Real Life, meetings and work load, oh my,
Real Life, meetings and work load, oh my...
Management apologises grovellingly for the delay: the plot bunny has suddenly turned shy. I shall try to coax it into being more forthcoming. In addition, I may, sadly, have to gnaw through my own radial artery later today in order to escape from a meeting that go for at least an hour longer than it needs to, on account of the participation of highly ranked, clueless idiots. I leave my stash of TimTams to you. Divide them amongst yourselves.
Frankly, I think Ronnie should get some sort of award for telling Dean that she found him intimidating in his overtly masculine feathery pants. She only got a screen capture so she could show Andrew. And maybe send it to Bobby. But she didn't release it into the wild, because she's technically a fugly, but she's not evil. And Bobby certainly wouldn't, although he might threaten to. So don't waste your time searching the interwebs for Dean in his feathery pants. It's not out there.
Of course, if one of our Denizens does happen to draw a picture of Dean in his feathery pants, I will have to write the scenelet in which he sits for the drawing. More than one drawing, I'll have to write more than one scenelet, I guess...
Chapter 8
In the short time she had been practising veterinary medicine, Dr Sylvia Aldersen had made some observations that were never taught to her at college. Things like 'The ancient Egyptians worshipped cats as gods; cats have never forgotten this. The Egyptians were right about cats having at least one foot in the Otherworld from birth, but that paw is in Hell'. And 'Horses are uncomfortable in the middle, dangerous at the ends, and their propensity for cunning is often in inverse proportion to their size'. And 'The smaller the budgerigar, the more likely it is to know that it is distantly related to carnivorous dinosaurs – and you're a mammal'. And 'Iguanas bred in captivity and hand-raised by humans can get very confused about exactly what species female of they wish to mate with'. (Actually, she was rather fond of Herbert the Green Ig – the first time she'd met him he'd been a juvenile who had crawled into her shirt and gone to sleep. Of course, his attempts to do this now as a five-foot long adult had to be gently rebuffed; she swore he gave her a hurt look every time. His owner said that Herbert never did mating displays for anybody else, including a couple of very attractive female iguanas he'd been introduced to.)
But it was people and their dogs that really fascinated her. She'd decided that most people either ended up with the most incongruous canine companion possible (such as the six-foot-six fireman who was an amateur boxer, and doted on his French Bulldog Maisie – the man had cried like a distressed child when the little dog was diagnosed with a benign tumour requiring minor surgery) or a dog that was so much like them it was almost creepy.
Her patients included Sasha the Afghan, who, like his owner, had clearly gone back to the line for ditziness for a second time when the brains were handed out. Then there was Anastasia the Pekinese, whose disdain for humans was matched only by that of her doting owner, a well-dressed matron who managed to squash more vowels into her speech than a homeless drunk. Griff the Yorkshire Terrier was a grumpy old man (just like his owner), Ted the Boxer was inappropriately touchy-feely if not watched sternly (just like his owner), and Rosie the Staffordshire Terrier constantly found ways to sabotage attempts to control her weight (just like her owner).
Her last patient for the day and his owner definitely fell into the second group. When she called them in, she had a sudden irrational impression that she'd sampled one of Alice's Wonderland potions, and shrunk.
In her professional opinion, oversized breeding pre-disposed dogs to various skeletal and heart problems. In her personal opinion, the sort of people – usually men, she added mentally – who wanted a large, fearsome-looking Rottweiler were too often total dicks who felt they had to compensate for something.
The guy on the other end of this Rottweiler's leash didn't have that vibe though. Possibly because the Rottie was giving her an adorably happy doggy grin. Or possibly because he was big enough to make the Rottie look normal-sized. Or possibly because he gave her a dimpled smile that put her in mind of Geoffrey the Great Dane-Bichon Frise cross. (Geoffrey's actual conception was still something of a mystery, since Alphonse the Bichon-Frise didn't even come up to the chest of his next door neighbour and best friend, Lucy the Great Dane, there was a fence between them, and they were not ever allowed to run free unsupervised. There had to be aliens involved. Or at least an orange box.) Geoffrey had his mother's height, and his father's coat. Just like Geoffrey, Tall Guy managed to give the impression that he was peeking up adorably through all that hair.
Tall Guy – Sam, his name was – was worried that Jimi the Rottweiler might be unwell. They'd had a trip from South Dakota, and the dog was a bit off-colour.
Jimi was certainly the best-behaved Rottie she'd ever met. He whuffed to her, and offered a paw and a pair of Sad Dog Eyes that could've competed internationally. At a nod from his owner, he jumped onto the table, and stood resolutely for his examination, with barely a whine as the thermometer was deployed.
The two of them were just nice guys – Jimi was a real gentle giant, and his owner was easy to talk to. When he saw her degree on the wall, he said he'd done pre-law at Stanford, where she'd done pre-med (and later decided that animals were much nicer animals than humans, and applied to vet medicine in Colorado). They discovered they'd even had an English Lit. professor in common; she was glad to find out that she wasn't the only one who'd quickly worked out that parroting the man's own interpretations back to him was a fast-track to an A-grade (at the time, she'd felt guiltily mercenary about it).
Sylvia diagnosed carsickness in the dog (and possibly a little bit of neurosis in the owner, but she didn't say that), prescribed some electrolyte salts for his water and some medication, but also told him that anecdotal evidence suggested that a ginger cookie could work wonders. Probably a sweet treat and some pats and affection took the dog's mind off feeling unwell. Certainly, Jimi brightened up no end after his exam, when she gave him a liver treat. In fact, both of them offered her lovely smiles as they walked out with her afterwards.
It was something of a mystery to her as to why such a sweet-tempered dog as Jimi suddenly stiffened, and growled menacingly at her battered old red scooter – he shouldered her aside as if it was some creature ready to attack her. Sam told her that Jimi had been bowled over by a scooter when he was a puppy, and sometimes felt the need to 'protect' people from them. He checked it over for her, just in case there was a snake or something. (She had once found an injured Coachwhip curled around the clutch pedal; she'd gently disentangled the snake, cleaned its wounds, and kept it under observation for a week before releasing it. Herbert had come in for an appointment, caught a whiff of another reptile on her coat, and given her the most hurt, reproachful and betrayed expression she'd ever seen on any animal's face.) But there was nothing.
She saw them disappear in the mirror and gave them a little wave, deciding that really, she wouldn't have minded adopting at least one of them, but they were probably too big to fit on her Vespa.
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When Sam and Jimi got back to the cruddy motel room, Dean was trying to watch TV, while Temeriel consulted his notebook.
"So, how did the medical violation go, guys?" asked Dean through a mouthful of Doritos, grinning as Temeriel greeted Sam's return with the mandatory bear hug, then turned to embrace Jimi (who was right on board with the whole hugs thing, and went back for seconds, tail wagging furiously).
"Diagnosed with probable carsickness, prescribed ginger cookies," replied Sam, when he'd gotten his breath back. He went on to relate what he'd found out about Sylvia: she was originally from Oregon, studied at Stanford then University of Colorado, hated soap operas, loathed Oprah, listened to music that Dean would probably not mind, played softballl in a team that was on the bottom of the table but had a lot of fun, was terrible at skiing (but thoroughly enjoyed doing it badly), was currently re-reading 'A Clockwork Orange' and got around on an ancient Vespa scooter, named Giovanni. "Which, I might add, set Jimi's alarm bells ringing. He snarled at like it was possessed, but I couldn't find anything."
"We might want to check that out," mused Dean, "Jimi has a good nose for evil shit."
"How did you guys go?" asked Sam.
Temeriel looked confused. "Dean talked with Phillip," he related, "But I'm afraid they talked about things that just didn't make any sense..."
"It's okay," Sam assured him with a grin, "Dean often doesn't make sense when he talks."
"What is a pilot screw?" asked Temeriel. "It sounds like a very mean term for an Air Force officer's girlfriend..."
"There was a lot of car and engine talk, Tem," Dean explained.
The Cupid looked more confused. "There was also a picture on the wall of a lady mechanic, in a bikini," he read from his book, "Why was she not wearing overalls too?"
"Er, Angelina Jolie isn't a mechanic, Tem," grinned Dean.
"But you said you'd like her to tighten your nuts," said Temeriel, "And Phillip agreed he'd be happy to grease her nipples, even though she isn't a machine..."
Sam facepalmed.
"Also, there is no god of metal named Hetfield or Kilmister in any pantheon that I know of," the cherub went on. "Hephaestus does sing when he gets drunk, but I have to say that he doesn't sound terribly entertaining, and he only knows about three songs, and two of them are far too rude to be performed in public, not that that stops him..."
"We'll have to see about educating you sometime, Tem," smiled Dean. "Still, we have a number of things to work with. Sport, good, music, kinda, and the Vespa, that's good, he's something of a small engines guru. Do you think she could get into lawnmower racing?"
"I think a woman who has a complicated relationship with an Iguana named Herbert would probably be up to try a lot of things," conceded Sam.
"Excellent!" Dean beamed. "So, all we've got to do is manoeuvre them into each other's space, and let two-stroke chemistry work its mojo."
"Should we have a grease thing gun handy in case they get along well?" asked Temeriel, "Or is the greasing of nipples one of those things that people prefer to do in private?"
Sam wondered if Jimi's anti-nausea meds would work on humans.
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Back at the bar that evening, Sam and Dean hung around a pool table, waiting for Dean's charges to arrive. Sylvia came in first, bought one of those lurid drinks, and settled herself with a journal article.
"So, what do we do?" asked Temeriel, watching the game.
"We do some old-fashioned human match-making," Dean told him, smiling at a blonde woman with pneumatic assets, "Sam bumps into Sylvia and engages her in bland yet engaging platonic conversation, I bump into Phil and engage him with my wit and humour, then we all bump into each other, they meet, Sam asks after Sylvia's Vespa, I ask Phil if he's ever heard of a Vespa chasing a dog, they discover a mutual interest, we fade into the background, I call forth my bow, we hit 'em with the arrows, nature takes its course, happy ending. Possibly even a Happy Ending, if this evening holds the possibility of a beautiful, natural act between two mutually consenting adults..."
"You really do have a one-track mind, don't you?" grumped Sam.
"Two-track," Dean corrected him sunnily, "I have a two-track mind. I think about food a lot, too."
When Sylvia had nearly finished her drink, Dean looked at his watch then sent Sam on his way, with an order to offer to buy her another drink, and ask about Herbert. "Phil will be here soon, bro, so, go be engaging with the vet. Ask her to guess what breed of dog you got your hair from."
"Jerk," muttered Sam, wandering nonchalantly over to the bar.
Dean watched approvingly as Sam played his part to perfection, the surprised 'Fancy meeting you here', the friendly but not too forward approach, the casual conversation. He smiled with satisfaction. Phil would be arriving any minute, and they could wind this gig up tonight...
"Oh dear," said Temeriel in a worried voice behind him.
"What's the matter,Tem?" Dean leaned back casually and asked the apparently thin air beside him.
"It's Sylvia," Temeriel told him, "She's talking to Sam."
"Yeah, that's the plan, Tem," Dean agreed.
"No, I mean she's talking. To Sam," repeated Temeriel with concern. "Look!"
Dean humoured the angel by studying his brother and the vet.
"Oh, shit," he muttered.
He could've used his Acting Cupid acuity to peek into Sylvia's thoughts if he'd wanted to, but he was the Living Sex God, and he knew what a woman looked like when she was expressing more than a polite interest in a guy's conversation. With a stab of alarm, he took in her smile, the tilt of her head, the laugh together, oh, no, the quick touch on his arm, no, no, no, was she offering to buy him a drink?
He suddenly realised he did not want to look into any woman's mind and see her imagining doing anything with his little brother...
"That's not right," said Temeriel anxiously, "She's starting to think it might be fun to get to know Sam better!"
"No, no, no, no, no," growled Dean under his breath, willing his oblivious little brother to cool things off, "Back off, Sam, back off!"
Sylvia reached up and brushed an invisible speck from Sam's shirt, while he smiled uncertainly, and shot a surreptitious worried glance at Dean.
Dean stepped into the shadows, Cupidified, and strode over to his brother, standing behind Sylvia, while Temeriel watched and wrung his hands anxiously.
"Knock it off, Sam!" Dean hissed at him urgently, "She's trying to make a move on you!"
When Sylvia glanced away, Sam's eyebrows managed to transmit an astonishing amount of information. I'm trying! Really! All I did was ask her if her Vespa was all right, and now she's she's, she's chasing me! Save me, big bro!
Dean could see that Sam was trying; he stepped back, but she followed him. Any woman who had been courted by Herbert the Incurably Romantic Green Iguana was not going to be easily deterred.
"Stop her, Dean, stop her!" called Temeriel desperately, "If she becomes romantically interested in Sam, our mission will fail! Please, Dean, do something!"
Dean let out a pained sigh. Desperate situations called for desperate acts.
"Follow my lead," he snapped at Sam, "And we will discuss the method by which you will die at my hands later."
With that, Dean turned and strode out of the bar, feathers rustling very grumpily.
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It figured, sighed Sylvia, relating her encounter in the bar a week later over lunch with some girlfriends, all the good ones are taken, or, well...
He'd brought his dog in, a wonderful animal, a Rottweiler with beautiful manners. Jimi, his name had been, no, the dog, the guy was Sam, Jimi was the dog. Jimi had even tried to 'protect' her from her own scooter, wasn't that just adorable? They'd both been kind of sweet, was it silly to think that both a guy and his dog had lovely smiles? Anyway, she and Sam had just got chatting, and found that he'd been at Stanford, too, they'd both wangled easy A-grades from the same English professor with the same brown-nosing approach...
Anyway, she was just having a drink that night, looking at a journal, and when she glanced up, there he was! No, Sam, not the dog! And he came over, and they started talking, and he bought her a drink, and she thought hey, maybe her luck was changing, and he was really interesting, not pushy and cocky like some guys can be - charming, kind of shy, she thought, and he really did have a gorgeous smile, and let's be honest, he was kind of hot...
So, one minute, she was talking with him, and the next, there was this voice behind her calling "Sammy!", and she turned around and oh God, this other totally hot guy walked in, with a smile that could melt glass, and Sam looked really happy to see him, and he goes, "Dean!". Then this Dean guy walked up to Sam, and put an arm around him, and went up on his toes and he gave Sam a peck on the cheek, and he was like "There you are, I wondered where you'd got to! You better not stand me up, mister," and he pouted like Angelina Jolie, and Sam laughed,and looked a bit embarrassed, and gave her this look, like, "I'm really sorry, I tried to tell you," well, didn't she feel like a total idiot, but they were really nice, and Dean thanked her profusely for looking after Jimi, because "Some days, I swear he loves that dog more than he loves me," and he looked at Sam with this Look, and said "You never feed me ginger cookies, Sammy, why don't you feed me ginger cookies?" and Sam just went red, and she and Dean had laughed, and they'd bought her another drink.
Dean had been absolutely charming, weren't they always, and told her that she could have Sam when he'd finished with him if she really wanted, but there might not be much left, and he had that smile on again when he said that, and Sam went so red, and Dean said she should just be open to what the Earth Mother had planned for her, because "The right guy will just fall out of the sky when you least expect him, honey, I got a feeling about that for you!"
Just after that, it got really interesting. This other guy had shown up, in a trench-coat, and he gave Dean this really intense eye-sex stare, and just said, "Hello Dean," and Dean looked surprised to see him, and so did Sam, and Sam asked "What are you doing here?" and this third guy, they called him Kass, or something, he glared at Sam, and said, "Where else would I be?" Anyway, he kept staring at Dean, and said, "I do hope that Sam has not been attempting any unwanted interference with your trousers."! Then Dean went a bit red, and said no, no problem, everything was fine, and Sam gave this Kass guy an expression, a really bitchy scowl, that she'd only seen before on a really snooty Pekinese called Anastasia. Then, Sam accused Kass of needing to learn to keep his hands to himself, and Kass had just glared daggers back, and told Sam that he and Dean shared a 'profound bond' that he would never understand, and she'd excused herself at that point, because nobody wanted to get stuck in the middle of that sort of argument, and it wouldn't surprise her in the least if Dean had been two-timing the pair of them, because he had that kind of screw-anything-that-moves vibe...
Her friends laughed and sympathised with her, but told her that the thing about the right guy falling out of the sky was right. The guy for her was out there, somewhere. If she wouldn't believe it from them, she should listen to this Dean person, because gay men always turned out to be right about that sort of thing.
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