Hello? Hello? *tap tap tap* Is this thing on? I don't think there's anybody there, little plot bunny, the reviewing has fallen right away, perhaps we should try to do something with 'Grumpy Old Men' instead... what? What? What? You're kidding. Yes, I know, the Denizens have been pestering, but... Who? What? Where? Oh, all right, you're clearly not going to shut up until I write this down, hang on, let me get a cup of tea, and we'll get to it...
Chapter Six
"Sit!" clickclick "Good boy! Wait… wait... clickclick good boy… "
As he peered up at the underside of the Impala, Dean tuned out the noise of Sam. Lemmy settled in beside him, sniffing at what Dean was doing and generally getting in the way. Dean rolled his eyes; the pup was big for his age, as his sire Jimi had been, and showing signs that he would get a lot bigger, and possibly grow to be as cheerfully disruptive.
"Lars, come! OOF!" Sam staggered backwards as the pup made an eager if somewhat uncoordinated charge at his legs, yapping enthusiastically, red traces crackling across his eyes. As Sam stumbled, he dropped the clicker; the puppy snatched it up in triumph, and scooted out of range, heading for the porch with Sam in limping pursuit. "Hey! Come back here!" The pup wiggled under the stairs where he sat, gnawing on his catch (the training clicker being, apparently, the natural prey of the three-quarter Hellhound in the wild).
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka
"You little assbutt!" Sam chided him, "Come out of there with that!"
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka
"It's not like it has any nutritional value," Sam pointed out.
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka
"You're too young to be teething," Sam frowned, "You don't have any permanent teeth erupting yet."
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka
"You don't need to be chewing on that, you just want to…"
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka CLUNK
With a huff that sounded remarkably like a disappointed sigh, Lars came out from under the stairs, and deposited the dead clicker at Sam's feet, looking up at him with a doggy grin.
"Is there a reason you're trying to make that dog think he's a cicada?" asked Dean, his head popping out from under the car.
"It's a training clicker," scowled Sam, "To let him know that he's doing the right thing."
"Coulda fooled me – I thought he was training you to go click," shrugged his brother, wriggling out from under the Impala and wiping his hands on a rag. "Or coaching you to play the castanets."
"Well, I'm going to make sure my dog starts some sort of training before we hit the road," Sam declared huffily, "Speaking of which, you might consider pulling Lemmy into line more often."
"He doesn't need pulling into line," asserted Dean, patting the larger puppy, "He comes when he's called, he stays with me. He's a good boy."
"He's been putting his head through the refrigerator and stealing stuff again," accused Sam. "Sausages. Bobby caught him doing it."
"So?" remarked Dean. "I put my head into the refrigerator all the time to take stuff. The only difference is, I have to open the door first."
"He's developed a taste for yoghurt," Sam went on. "My yoghurt," he added pointedly.
"Well, Lars is a sneaky little bastard who's obsessed with my money – he took my wallet out of my jacket, and pulled out two credit cards and some twenties! I caught him burying them!"
"Lemmy pulls my shirts out of my duffle and pees on them!" Sam accused.
"Only the girly ones that should be set on fire," Dean defended his pup. "Anyway, Lars finds my magazines, and pees on them."
"Only the gross ones that are ready to go up in flames by themselves," snarked Sam.
The argument was interrupted when Bobby came striding across the yard with a concerned expression. Janis rose stiffly to her feet, and trotted to his side, Rumsfeld beside her, with Patch bringing up the rear.
"Knock off your ruckus you idjits," he growled, "We got a search to conduct."
"What?" Sam blinked in disbelief. "You mean… again?"
"Yep," Bobby nodded grimly. "She's gone."
Dean groaned. "Why can't she just pick a Hunter already? She's had a dozen to choose from! Women, they're so damned choosy. Impossible to satisfy."
Sam was already heading for the car. "We'll go east, Bobby," he said.
"Okay, I'll head west," he confirmed. Janis and Patch climbed into the cab of his truck, he helped Rumsfeld in, and the two vehicles set out in opposite directions.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Patch and Janis began barking before he caught sight of her. She came into view, a small black shape trotting purposefully along the side of the road. Bobby sighed.
Lita was the only female in the litter of three-quarter Hellhound pups that jigsaw dog Patch had produced. She was also the most stubborn, most determined, most adventurous, and had a bad case of itchy feet to boot. He'd put a couple of bells on her collar after her first major excursion when she was just five weeks old, but she'd simply slipped out of it, and gone walkabout once more.
It was past time for her to choose her Hunter. But here she was, having slipped away quietly again, and headed west with a single-mindedness that was kind of scary in such a young animal. It was times like this that she put him in mind of another pup, a female, the smallest of her litter, who had waited and waited and waited for the right Hunter…
He pulled the truck onto the shoulder in front of her, and waited for her to catch up. Her dam and her aunt Janis jumped down from the seat, anxiously sniffing at her, while Rumsfeld yipped anxiously to her.
"You know, if you'd asked, I coulda given you the money for a bus ticket," he laughed gently as the little thing looked up at him with a serious expression. He picked her up and satisfied himself that she was unhurt. "So, you heading west, again?" he mused. "Have I ever told you how much you remind me of your Auntie Joni?..."
The pup stretched her head out towards the setting sun, nose in the air, as if she was casting for a scent.
Bobby settled her on the seat between her dam and her aunt, messaged the Winchesters that the wandering pup had been found safe and well – again – and headed back to the yard. He had a phone call to make.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Sit!" clickclick "Good boy! Drop... drop... like this... drop..." clickclick "Good boy, Lars!"
Three days later, Dean was in one of the sheds, inspecting a crank from one of the yard's wrecks for salvageablility, while Lemmy sat pressed against his leg. The weather had turned inclement in a last burst of lingering winter; as a rumble of distant thunder rolled, Lemmy leaned into Dean with a small whine. Apparently, an intense dislike of thunderstorms was something else that he'd inherited from his father.
"If you pee in here and set anything on fire, Bobby will be very unhappy with you," Dean grinned at the pup, whose big brown eyes peered at him. "And after last night's thunderstorm, that's two pairs of shorts I've lost to you now." He wandered to the doorway, and they stood watching their little brothers.
"Olé!" called Dean dramatically as Sam clicked the clicker.
"You might want to try some of this with Lemmy," Sam told him, reaching down to pat Lars, "It's never too early to start basic obedience."
"And he's doing a wonderful job of training you to feed him clickers," Dean smiled. "He's clearly not getting enough plastic in his diet. How many is that now? Four? Didn't he eat two of them yesterday?"
"It's just because he's inquisitive," Sam scowled, "And that's a good thing. It's important that he remain interested and engaged, and it's like a fun game, because he's only a pup."
"He's gonna end up like the crocodile in Peter Pan," warned Dean, "Only instead of going 'tick tock' he'll go 'click click'."
Pointedly turning his back on his big brother, Sam called Lars, who had wandered away to sniff at an interesting weed. "Come! Come!" clickclick "That's it! Good boy!"
The pup galumphed towards him, but suddenly broke off, and veered to the side. He started digging intently at a small rock, alternating between barking urgently and whining for his Alpha's attention.
"What? What is it?" asked Sam, kneeling down beside the pup, "What have you found?" He peered carefully at the rock. It didn't appear in any way threatening. He put down the clicker, picked up a stick, and carefully turned it over.
"There's nothing here, fella," he reassured the pup, "Just a couple of bugs, and... hey!"
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka
Lars grabbed the clicker and headed for the stairs.
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka
Dean erupted into laughter as Sam attempted to extract the pup from his hiding place.
clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka clicka CLONK
"Five out of five, bro!" Dean called cheerily. Sam flipped him off.
He turned back to his engine parts until Lemmy suddenly stood up, barked happily, and headed for the house. He wondered if Bobby had cleaned out the refrigerator; Lemmy had demonstrated that he could smell leftover-cold-sausages-that're-not-quite-fit-for-human-consumption-but-fine-for-a-part-Hellhound's-cast-iron-digestion at a distance of several hundred yards.
He made his way after the dog in a leisurely fashion (because he was himself quite partial to leftover-cold-sausages-that're-not-quite-fit-for-human-consumtion-but-fine-for-a-part-Hellhound's-cast-iron-digestion himself), his stomach rumbling in pleasant anticipation of delightfully filling processed meat substances, and his brain rumbling in pleasant anticipation of the noises of disgust that Sam would make.
He discovered that the reason for the dog's excitement was not the existence of a dish of delicious, convenient, probably-containing-a-bit-of-animal-product snacks ready for consumption, but the pick-up that had pulled into the yard. Slightly disappointed, he made his way to where Bobby and Sam were smiling, waiting to greet the new arrivals. The truck looked familiar, as did the pigtailed man who got out of the driver's side, but the decidedly rounded figure that climbed awkwardly out of shotgun was... unexpected.
"Shit, what happened to you?" he blurted, gawping.
"Well, Dean," began Andrew patiently, "When a mummy wolf and a daddy wolf, who are married and love each other very much, go to their den at night, they do what we call Special Cuddles, then they send a letter to the stork..."
"Hello to you too, Dean," Ronnie's smile didn't go near her eyes as she winced and stretched her back, "As gallant as ever."
"You mean... you're... you know..." Dean waved his hands vaguely. "Pregnant?"
"No," she continued, "I've been eating too many Americans, and they're pretty damned high in saturated fat. I've started with Jenny Craig, though, and the pre-packaged starving Sudanese are delivered right to my door, they're convenient and tasty, plus, with Jenny's range of low-fat, high fibre Bangladeshi orphan snack packs, I'm never hungry! Weight loss has never been so easy, so cost effective, and so environmentally responsible!"
When he looked at her blankly, she sighed. "Yes, Dean. I'm in whelp. Gday Sam," she went on. "And this must be Lemmy and Lars! Wow! You guys have grown!" she enthused, fussing over them.
"Hiya Ronnie," Sam grinned widely as the pups yipped greetings and basked in her attention. "So, how far along are you?"
"Somewhere between six and seven months," she answered, bending awkwardly to pet the two fuzzy little heads competing for pats.
"I thought you guessed about six weeks when Patch had her puppies?" Sam commented.
"I guessed wrong," she shrugged.
"Well, I thank you for coming," Bobby told her. "Do you think we might go inside?" he suggested, as a cold gust of wind brought a spattering of fat raindrops out of the darkening sky, "I'd rather not get completely soaked, if it's all the same to everybody else."
As they made their way inside, Dean addressed Ronnie's expanded midriff.
"You okay in there?" he called loudly. "Still got enough room? She feeding you enough? You need anything? Flashlight? Snacks?"
"Ow!" Ronnie let out a hissing breath. "Great, the little bastard just kicked me in the pancreas."
"Oh, that sucks," Dean sympathised, "Does it do the tap-dance-on-your-kidneys thing in the middle of the night?"
Ronnie gave him a strange look. "How would you know?" she asked eventually.
"Oh, I've been pregnant," Dean told her airily, waving a hand dismissively as Ronnie's eyes bugged, "I know all about the kicking thing. And the trampolining on your bladder, that's the worst. The waddling, that's the worst too. And the swollen feet and the backaches, they're the worst too. And the cravings in the middle of the night, they were terrible. Or maybe the gas, that was pretty bad."
"Definitely the gas," asserted Sam hurriedly.
"Bobby," Ronnie began tentatively, "Bobby, I think the wound-up rubber band running Dean's brain might finally have snapped..."
"It's a long story," sighed Bobby.
They congregated in the living room, Ronnie putting her feet up on the sofa at Dean's insistence ("It could be worse, at least you don't have an angel telling you what you can and can't do.") while Bobby fixed coffee, and explained the details of Lita's behaviour.
"I got nothing," shrugged Ronnie, "I'll have to ask her, and see if we can find out. This is surprisingly good," she added, gesturing to the small tomatoes-in-blueberry-yoghurt snack that Dean had fixed for her in lieu of coffee, "Not a combo I would've thought of."
"I found it very good when I was feeling queasy or tired," Dean told her, "But if you're feeling really hungry, try spreading it on a meat lovers pizza." Ronnie nodded thoughtfully as Sam and Andrew pulled faces of disgust.
"Well, there's no time like the present," announced Bobby, "I'll go get missy, and we can see if she'll talk to you."
"It might be better if I go out with you and meet her in their kennel, her home territory," Ronnie suggested. Bobby agreed, so he helped her to worm into an oversized coat against the rain that had started up again, and led the way.
"So, you're gonna be a daddy!" Dean grinned at Andrew.
"Yeah," Andrew smiled wanly. "I'm not sure whether to feel thrilled, run screaming, or throw up."
"It must be several decades since two werewolves mated," Sam pondered, "Hunters have pretty much thinned the ranks to the point where Packs don't exist any more. How much do you know about, you know, the whole delivery thing?"
"Not much," Andrew admitted. "In communities, it was the females who dealt with it, and passed it along as oral tradition. Practically nothing got written down."
"So, how many legs will it have when it's born?" queried Dean.
"That's a very good question," Andrew replied sheepishly. "In truth, we don't know whether it will be in human form, lupine form, or somewhere in between, we just don't know. Bobby was going to lend us a couple of books that might have some details while we're here."
"So you can't exactly book a hospital stay, then," mused Sam.
"We're in touch with a couple of sympathetic doctors who've helped out Hunters before," Andrew told them, "They're aware of the situation. We'll see who we call when it happens."
"Why do you need two doctors?" asked Dean.
"One's a GP, and one's a vet," Andrew explained.
"Makes sense," Sam conceded, "Since you don't know whether..."
He was interrupted by the bang of the door as Bobby and Ronnie rushed back in, their faces grim.
"Bobby, what is it?" asked Sam immediately.
"She's gone," he told them brusquely, "The weather's getting worse, it's gettin' dark, and the little idjit has gone."
"So saddle up boys," Ronnie instructed, indicating Lemmy and Lars, "And we'll need you pair on deck too. We have to get out there and find her before she drowns, freezes, or gets washed away."
Oh noes! Save the puppy! Save the puppppppyyyyyyyyyyyy!
I can't believe what this little plot bunny has come up with. I think we should feed it. Admittedly, I may end up typing with my eyes closed, but we'll see.
I like to get reviewed,
It's like plot bunny food,
It puts them in the mood,
To see these tales conclude,
With special features lewd,
Where Denizens collude
In actions slightly crude
In which they have pursued
Winchesters almost nude,
And doesn't quite preclude
Behaviour that's quite rude.