Epilogue

Sam was still sniffling as the pyre burned down to ashes. Bobby put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's not such a bad thing," he said consolingly, "She was very old, for a German Shepherd, and really old for a Hunter's dog. Her health wasn't good. She wouldn't have seen out next winter."

"She died saving us," Sam mumbled miserably.

"Of course she did," Bobby told him, "She was a Hunter's dog. That's what they do. Now, she's finished her job, and she's at peace. She would've been happy about that. It aint right for a Hunter's dog to waste away from old age."

"Do dogs go to Heaven?" The big wet hazel eyes bored into Bobby.

"Of course they do, son," Bobby reassured him, "All dogs go to Heaven. Especially good ones. Especially especially Hunters' dogs. She'll have gone straight to Charlie, her Hunter. She'll be happy as a bimbo in a mall."

"She's officially a canine hero, like Rumsfeld," Dean reminded him. When the demon had left and the girl had revived – she actually was the granddaughter of his neighbours – Bobby had told her she'd fallen into the swimming hole, presumably after going for a walk and getting sunstroke, and the dogs had pulled her out. That would certainly explain the bite marks, and the strange hallucinations she'd had. Her grandparents had been tearfully relieved, and wanted to nominate both dogs for animal bravery medals. "She saved Carrie, too, by hanging on to her body so it could be exorcised."

"Will Rumsfeld miss her?" asked Sam.

"I think he will for a little while," said Bobby, "But I think he knew she was old." As if in response, Rumsfeld nudged his big square head under Sam's hand, and grinned doggily at him. "Disgustinig animal," Bobby snorted, "You are a complete slut for a pat on the head."

"How did she know there was a demon?" Dean wanted to know. Bobby frowned, and paused before he answered.

"The dogs of Wildhunt are a very specialised bloodline," he told them. "They were bred from a bitch called Arcadia, around eighty years ago. Part wolf, probably, from the description. The way the story goes, she was always half-savage at the best of times, and one day, on a Hunt, she, er, pretty much forced herself on a Hellhound."

Dean's eyes went wide, and he snorted with laughter.

Sam's face screwed up. "What does that mean?"

"Well, it means that she… had puppies that were half-Hellhound," Bobby went on smoothly, as Dean made obscene gestures behind Sam's back. "It's only a story, but the dogs of that bloodline have always been particularly fine Hunter's dogs. Good instincts, no fear at all, all the things you want in a dog on the Hunt."

"Do you think Daddy would let us have a Hunter's dog, Dean?" Sam wondered hopefully.

"No, squirt," Dean told him, sad to see Sam's face fall, "There's not enough room in the car for us as it is. Besides, how much would a great big dog eat? It'd cost a fortune to keep. And we'd make you pick up the dog crap."

"You don't go pickin' a Hunter's dog, anyway, Sam," Bobby added with a smile, "The dog picks its Hunter."

"I'd like a dog like Kali, one day," Sam said quietly.

"Well, if there's a dog out there for you, he or she will find you," Bobby assured him.

Sam didn't seem convinced. "How?" he wanted to know. "How is a puppy supposed to find me?"

"They just do," Bobby shrugged, "It's the way of things. Now, it's been a tough day for everybody. Why don't we go inside and have some ice-cream?" He offered. "Ice-cream always makes me feel better after a tough day. And I'm going to need some more information about the Vampire Pirates. For planning later lessons. For instance, what do they wear?"

"Not togas," Dean commented, "Pirates can't wear togas - you can't go swinging around on ropes wearing a toga."

"Not togas," agreed Sam, "Leotards."

"Er... leotards?" Bobby's eyebrows shot up.

"Leotards," repeated Sam firmly. "They're the Vampire Pirates Aerobics Team."

They left the cooling pyre and went inside for ice-cream. Including Rumsfeld.

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

Before they left two weeks later, Sam went to say goodbye to Kali, and thank her one more time. The rosemary that Lawnzilla had launched Dean into had not recovered from its Close Encounter Of The Mowing Kind, and Bobby had pulled it up. But it was in flower, so Sam picked a few pieces and laid the small bunch on the ground where the pyre had been.

"Thank you, Kali," he whispered, "I hope there's cookies for you in Heaven." Then he heard his father call him, and ran to get into the car.

There had been more rain, and the ground was damp. Rosemary is a tenacious plant; one of the small green twigs took root, fed by the ashes of the pyre. Bobby never noticed until it was a small shrub. He was going to pull it up, but Rumsfeld took to it as a favourite spot to sit, shielded from the harshest sun in summer, then catching the last rays of the weak light in winter, so he left it.

It grew lush and green, and the first time it flowered, the flowers were not pale blue, but blood red.

Eventually, Bobby took a cutting to replace the conveniently located shrub that Dean had destroyed when he was just a kid. It was unexpectedly potent in various potions and spells, especially those that were intended to counter any sort of demonic influence. Sam spent a lot of his pseudo-retirement researching its peculiarly useful properties, constantly finding new things it could do.

It was still there and thriving, a wild, bushy, spreading almost-tree, when the place no longer operated as Singer Salvage. All the dogs who ever lived there for any length of time found it to be a most agreeable spot to sit and rest. Their Alpha would sometimes pause when working on his favourite car, an old, rumbling black thing that all his dogs loved to ride in, and would sit with them; the old man would groan as he lowered himself to the ground with his cane. Sometimes their Second, his brother, the tall one who smelled of paper, joined them.

Pups especially liked to play there. They would run around the gnarled stem, and weave in and out of the foliage, pouncing on one another, yipping, stalking, squealing and wrestling, bright eager eyes occasionally flashing crackles of red like glowing coals. Then they'd all suddenly run out of energy, the way puppies do, and flop down against their Dam, who would nuzzle them, and nurse them, and tell them stories as they yawned and dozed.

There was a Beast of the Blood, Full Blood of the Pit, and he was called to the Hunt. He was called by the Righteous Man and the Wise Man, and he joined their Pack. He died in the Hunt, for that is the way of things for a Hunter's dog, but before then he took a bitch, and she whelped his pups, two bitch-pups and a dog-pup. That dog-pup was my longSire, your longSire, and he gave the Blood to his line, and made us Hunter's dogs. We are bold, and loyal, and fearless, and we protect our Hunters, for this is the way of things.

THE END


Right, another plot bunny stomped. Something a bit different for me, but I'm glad that it seems to have given the Denizens, visitors, lurkers and droppers-in a bit of entertainment. I'll be back when I have a bit of time to deal with another plot bunny *shakes fist at the Shameless Shooers Of Plot Bunnies In My Direction*. There's actually one hopping around under the desk right this second. I can't hear exactly what it's whispering to me just yet, so I'll have to leave it alone to mature a bit, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I heard it mumble 'Gratuitous Winchester Nudity'... I'll let you know.