Chapter Seven
After lunch, Dean informed his brother that he was going to spend some man-time in the garage.
"Alternative-me went to all the trouble of settin' it up, it would be an insult to him not to use it," Dean declared imperiously.
"Right," sighed Sam, "And while you're doing man-time in the man-shed, you'll be doing man-thinking about our little problem here, I suppose."
"Exactly!" Dean beamed at him. "I'll let it run in the background, let my awesome Hunter skills mull it over." He paused. "While I do man-time, you can do emo-time," he suggested with a magnanimous gesture. "Sit in the spa, and do your hair. There's bubble bath in there."
"Yeah, I saw that," Sam answered brightly, "And I also noticed that on the back of the bottle it has scrawled in sharpie STAY AWAY FROM MY STUFF BITCH."
"Well, obviously, I use it for therapeutic purposes," Dean recovered magnificently with a disdainful sneer. "Huntin' can be a physically demanding job. I don't wanna have to claim on that retirement plan any sooner than is absolutely necessary."
"Of course," Sam rolled his eyes, "Well, I'll keep at it with the research, see what I can turn up."
"You could take Jimi for a w-word," Dean suggested, smiling down at the beagle who was smiling right back up at him. "It would be an excuse to check out the area, see if there's anything out of the ordinary. Well, anything that would be out of the ordinary more than this is already out of the ordinary. Man walkin' his dog, nobody will look twice."
"That's not a bad idea," mused Sam, thinking that he wouldn't mind stretching his legs. "What do you think, Jimi? You wanna go for a walk?"
As soon as Sam said the w-word out loud, the dog woofed happily, and spun around on the spot.
"Well, that's done it, dude," Dean grinned, "You gotta take him now."
"Beagles are a breed that benefits from plenty of on-lead exercise," Sam agreed, as the dog dashed off. Moments later, he was back with a leash in his mouth, tail wagging furiously. "Aaaaand it looks like Jimi is right on board with that."
"Well, you two have fun," Dean said sunnily, "I'll be worshiping at the alter of The Machine God. Don't worry, I'll be in with plenty of time for dinner."
"I don't doubt it," Sam hunkered down to take the proffered leash and snap it onto Jimi's collar.
They went by a pair of running shoes – 'his' running shoes, Sam realised – at the front door, and Jimi stopped to sniff at them, then looked up expectantly at Sam.
"So, we go out for a run, do we?" he asked the dog. "This is more of a recon, but maybe tomorrow, if we're still here."
They headed out down the street, Sam casually checking the route on his phone as they went. Jimi clearly had a very good idea of where they should go: he was clearly trying to be a good boy and walk nicely on the lead, but like most beagles, the constant temptation of scents to sniff at everywhere got the better of him. He would suddenly break off from walking by Sam to dart at a tree, a stone, a tuft of grass, or nothing that Sam could see, and snuffle at it furiously, tail wagging.
"You're still a dog who could track anything anywhere, aren't ya?" chuckled Sam as Jimi found yet another irresistible smell, then paused to 'answer' what was presumably a pee-mail left earlier by another dog.
There didn't seem to be anything in the area that would set of a Hunter's spidey senses, unless it was just the, well, the niceness of the place. The houses and yards were well kept, the streets were wide and the verges trim. The odd car to be found in a drive was always a late model, in excellent condition. It was an area where nobody who wasn't on at least six figures would ever get a look-in.
I might've ended up in a place like this, Sam thought to himself, A respectable professional, with a career I liked, something I was good at, a family and a nice house – a home –and a picket fence and a study and a basket for the dog in there and no worries about where my next meal would be coming from…
He realised that he'd essentially described what the Sam in this FOOCER reality actually had. Well, he'd have to reserve judgement on the 'respectable' bit, he didn't think Dean in any reality would ever really to 'respectable'. 'Housebroken' was probably as good as it got.
And maybe a car that's not pushing fifty, has an iPod jack and and gets more than one-point-three miles to the gallon.
Now he thought about it, that was a bit weird. FOOCER-Sam was a guy who earned plenty of money – he could've chosen a make, walked into any dealer, ordered a late model with as many custom features as he wanted, and paid for it outright. But he hadn't done so. Why not?
Maybe because he's got a career, and his family, his brother, and a home, and his study, and he's perfectly contented with what he's got…
He was pulled from his thoughts by a noise. A rumbling, thumping noise, a sound that somehow brought the word 'prowling' to mind.
He looked up into the sky to see if a plane was in the process of crashing somewhere.
The noise became louder, varying in pitch as it did so, but never losing the growling note that suggested a predator was on the loose. Something was coming closer.
He pulled Jimi away from the edge of the road as it rounded the corner, pausing and rumbling as if scenting the air for prey.
It was big. It was black. It was sleek. It roared as they came into its line of sight…
Dean shot past on one wheel, grinning like a loon, and flipped his brother off.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Dean was completely unrepentant as he put a steak dinner down in front of his brother, who had worn a persistent Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child) since the close encounter of the motorcycling kind.
"You could've been killed, pulling a stunt like that," Sam muttered. "You could've been killed just riding it."
"She, Sam," Dean corrected him without rancour, "Honey is a she. Just like Baby."
"As if being a Hunter, paid or otherwise, isn't dangerous enough," Sam went on, "You gotta go and ride that thing!"
"Yeah," Dean sighed happily and sat down, "And if you don't like Honey, you're just gonna love what's under the tarp."
"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "Do I want to know?"
"Nope!" Dean positively beamed.
"But you're gonna tell me anyway, aren't you?" Sam knew when he was beaten.
"Yep!" Dean was unstoppably cheerful. "That there is my man-project!"
Sam looked at him dubiously. "Your man-project?" he echoed.
"Well, duh," shrugged Dean, shovelling a large chunk of steak into his mouth. "It's what every man needs in his man-shed, for doin' man-stuff during man-time." A beautiful smile crossed his face. "It's… a Ninja!"
Sam gave his brother a level glare. "Are you tellin' me that, under that tarp in the garage, there is a Japanese man wearing a black gi, swords and a pissed off expression? Gee, think if the fun you can have with your new bud on Sneak Like A Ninja Day…"
"No, bitch," Dean rolled his eyes in a very Samesque fashion indeed, "A Kawasaki Ninja. Before they were even Ninjas. It's an honest-to-Cas 1984 GPz900R."
"Wow!" Sam tweeted with fake enthusiasm, "A vehicle that is only three decades old!"
"This beast is the granddaddy of every Big Four sports bike rollin' around today," Dean declared in a tone that held awe. "And I've been restoring it!"
"You?" Sam cocked an eyebrow at his brother.
"You know," Dean waved a fork, loaded with potato, in a dismissive way. "Me. As in, here-me. Which is clearly me. Because here-me, FOOCER me, is clearly just as awesome as me me. He has good taste in cars, good taste in furniture, good taste in booze, and," he grinned, "If the contents of my dresser drawer are to be believed, the Living Sex God is well known to this reality…"
"Could we not talk about that over dinner?" Sam almost wailed. "I might've known that it'd be another damned constant, you and your libido that's more extroverted than Kim Kardashian's ass."
"And you're still a prude, who's frightened of sex," Dean sighed sadly. "I don't know where I went wrong with you. I tried so hard, I taught you everything I know, well, not everything, obviously, because I can't teach you to be as awesomely naturally hot as the Living Sex God, that's just innate and I don't know how to teach it because even I don't know how I do it, I'm just that good…"
"If only science could somehow harness your sex drive, and channel its power into something useful," mused Sam. "As a non-fossil fuel source, it would blow solar and cold fusion into the weeds."
"It is channelled into something useful!" protested Dean. "It's channelled into pleasing the women of America! It's a noble calling. A duty, a vocation."
"Well, don't get too vocational tonight," Sam humphed, "We got a meeting tomorrow morning."
Dean stared at him like a child being told that the next day's breakfast would consist of Brussels sprouts in liver sauce. "A meeting?"
"We're federal employees," Sam reminded him. "Sooner or later, we were gonna have to go to a meeting. Don't worry, it's a mission debrief for our group, from what I can work out it won't take long, then we'll be preparing for our next job. But you'd better be able to turn up sober tomorrow morning; I got the feeling that Bobby's not the sort of boss who'll put up with you showin' up at the office still tanked from the previous night."
"Well, I guess I can have a quiet night in," Dean shrugged, shovelling more food into his mouth, and make a noise of enjoyment that was just indecent enough to draw a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One) from his brother. "I'll have a quiet night in the man-cave, just hangin' with my Playstation." He leaned back and stretched. "I might even have a bath while you do the washing up."
"Right," muttered Sam.
"Hey, I cooked, it's only fair that you clean up," Dean stated firmly, "Which will only involve stacking stuff in the dishwasher anyway. Don't worry, I'm bettin' this place has an on-demand hot water service. So you can have a bath too, after me. I'll even clean the jets for you, when I'm done."
"Wow, I feel special," Sam rolled his eyes.
"Just don't you dare touch my bubble bath, bitch."
I hope you're all making preparation to observe Sneak Like A Ninja Day, on December 5th. I intend to spend it sliding around door frames, in my ninja mask, until my boss demands to know what the hell I'm doing. (Actually, I'd better be careful, he's done aikido and shinkendo and might tie me in knots for impertinence. And for being a lousy ninja, because he saw me to initiate knot-tying.)
Feed the bunny reviews, and let's hope that none of them want to sneak around like ninjas. Let us declare Friday to be a day when all plot bunnies everywhere make a special effort to pop out of their hidey-holes, hutches and bars to dictate some more fanfic! This day shall be designated… Plot Bunnies Parade Around Like Kim Kardashian's Arse Day!
