Snivelling apologies for the delay in getting on with this story. Work has been impossibly hectic, I has had teh sick, the Chocolate-Powered Update Inspiration Fairy has deserted me, and I had to spend my public holiday cleaning out my lizards' enclosure after the little bastards managed to flood it. Waaaaaaah! I just went and re-read all the encouraging reviews for the last chapters, and that helped. Ohai to Bartlebead, hope the jetlag isn't too bad. Oh, and Elf, the reference to being called 'Loretta' is a Monty Python reference, go and watch 'Life Of Brian'- it's okay, if you read my last story you're going to hell anyway so a bit more blasphemy won't hurt, in fact there's the potential for using that reference in a story where Cas tries to convince a fanfic writer that mpreg is impossible but I really don't want to think about that until this is finished CURSE YOU BREEDERS OF PLOT BUNNIES! DARN YOU ALL TO HECK! (That's a Pratchett reference).
Ahem. I hope you will forgive me for my tardiness *grovel grovel*. There's a couple more chapters to go at least, I will try harder. I can only hope the Inspiration Fairy recharges her wand.
Chapter 8
Dean dreamed of a remembered afternoon of blue sky, cold beer, and puppy cuddles. It was in the aftermath of a poltergeist job: the poltergeist had played Frisbee with Dean, and he sustained a twisted brain and a concussed knee – or had it been the other way around? Sam had dragged him back to their motel room, where Dean had grumbled about being mother-henned at, and complained "I'm fine, Chicken Little, i's jus' a liddle headache."
An hour later, Sam had found him on his bed, clutching his pillow, wailing, "I want my puppeeeeeee!"
Sam had bundled them into the car, Dean curled up on the back seat – still clutching the pillow, which he'd refused to let go of – and headed for Bobby's yard. They'd finally got him to relinquish the pillow by putting 9-week-old Jimi in the bed with him. Both of them had gone to sleep with adorably happy expressions on their faces. Sam tucked them in. Then took a picture.
For some reason he probably wouldn't want to analyse too deeply, in his dream, Sam was wearing an old-fashioned nurse's cap and cape.
And turning into a giant chicken...
After two days of being fed soup, toast, Advil and bitchfaces, Dean limped out into the yard, and spent a couple of hours under the hood of a junker that Bobby had told him was a lost cause. He coaxed the reluctant engine back into stuttering life. Feeling suitably smug, he fetched himself a beer, and took it outside to sit under a tree. Sam followed him, flapping his wings anxiously.
"Cluck cluck concussion, cluck cluck cluck beer cluck cluck, Dean," he said, adding a shot of Henface #4™ (Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck, Cluck Cluck, Dean.)
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean had replied, "I'm just sitting here, enjoying the sunshine." Idly, he noticed that Sam even had his hair in a bun under the nurse's cap.
"Cluck cluck cluck cluck CLUCK, Dean, cluck cluck cluck out here!" scolded Sam, glaring at him with Henface #2™ (Cluck Cluck Clucking Cluck, Dean, Cluck!)
"I am resting," Dean told him, as Rumsfeld's three puppies came charging around a corner, their squabbling turning to delighted yipping when they found a human at ground level. Laughing, he rassled with them briefly, until they all suddenly ran out of energy, in the way puppies do, and curled up around him to go to sleep. "See? We're all resting." He settled himself comfortably under the tree, watching the sky. Jimi curled into his side with his head resting on Dean's shoulder. Janis and Joni cuddled against his leg.
"Cluck it, Dean, cluck cluck cluck unhygienic cluck cluck cluck!" Sam scratched irritably at the ground with his feet as Rumsfeld came wandering along, looking for her wayward litter. Satisfied that they were in safe hands, she flopped down beside Dean with a contented humph, and he put an arm around her.
"You should try this, you know," Dean sighed, feeling strangely comfortable, "Since you don't ever get any human contact, you might try dog contact. Those Cuddle Party weirdos might be onto something – it feels very therapeutic. Probably because I'm using actual puppies for my Puppy Pile."
"Cluck, Dean, cluck cluck cluck CLAAAARK cluck cluck!"
"I'll nap out here. I'm comfy. Dude, you do know you're turning into a giant chicken?"
Sam left with a very Samesque huff – how does a giant chicken go huff, Dean wondered – and a parting shot of Henface #7™ (Go Cluck Yourself, Dean), his annoyed feather-fluffing making his little nurse's cape flap adorably. Flap-flap, flap-flap... Dean grinned down at his canine companions. The pups were snoozing, and Rumsfeld rested her chin on his arm. He stroked her grey-flecked head affectionately and put his other arm around Jimi, and let his eyes close – nobody, NOBODY, would ever get him to admit it, but puppy cuddles were pretty awesome. And if his brother ever teased him about it, he'd turn him into the biggest pot of Sam Noodle Soup the world had ever seen.
He woke up slowly, stretching and yawning and smiling. Puppy cuddles were awesome...
He realised with a jolt that the scruffy head cuddled comfortably into his shoulder might've been Jimi's, but it no longer qualified as a puppy cuddle.
"Aaaaaaaargh! Naked Guy Kid Hug!" he gurgled, trying to twitch away.
This proved to be impossible, as his other arm was tangled in a trench coat, because it was hugging Castiel, who sat looking down at him with a serious expression.
"AAAAAAAAARGH! Clothed Angel Hug!" he yodelled, jerking back in the opposite direction.
"Dad!" trilled Jimi happily, kissing him on the nose.
"Good Morning Dean," said the clothed angel.
"Kid! Angel! Personal! Space!" he yowled, extricating himself from the tangle of bedclothes and limbs.
"My apologies, Dean," said Castiel gravely, "But might I point out that it was in fact you who initiated physical contact..."
"What are you doing cuddling me?" demanded Dean, looking around for his jeans.
"You were actually cuddling him, bro," Sam pointed out from where he sat on his bed, pecking, yes, pecking, at his laptop, "He wasn't doing anything. Except sitting there. Watching you sleep. With that intense, eye-sex stare he does at you..."
"Gah! Pervy angel!" raged Dean, "You're still Doing It, Cas! Stop doing the pervy angel look!" He turned to his brother. "What were you doing while the Angel of Pervsday was Doing It?"
"I didn't want to interrupt," Sam answered, "Because you didn't seem to mind..."
"Sam is correct," Castiel cut in, "I did not wish to disturb your sleep. You were having a pleasant dream..."
"Pervy angel is pervy!" growled Dean. "What have I told you about watching my dreams? What, like you can't get cable in Heaven?"
"I did not, as you put it, 'watch your dreams'," the angel corrected him, "I was able to ascertain that you were having an enjoyable dream from your expression and vocalisations..."
"Oh, you are so creepy," moaned Dean.
"... and that it was in no way erotic, because your expressions and vocalisations during... Special Dreams are distinctive, which is something of a relief because at one stage you addressed me as 'Rumsfeld'..."
"I am going to smash your harp..."
"... And I'm afraid that your stroking my vessel's thigh like that had a rather unfortunate if predictable physiological effect, which might be considered inappropriate in the presence of a minor..."
"...And pull feathers out of your wings..." squeaked Dean.
"Do you wanna see the picture, bro?" Sam asked him brightly, turning his laptop around. The wallpaper showed a picture of Dean, beautiful smile on his sleeping face, with Jimi snuggled into his shoulder, a happy look of contentment in his big brown eyes. Dean's other arm went around Castiel – the angel sat watching over the two of them, wearing a patented Guardian Angel On Duty expression, in a tableau that just cried out to be put on a Hallmark card with a caption intimating that your guardian angel was keeping watch over you, so sorry to hear about the diagnosis of colon cancer.
"Get clucked, Chicken Man," Dean told him, eliciting a confused expression from his brother.
"Wingsman!" cried Jimi, throwing himself at Castiel for a body-slamming hug and a big sloppy kiss.
The angel regarded him seriously. "Good morning, Jimi," he said gravely. "I believe I have addressed the matter of your displays of affection before now."
Jimi cocked his head sideways, and kissed Castiel again. Castiel frowned.
"As I have intimated to you in your proper canine form, I do not wish to be licked by you," he told the teen, "As a human, it is appropriate for you to shake hands. Indeed, as a dog it is appropriate for you to shake hands. Having your saliva go up my vessel's nose is quite uncomfortable, and your habitual demonstration of affection via crotch-sniffing and... attempting to become intimate with my leg will be completely inappropriate while you are in a human form, in fact such an act would be construed in this culture as an illegal act with an underage child on my part..."
"What Cas is trying to say," Sam translated, "Is that humans don't greet each other the way you usually greet him."
"That is not strictly true," Cas interrupted, "As I am sure you are aware, expressions of friendliness between Dean and his lady friends often include episodes of..."
"Actually, I try to remain as ignorant as possible," Sam cut him off quickly, "But you should shake Castiel's hand, Jimi."
Jimi looked disappointed, but stuck out his hand obediently. "Hello, Wingsman," he intoned mournfully.
"Why are you here, Cas?" asked Sam.
"Dean sent me a message regarding Jimi's unfortunate transformation," answered the angel. He turned to Dean. "Although it nearly didn't get through to me. Danael in Reception says that the next time you send a prayer tainted with the stench of recent fornication, she will personally give you a smiting you will not forget in a hurry. She mentioned something about 'tying a knot in it'. I am uncertain what she meant, but her tone was extremely menacing. In future, it would be prudent to cleanse body and mind of carnal influences before sending me any messages."
Dean groaned. "Okay, you've creeped me out and threatened me with genital origami," he said in a pained voice, "But now you're here, thank you for coming - can you have a look at Jimi, and see what you think?"
Castiel cocked his head and studied Jimi. "Your message said he was bitten by a werewolf, and afterwards manifested as a human of equivalent developmental age."
"We think that's what caused it," said Sam, filling the angel in on the Jimi's transformation. Castiel listened with an intent expression. "Can you, um, turn him back into himself?"
Castiel frowned thoughtfully. "No," he answered, "I do not believe so. Jimi and his sisters are unlike anything that has walked the Earth before. They carry the heritage of The Pit, but are mortal. Hellhounds have occasionally bred with mortal bitches before, but Jimi Senior was... uniquely influenced by Dean's recasting of his mind and body. He was a one-off on this Earth. And he certainly creates his own brand of... excitement in Heaven..."
"He still causing trouble?" asked Sam in a worried voice.
"The Guardian of Companions speaks glowingly of him," answered the angel, "She uses words like 'boisterous', 'ebullient' and 'frisky'. He has become great friends with Francis of Assisi – since Fra Francis taught him to play Fetch, there have fewer... unfortunate incidents."
"That's my boy," grinned Dean.
"I will make some enquiries," Castiel returned to the subject, "And return as soon as I can."
"That would be great, Cas," Dean said, "Provided you stay out of my dreams, my thoughts, my bed and my personal space."
"Very well," agreed Castiel. "Goodbye. Goodbye, Jimi."
"Bye, Wingsman!" called Jimi cheerfully as the angel disappeared in a flap of trench-coat.
"Jimi, why do you call Castiel 'Wingsman'?" asked Sam curiously.
Jimi looked nonplussed. "Because he has wings, Uncle Sammy," he answered in some confusion.
Dean stared at him. "You mean, you can see his wings?" he asked.
"Of course, Dad," replied Jimi, "It's how I know it's him."
"Well, animals are a lot more perceptive than humans in many ways," Sam theorised, "Maybe this is just another case of that, turbo-boosted with Jimi's, er, supernatural ancestry."
"Yeah," mused Dean. "Jimi, what are Cas's wings like?"
Jimi appeared to give the question some thought. "They're very... wingy," he pronounced, satisfied with his conclusion.
"Well, on that incredibly informative description, let's go eat," suggested Sam, pulling on his shoes.
"Good idea. I need food. Lots of it. Plenty of carbohydrate to settle my nerves after such a rude awakening," grumbled Dean. "Get dressed, Jimi."
"Oh, Daaaaaaaad..."
"No get dressee, no get baconee," Dean stipulated, fossicking for clean socks in his bag. "The sooner we get him turned back Sam, the better – he's only been a teenager for a day or so, and he's far too good at it for my liking."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"I'm gonna have to head off to the library," decided Sam, glaring at his laptop, "The papers are only archived online from when they swapped their production and printing over to digital format. Not now, Jimi."
"Play!" chirped Jimi, squeaking his pig toy, hanging over Sam's shoulder and butting him with Oinker Stoinker.
"Jimi, I'm busy," he rebuffed the teen distractedly, "If I'm going to check out the possibility of potential werewolf attacks further back than the current generation, I'll need to go through the originals."
Jimi jumped on the sofa. "Play! Play! Play!" he chanted.
"Jimi, we're busy, not now," reiterated Dean, looking over his map. "If you can get me dates, I can check Births, Deaths & Marriages records. If this is a family thing, we might get lucky – disappearances following attacks could well be Hunters dealing with previous werewolves... Jimi, I said no!"
Jimi stopped bouncing, and huffed like Uncle Sammy. "Daaaaaad," he whined, "I'm boooored!"
"I'll have to get over to the Town Hall," continued Dean, consulting the second laptop, "They don't have..."
"WALK!" barked Jimi excitedly, "WALK! Let's go for a walk! WALK! WAAAAAALK!"
"Jimi!" Dean bent a stern eye on the teen, "I said no, young man! Now, calm down, and be quiet! That's an order!"
Jimi subsided, looking crestfallen. "I submit," he said sadly.
Sam turned to him. "Jimi, we're casting for the Hunt," he explained, "Looking for information the way humans do, to see if we can work out who the werewolf might be, so we can stop him before he hurts anybody else. We have to do this. It's our job. This is what our pack does."
"This is the way of things," acknowledged Jimi in a resigned tone.
"Yes, it is," agreed Sam. "We can't play now. And soon we'll have to go ranging. To human places. You'll have to go with Dean – Dad – and you'll have to be quiet, and amuse yourself quietly. It's the way of things. Understand?"
"Yes, Uncle Sammy," said Jimi obediently.
"So, you practise keeping yourself amused quietly for now," Dean told him, "And when we go out, you'll have it down pat, and when you're grown up you'll be really good at it, okay?"
"Yes, Dad," repeated Jimi in his obedient tone.
"Good boy," Dean added, getting a small smile from the teen. He turned back to the map. "Like I was saying, they don't have certificates online... is the messager working on this thing?"
"I don't know," said Sam, "Has it locked up again since it froze during your last messaging ...fiasco?" He glared at his brother, and raised his hands. "Hey, I am NOT touching that keyboard unless you've swabbed it in disinfectant and put it through an autoclave, you cyber-weirdo."
"Really, I thought you'd be please I was attempting to embrace the possibilities of the electronic age," sighed Dean in a put-upon fashion.
"The 'electronic age' was not what you were 'embracing', bro..." said Sam primly.
"Don't knock it 'til you try it Sam – she was an English lecturer, had a real way of making pictures with words, oh yeah..."
"You are beyond disgusting, Dean."
"You could look at pictures of famous libraries around the world, you know, just put a sock on the door and I'll go somewhere else for a while..."
"Dean..."
"Some of those places in Britain, ohhhhh, the priceless 16th century manuscripts, the flying buttresses, the gargoyles with tongues that go all the way down to here..."
"Dean..."
"You can have the lotion."
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
Whilst the Winchesters were planning their research approach to identifying the werewolf – Dean spread his maps out on his bed, and Sam attempted to set up the second laptop without touching it - Castiel arrived again with a suitably wingy sound.
"AAAAARGH! Cas! Personal! Space!" yelped Dean. "Didn't we have this conversation just a few hours ago?"
"My apologies, Dean," the angel said gravely, "But might I point out that we are both fully dressed, and I am far enough away that you will have to roll towards me through some ninety degrees should you wish to embrace me..."
Dean muttered something under his breath.
"Any developments, Cas?" asked Sam, looking around for his small bottle of hand sanitiser.
"Unfortunately, no," Cas replied, "I endeavoured to seek information via the owners of some highly specialised kennels that breed Hunting dogs with bloodlines that can be traced back Hellhound matings, but to no avail. I am at a loss. I am sorry." He looked genuinely crestfallen. "If there is something else I can do to assist, I would be pleased to do so."
"Well, you could take Jimi for a walk, he's jumping out of his skin, let him run around and tire him out, while we hit the civic records," suggested Dean, rolling through some ninety degrees, but in the other direction.
"Very well. I shall take Jimi for some exercise for you."
Sam looked up in surprise. "Aren't you needed in Heaven?"
"I can tend to certain... administrative matters while supervising Jimi," Castiel assured them.
Dean grinned. "So, they got wireless roaming in Heaven. Who knew? Jimi will be pleased anyway, won't you, fella?" He looked around. "Er, Jimi? Sam, where is he?"
"He's in the bathroom," Sam announced.
"I'll give him the good news, then," Dean said, rolling off his bed.
"Best just wait until he comes out, bro," Sam warned him. Dean looked confused; Sam nodded towards the bathroom door.
There was a sock on the doorknob.
Sam grinned as Dean blanched. "He really is just like you."
"Right, er, I'll just, I'll just wait until he comes out, Cas," Dean stuttered, handing some cash to the angel. "You remember how this stuff works? Good. Just let him, let him run around at the park, play football if he meets his friends again, go walking around, try to remind him to behave as much like a human as he possibly can..."
"It would be good for him to talk to other kids, if he can," Sam reminded them, "Our eyes and ears with the right crowd."
"... He has a phone, I've shown him how to answer it, he has a card with my contact details on it, he knows what do to if he gets lost, I'll get you a phone with me and Sam and Bobby on speed dial, don't feed him too much candy, he has trouble drinking out of a glass but seems to be okay with a bottle, for God's sake don't let him try coffee, he likes pie, bring him straight back here if he gets soaking wet, remember to grab a double handful of napkins if you decide to go for ice-cream..."
"Dean," said Castiel, laying a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder, "Jimi may be immature and excitable, but he has a good heart. He is, as you point out to him, a good boy. I am an Angel of The Lord. I have faced the Minions of Perdition, and defended the Throne of Heaven through civil war." He drew himself up, and suddenly looked stern and imposing. "I am sure I am capable of supervising Jimi – how difficult could it possibly be?"
Reviews are the Socks on the Doorknob Of Life.
