Chapter Nine

The Impala was a classic, a masterpiece of engineering from an era and a philosophy gone by, a time when mechanics were less complicated; no computers, no keyless entry, no electronic ignition, just the brute power and simple glory of shiny duco and Detroit steel, a magnificent muscle monster with an eight-chambered heart of American iron.

Unfortunately, the efficiency of engineering, that elegant simplicity of design, sometimes made her a magnet to a certain class of scumbag.

Even before John had formally handed over the keys and given his elder son his car and his blessing on Dean's sixteenth birthday, those invisible whiskers had twitched when someone was getting closer to the car than was polite or legal; on a couple of occasions, father had even stood back and laughed as son beat seven kinds of holy hell out of some punk caught red-handed, with tool of choice in hand, preparing to steal what was never his. (On one particular occasion just before Dean turned sixteen, John had only stepped in to prevent his outraged son from shoving the would-be thief's screwdriver somewhere that would've necessitated a trip to the nearest Emergency room and possibly a consultation from the staff proctologist, or at least the head of the maintenance department with a pair of multi-grips.)

So when Dean set off at a run, Sam followed, knowing that if somebody was so much as leaning on the car, there would be nothing he could do to stop his brother, once the red mist had come down and Dean was in Mama-bear mode; his plan was to prevent Dean from doing more than giving the culprit a few educational bruises. "Dean," he managed between gasping breaths as they ran, "Dean, just don't kill the guy... we're supposed to be... avoiding attention, remember... OOF!"

He ran right into his big brother as Dean rounded the corner and skidded to a halt.

The young idiot, some wannabe tough guy, who probably said 'Yo' far too much, had the thin strip of metal in his hand and an expression of shock and awe – or possibly shock and AAAAAAARGH! – on his face at being caught in the act; that much they expected.

What they were not expecting was to see that he'd been bailed up by Jimi the big-ass dog.

Jimi the big-ass dog, who had been sleeping soundly on the back seat inside the locked vehicle.

Jimi the big-ass dog, who was now definitely outside the car, crouched menacingly in preparation to spring, snarling a terrifying low canine growl. Thousands of years ago, when coming from the back of a cave, such a noise would have signalled that you shouldn't bother to run because you'd only die tired; the Winchesters realised that it was the rumbling sound they could hear coming up from the pavement.

Jimi the big-ass dog, who looked, in the shadows, to be, somehow, a lot more big-ass than they thought he was.

The would-be thief found his wavering voice. "C-call the dog off," he squeaked, "Call the dog off, man, I d-didn't mean..."

"Yeah you did," snarled Dean, as angry as the dog, "You were gonna break into my car, asshole! You were gonna break into my goddamned car! You were gonna try to steal my Baby!"

The young thug swallowed a couple of times. "He... he came through the door," he quavered, "He... don't let him..."

"Ohhhh, I won't," Dean's smile was feral, "I aint gonna let him have the fun of tearin' you a new one, that's a pleasure I reserve for myself, you dick."

"Uh, Dean," Sam nudged his arm, "Maybe you should, uh, call off the dog."

"He can have what's left, when I'm done," Dean smiled beatifically, shrugging out of his jacket and flexing his fists a couple of times, "I'll just..."

"No, I, er, I really think you should..." Sam indicated Jimi.

"I will, okay, just as soon as we've both taught this piece of shit a les-"

He glanced down at the dog, did a double-take, and stopped mid-sentence.

A dog bailing up an intruder is not unusual canine behaviour. Indeed, it is a trait displayed by many dogs left to guard houses, cars or other places they think of as the 'territory' of their Pack, their family.

But not all dogs appear to... expand, and slaver at the threat with burning red eyes that glowed like fanned coals.

"Okaaaaaay," Dean managed, "Wasn't expecting that..."

As he spoke, a set of teeth like boning knives, teeth that would've put a Kodiak bear to shame, slid out of Jimi's upper and lower jaws, dripping with drool that hissed slightly where it hit the pavement.

"...Or that," added Dean in a bemused tone, as the car thief slid down the wall and let out a little keening noise, "Was not expecting that."

"Just call him off, Dean," repeated Sam in a pleasant even tone, "Before, uh, yeah, just... before."

"Uh, yeah," Dean fished the keys out of his pocket, opened the back door, and carefully arranged the laundered blanket on the seat, letting out a whistle as he did so. "Jimi," he called cheerfully, "Leave it, fella, you've scared him real good. Come on, back in the car – load up, dude."

Jimi immediately left off and jumped obediently into the car. He turned back to Dean, once more just a happy Rottweiler with a big doggy smile, tail waving gently, looking forward to a road trip.

Dean turned back to the man on the ground. "So, let that be a lesson to you," he intoned, "Don't ever try to steal a car again, or, or, you see that dog, he's actually a, er, a demon in a dog-suit, yeah, and if you ever try to steal a car again, he'll hunt you down wherever you are, 'cause he's got your scent now, and he'll eat your face, and he'll tear your balls off and play Fetch with them, and then he'll tear your soul right out of your body and drag you to Hell, and you'll burn for all eternity, with no face and no balls, and... oh, dude, have you wet yourself?"

"I think you'd better just go," suggested Sam.

Somehow, the terrified man found his feet.

"What the fuck just happened?" asked Sam as they watched him stumble away as quickly as he could.

"Some little bitch wanted to steal my car," Dean sniffed disdainfully.

"No, jerk, I mean with the dog!" Sam snapped.

"He was defending his territory," Dean shrugged. "Dogs do it all the time."

"I mean," Sam scowled, "What the fuck just happened with the dog? Did you see it? He grew! I swear, he looked bigger! And glowing eyes? Teeth like, like, butchers' knives? What the hell was that? I mean, we know he can walk through the car door, we saw him do it, but the eyes? The teeth? What the actual fuck?"

"No idea," Dean admitted cheerfully, ruffling Jimi's ears; Jimi grinned happily and lapped up the attention. "But he's a good boy, aint ya, protectin' the car? Yes you are! Yes you are!"

"He's not an ordinary dog," stated Sam flatly. "He's a complete tart for petting, yeah, but he's not an ordinary dog."

"No, he sure aint," agreed Dean, still ear scritching. "He's gotta be a Hunter's dog. Good thing you use your superpowers for good, huh, fella?"

Jimi hummed happily, then dropped to the seat and rolled over, gazing up at them with large wistful eyes, in the universal canine appeal for belly rubs.

"How... how can you be so blasé about this?" demanded Sam. "What if... fuck, what if he actually is a demon-dog or something?"

"He passed all the tests," Dean pointed out, providing the solicited belly rubs as Jimi squirmed contentedly. "And he's a friendly fella, you've seen that."

"Oh, yeah, he looked reeeeeeal friendly just then," Sam humphed, "He looked like he was gonna kill that guy, but hey, he'd do it in a friendly way."

"That guy was gonna try to steal my car," Dean growled, "Jimi is friendly to everybody, but obviously he doesn't like assholes. Maybe he's just got a nose for, like, evil shit."

"A nose for evil shit?" echoed Sam.

"Sure," Dean went on, "Dogs can, you know, sense things that people can't. Maybe that's what Jimi can do. He can smell out evil shit. It would be a useful talent, for a Hunter's dog."

"I wonder if it's a glamour somebody cast for him," Sam mused as they stowed their bags, then got underway again – as usual, having encountered a puzzle, he was worrying at it like a terrier after a rat, or a screaming teen chasing a boy band. "One of the charms on his collar, maybe, so when he does get angry, he looks like... that. But how does he get through a solid car door? That's some seriously high level practice of the Craft right there, why would you do it for a dog?"

"So he can get out and frighten would-be car thieves," Dean suggested.

"That's like using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut. No, it's more like using a gold-plated RPG to crack a walnut; resource-intensive and complete overkill. If someone did get into the car, while he was in it, surely they'd get out again really fast once he, uh, detonated..."

"Maybe we should just be grateful that he's so good at his job," Dean shrugged, smiling as he looked at the snoozing dog in the mirror, "Keepin' my Baby safe."

"A car alarm could do the job."

"Yeah, but it wouldn't be nearly as much fun."

"So, where are we headed?"

"Place on the edge of town, in our budget range."

"Our budget range?"

"Yeah, we gotta make the cash we got last as long as we can, so we might have to drop a star or two for the time being."

"As long as there's hot water," Sam humphed, scratching at his head, "And beds."

A couple of minutes further down the road, Dean frowned, and sniffed.

"What the... what the hell is that?"

"What?" asked Sam.

"That smell!" Dean sniffed again. "What is that smell?"

"It's not just me," Sam shot back, "You're just as unwashed, bro, so it's at least as much your fault..."

"No, not that," Dean interrupted, "There's... oh my God..."

"What?" Sam paused, and sniffed.

A faint but definite floral scent came to his nose.

"You little bitch," Dean growled, "You did that on purpose."

"What? I didn't do anything!"

"Well it sure as hell wasn't me! What the fuck did you put in your laundry, huh?"

"Dean, I didn't..."

"You made such a song and dance about the fabric softener dispenser not working – what happened, you got it to spit out something, and decided to use it?"

"I didn't!"

"If I find you put that shit in my stuff, ohhhhh, baby brother I will make you sorry."

"Dean will you listen..."

"You know I hate that smell, Sam! You know I hate it!"

"Dean, I didn't put anything else in the laundry! This is not me!"

"Dabbed it behind your ears then, huh?"

"Dean, will you get it through your head – I have not done anything to make your car smell!"

"Really? Really?" Dean sniffed again, and screwed up his face. "Well in that case, how come my car stinks of lavender?"

"I don't KNOW!" Sam yelped. "Look, maybe it was an, uh, an air freshener or something, and, and, when you grabbed the blanket off the seat, it got dislodged, and now..."

"It's getting worse," Dean complained, flapping a hand in front of his face, "It's getting stronger."

Sam stared at his brother. "We are in an alternative reality," he said, "We have found ourselves in an alternative reality, with no contacts, no money, no backing, no anything, and you've decided to complain about a bit of deodoriser in the car?"

"I hate it," Dean muttered, "You know I hate it, I totally hate it, and if I have to tear this car apart to find the source..."

In the back seat, Jimi the dog twitched in his sleep, his tail wagging even as he slept. In the time-honoured tradition of dogs in the backs of cars, he rolled over, and farted audibly.

A fresh wave of lavender scent washed over the Winchesters.

Sam blinked a couple of times. "That's... Dean, it's coming from the dog."

"Huh?"

"It's... bro, the lavender smell, it's, it's coming from the dog." He stared at Jimi. "He's... he's farting... lavender."

Dean's eyes bugged. "That's not... what the fuck is in that kibble?"

Sam sighed. "Look, maybe it's, it's, you know, like the walk-through-the-car-door, glowing-eyes, bear-teeth thing." He turned to look at Jimi; with a muffled woof, Jimi's back legs twitched, and he broke wind once more. "He's chasing rabbits in his sleep. And, uh, farting lavender."

"I don't like this universe, Sammy," Dean muttered, "We need to get out of this universe. This lavender-scented-dog-fart universe."

"We'll figure it out, Dean," Sam sighed, sitting back. "If the worst thing we have to deal with in this situation is a bit of free aromatherapy, we should be grateful." He stretched and yawned. "I'm ready to hit the hay – I'm sure everything will look better once we get a room for the night."


Ah, the lavender-scented Hellhound farting - I wonder if it still happens back in the FOOCERverse? It's probably one of those universal constants.

How will the FOOCER!Winchesters cope with the sort of accommodation standard that the canon!Winchesters usually patronise? Sam will not be happy, if he doesn't have enough of his preferred toiletries, no he will not...