Chapter 2

"Great job, Sam," smirked Dean, "Maybe you should go back to school - you'd knock 'em dead in a courtroom."

"I don't believe this," scowled Sam. "What the hell did you think you were doing leaving him alone?"

"I was hungry," replied Dean defensively, "And there was a two-for-one pie offer advertised on the window of the diner, so I just ducked in. I was gone two minutes. I told him to stay!"

"You know he's reached the equivalent of teenagerdom, and he's pushing the boundaries," Sam accused his brother, "You shouldn't have left him alone! We can't leave him alone until he's matured enough to learn to control his more... unusual talents. Anyway, what if he had been hit by a car?"

"It probably would've folded up around him," said Dean smugly, "Remember when that semi-trailer hit Jimi Senior?"

"That's not the point! Dean, he stole a 400 lb side of beef, after walking through the door of the car! God, he chased a siege dog up a tree? He molested a police horse?"

"That's my boy," Dean smirked again.

Sam favoured him with a shot of Bitchface #7 (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable At Times, You Know That, Dean?). "And that strikes you as acceptable behaviour, does it?" he demanded. "He's testing the boundaries of authority, and all you can do is say, 'That's my boy'?" They reached the car, and Sam strode to the driver's side. Dean was going to protest, then thought better of it – Sam with a PMS happening was best dealt with by humouring him, at least until they could get some chocolate biscuits or something…

"Come on, Sam," wheedled Dean, "He has one little bit of… excitement, and you're acting as though he's some sort of canine delinquent."

"He is a canine delinquent," stated Sam, pulling away from the kerb. "Or have you forgotten the little bit of 'excitement' three weeks ago, when he stole another 'snack', and tried to bury it?"

"That's normal," Dean said defensively, "Dogs bury their food and come back to it."

"It was a whole sheep, Dean."

"Maybe he was really hungry."

"It was still alive, Dean."

"So he likes his food fresh!"

"Then there was that other little bit of 'excitement', when he nearly got all of us trampled to death by a very large, very fast, and above all very angry stud bull," Sam went on.

"Okay, yeah, but he didn't start that," countered Dean, "The bull started chasing him."

"Only because Jimi was molesting his herd of heifers," Sam continued.

"But there was no harm done, was there?" answered Dean.

"I don't know, I have no expertise in assessing cows for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, you'd have to ask a bovine rape crisis hotline about that…"

"I mean, the bull didn't get us, did it?"

"No, Dean, the bull did not get us, since Jimi chased it over two gates and into that swimming pool."

"See? Just a bit of harmless hijinks!"

"So, it was just hijinks when he attacked that cougar, then?"

"It was self defence," Dean asserted, "It tried to jump him."

"It tried to jump him, Dean, because he was raping its mate…"

"He's just enthusiastic when he plays, Sam," Dean told his brother, reaching back to pat Jimi. "You're the one who's always going on about how important play is for a young dog. He just likes to play! He's just like other dogs that way, really."

"Oh yeah, just like other dogs," said Sam dubiously, "Which would no doubt explain the 'excitement' at the beach a week ago."

"It's only natural for dogs to chase after birds, things that fly fascinate them," replied Dean, "You saw it for yourself. That poodle there caught a seagull!"

"Yes, yes it did," agreed Sam. "And if Jimi had caught a seagull, it would not have been a problem. But Jimi did not catch a seagull, Dean. Jimi caught a hang-glider."

"I still think you're over-reacting," grumped Dean, crossing his arms. "Just like the guy in the hang-glider. A bit of stitching, it'll be good as new."

"And I think that we need to deal with Jimi's behaviour before his games get any more 'exciting'," Sam shot back. In the back seat, Jimi turned the Big Brown Eyes on.

"Oh, please, girlfriend," growled Sam, looking at him in the mirror, "I was doing the puppy-dog eyes thing for nearly thirty years before your daddy was even a doily on someone's head…"

"So, where are we headed?" asked Dean, deciding that dropping the topic for now was probably the safest option.

"I told you already – we're heading back to Sioux Falls, for Jimi's vet appointment," his brother answered.

Dean sat bolt upright, alarm on his face. "What?"

"He's overdue for his six-month checkup," Sam clarified, "And Dr Wooley wanted to keep an eye on his joints, because he's growing so fast."

"Oh," said Dean, relaxing again.

"We can also discuss his desexing," Sam added.

Dean snorted. "There is nothing to discuss, Sam."

"Good," said Sam. "I'm glad we agree. We can make the arrangements while we're there."

"Whoa, whoa, hold the phone there, Francis!" Dean sat up in agitation, "I mean, there's nothing to discuss, because we are not getting him fixed."

"Let's discuss it with Dr Wooley before we make a decision," Sam suggested.

"Hey, which bit of 'There is nothing to discuss' did you not understand?" countered Dean. "I'm telling you, we are not subjecting Jimi to, to, to genital mutilation!"

"You tell Dr Wooley that," smirked Sam. "Go on, I dare you…"

"It's in the breed standard, Sam," Dean asserted, "He's supposed to be natural and rustic."

"That refers to his appearance, and is only for show dogs," Sam answered.

"Well, it's not going to happen." scowled Dean. "Give me three good reasons why anyone should mutilate their dog like that."

"For a start, it eliminates the possibility of him siring unwanted litters and contributing to the stray animal population," began Sam, "To say nothing of the consequences of letting a half-hellhound breed – we have no idea what the effect on the litter would be. It also eliminates the possibility of testicular cancer, and drastically reduces the incidence of prostate tumours when he gets older. It will stop him roaming after bitches in heat – or horses or cattle or mountain lions in season, presumably – and will pretty much reduce his urge to hump anything in sight. He'll also be a more contented individual, not prey to constant sexual frustration, and he'll have better concentration on working. The way his is now, he can't control himself."

"He can so!" exclaimed Dean loyally. "He never pesters Rumsfeld or Janis."

"That's because they are his mother and his sister," Sam told him. "Most species have ingrained aversion to incest. Except bonobos, and some reptiles. And fanfic writers. Anyway, Rumsfeld is not nearly as tolerant as the average female mountain lion. He's being totally driven by his hormones – desexing is the only way to deal with that." He looked at his brother sideways. "In fact, the more I think about it, the more it sounds like a good idea to get you done…"

"And I'd return the favour, Samantha, if I didn't believe that you don't have any balls to start with," Dean muttered angrily. "Let me just make myself clear: we are NOT, I repeat NOT, cutting Jimi's boys off."

"Okay." Sam had a nasty habit of being viciously calm when provoked.

"Okay?" Dean bristled suspiciously.

"We'll get Dr Wooley to do it."

"Stop the car, Sam."

"No."

"Sam, stop the car and get out. I'm driving."

"No. I'm driving until we get to Bobby's" stated Sam. "So don't even think of trying to run away with him."

Dean slouched in the seat, with murder in his eyes. "Don't you worry, Jimi," he told the dog behind him, "Anything Dr Mengele here tries to do to you, I will do to him. Only I'll use a rusty hacksaw and a pair of wire-cutters. With battery acid for disinfectant."

... it's going to be tears before bedtime, isn't it?