HOT STUFF
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Probably a good thing, because there's no room in the garage (my bikes have first dibs on the undercover lock-up) and the arguments about the hot water running out would end in tears.
SUMMARY: Sam always wanted a dog. Dean misses Jimi the show-winning chick magnet hellhound terribly, even the lavender-scented farting. When they are adopted by one of Rumsfeld's puppies, they couldn't be happier, although he has inherited some, er, interesting traits from his daddy. Still, Dean already practically raised a sasquatch - how hard can a half-hellhound Rottweiler be?
Set a few days after 'Can We Keep Him?'. Can be read alone, but please feel free to read that one first, and get the back-story. Leave a review! They make me so pathetically happy... *sniff*
RATING: T, because there will be Language. Always with the Language. I curse the episode that taught my husband to say 'assbutt'.
BLAME: Lies ENTIRELY with the people who were so encouraging about my earlier efforts, and especially the ones who asked for a sequel to 'Can We Keep Him?' - on that topic, can I just state that the line about somebody writing a Dean/Rumsfeld fic was a joke, okay? It was Sam teasing his brother. I wasn't serious. You all get that, right? Right?
Prologue
"What a sweet old lady," mused Sam, "It's a real pity we didn't get to talk to her while she was still alive."
"You, Sam, it's a pity that you didn't get to talk to her while she was alive," Dean corrected him grumpily. The ghost of Eulalia Picklesworth, deceased librarian and dog-lover, had been laid to rest with no difficulty, but his ankle was sore, he'd squashed his M&Ms, and worst of all he smelled of lavender.
"Come on, Dean," argued Sam, "How often can you have a rational discussion with a ghost about why she's still hanging around? Wasn't a civilized conversation a pleasant change from being hurled head-first into the nearest cement cherub?"
"The sad thing is knowing that talking to an octogenarian dead librarian is the longest conversation you've had with a female for a very long time," sighed Dean sadly, "Where did I go wrong, Sammy?"
"She was a really interesting person," continued Sam, "She kept her job as an assistant librarian right after she married - that was unheard of sixty years ago!"
"On the one hand, it's kind of reassuring to discover that Mr Vanilla has a kink after all," interrupted Dean, "On the other, finding out that it involves you having a thing about octogenarian dead librarians is disturbing..."
"... AND she went back to work after she had her first child - she had to face down the library board, it made the local newspaper, but she stuck to her guns..." continued Sam in admiration.
"The'octogenarian' bit it taking the whole cougar thing beyond ridiculous, and the 'dead' bit is illegal as well as just seriously twisted..."
"She served on the Decimal Classification Editorial Policy Committee for four terms, she was on the board of the local animal shelter for nearly twenty years..." Sam tried, valiantly attempting to steer the conversation above waist height, but Dean's mind had slipped its collar and gone wandering down Libido Lane.
"I can kind of see the librarian angle, though," his older brother conceded, "It's the hair-in-a-bun and the glare-at-you-over-the-glasses and the severe expression, you know, so strict on the outside... do you remember the librarian in that little place in Ohio, the leap year florist haunting, the one who threw you out of the library for correcting the Latin on the Roman History Week poster?"
"God, how could I forget?" muttered Sam, "All I was trying to do was explain the difference between a nominative and an imperative! I even used my own red pen! I mean, it was aimed at kids, you can't go around screwing up declensions that badly and expect them to learn..."
"Well, I can tell you, she was just as strict after dark, ohhhh yeah..."
"Dean!" yelped Sam, giving his brother a dose of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk).
Dean shot a pitying look at his brother. "Maybe I should've left you talking to Mrs Picklesworth," he said, "At least let her go 'Shhhhhh!' at you and maybe threaten to spank you for being a naughty, noisy boy. You need to get laid, Sam."
"Fine, fine, I give up," groaned Sam, "Just buy me a ticket for the Dead Librarians B&D Picnic, if it will stop you taking your usual unhealthy interest in my private life."
"I'm just trying to look out for my baby brother," asserted Dean, reaching down and rubbing at his ankle. "Ow. On second thoughts, I should've talked to her and let you dig up her dog."
"That was mean of her family," Sam said, "All she wanted was a decent burial for poor Phoebe. She left them her house, her books, and all they could do with her dog when it died was throw it over the back fence. They're lucky all she did was haunt the laundry hamper. If you ask me, they deserved more than being pelted with dirty socks every Thursday."
"Poor Phoebe?" asked Dean incredulously, "That 'poor Phoebe' tried to savage me!"
"Dean, she wasn't trying to savage you..."
"Just dig up the dog and rebury her, you said," griped Dean, "I've talked to Mrs Picklesworth and she just wants her dog laid to rest under her favorite bush, you said. You didn't tell me it was hanging around too and it would try to eat me!"
"She didn't try to eat you - didn't you see her tail wagging?"
"I nearly lost a foot to a dog ghost!"
"You tripped on a half-rotten fence post in a vacant lot, Dean..."
"Did you see it attack me? It attacked me!"
"Dean, she was trying to lick you..."
"It was tasting me, Sam! Where were you with the rock salt, huh, while I was practically savaged by a dead dog?"
"Dean, I couldn't shoot at the dog without hitting you, and I didn't think you were in trouble..."
Dean peered down from the lofty peaks of High Dudgeon. "Not in trouble? Did you see the snarl on that thing? It tried to chew my leg off!"
"Dean, that was one of the happiest doggy grins I've ever seen..."
"I had to whack it with the shovel!"
"Dean..."
"An undead ghost dog beast was trying to maul me, and my brother stood there and watched!"
"Dean, it was the ghost of a deaf, six-pound, eighteen-year-old Pomeranian with only three teeth left..."
"It pushed me over! I fell into a lavender bush! It lavenderized me!"
"Dean, over-reaction, much? You tripped over your own feet trying to whack the poor little thing with the shovel. Self-inflicted injury, bro."
"I smell like an old lady!" Dean whined, "I smell like... I smell like Jimi." He subsided into unhappy silence.
"I miss him too, Dean," said Sam quietly. "But you were right - he's happy in Heaven, causing administrative havoc and digging up the Firmament. It's okay to miss him, you know."
"Talk about ungrateful relatives," grumbled Dean, changing the subject in a tone of voice that indicated that he had no wish to Talk About Our Feelings. "I'm going to disinherit you. I will leave my vast fortune, my extensive shares portfolio, and both my beach houses to charity, and you, ungrateful little brother, will not get a cent." He paused thoughtfully. "On second thoughts, I will leave you fifty dollars. That should be enough to get a haircut."
Sam rolled his eyes. This was shaping up to be a long drive...
"Mind you," continued Dean, salvaging M&M fragments, "That was a nice homily you delivered. I liked the bit about all dogs going to Heaven. 'We commit the mortal remains of Kelsey Park Goodgirl to the Earth, beneath her favorite rosemary bush, as a sign of remembrance and the devotion between Phoebe and her beloved owner.' Hell, I might even get you to do my funeral."
"Could be a problem with that, Dean," mused Sam seriously, "On account of there being no such thing as a condom bush to bury you under. Perhaps I could scatter your ashes around a distillery? Or a mattress factory, maybe?" He beamed angelically at his brother.
"Eyes on the road, bitch," scowled Dean, "Next time, we're only taking the case if the dead librarian was cute. And you dig up the dog."
"Okay, okay," agreed Sam in a placating tone, "I will let you vet all cases involving dead librarians from now on. What did Bobby say?" he changed the subject.
"He says he has something he wants to show us," answered Dean.
"A job?"
"No, he said it's nothing to worry about, just that we'll find it interesting," supplied Dean. "Knowing him, it's probably some sixteenth century book of Latin grammar exercises. No doubt the two of you will be up all night, boldly conjugating verbs no man has conjugated before!" He cocked an eyebrow at Sam, who had a premonition that had nothing to do with being one of Azazel's special children.
"You're about to tell me that it's not the sort of conjugation you're interested in, aren't you?" sighed Sam.
"Yahtzee!" smirked Dean, "While you and Bobby yuk it up over some dusty book, I'll go find myself a girl who knows how to handle dangling participles..."
"You must be the only person on the planet who can make grammar sound obscene, Dean."
"I know. Putting the sin into syntax. It's a gift. Don't hate me because I'm talented."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ... oooooOOOOOooooo...
They were still bickering when Sam pulled the Impala into Bobby's yard two days later. He was at the door to greet them, smiling hugely. Sam's eyes narrowed.
"Bobby, what are you smirking at?" he asked suspiciously.
"Me? Smirking?" asked Bobby innocently. "I'm not smirking. No sir, no smirking here. This is a no smirking area. Medical authorities warn that smirking is a health hazard."
"You're right, that's not a smirk," agreed Dean, "It's a shit-eating grin."
"What, I can't just be pleased to see you two idjits?" Bobby beamed at them.
The Winchesters exchanged A Look.
"Christo," they chorused.
Bobby sighed heavily. "I'm hurt. Truly hurt. You know I'm always happy every time I see you two chuckleheads still in one piece, it means that I can go to bed tonight without crying myself to sleep with worry..."
"Okay, now I know he's lying," growled Dean.
"Who are you, and what have you done with Bobby?" demanded Sam.
"Well, pardon me, Sir Grumpy Pants and Little Mr Sunshine," humphed Bobby, "I think we need to pay a visit to the Executive Officer In Charge Of Cheering Up, Ms Rumsfeld Singer. Follow me, gentlemen." Bobby turned and headed inside.
Dean shot Sam a bewildered look. "If not possession, then, what?"
Sam shrugged. "Skinwalker? Early onset Alzheimers? Got shat on by The Bluebird Of Happiness? Hey, Bobby, wait up!" They followed him anxiously, Sam asking "Didn't you say you had something to show us..."
Dean stopped dead in his tracks, partly because he walked into his brother, who had also stopped dead in his tracks, and partly startled by the indignant yipping coming from the laundry.
"Oh. Oh," said Sam softly.
"What? What?" demanded Dean, pushing past his brother. He paused, then said, "Oh."
In the laundry, Rumsfeld lounged contentedly in a whelping box. One little black ball of fur curled contentedly against her belly; another stalked the tip of her tail. A third was held gently but firmly between Rumsfeld's front paws, being given a bath - the reluctant bathee was the source of the outraged squalling.
Dean appeared to be holding his breath. "Are they... Bobby, are they..."
"Yup," grinned Bobby, "They're Jimi's. Guess I was too slow with the bucket of water."
"How old are they?" asked Sam, suddenly full of questions. "Why didn't you tell us! Are they boys, or girls? Do they have names yet?"
"I didn't tell you, because the last thing I needed was two idjit would-be midwives mother-henning around and annoying Rumsfeld," answered Bobby. "They're nearly four weeks old. Two girls, and a boy. The homebody there is Janis. The fearless hunter stalking The Wild Tail-Tip is Joni, and the reluctant bather, well..."
"Jimi," breathed Dean, a grin spreading across his face. "Jimi Junior." He knelt down by the box, as the pup finally squirmed free of his mother's washing. His little face turned towards Dean, and the tiny thing flung himself across the box, trying to scale the wall, yipping insistently. Dean picked him up, and he broke into a happy puppy grin.
"Well, hello there," crooned Dean, ruffling the pup's ears, as it climbed his shirt, tail wagging furiously, "Don't you look like your daddy? Yes you do! Yes you do! He hated a b-a-t-h, just like you..."
"Can I hold him? Can I hold him?" Sam was practically hopping from one foot to the other, making Dean think of him as a seven-year-old again. He handed the pup over.
"Careful, Sam, he's only little..."
"I am, I am..."
"Get a hand under him! Don't let him wiggle away!"
"Dean, I've got him! Hey, little guy!" The pup yipped and wriggled excitedly in Sam's arms.
"Hey, careful! Don't drop him!"
"I won't, already! Look at you, then! Who's a happy puppy?" The pup's enthusiastic wriggling intensified, and he yipped in excitement. "Who's a happy, happy puppy? Who's a really, really happy... Aaaaaaaaaaargh!" Sam's eyes crossed, and he handed the pup quickly back to Dean then started slapping at his shirt where it had caught fire.
"What? Sam!" started Dean, as Bobby threw a bucket of water at Sam. It happened to be a bucket that was soaking some old towels from the whelping box, but the contents were wet, and put out the small fire.
Dean stared at Sam, who was staring at his shirt and steaming ever so slightly. "What the hell just happened?"
"Um," said Sam, a look of confusion on his face, "I think he... peed on me..."
"What? What?" Dean peered down at the pup, who looked happily unrepentant. "Are you telling me that he inherited his daddy's... alien blood pee?"
"No!" declared Bobby emphatically, as Sam attempted fruitlessly to mop at his scorched-and-now-soaking shirt, "It's only happened a couple of times, when he's been really, really excited."
"He's done it before?" asked Dean. "And you didn't think to warn us that this pup sets things on fire, because...?"
"He hasn't set anything on fire before!" Bobby said indignantly.
"You just said it's happened before!"
"He's only left scorch marks before now." Bobby scratched his head. "But then again, I've never seen him this excited before. Anyway, once you house-train him, it won't be a problem. He's only half-hellhound; maybe he'll grow out of it."
"Once we... " Dean looked from Bobby to Sam, who was grinning from ear to ear. He looked down at the pup again. A flash of red highlights crackled across the big brown eyes, and Jimi Junior sighed contentedly, snuggling into the crook of his elbow. Dean smiled, cradling the pup close.
"Your daddy was a chick magnet, you know - I guess you can't help it if you're hot stuff."
"We can train him to the Hunt," said Sam, "I wonder if he's inherited any other traits from Jimi?"
"Well, seeing as he had the good sense to set fire to a paisley shirt, I'm sure he'll have other attributes of awesomeness."
"Dean..."
"Maybe I can train him to do something about your hair, just a little off the ends..."
"Jerk."
It could probably stand alone as a one-shot, but I have an inkling of a plot for Jimi Jr's first job, and if the Chocolate-Powered Inspiration Fairy will come to the party, I'll carry on. Remember, all reviews are tax deductible - you will get some internets refunded at the end of the financial year.