WARNING: The plot bunny muttering about this one is shy, and possibly has a speech impediment - however, it is VERY annoying, and I'm hoping that writing down something it says will embolden it and make it more articulate, and encourage it to dictate more. Reviews help too, what with me being an unrepentant addict (I went to a Review Addicts Anonymous meeting once; they asked me to leave). As such, the summary, title, and possibly even whole chapters may change as we go. But the Denizens of the Jimiverse are an adventurous lot
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of it - if I did, Bobby would currently be enjoying a fortnight in the Bahamas on rec leave as we speak, before getting back to Singer Salvage to talk to the architect about rebuilding his house, while Sam and Dean argued over wallpaper, furniture, paint charts, carpet samples and curtain fabric swatches. Oh, yeah, and some terrible disaster would be in the offing, which could only averted by sacrificing That Gamble Woman to a volcano god, or something...
WORKING TITLE: Wolf Whistle
SUMMARY: The sun comes up in the East. Water is wet. Birds fly. Fish swim. Dean pisses off witches. Which is why Sam is just a bit worried when his big brother goes undercover to a tantric sex workshop to scope out a yoga practitioner they suspect of being a witch; it's hard to see Dean getting in touch with his feminine side, although he's keen to get in touch with the feminine sides of other workshop participants. Sam's pretty sure he'll go completely yin-yang before they get this sorted out.
RATING: T. 'Dean'. 'Tantric sex workshop'. You do the math.
BLAME: I blame whoever sent this plot bunny. And all the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In to the Jimiverse who keep encouraging me. And aeicha who voted for tantric sex when reviewing 'And Laurie Partridge In A Pear Tree'.
Prologue
Blood. So much of it. And right after he'd put on a clean shirt that morning, too.
Not that he was squeamish; he'd seen plenty of blood before, including his own. The feeling was more one of... annoyance. Damned blood. Should stay on the inside, where it's supposed to be...
"Y'r ramblin'," he slurred to himself, pushing drunkenly to his feet before falling over again. Probably slipped on his own blood. Stupid blood. No, he peered more closely at his left leg, wrapped in the shredded remains of his plaid shirt; it was his leg's fault. It folded up under him. Yep, he should blame his leg. It was mostly his leg that was the one that insisted on letting all the blood out in the first place. Not that his arm helped much. And he wasn't going to apologise to his blood, nuh-uh, not while it was making a break for freedom like that. Stupid leg. Stupid arm. Stupid limbs. Stupid blood. Stupid monster.
Well, no, not stupid monster. It had been smart. A lot smarter than him.
It came out of nowhere, had been on him before he'd had time to see what it was, totally unexpected. Fast, silent, and huge. Jesus Christ, the damn thing was fucking massive. It's not like he was loaded with silver – the clip he emptied into it didn't even slow it down.
Him. It was a him. No female werewolf ever got that big. Didn't slow him down. Before he could even register what it was, it hit him like an angry slavering truck, mauling him with claws like sharpened gardening forks, and brute strength, tossing him across the clearing and pouncing like a cat chasing a wounded mouse, raising an enormous hand-paw for the killing strike that would tear out his throat, and let the rest of his treacherous, stupid blood out, stopping only when a sudden pair of headlights lit up the small clearing like airliner landing lights, dropping him like a torn rag doll and loping away silently into the scrub...
There was something wrong, though, something not right. Okay, apart from the fact that so much of his blood was on the outside, something wrong about the werewolf. Something important. He had to tell Bobby, had to let Bobby know. He'd be able to figure it out. But his head was spinning, and his ears were buzzing, but this was important. He managed to work his cell out of his pocket. Bobby, he had to call Bobby... He dropped the phone, and was groping blindly for it when he heard running feet, then there were worried voices trying to be calming, telling him to hold still, help was on the way.
He gasped for air, and shook his head as gravity did another sickening barrel roll, pushing hands away. There was something he had to do, something important, but he couldn't remember what it was...
"Hey, take it easy buddy, the ambulance is on its way," a professionally brisk female voice told him. The voice said 'cop' louder than her uniform. She must've caught sight of his phone. "There somebody we can call?"
"Tell m'brother not t'worry, 'm fine," he rasped, fighting the urge to throw up. That was important; he didn't want his brother to worry. But there was something else important, too. "Bobby... tell B'bby... 'mportn't..."
He cursed his stupid, uncooperative blood again as cold darkness pulled him under.
Don't blame me, blame the bunny. It's important for the rest of the story, apparently.
Reviews make the bunnies whisper more loudly!