Okay, this way for up a tree, and gratuitous nudity! Please form an orderly queue, tickets will be available from... no, no, no, I didn't mean gratuitous nudity while up a tree, they're not simultaneous... oh, damn, now we all have to wait for elf, PaulatheCat and aeicha to come back inside...
Chapter 4
"Ronnie? Ronnie!" Sam looked out into the yard; she could be anywhere. "Ronnie!" he called again. "Look, I know he's annoying, but this is really serious." No answer. "He's inside, having some sort of panic attack because you've disappeared."
A low, guttural growl that 10,000 years ago would've said 'Don't run; you'll just die tired' from the back of a dark cave reached his ears.
"I'm not kidding," he said, turning and looking for the source of the growl, "He's hyperventilating and turning blue, and he's barely coherent. Bobby's considering sedating him."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," replied a disgruntled disembodied voice. Sam turned around again, but saw nothing. "Up here, you berk."
Sam looked up. "Er, what are you doing up a tree?" he asked.
"What do you think? Looking for the bluebird of happiness? I'm hiding!" she hissed at him. "Found anything yet?"
"Nothing concrete, but…"
"Then go away!" she flapped a hand frantically at him.
"Ronnie, please…"
"You are giving away my co-ordinates! Shoo!"
"He's going insane in there!"
"Better him than me!" she wailed. "He's more persistent than a Terminator! He's more persistent than Jehovah's Witnesses! He's more persistent than herpes!"
"It's not his fault!" Sam defended his brother. "He's cursed! You're safe, you know, he won't do anything unless you say yes…"
Ronnie relented, and slid down the tree. "He keeps… saying things," she stuttered.
"Well, that's not so bad, is it?" he reasoned. Her face flushed.
"No, I mean, he keeps saying… things…" her ears turned red. "You know. Things."
"Yeah, but so long as he keeps his hands off… oh. Er. Oh," Sam caught on. "Things things."
She nodded. "I think some of them he might be making up, or maybe he's just watched too much porn," she confided, "Because I find it hard to believe that anybody could enjoy doing…"
"RONNIE!" the shout of relief echoed around the yard. Dean made a high-speed beeline for the tree. Ronnie yelped, and shot back up it.
"Dean, I think we need to talk about thi- OOF!" Sam grunted as his brother used him as a stepladder to get to a low branch.
Sam humphed in exasperation and went back inside, leaving Dean promising escapades of carnal delight, and Ronnie making barely comprehensible suggestions of her own in what he assumed was her native dialect of Antipodean English.
"So, Pepé le Pew still after his reluctant pussycat?" asked Bobby, checking another book.
"Uhuh," confirmed Sam, watching the foliage rustling outside. "I think it's getting worse. He's just chased her up a tree."
"Well, at least we know where they are. And they can't get up to much up a tree."
"It wouldn't be the first time, Bobby - this is Dean we're talking about. Location means nothing to him," Sam reminded him, shuddering involuntarily at the memory of his big brother recounting a mind-boggling arboreal conquest "It was in Oregon. She was a horticulturalist. I didn't believe him. Then when he started to demonstrate, I didn't WANT to believe him." He looked out the window. "Although that branch looks a bit springy." He turned to Bobby. "Should we do something?"
"I wouldn't worry too much, Sam," Bobby told him, "They can't stay up there all night. It's the law of gravity. What goes up, must…"
There was a distinct crack of wood giving way, a frantic rustling of leaves, and a startled squawk, followed by a thump.
"…Come down."
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I'm getting too old for this sort of crap, Bobby told himself.
Dean appeared, in the living room, tears in his eyes and Ronnie in his arms. "She fell out of the tree," he quavered. "Bobby, she fell out of the tree!"
"Put me down! Put me down!" demanded Ronnie querulously. "There's nothing wrong with me! Put me dow-OW!"
"She's broken her leg!" wailed Dean, depositing her on the sofa.
"No I haven't," she insisted, swatting at him, "It just got tweaked on the way down, I'm fine, I've got a few bumps and bruises is all, it wasn't that far…" she looked pleadingly to Sam and Bobby. "Tell him I'm fine," she begged.
"Let's not over-react here, boy," Bobby told Dean, who hovered anxiously, twisting his hands together, while Ronnie removed her boot. "Why don't you go get her an ice pack?"
"Ice pack, ice pack," Dean muttered, heading for the kitchen. Bobby narrowed his eyes at Ronnie.
"This has to stop," he declared.
"You're telling me," she agreed, wiggling her foot experimentally.
"I mean the whole playing hard to get routine," he corrected. She looked outraged.
"What? I'm not playing hard to get!" she snapped, "I'm playing hard to want!"
"The problem is, he can't see that, with this curse," continued Bobby. "I know you don't like it, but you rejecting him, and doin' it so, er, assertively, will just accelerate it! If we're going to figure this out before he tries to shoot himself – or you, might I remind you…"
"Won't do him any good, he's not packing silver. I could smell it," she interrupted a bit smugly.
"Maybe not, but I will be," growled Bobby. "Like I was sayin', we need time to figure this out. It would help if you could, you know, fend him off… gently. Politely. Be friendly about it."
Ronnie boggled at him in disbelief. "Gently? Gently? Fend him off gently? I might as well try to stop a wendigo with a rubber chicken!"
"What you're doing now isn't working," reasoned Sam, "If you try to be a bit more, um, friendly about it, he might even be a bit more bearable."
"No," she shook her head, "No. What if he thinks being friendly means I'm leading him on? What if it makes him worse?'
"Worse?" asked Sam. "Ronnie, he just tried to seduce you up a tree. How can it get worse than that?"
Ronnie's face turned red again. "Look," she said hesitantly, "I'm really no good at this sort of thing…"
"Then improvise!" hissed Sam with a glare, hearing Dean returning. "No real damage, bro," he said to Dean, smiling reassuringly, "Right, Ronnie?" His eyebrows performed a brief salsa routine.
"Er, no. No. Not really." Ronnie took the proffered ice pack, and forced her face into an expression that was 49% grimace/51% smile. "Thank you."
"Thank you?" echoed Dean faintly. Behind him, Sam and Bobby pantomimed 'happy face' furiously at her.
Ronnie turned the grinometer up to 55% smile. "Er, yes. Thank you. For the ice pack." She draped it across her ankle. "It was, um, very thoughtful of you."
Wretched hope bloomed in Dean's swimming eyes. "You're not… mad at me?" he ventured.
Sam and Bobby performed a Synchronised Eyebrow Trampolining routine worthy of Olympic standard competition.
"Um… no, of course not," she said hesitantly. "It was… an accident. My own silly fault. For going up a tree. And being dumb enough to give away my position to a spy…" she added under her breath.
Dean suddenly threw himself to his knees by the sofa, into her arms. "Oh, God," he snuffled, "I thought you'd be so mad at me…"
Sam and Bobby's eyebrows would've had the audience on their feet, throwing roses.
Hesitantly, Ronnie put an arm around him. "Um, there there?" she said uncertainly, patting him gingerly on the shoulder.
Dean pulled back and looked at her. "You're really not mad?"
Ronnie went for 60%. "No. Definitely not. Why would I be angry? After all, you… rescued me. After I fell out of the tree." She patted him on the shoulder again. 65%. "My hero."
Dean's smile fairly blazed with relieved happiness.
"Why don't you go and put some coffee on," she suggested, "Then we can get back to helping Sam and Bobby find a way to lift this curse?" 70%. "I promise I won't shut Messenger off," she added. 75%.
Dean practically left contrails as he headed back to the kitchen.
"You have to work on that smile," commented Sam, opening one of the books on the table, "And try to be a little less stiff with the gestures. Shoulder-patting is good, but you gotta try to be more spontaneous about it."
"Yes, Coach," she grumbled, the needle plummeting right back to zero.
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Dean hummed happily to himself. And why wouldn't he be happy? Ronnie wasn't angry at him; if anything, she seemed friendlier. She'd smiled at him. He was sure he was well on the way to convincing her of his awesomeness.
My hero. Tonight, he would clutch those words to his... heart.
Okay, so they hadn't made any progress with the curse, but he was cool with that. He had more important things to think about, after all.
He still felt bad about the whole tree incident. He was determined to make it up to her.
Thankfully, being Dean Winchester, Living Sex God, he knew just exactly how to do that…
He'd heard the shower running while Bobby and Sam had shifted to the study, following up a possible lead. Undetected, he slunk away quietly – after all, he wouldn't be much of a Hunter if he couldn't even dodge a chaperone, would he? – and headed upstairs.
Joni sat outside the bathroom door, her fine-boned face looking up at him affectionately.
"Hey there Joni," he said quietly. He ruffled her ears, and the dog's tail thumped on the floor. Ronnie might be her Alpha, but as a pup, she had spent many hours with both Winchesters, rassling with Dean and Jimi, or sitting on Sam's lap while he read. She thought of them as members of her Dam's Pack. "I screwed up with your Mom today," he confided. Joni whuffed sympathetically, offering a paw. "But it's okay, I'm going to make it up to her," he grinned confidently, putting a hand on the door handle…
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Joni put herself between him and the door, hackles up, eyes blazing angry red, hellteeth like boning knives extruded, and suddenly she looked so much bigger…
He dropped his hand, and Joni was once again just a fine-boned Rottweiler, smaller than Jimi, grinning doggily at him.
He frowned in thought, then put his head down the stairs and quietly called Jimi.
"Okay, here's the sitch," he told his dog, "I need you to run interference with your sister. She's totally cockblocking me. I need you to go big brother on her ass, right?" Jimi followed him back to the bathroom door.
Dean put his hand on the door handle.
Joni got her Hellhound on.
Dean raised his eyebrows at Jimi. Well?
A Rottweiler has a very expressive face; the look that Jimi gave his Alpha spoke volumes.
You are my Alpha. One day, I will die defending you, because I am a Hunter's dog. This is the way of things. But, seriously, dude, are you NUTS? You do NOT fuck with The Sisterhood. You want an idiot for a Hunt companion, get a Beagle. You want a suicide bomber, get a Pitbull. Didn't your Sire teach you ANYTHING?
Dean humphed in disappointment, but quickly brightened up. He was just going to have to initiate Plan B.
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The household retired to bed not long after that, with a considerably more serene ambiance than it had arisen to that morning. It had been a long and frustrating day for three Upstairs Brains, and one Downstairs one.
Ronnie limped into her room, and shook out Joni's blanket. Being nice to Dean didn't come easily, especially when he was being so… yes, well. The ignorant twerp had once called her a Limey, and that was the sort of thing that usually got taken outside, but in his defence, he was a Hunter, and a damned good one, so it wasn't entire unexpected that she would set off his Spidey senses, what with her little excessive body hair problem threatening every full moon. It had been hard to keep in check when he'd startled her in the morning – she'd been sure she could feel her fangs trying to pop out in self-defence…
She made ready for bed. The great thing about the occasional stay at Chez Singer was that it was safe – it was warded tighter than a nun's ladygarden, and for a change, she could actually relax. She stretched, yawned, and pulled back the covers.
The scream brought Bobby, Sam and both dogs running.
It wasn't exactly the response Dean was expecting, as he lay there wearing nothing but his most come-hither smile. But she didn't try to stab him, so things were totally looking up.
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"Here." In the kitchen, Sam pushed the mug of hot, sweet tea laced generously with scotch into Ronnie's shaking hands. It clattered against the table top.
"He… he… he… na… na… na…" she stuttered, gasping like a fish out of water.
"Deep breaths, Ronnie," encouraged Sam, reaching behind him, "You need to breathe into the paper bag again?"
She shook her head, gulped down some tea, and tried again. "He was… he was…"
"Well, technically, if you want to be really pedantic about it," started Sam tactfully, "He wasn't actually, you know, in a state of total, er, dishabillé. Not altogether in the, um, altogether. As it were."
"Sam," Ronnie said evenly, "This could be a cultural thing, I suppose, but where I come from, holding a daisy between your teeth does not render a person decently covered."
"Uh, yeah, okay, you're probably right."
Upstairs, they could hear Bobby upbraiding Dean, demanding that he put some pants on, and stipulating that there would be none of That Sort Of Thing under his roof before the sky became green, the sun went out and the oceans turned to yoghurt. (Dean took that as a maybe.) The word 'idjit' was used repeatedly with extreme prejudice.
Sam looked thoughtful. "Er, Ronnie," he resumed carefully, choosing his words the way a man parachuted into a minefield might choose the next place he plans to put a foot, "Look, you hadn't considered, maybe, well… taking Dean up on his, er, offer of, um, intimate companionship?"
She looked at him with wide, startled eyes. "No, wait!" he hurried on, "Hear me out! Just hear me out, then tell me what you think." She eyed him dubiously.
Sam made his pitch. "Look, being frank about it, Dean is, well, a ladies' man. A very… accomplished ladies' man. Any lady he, um, spends the night with, well, let's just say, none of them regret it. Lots of 'em want to come back for seconds. I know this, because as his little brother, I am damned to occasionally being trapped while he, er, entertains a lady friend within earshot. I should be in therapy. Seriously, he could go through the Karma Sutra with a red pen, and tell them what they got wrong. He could show you a seriously good time. It wouldn't have to be here – Oh, God, I'd be ever so grateful if it wasn't, you could sidle up to him, and suggest that you take off, there are some nice places in town, and it just might modulate some of his more, er, energetic attempts to get your attention..." he rambled to a halt, and smiled his most winning I'm-Peeking-Up-At-You-Adorably-Through-My-Hair-Even-Though-You're-Down-There smile. "It's, um, just a thought. Er."
Ronnie sat very still, and for a moment Sam feared she was going to start hyperventilating again, but she just sat, nodding to herself. "I thank you for your suggestion, Sam," she replied politely, "And appreciate you trying to come up with some way to lessen the trouble for everybody. I understand that you are concerned about your brother's welfare, and just want this problem dealt with as soon as possible, with minimum collateral damage. Full marks for lateral thinking. I shall give your idea some consideration. Thank you also for the tea. I feel better." She finished her tea, and made to go back upstairs. "Might I offer my own thoughts on the situation?" she asked solicitously.
"Yes, please do," he nodded encouragement.
"Good. I would merely like to point out that, if push comes to shove, I am a little taller than you, a little hairier than you, and can punch through your sternum and tear out your still-beating heart and eat it in front of you while your brain still has enough oxygen left to watch." She smiled pleasantly, and headed for the stairs. "Goodnight, Sam."
Sam slumped. "I guess that's a no, then," he muttered glumly to himself.
There you go: up a tree, and gratuitous Dean nudity. Any other requests? Do we need angelic assistance here? Just wondering.
Reviews are the Springy Branches On The Way Down as we fall out of the Tree Of Life. No? Okay. Reviews are the Nekkid Dean Winchesters under the Comforter Of Life. Sorry. How about: Reviews are the Slosh Of Whiskey in the Hot Cup Of Tea Of Life? (It's not drinking if you put it in your tea: that's medicine. Nanny Ogg says so.)
