So, all we have to sort out now is who (aeicha and PaulatheCat) is going to spank whom. I'll leave you two to work that out.


Chapter 3

"…And a very short, yet I'm sure extremely interesting detour west, will take us along the Great Divide Brewery Trail!" Dean said happily as they hit the Great Falls area. "We'll have some cash left over, so we can spend a couple of days winding down and supporting the local economy, getting behind the entrepreneurial spirits who have made this great country of ours what it is today." He smiled his most winning smile.

"Right, check out the beer, got it," groaned Sam. Since taking a job that was going to pay for his car's refit, Dean had brightened up considerably, returning almost to his usual level of cheerful annoyingness. "All we have to do is catch a werewolf alive without getting torn to shreds, then we can go get drunk. Fun on a stick. Why didn't we ever think to try this before?"

"C'mon, Sam, don't be a buzzkill," Dean wheedled. "Tomorrow morning, we'll be rich! Well, for a little while, at least." He patted the dash lovingly.

"For a given value of 'rich'," qualified Sam. "I still have my doubts about this thing. I mean, pulling its teeth out?"

"So?" Dean turned to him. "How is it different to what we do? We usually bury or burn the carcass – he's found a way to make some money from it. Good for him. Maybe not our thang, but it's no different to skinning a rabbit and selling the fur." Dean looked thoughtful. "We do a tidy job, he might even employ us again sometime."

"Are you saying you'd be happy to work for this guy?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"That's not what I said!" Dean snapped back. "How often do we get paid for what we do, huh? Actually paid, paid with money, money that we can use to live off? And have we ever been paid what a job would be worth?"

Sam gave him a long look. "I thought it was the saving people that was important," he said finally.

"It is!" Dean retorted hotly. "Look, all I'm saying is, the occasional job that pays this well, for something we know how to do, it would make things, you know, a bit easier." He looked sideways at his brother. "For a start, you'll be able to afford a haircut. And some new shirts. And some shower stuff that doesn't make you smell like a sixteen-year-old girl."

"How would you know what a sixteen-year-old girl smells like?" Sam asked disapprovingly.

"Because when I was a sixteen-year-old boy, I got to smell a lot of sixteen-year-old girls," Dean smirked smugly. "They all smelled like flowers, or cotton candy, because they liked to use matching scented soaps and shampoo. They all smelled like you. You wouldn't know, of course, because when you were a sixteen-year-old boy, you were jerking off with a thesaurus in your other hand. Oh, thesaurus!" Dean trilled in a breathy falsetto, "That feels wonderful! Amazing! Sensational! Fantastic! Faaaaabulous!"

"Jerk." Sam subsided. He'd done some research, and had found that werewolf's teeth did indeed contain powerful mojo, and were largely in demand for shamanistic protection and fortification rituals. Adult dogs and adult wolves had 42 teeth, so it was plausible to infer that werewolves did too, which would probably make it worthwhile.

"I thought you'd be right on board with the whole humae euthanasia thing," Dean humphed. "Don't let the thing suffer, it doesn't even know what it is." He looked thoughtful. "Is this… Sammy, is this about Madison?" he asked, unexpectedly gently.

"No!" Sam snapped, "No, it's not about Madison, it's not about the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Werewolves, it's just… it's just creepy.," he finished lamely. "This whole gig is… creepy. Alex Croydon is creepy."

"Okay," Dean said placatingly, "Okay, let's just get the job done, get paid, and get my Baby all fixed up. You can help me."

"How?" asked Sam. "You won't let me touch her. You say I'm not fit to wipe the oil from her dipstick."

"You can help, in your own limited capacity," Dean offered generously. "You can fetch me beer." He looked thoughtful. "I may let you degrease some parts. If you manage that without screwing it up, I might permit you to clean some windows, maybe vacuum the interior…"

"Gee, thanks," snorted Sam.

They met up with Croydon early in the evening.

"Hey there, boys," he greeted them warmly, smiling when he saw Jimi. "Well, he is a fine-looking animal!" he exclaimed. "You must be Jimi. Do you shake hands?"

He made to pat Jimi's head, but the dog drew his lips back into a snarl, emitting a growl so low it was practically subsonic.

To his credit, the man didn't move; he merely raised one eyebrow and regarded the dog thoughtfully. "I can appreciate a guy who doesn't give his trust away lightly," he nodded, "I get where you're coming from, big guy."

"It's a trait of the breed," Dean said dismissively, "They can be aloof with strangers, and protective of their people. They're choosy about who they get friendly with."

"Huh. If only more people could be as up-front as him," Croydon grinned.

He'd done his research, identified the pattern of the sightings and attacks that had occurred, and had pegged the most likely place, a tract of open parkland near the Missouri River.

"How do you know it's an Old North wolf, and not homegrown one?" asked Sam.

"The reported sightings have all referred to a large wolf-like dog," Croydon told them. "Some sightings and attacks have occurred on the day before the full moon proper, which is a crucial difference. Bite marks on the victims have been consistent with an authentic canine jaw, rather than a humanoid one. Old North claws leave nastier wounds, too. And they're few and far between." He pointed to the map. "I think there might have been one here for years," he told them, "And usually, it stays out of sight, under the radar. But in the last six months, there have been four attacks, two of them fatal."

"What about the survivors?" Dean asked.

"One died in a motorcycle accident before the next full moon, the other was an old guy who smoked like a chimney, had a heart attack before he could turn," snorted Croydon. "But this thing is getting more careless, or more bloodthirsty. It's not covering its tracks and keeping its head down as consistently as it used to. On the plus side, it's getting more predictable. So, that's where you two come in."

It was a straightforward plan: Croydon handed over pistols loaded with darts primed with his werewolf sedative concoction. Draw the thing out, double team it, let Jimi challenge it and distract it until one of them could dart it. They had their own silver knives and ammo to be used as a last resort, if it all went south.

"Remember, I don't want it hurt," he reiterated. "You kill it, it reverts to human and is worthless. Don't wound it unless you have no choice. You hurt it unnecessarily, I'll dock your pay, that's the deal."

"Play gentle with the poor little werewolf, got it," Dean confirmed. "We'll call you when it's down."

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Just on dusk, Andrew was on his way home when he saw the dusty truck in the lot of a bar. The dog was sitting in the bed, watching the world go by with a relaxed expression. Without thinking too hard about what he was doing, he pulled off the road.

"Hey there, girl," he said softly to the dog, approaching carefully. She gave him a look of piercing intelligence, then stretched her nose out to him. He obliged by offering his hand. She sniffed briefly, licked his hand twice, then cocked her head, whuffed at him, and help up a paw.

"Well, nice to meet you too, I guess," he smiled, shaking the proffered paw. She grinned a doggy grin at him, circled a couple of times, then rolled over, legs in the air and huge mournful eyes gazing up at him, in the universal canine appeal for a belly rub.

"You know, if you're out here as an alarm system, I'm sure you're supposed to be barking your head off about now," he grinned at her as he obliged, and she squirmed and panted happily, tongue lolling.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded a voice behind him. Andrew and the dog both jumped as if they'd been shot.

"Oh, er, I, er…" he stuttered. Ronnie stood, arms hanging loose, staring at him in a way that made him feel jumpy. "I was, er," he gestured at the dog, who sat up looking slightly guilty. "She wanted, er, I just came over to say hi, and, er…" he stuttered into silence.

Ronnie smiled, but it wasn't that smile, which he suddenly thought he'd really like to see again. "I wasn't talking to you," she told him.

"Oh. Er, okay." He edged away from the dog. She followed him. Fuck, was the damned thing trying to hide behind him?

"You are supposed to be minding the truck," Ronnie said evenly. The dog cocked her head and whined. Perhaps as a distraction tactic, she wagged her tail, and began to kiss Andrew lavishly on the ear.

"Ew! Yarg!" he yelped, shrugging and jumping away at the sudden wet sloppy tongue in his ear. "Um, look, don't be angry at her, it's my fault," he started, "I saw her, and came over to say hello…"

"And you rolled over and threw your legs in the air like a damned hooker," Ronnie huffed at her dog with a small smile, moving in to scratch the animal's ears. "Jesus, Joni, I'd expect that from your brother, but not you." The dog panted happily, and butted against her hand for more pats.

"How's the alien spotting going?" Andrew ventured.

"No little green men yet, but I found a guy in there who's certain that Elvis is living locally," she replied. "Of course, I think it might have been his good friend Jack who told him that."

"So, heading off, then?" he asked. A small voice inside his head kicked him in the brain. Idiot! Idiot! Of course she's heading off! What, you think she just came out here to look at you?

"Yeah," she said, "Gotta go run that laptop red-hot."

"Oh. I guess there's no point in me, uh, offering to buy you a beer at this point?" he burbled. The small voice face-palmed audibly. Oh, smooth, real smooth…

" 'Fraid not, I really have to get going." She made a small noise to the dog, and it jumped out of the tray and into the cab. "I'm really sorry about the tongue in the ear thing," she said ruefully.

"Oh, that's okay, if you hadn't said anything, I'd have sworn it was the dog," he blurted out.

Oh god, wailed the small voice.

"Er, I mean, I don't mind the occasional tongue in my ear, from an attractive female…" he stammered to a halt.

The small voice fell to its knees and banged its head. Id – i – ot!

She cocked an eyebrow at him, and seemed genuinely amused. "Oh. Well, I'm glad you two were able to, er, pleasure each other briefly," she said pleasantly, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "But we really do have to get going. You'll have to adore each other from afar." She climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine. "Enjoy your beer."

I hope you choke on it, muttered the small voice.

She gave him a small wave as she left, the dog giving him a happy goodbye bark as the truck passed him.

He sighed. No wonder you've been single for so long, sniped the grumpy little voice in his head, Not that you'd remember what to do with a woman if one fell on you. Can you even remember who gets tied up and who wears the nurse's uniform? I mean, seriously, how did you ever get laid in the first place? No, really, what worked, in the end? Alcohol? Money? Chloroform?

"Asking nicely, if you must know," he muttered, then stopped and groaned. Great. Just great. Now he was talking to himself. He was arguing with himself. He was bitching at himself.

"Fuck it," he sighed, heading for the bar. Maybe if he drank enough, he'd see Elvis too. He was probably sharing a house somewhere with the guys who faked the moon landing.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

All things considered, it could've been worse.

Croydon was right, the werewolf was getting more careless and more predictable. It showed up within minutes of the time window he'd suggested was most likely. Dean barely had time to don his stupid fishing had, and cast his line into the water, while Sam and Jimi hid in the trees, Sam griping about idiot big brothers and their readiness to use themselves as bait.

It came out of the treeline at full rush, not in a silent and stealthy hunting approach, but snarling and slavering. The moment it appeared, Jimi was off like a black streak, eyes red and Hellhound teeth bristling.

Sam manoeuvred to get behind it as Jimi approached, snarling a challenge of his own. The wolf turned away from Dean, taking in Jimi and Sam, apparently confused by the presence of two more opponents.

As it hesitated, both Winchesters saw that it was not an impressive specimen, certainly nothing like the seven foot, heavily muscled adult male in its prime that Jimi had brought down when he was younger. It was barely taller than Sam, though its back appeared more bowed than even a werewolf's unnatural anatomy would account for. Its fur was dull grey, and sparse in places, and it was not heavily built. It looked old.

It snarled angrily, and made a decision. It charged at Dean.

He brought the pistol to bear on it, but at the last minute it made a sudden evasive move, and knocked the weapon from his hand with a backhanded swipe, sending him sprawling. Before it could pounce on Dean, Jimi was in motion again, ploughing into it. The wolf rolled with the impact, letting the dog go past, and came up on its feet, letting the momentum carry it into a four-legged lope straight for Sam.

He raised his dart pistol, but again the thing closed in and dodged. He felt its claws rake his side before it let out an audible 'oof' as Jimi circled around and hit it again, nipping at its hocks, then circling in front of it, barking and snarling in challenge.

"Dean!" Sam called, heading for his brother.

" 'Mfine," Dean muttered, staggering upright, " 'Mfine, where's my pistol?"

Sam found it and shoved it back into Dean's hand as the thing lunged for Jimi. The dog scooted out of the way, then darted back in to bite at its legs again.

"Scrawny damned thing," Dean went on, "It's old."

"Yeah, old and sneaky," replied Sam, "You don't get to be that old if you don't know how to stay alive…"

The wolf suddenly dropped to its haunches and struck out. Jimi was sent sprawling and yelping across the grass. It turned back to the brothers.

"Split up!" shouted Dean, pushing away from Sam. "Hey, Lassie!" he yelled at the wolf, "That all you got, huh? Werepussy is more like it."

It let out a snarling bellow, spun and charged at Sam. He took aim, fired…

And missed.

"Fuck!" he shouted, drawing his own gun loaded with silver ammo. Job be damned, he wasn't going to let the damned thing eat him, not even so Dean could get his car fixed…

Jimi hit the wolf at head height, teeth buried in its throat. It let out another angry bellow, but the dog hung on grimly, weighing it down as he choked it.

Dean approached cautiously from behind, and put a dart into its haunch, calling Jimi off.

The wolf let out a single yipping cry, and collapsed, panting. It continued to make intermittent grunting noises, until it finally lay still, flanks rising and falling gently.

Sam approached, his gun trained on it. "Is it… is the damned thing snoring?" he asked.

"I don't care if it's whistling Dixie," replied Dean grimly, wincing as he pulled out his phone, "It's down for the count. You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam inspected his side where the claws had raked him. "Don't think I need stitches. Gonna sting like a bitch to clean though. You?"

"I'll live," Dean told him. "Yeah, Croydon, we got Fido ready for pick-up. Yeah, one dart. Not really, maybe a bit around the throat where the dog pulled him down. Okay." He shut the phone. "He'll be here in five."

Croydon arrived with another man whom he didn't introduce. His associate made ready to drag the werewolf into the back of the truck. Their employer was impressed with their work, if not with the wolf. "Shame he's such a scrawny thing, really. Still, there's barely a mark on him," he noted, "Well done. Nice work, Jimi," he praised the dog, "Perhaps I should offer you a job."

Jimi curled his lip.

"Are you boys all right?" Croydon asked, "No bites?"

"Couple of scratches is all," Dean told him.

"That's good to hear," the older Hunter smiled. "Now, I believe there is the small matter of payment for a job well done…"

He handed a bag to Dean. "Thank you, boys," he said, "I've worked with a lot of Hunters, but not many who've tied up a job this quick and neat. It's been a pleasure working with a couple of professionals. You ever feel the need for paid employment again, give me a call. Next time, maybe we should organise a fee for Jimi, too." He stuck out his hand.

This time, Dean shook it, and so did Sam, if less readily. "Glad we could be of help to each other," Dean told him.

"We'll take it from here. Thanks again, boys."

He watched them leave, and heard their car start up and drive away.

"All secured," his taciturn companion announced. "You want anything else?"

"Besides that dog?" Croydon snorted, and shook his head. "Let's get going. It's going to be a long night."

It would have been, long and bloody, except for one slight problem they encountered on the way back to the warehouse.

Maybe the old wolf was tougher than he looked. Maybe Croydon had miscalculated the dose. Maybe the dart plunger had not fully depressed. Maybe the old monster was just sandbagging the whole time – after all, very few wolves made it to any sort of age without being as cunning as shit-house rats...

Whatever the problem, when the back of the truck opened, it gutted Croydon's assistant with a single swipe, and headed for cover before he could draw a bead on it.


For the Monty Python fans: Reviews are the Imperilled Winchesters in the Castle Anthrax of Life!

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