I think I can kind of see the end, a few chapters away. I think. If I stand on my toes and squint. Why do these stories get so out of hand? Why? WHY? CURSE THE BUNNIES!


Chapter 7

"Ow! Bugger!" Ronnie cursed as she loaded the magazine. She had long practise at doing it without burning herself on silver rounds, but she was distracted, on edge. She stopped, took a deep breath, and let it out, making herself relax. She would have to be sharp for what she was proposing to do. It might go south very quickly, and if it did…

She was going to tell him. She was going to tell him that she was a Hunter, and that he was a werewolf, and tell him how to keep himself contained, how to stay safe, how to stay under the radar.

It was a reasonable thing to do, she argued with herself. She'd encountered a few wolves who kept themselves out of the way at That Time Of The Month – admittedly, they had families to help them with the Big Hairy Secret, but having seen the guy's house (with a basement just right for keeping a wolf confined) and talked to him, she thought it was worth a shot. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

Since you ask, that maddening little inner voice supplied, The worst that could happen is that he'll think you're some sort of raving lunatic, then he'll pull a weapon of his own, and he has at least two (and he knows how to use them, just watching him walk you can tell he knows how to take care of himself and he's not afraid to get his hands dirty and you HAVE watched) and he tries to shoot you, or he tries to tackle you hand-to-hand, and wouldn't that be fun because you know he's serious alpha male material, he's rank with it, don't think I haven't seen you looking and sniffing, and part of you is curious to see just what he looks like, or maybe he calls the police, or maybe all three, then you'll have to run for it and come back and try to gank him once he undergoes his first shapeshift tomorrow night and hope you can do it before he gets away and kills anyone, or gets to an area where there are witnesses around, then you have to drag his silver-riddled carcass away and bury it, and it'll have to be a damned big hole, because his human carcass is no slouch and I'm tipping he'll be up around the seven foot mark and pushing 300 pounds… any other questions?

She finished the magazine, and loaded her gun. Joni sat watching her intently.

"Am I doing the right thing here, Joni?" she asked the animal plaintively. It was a rhetorical question. Almost. If this was a wrong call, somebody could end up dead.

He was a nice guy. She had decided on that. He was a nice, decent, polite guy. He deserved better than high-velocity silver therapy and an unmarked grave.

He'd bought her the beer he'd promised, and some chicken necks for Joni. ("My grandfather bred dogs, and I am not feeding her fried chicken wings. He'll come back and haunt me."). Then they'd met for lunch. Then, he'd invited her home to his small but comfy house. They'd talked, and she'd actually enjoyed it, even as she tap-danced carefully around his questions, bullshitting her way through with half-truths and outright untruths, even managing what she thought was a pretty convincing show of ignorance concerning the 'dog' that attacked him. She had a feeling that his internal bullshit detector was going off, but he didn't call her on it.

He had startled her mid conversation when, quite distinctly, she heard,

I would Den with you.

It had taken a moment for her to realise that he didn't realise what he was 'saying'. His posture, his scent, his wordless chuckles and snorts, they carried a language he didn't yet realise he was speaking…

I would Den with you. Strong, capable bitch. Affection.

She hoped she'd been able to stop her cheeks turning too pink.

She was going to do this on his home turf. It might help. Or it might not. At any rate, she had to stop mucking around, and woman up, and do this.

She got out of her truck, Joni sticking close to her, made her way to the porch and knocked on the door.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"Chromed nipples," announced Dean.

Sam choked on a mouthful of chicken salad

Dean patted him on the back while he coughed. "I keep telling you, Sammy," he sighed, "That rabbit food is going to kill you. All those vitamins, all those trace elements, all that fibre, as Bobby would say, it can't be good for a body."

Sam gawped at his brother while he took a drink of his soda. "What?" he demanded. "You say something like that, and wonder why I choke? Jesus, bro," he scowled, "Look, you're an adult, so what you do to your own skin is your business, but the whole body modification thing is just a bit freaky if you ask me – seriously, what the hell? You nearly fainted getting your tattoo!"

"I did not!" countered Dean, "I was feeling a bit light-headed after a strenuous night with a young lady, then missing breakfast because she wanted to play another round of stuffin' the muffin instead..."

"Dean! Trying to eat here," growled Sam.

"Anyway, I'm talking about my Baby," Dean went on, "Things to buy her after this job. Grease nipples, or the ones on the brake bleed. I could get a radio that works properly all the time. Really fix the air con. Although now you mention it," he glanced down at his own chest, lips pursed thoughtfully. "You think a piercing?" he asked. "You think chicks would dig it? They might light to play with it, oh yeah… Just one, two would be totally gay. Hey, I could get a teeny tiny little silver Impala charm to hang off it, then if I inadvertently ended up banging a chick who was actually a fugly, I'd know when it started to leave a mark on her…"

"DEAN!" Sam snapped. He dropped his fork in disgust as his brother smiled his most sunny 'gotcha!' smile. "For some reason, I'm not hungry," he muttered. "I can't possibly think why."

Dean sighed theatrically. "How did my brother get so many prude genes?"

"I got yours as well," Sam humphed, "Because you clearly did not get any at all."

"Amen for that," Dean grinned, stuffing another fry into his mouth. "Maybe you should get one," he suggested, "It might help you get laid. I'll clean it for you if you like, if you're too squeamish even to look at it, because I'm an awesome big brother who's just looking out for your sex life…"

"Oh, you are gross," moaned Sam, with a glare of Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't Believe You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!).

"It's no problem, dude," Dean said dismissively, "I changed your diaper when you were little, cleaning your nipple piercing would be a walk in the park by comparison."

"The only thing that's going to get pierced around here is your eardrum," Sam threatened, picking up his fork again, "When I stab this fork into your ear, wiggle it around, and use it to pull your brains out and mail them to underprivileged Zombies in Africa."

"Yep, you definitely need to get laid," pronounced Dean, "But since the involvement of an actual woman is clearly not going to happen, I'll have to be satisfied with your laptop dancing. Do you have a fix on our prospective Old North wolf yet?"

"Yeah," Sam pulled the laptop towards himself. "Guy's name is Andrew Jaeger. Ex serviceman, now works as an auto mechanic. Lives out of town, was discharged from hospital a couple of days ago. 'Miraculous survival and recovery', according to the local news."

"Anything on who found him? The attack? What about the missing pensioner?" Dean asked.

Sam tapped at the keys. "The old guy who went missing is still gone, presumed dead by now. They've scaled back the search to a recovery operation. As to the attack, it's still 'large feral dog', and it was interrupted by 'an unidentified woman' who was not local, and apparently disappeared afterwards."

"Sounds like your theory holds water," Dean poked some fries into the mustard. "You got an address?"

"Right here," replied Sam. "We should go for a drive, cruise past, find a place to watch from."

"Ah, I love me a good old-fashioned stake-out," grinned Dean. "Provided I can sit in my Baby while we do it. My beautiful, purring, refitted, wonderful, sex-on-wheels Baby." He sighed happily, looking out the window of the diner to where the Impala sat in the lot, with Jimi snoozing on the back seat. A couple of kids got too close, then fell over their own feet in fright when the dog suddenly exploded into a slavering barking frenzy. "I never, ever get tired of that," Dean grinned cheerfully.

"Full moon's tomorrow night," Sam mentioned, "When are you meeting Croydon?"

"Tonight," Dean answered, "Want to make sure we have the darts ready to go. Its first shapeshift will probably be the best chance we get to take it down with the least hassle – it'll be confused, and not thinking straight, and probably still carrying some damage from the attack that turned it."

"Sounds like a plan," said Sam.

"You don't have to come," Dean reassured him, "I know you don't like him."

"Damned right I don't like him," Sam muttered, "And neither does Jimi."

"Well, you ladies can stay in, and soak your hormones away in the spa bath," Dean told him. "I, on the other hand, will take some hard-earned cash and find a bar, and undertake some financial responsibility, maybe play me some poker, hustle me some pool, drink me some beer…"

"Find you some tail," Sam rolled his eyes.

"…And christen me some suspension," finished Dean. "So don't wait up. Oh, and don't fall asleep in the bath, I am not hauling your ginormous ass out of there and dragging you to hospital with hypothermia and a case of third-degree prune-up."

"Jerk. And you are not allowed to say the word 'nipple' again."

"For how long?"

"For ever."

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"Ronnie!" Andrew felt a small flush of happiness at seeing her standing on the doorstep. "Come on in! I've just put coffee on. Hiya Joni." The dog gave him another enthusiastic tail-wagging greeting.

"Gday Andrew," she greeted him, but the smile didn't quite get to her eyes. She was worried about something. He told himself sternly that he would resist the urge to sniff at her. At their last meeting, he'd found himself constantly wanting to smell her. It was weird and creepy and stalkerish and creepy and weird. And creepy. And utterly irresistable. He kept finding himself wanting to bury his nose in her hair, and inhale…

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked, when they'd settled in the living room with coffee and a plate of chocolate-coated cookies. "Incidentally, I am never going to forgive you for introducing me to these," he added, "I am going to turn into the Michelin Man. They're addictive."

"Wait until you try the Tim Tam Slam," she told him, "You bite the ends off and suck your coffee through it." She gave him that not-quite-right smile again.

"So, what's on your mind?" he asked, because something clearly was.

Her face turned serious. "Andrew," she began hesitantly, "What do you remember about the night you were… attacked?"

He was immediately alert. "Not a lot," he replied after a long moment. "I remember… something biting me, and scratching at me, and that it hurt like fuck. I lost a lot of blood, I was seeing things…"

"What do you think you saw?" she asked him levelly.

He returned her frank stare. "Altered state of consciousness and hallucination are well-documented symptoms of hypovolaemic shock," he said careful, "Due to the reduced flow of oxygenated blood to the brain. I was seeing things."

"What do you think you saw?" she repeated.

He gave her a long look. "Why are you asking?" he demanded.

"Because it's important," she shot back, "Andrew, think! What did you see?"

His eyes narrowed. "If this is for some piece you want to write for that moronic website…" he began.

"It's not!" she snapped. "Andrew, think about it. You know what you saw. You know what I'm talking about."

Andrew sat back, dangerously still. "What is this about?' he asked quietly.

Oh, fuck, she was screwing it up already. "It's about what attacked you," Ronnie tried to control her voice, "It wasn't a dog, was it? You saw it. I know you saw it, Andrew, I saw your face…"

"It was a giant wolf," he scowled, "I saw a giant wolf, walking on its hind legs. I put a full 9-mil clip into it and the damned thing didn't even blink."

Ronnie sat very still. "Andrew," she said in as reasonable a tone as she could manage, "I know what attacked you. You were bitten by a werewolf."

There was a horrible, moment of screeching silence…

Then he burst out laughing.

"Oh, fuck," he wheezed, wiping his eyes, "Ow! Oh, crap, okay, you got me good. Ah, I'm still sore. That's your fault. So, that's the angle you're going to take with your article? Don't ask me how you're supposed to work the anal probe into a werewolf story…" his laughter stuttered to a halt as his voice petered out. His face became hard, disbelieving. "My God," he said, "You're serious."

"Damned right I'm serious," she told him. "You've been bitten by a werewolf, and tomorrow night is the first night of the full moon."

He sat looking deceptively relaxed, looking at her with a mixture of concern, dismay, disappointment, and… sadness.

"You believe it," he said almost to himself, "You actually believe it."

"You know what you saw," she reiterated. "You saw it. Old North werewolf, lycanthrope, can walk upright or run on all fours. Incredibly robust. Viciously strong. How do you think you recovered so quickly?" She watched his face. "You've wondered about that, haven't you?" she pressed. "Noticed that you're just out of hospital after almost having your throat torn out, but you can… do things with less effort."

His face was carefully blank.

"And you saw what happened when it was dead," she went on relentlessly, desperately, "They revert to their human form when they're dead. You saw it! It turned back into an old man! You saw it! I know you did!"

"How did you kill it then, huh?" he demanded.

"With a load of these." She reached for her gun. Before she had it out, his own was in his hand, steady and pointing at her head. She sighed.

"Look, I'm going to do this really slowly," she told him, bringing her gun out, and carefully dropping the clip as he watched her. She popped a round out onto the table. "Take it." He ignored her. "I'm unloaded. Unarmed. Look." She put the gun down. "Take it. Pick it up."

Not taking his eyes off her, he reached for the round.

"Fuck!" he jumped like he'd been stung, dropping it. She smiled unpleasantly.

"Silver. That's how you kill a werewolf. Ordinary lead, it won't even feel. It'll just get annoyed."

"What the fuck are you playing at lady?" he growled, the gun not moving, "Because whatever fucked up game this is, I'm not buying in." Intruder! Intruder!

Ronnie's heart sank when she heard his growled challenge. She nodded to a photo in an ornate frame on a shelf. "That photo," she said, "The one of you and your brother. Pick it up."

"Get the hell out of my house," he told her woodenly.

"I will," she agreed, "Just humour me. Go over there, and pick up that photo."

"Now," he added.

There was a near-subsonic growl from beside her…

Threat! Prey! Threat! You threaten my Alpha! She does not bare her throat! Submit! I will kill!

Ronnie knew what had happened simply from the way the blood drained from Andrew's face.

"You saw that too, didn't you?" she told him with a smirk, "She's doing the teeth and the eyes, isn't she?"

He gawped. "That's… that's…. " he looked at Ronnie, then back to Joni. The dog's hellteeth were bristling, her eyes glowing angry red.

"It's real, Andrew," she told him earnestly, "It's REAL. I'm a Hunter. The whole writing-about-aliens thing is just a cover. I Hunt down stuff like werewolves, and… deal with them before they can kill. Joni, well, she's half-Hellhound. She Hunts with me. She has some… unusual talents, through her father's blood. Don't try to shoot me, Andrew. She'll tear you to pieces more quickly than any werewolf could. And don't try to shoot her, or I'll do it instead."

He stared at the dog, then back at Ronnie. "So, you're here to kill me?" he asked.

"No!" she said hurriedly, "No! There is another way! Listen, if you know what to expect, you can take measures, keep yourself in, stop yourself killing. I've met wolves who do it. It's not easy, but it can be done." She went on in a rush. "Your basement is perfect. If you shut yourself in there and bolt it from the inside, you'll be locked in, you can rampage all bloody night and not hurt anybody, although I suggest you don't wear your favourite pair of jeans and shirt. Your first change, you won't be able to manipulate a bolt. Later, you can put a lock on it, a key on a string under the door – once you're human again you can retrieve it, but wolf claws are too clumsy…"

"Get out of my house before I call the cops," he told her without looking at her.

"Andrew, please…"

"You fucking freak. What, you escaped from somewhere?" His eyes and voice were hard. "Get out. I'll gank you right there, and take my chances with your dog. Get out, and don't come back."

Ronnie made one last try. "Please, Andrew, please, listen to me, I know it sounds beyond far-fetched, but…"

He flicked off the safety. "Go." Intruder. Disappointment. Sadness.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm so sorry…" she felt her throat constrict.

She picked up her gun and left, Joni whining in concern at her side.

Andrew watched her drive away, his gut roiling. Typical. Just typical. He had to go and pick a crazy. A serious crazy. The universe hated him.

With a wordless snarl of unarticulated rage and a desperate stab of sadness, he lashed out at the door.

His fist went through the solid wood.

The stab of splinters in his hand brought him up short. He winced. The impact had rattled the shelves; the photo in the silver frame had fallen to the floor. He sighed, and picked it up. He needed a drink. He needed several drinks…

He yelped in pain, then stared, gaping, at the intricate metal lacework pattern burned sharply and painfully into his hand.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

I tried, she told her self, I tried, I really did, but I fucked it up again, stupid stupid stupid…

Joni whined, putting a paw on her Alpha's leg. He is Prey, the dog observed, sounding distressed.

"It'll be okay," she said, not sure who she was trying to reassure, "It'll be okay, I'll clean up my mess, and it'll be okay…"

I would Den with you. Affection.

Intruder. Sadness.

He really didn't deserve this.

She'd have to be careful. He might have called the cops after all, told them about the crazy woman who pulling some elaborate hoax on him to write a kooky story for a kooky website, she'd have to time her approach carefully, once he changed and burst out of his house, he was fair game, he was her problem, and he really didn't deserve this…

I would Den with you.

She was concentrating so hard on not bursting into tears that she almost missed it, and probably would have done if Joni hadn't stuck her head out the window and started barking enthusiastically.

Den-Alpha's Pack! Brother! Den-Alpha's Pack!

"What?" she snapped out of her musings, and let out an audible gasp.

There, in the parking lot of a diner, sat a horribly familiar black Classic Chevrolet Impala. Inside it sat a horribly familiar Rottweiler, eagerly returning Joni's barking.

"Oh, Jesus suffering fuck," she groaned out loud. The things you see when you're all out of rum…


Sorry, I think I actually fell off Mount Crack there for a moment... Oh yes, from now on, nobody is allowed to use the word 'orgy' in a review. It makes one of my eyes twitch, and that makes it hard to see the screen. It's bad enough I may have to use the words 'chain' and 'naked' and 'Winchester' in the same chapter in the near future... Oh, and if you find them, be warned, Tim Tams are indeed addictive.

Reviews are the Tim Tams on the Saucer of the Hot Beverage of Life! (Especially when this one is for a very selective audience, and I'm such a hopeless addict. Oh, all right, you can use the word 'orgy' it means the difference between reviewing or not reviewing. Just don't put it anywhere near 'Dean', 'moist' or 'wheelbarrow'. I won't cope.)