Okay, no idea WTF this plot bunny thinks it's doing exactly - it's been ruminating and hiding, and tonight it finally popped out and dictated something. Apparently, the prologue matters. Where is it going? I don't know, but in the Jimiverse, just getting something written down can encourage the plot bunny to be more forthcoming. So, I'll delete this one if it doesn't go anywhere, but let's give the bunny a chance. I think his name might be Bruce.
DISCLAIMER: They're not mine. If they were, I'd let the Denizens borrow them.
TITLE: Here Comes the Snide
SUMMARY: It's a wedding! And the Winchesters are invited. Bobby will be giving the bride away, Dean will be on make-up advice, and Sam, well, he'll be making polite conversation with the groom's family, and making sure that they don't find out that their darling boy is about to marry a werewolf. Oh, and that he's a werewolf, too. Oh, and they just have to stop whatever's haunting the building. And explain to Cas that 'chicken fillets' are fake bra fillers, and real bits of dead chicken are not needed. Could it get any worse? Actually, since you ask, yes...
RATING: T. Because gagging Dean for the entire story would be kinky, but make dialogue difficult. Maybe even T+ for the first bit, because the prologue contains a VERY VERY BAD WORD. You have been warned.
BLAME: Lies with the Denizens, natch, those eebil, shameless and relentless breeders of plot bunnies. One day, somebody will develop a strain of plot bunny myxomatosis, and then we'll see who's laughing, ha ha ha! HA HA HA! BWAHAHAHAHA! Ahem.
Prologue
Bargara, Queensland Australia, December 1991
It wasn't exactly a Hunter's pub, but a lot of Hunters passed through. Jeff didn't mind them, though – they drank a lot, and kept to themselves, rarely making trouble, and according to some unspoken law, never brought their brand of trouble with them. As a rule, they were his least disruptive customers.
Bargara was in sugar cane country, though, so it saw a lot of seasonal workers during the cutting season. They worked hard, played hard, and drank hard. Unfortunately, they weren't as reserved as Hunters. He kept two weapons under the bar, a hefty baton (a souvenir of his days as a cop) and a shotgun (not a souvenir from his days on the force, but purchased from an old acquaintance off the books), although with his size, he'd never had to draw it.
The bloke who walked in from the humid evening was familiar, as was the kid who trailed in behind him. He nodded in greeting, bought a beer for himself and lemon squash for the kid (who probably could've passed for eighteen, and God knew that Hunters could get hold of convincing fake IDs, but many preferred not to risk a run-in with the law over such a small matter, when a simple under-age drinking charge could escalate into a vehicle search and lead to some very awkward questions), then retired to a table in a dark corner.
Ten minutes later, another guy arrived and drifted over to join them, where they exchanged perfunctory greetings. At a word from the first – the father – the kid got up, and drifted over towards the dimly lit pool tables, idly racking the balls, and beginning some practice.
Business picked up as the sun and the temperature went down, and Jeff saw a flash of silver at the table where the two Hunters were talking. Only an ex-cop would've seen money exchange hands as some agreement was reached, and more beer was called for.
His invisible whiskers twitched as three biker types came in, already swaggering with drink – they'd probably been thrown out of somewhere else. Not authentic 1%er outlaws, merely wannabe tough guys with their pay packets just collected, looking for something to drink, something to fight, and something to fuck. The bought a couple of jugs, and headed for the pool tables, where two of them started a game on the second table, and the third decided he wanted to practice.
"Hey," he said to the kid, who was lining up a shot off the edge, "Piss off, the grown-ups want to play."
"Guess that rules you out, then," said the kid mildly, not even looking up, and making the shot.
The biker watched the cue ball bounce, rebound, then hit the coloured ball, which rolled to the pocket and drop in. "Think you can play, huh?" He smiled unpleasantly. "Are you any good?"
"No." The kid straightened up, and stared back. "I'm fucking good."
"And modest, too," chortled one of the other bikers. Jeff noticed that the kid's father was sitting calmly, but to the trained eye, he was watching like a lion watching a hyena stray near his cub.
Deliberately, the biker reached out and grabbed the cue ball as it rolled towards the black. "Fancy a game then, smartarse?" the biker asked.
"No," replied the kid immediately. "I don't give lessons for free, I'll win your money, then you'll get pissed off, and start behaving like a dickhead, and Jeff doesn't do 'dickhead' very well, and it will just be unpleasant for everybody."
"Oooooooooh," went the other two bikers, clearly amused.
Smiling unpleasantly, the biker took out his wallet, and slapped down a twenty. The kid went back to the table, spoke briefly to the father, and returned with four fifties. A brief flash of doubt passed over the biker's face.
"I told you, I charge for lessons," the kid reiterated. "I'm not a fucking charity." There was a pause for effect. "I really don't think you should match it. I'll win, and take your money. Why don't you just cover your uncertainty by saying something like, 'There's no fun in beating a little shit like you', and walk away?"
Jeff sighed inwardly; no bloke on a chopped Harley was going to walk away from a goading like that from a kid who'd only just finished high school.
With a predatory sneer, the biker pulled out two hundred. "Toss you for the break," he growled.
Jeff got on with the business of the bar, and shifted his piece of pipe to be close to hand. He'd seen the youngster play before – there was no hustle, no deception, just the blunt reality twisted into irresistible reverse psychology. I'm better than you. You'll lose. Don't waste your money trying to prove me wrong.
Watching without watching (a skill every barman, let alone an ex-cop, had to develop), Jeff thought that the game was in fact remarkably even, until the older Hunter stood up. The kid saw him gesture, then knocked the remaining balls off the table one after the other, having just been toying with the biker, apparently for amusement.
The money disappeared into the kid's pocket. "I did warn you," it was said with a resigned sigh. "I always tell people, but they never listen. It's because I'm just a kid, I s'pose."
It happened quickly: the biker realised he'd been screwed over by a kid, and his mates were laughing at him. His face screwed up into an angry scowl. He reached back under his vest, and his hand came back with a knife.
Someone shouted, a woman screamed, and the next thing anyone knew, the biker was slammed against the wall, and screaming louder than the woman.
"You stabbed me!" he howled, "The little cunt stabbed me!"
Jeff was over the bar before the obscenity cut the air, pushing the kid out of the way...
The biker wasn't stabbed. But he was pinned to the wall, his vest and shirt skewered with his own knife.
"Calm down, shithead," he snapped, pulling the weapon free, "You're not bloody stabbed, you're just stuck. You can collect this," he flipped the knife, "Before you leave. And if you want to do that under your own steam, rather than with my boot in your arse, you will calm the fuck down, and behave yourself, understand?"
"That little shit cheated me," the biker muttered sullenly.
"I distinctly heard that little shit warn you that you'd get your arse whupped," Jeff growled, "But look, that little shit is leaving now anyway," he turned to the kid, "Aren't you, little shit?"
"Sorry about the wall, Jeff," the kid said sheepishly. "But fair dinkum, he started it..."
The older Hunter cleared his throat pointedly, and the kid trotted quickly to his side. With a gruff nod from the father, they were gone, headed back to the pickup where a dog waited in the bed.
"What have I told you about shitting in your own nest?" growled the older Hunter.
"Sorry, Dad," replied the kid. "But he did start it."
"I don't care if he kicked over your sandcastle!" snapped the father, "What the hell was that stunt with the knife?"
"You'd have yelled blue murder if I'd stuck it in his leg," came the heated retort, "Which would've been easier, actually."
"Oh, bugger," the father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, you can't go provoking blokes like that, not this close to home. Jeff lets us all use his place. Don't make trouble for him."
"I didn't!" the teenager protested. "I warned him! Jeff heard me."
"You know exactly what you did," the father growled. "Don't do that again."
"Fine," it was sighed as only a thwarted teenager can manage, "Ruin my fun, and sabotage my earning power." But the kid brightened up. "How much did I get for my ammo?"
With a shake of his head, he extracted a wad of cash from a pocket. His kid's eyes lit up. "Told you my stuff is good."
"Your grandmother would be proud of you," he said gently. "So, this, plus four hundred..."
"Hang on." The kid fished a greasy wallet out of a pocket . "Let me check."
Len Shepherd let out a groan. "Oh, fuck me, Ronnie, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"He won't complain," she dismissed his complaint with the certainty of a seventeen-year-old, "No bloke like that is going to go to the cops and say, a girl beat me at pool, almost stabbed me after I pulled a knife on her, then nicked my wallet."
"If she wasn't alive when you were born, I'd say you were your grandmother reincarnated," muttered Len. "So, that should be enough for that Ruger you were looking at..."
"Nuh-uh," she said firmly, "This is going in the uni fund. You can buy me the Ruger for Christmas."
"In your dreams," scoffed her father.
"Okay then, for my birthday."
"You really are a little shit, aren't you?" he grinned fondly.
"I learned form the best," she beamed at him, "Which is why..."
Ronnie paused, blinked, and the smile fell off her face.
"Ronnie?" pressed her father. "What is it?"
"A disturbance in the Force," she muttered, quickly pulling a knife from her boot.
"Mum?" he asked, moving closer.
"Yep." Ronnie dragged the knife across her arm, then quickly scribbled a symbol on the hood of the truck, muttering to herself as she did. "Shit, she's looking for both of us..."
She slammed her hand down on the blood symbol, grabbed her father's hand and banged it down on top of her own.
They stood there for nearly a minute, until Ronnie let out a breath, and nodded to her father to remove her hand. "She doesn't trust you any more than she trusts me."
"Well, we can truthfully say, without word of a lie, that not a single drop of alcohol passed your lips," her father sounded relieved. His wife Claire was one of the most powerful white witches on the Eastern seaboard, if not the country. She'd tried to instruct her oldest daughter in The Craft, but Ronnie had no real interest, and from an early age had seen the benefit of letting her mother think that she had no real talent, either. She certainly didn't want her mother to know that she had always been able to tell when Claire was scrying for her firstborn child, and possibly also her husband.
"You know, it might help your Hunting if you did learn a bit more," Len suggested.
"You mean, it might stop Mum from hounding you about training me up," Ronnie grinned. "I know enough to dodge her snooping. And I can unwind a curse." She climbed into the truck. "What's more important, being able to pull a rabbit out of a hat, or decapitate a kianpraty at ten paces?"
"You are a little smartarse, you know," Len started the engine, and Diesel woofed from the bed. "For Christ's sake, don't let your mother see the money you've got."
"We'll tell her it's for my ammo," Ronnie waved a hand dismissively, "She has no idea what well-cast silver rounds are worth."
The truck pulled out of the pub parking lot.
"So, uni," said Len casually. "You know we don't have the money for it, Ronnie."
"I'm going," said Ronnie firmly. "I've applied for scholarships at UQ, ANU and Melbourne. Mr Tytler, the science co-ordinator, says I'll shit it in."
"He said that?" Len raised his eyebrows.
"Er, not those exact words," admitted Ronnie. "What he did say was that an engineering faculty will fall on a female candidate with my results with inarticulate cries of joy." She paused. "I think he means that as a good thing."
"And what will you live on?" pressed Len. "It's a long way, even from Brisbane, to come home for dinner."
"I'll work something out," Ronnie shrugged. "Students are meant to live on two-minute noodles, Vegemite toast and beer." She smirked smugly. "I can always play pool."
"Jesus, Ronnie..."
"Dad, it'll work out," she grinned. "And think what I could do with it! Chemical engineering! What if I could find out why silver damages werewolves or shapeshifters? Or why dead blood kills vampires? Or holy water hurts demons? Think what Hunters could do with that sort of info!"
"Well, I can see that having a business called 'Shepherd and Daughter' just isn't going to happen," remarked Len philosophically.
"I can still work for you, during the holidays," she told him, "I can weld better than a fourth-year apprentice. And my rates will be very reasonable."
"If you don't have your first class ticket, your rates will be whatever I say they are," her father replied serenely.
"No biggie," she said airily, "I'll just go to the pub, and play pool. I'll be eighteen in a couple of months, so I'll be allowed to do that all by myself..."
"Saints preserve us," muttered Len, shooting a sideways glance at his little girl, who really wasn't at all little any more. Never had been 'little', really... "Just don't drop out, find Nirvana and go and live on a commune somewhere. Oh, and if you present me with a grandchild before you turn twenty-one, I will end you. "
Ronnie burst out laughing. "No worries there, Dad," she was genuinely amused, "No bloke is gunna want a sheila who looks more like a guy than he does!"
If only I could truly believe that, Len thought, But I can't help but worry that, one day, there will be a man who sees past the outside, and sees that smile, dear God, daughter mine, that smile will take some poor bastard's breath away, and then he'll take my little girl, my wingwoman, away, and how did you grow up like this?...
"Well, do me a favour," he begged, "Tell your mother when I'm not there."
"Chicken," Ronnie mumbled, taking out the biker's wallet to count her pickings. "I will come back, you know," she told him, "I'll come back, and I'll still be a Hunter. I'll be a better Hunter. And I'll have your back."
"Good to know," he smiled.
"Oh, and if you do a runner when I tell Mum, I'll tell her how much you spent on that shotgun."
"Jeff's right, you are a little shit."
"Yeah, but I'm your little shit, Daddy dearest."
"I suddenly feel old."
"You are old."
"I'm middle-aged!"
"Which translates as: old."
"It'll happen to you one day, too, you know."
"Yep," Ronnie looked out the window, watching her future unroll before her with the scenery, "I intend to stay alive long enough to get old. That's the plan."
What the hell is Bruce the plot bunny up to? Feed him, and find out! He says...there will be bickering Winchesters next chapter, bickering about... nudity...