gotta stare Bozo right in the face and don't blink, Sammy."

Meg Masters was not present during this exchange. If she had, perhaps this story would have ended differently.

Meg and a carload of her most devoted demon minions disappeared the same day they arrived in California with the Winchester brothers.

To this date, Meg has not been seen since. In either place.

There were plenty of rumors, of course. Angels from Heaven were alleged to have come down and dragged them screaming and shrieking up to Heaven. The Front Office issued a statement flatly denying the charge: "If we had them," Saint Peter grumbled, "we'd make an example of their sorry asses. Yeah, you heard me. I said it."

The general consensus was that if Meg was that damn sloppy and her minions were that damn stupid, then none of them deserved to be topside in the first place. No great loss.

Sam Winchester had daily sessions with Dr. Phillip Thompson for two months afterwards. He'd stared Bozo in the face, all right. And blinked.

"Can't sleep," Sam said over and over again. "Clown will eat me..."

Dean Winchester was unavailable for comment.

000

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