Chapter 9

As the evening darkened, they sat in the Impala: Sam tapped away on his laptop, while Jimi chewed on his pair of US Postal Service uniform trousers.

"A few more days," muttered Sam to himself as much as the dog, "And it's the ol' snipperoo for you, Jimi. If only I can work out how to convince Dr Wooley to do the same for Dean, my life will become so much simpler..."

Jimi heard the reproach in Sam's voice, and gave him a contrite look, but clearly didn't feel guilty enough to stop chewing on the purloined pants.

"I wonder if you get it from Dean," Sam sighed, "Since he was your dad's... 'progenitor'. That would be weird. Alarmingly plausible, but still weird."

"What's weird?" asked Dean, returning from a reconnoitre of Reginald Chumley's backyard, "And how weird? Invasion-Of-The-Iggy-Pops-From-Mars weird, or Reg-Chumley-still-has-the-one-unaffected-vegetable-patch-in-the-area weird?"

"I was just wondering where Jimi got his immature, thoughtless and precocious sexual behavioural tendencies from," Sam explained, "It's probably something he's inherited from you."

"Me?" exclaimed Dean, looking perplexed, "How the hell is it my fault?"

"Well, apart from you indulging his antics, you're practically his grandfather," Sam pronounced matter-of-factly.

Dean gaped at him. "Not quite sure how to take that, coming from you," he said carefully. "I've been called an animal before, but that's always been by a chick, and it's never been a complaint..."

"You were the one who summoned Jimi Senior and made him over in your own image, O Prankmeister," Sam reminded him, "Which makes you this pup's grandsire. If we ever have to fake up a pedigree for him, God knows what we'll put you down as. Winchester Pretty Boy? Winchester Garbage Guts? Winchester Bossy Britches, maybe."

"Winchester Sex God," suggested Dean with a smirk.

"Oh, look, Jimi's panty raid made the local news site," continued Sam. " 'Phantom Dog Stole My Pants, Says Mail Driver'." He scanned the article, then turned and gave Jimi a glare. "Frankly, the sooner you get neutered, the sooner humanity can sleep soundly. Or drive their trucks soundly. Telegraph poles, stud bulls and male police horses can breathe a sigh of relief."

"You are starting to worry me," Dean grumped, "You have anxiety about other guys' balls"

"Dean, Jimi is not an 'other guy', he's a dog!"

"He is so a guy! Honorarily. He's one of the guys. Even if he is a dog. Mostly. If I'm his grandpa, he's a quarter human. Ish. Kind of. Anyway, you are obsessed with his balls. You have two of your own, you know, if you'd just get to know them again, I'm sure they'd forgive you."

"Maybe you're right," mused Sam, "Maybe I should take your advice, follow your example: from now on, the first thing I do every morning will be to let out a blood-curdling scream and shove my hands down my boxers, so I can be a well-adjusted individual, just like you."

Dean hoped Sam wouldn't see the stricken look on his face. "At least I only have parsnip envy... we should get closer so we can watch the yard. There's gaps in the fence."

The bickering continued sotto vocce as they made their way across the street, but it stopped when Jimi suddenly put his nose to the nature strip.

"What is it, fella?" asked Sam, as Jimi criss-crossed the grass, sniffing.

Dean pulled out his flashlight, and it landed on a large, yellowed patch of lawn. He bent down to examine it.

"This wasn't here first time we visited," he noted, as Jimi moved on. "There's something else here, too..."

Not far from the discoloured patch was a small but definite sprinkling of powder. Dean sniffed at it.

"Sulphur," he said in a confused voice. "Why would somebody be putting sulphur on the nature strip?" As he spoke, Jimi began to dig.

"Lawn grass isn't something that needs acidic soil," supplied Sam, who'd done some research on acid-loving plants after The Debacle Of The Non-Demonic Garden Sulphur, "And there are no flowers planted out here... what's he after?" Jimi continued to dig with determination, until his paws hit something. Something wooden. Dean turned his flashlight on the excavation.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, hunkering down to pick up the small box – a cigar box, he noted, with an involuntary shudder – and opened it.

"This is an intersection," Sam said, almost to himself, looking around, "Reg's house is on a corner. A crossroads. I never even thought about it." He looked back to Dean. "Fuck, there is a damned demon. Somebody made a deal."

Dean inspected the contents of the box. It contained a gardening glove, a tape measure, and...

"A packet of parsnip seeds?" His voice radiated confusion. "What the hell kind of deal are we talking about, here?"

Sam was about to shrug in equal confusion when they heard raised voices coming from Reg Chumley's backyard. One was Reginald's; the other was that of a young woman. They made their way to the fence to listen in.

"... win that damned contest!" Reg said angrily, "That was the deal!"

"If the contest was cancelled due to lack of entries, that's not my problem, Reggie," said a female voice.

Peering through gaps in the palings, the Winchesters saw an angry Reginald Chumley arguing with an attractive young woman. She stood, hands on hips, a small stick in one hand.

"Well, you can damned well salvage this by waving your little magic wand at my vegetable patch," he growled at her, "Thirty years I've waited to win this thing, I'm damned if I'll lose now because some smartass demon has decided to hide behind the fine print!"

"Oh, you're damned all right, Reggie," the pretty young thing cooed venomously, "But I'll tell you what, I like a laugh as much as the next hellspawned abomination, so I'm going to help you, out of the goodness of my shrivelled and rotting unbeating heart."

"Fine," snarled Reg, "I want vegetables that will make priests blush and maiden aunts faint! When I come out here tomorrow morning, I want a garden full of produce that could get me arrested in at least a dozen states, you understand?"

"Frankly, no," the demon answered him, "I do not understand why anyone would make a deal for something so petty, but I'll give you a harvest that would make Ron Jeremy cry and Dr Ruth hand back her degree." She turned from him, and raised the stick.

Jimi's eyes lit up, and with a happy woof, he ran through the fence, leaped, and grabbed the wand from the demon's hand.

"Jimi!" called Dean anxiously, clambering over the fence with Sam hot on his heels. Reginald and the demon both stared and blinked.

"It's the men from C.R.A.P.," said Reg bemusedly, "What are you doing here?"

"Being just in time to stop you from doing something unbelievably stupid, from the sound of it," growled Dean.

The demon rolled her eyes, then let out an extremely Samesque huff.

They're not the men from C.R.A.P., Reggie, although they might be full of it," she sighed in an exasperated voice, "They're Hunters. They're here to try to ruin your deal. Or at the very least, ruin my week. They see me dealin', they hatin'. Seriously. I'm just a hardworking crossroads demon, trying to make ends meet, and there's always some asshole who wants to spoil everything. God hates me. Is that your dog?" she demanded. She glared at Jimi, who danced playfully out of her reach as she snatched at the stick. "Give me that, you thieving mutt!"

"How did you get hold of that?" asked Sam.

"The Wand?" said the demon, making another grab for it. "Bad dog! Huh, through stupidity, in hindsight. 'Potential for enormous destruction,' my flayed ass! I'm gonna kill that hustling fiend... your dog is really badly behaved, you know that? You should get him fixed. Give that back!"

"The only thing that's gonna get fixed here tonight is you, sweetheart," Dean smirked at her.

"No, I really don't think so," she smiled viciously, eyes flashing red, "Give me that Wand back, give it here you mangy pooch!" Jimi zipped past her, clearly enjoying himself enormously.

"He's not mangy!" Dean shot back angrily, "He had a wash in low-allergen soap-free oatmeal wash for sensitive skin just a week ago!"

Understanding dawned on Sam's face, followed quickly by irritation. "So that's where my shower gel went," he muttered, his eyes narrowing at his brother.

"Not now, Sam!" yelped Dean, "Just recite!"

"This is not over," Sam scowled at him before turning to the demon, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"

The demon winced and grabbed at her head. "Aaaaargh! You are really annoying, you know that?" she shouted irritably. "Right, no more Miss Manners! Rex! Get me that Wand, then deal with these two douchebags. " Her eyes narrowed and she smiled unpleasantly, pointing at Jimi. "Fetch!"

From the corner of the yard, a low, rumbling growl sounded. It travelled through the ground rather than through the air. Sam stopped mid-exorcism.

"Oh, shit," he breathed.

"I'll see your oh shit, and raise you a fucking fuck," Dean hissed back, backing up to stand with his brother.

In the last of the evening light, they could see the sharp divots being clawed in the ground as something stalked forward...

"What the hell is that?" squeaked Reginald.

"Hellhound," growled Dean. As he spoke, a steaming yellowed patch appeared on the lawn.

"What the...?" asked Sam, peering at the mysterious blemish in the grass. The demon rolled her eyes.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe it," she sighed, "You get them into this realm of existence, and all of a sudden they have weak bladders."

"The hellhound left the patches in people's gardens?" queried Sam.

"'Fraid so, Stretch," she confirmed. "Travelling with a hellhound in the physical plane is just one doggy Depends moment after another. It's worse if they get excited, they set things on fire, and can't that be damned inconvenient..."

"Tell me about it," muttered Dean distractedly, "Sam, we head for the car, there's iron shot in the trunk, we need JIMI GET BACK HERE!"

Jimi shot forward, planted himself in front of the hellhound, splayed his front feet and waggled his rump in the air. With all the abandon of one of Nature's true optimists, he whuffed happily.

The indistinct form seemed to pause. Sam took a moment to be amazed that a patch of empty space managed to radiate a sense of... confusion. There was another growl, but it had a decided undertone of bewilderment.

"What the hell is he doing?" asked Dean.

"If I didn't know better," began Sam slowly, "I'd say that Jimi's posture right now is classic dogspeak for an invitation to play..."

Jimi barked, a short high-pitched sound, and wagged his tail furiously.

The demon was furious. "Get me that damned Wand!" she shrieked. The hellhound leaped, grabbed the other end of the stick – and the tug-of-war was on.

"Jimi! Let go! For fuck's sake, let go!" shouted Dean, as Jimi was waved through the air like a balloon on a stick in the hand of a giant invisible child. "Make with the exorcism, Sam!"

"Er, omnis satanica potestas ," Sam picked up again, ducking as Jimi whizzed past, growling determinedly.

The demon was utterly irate. "Get me that fucking Wand!" she screamed, gesturing at Jimi as he sailed past at her head height. A giant pumpkin from the vegetable patch detached itself from its vine and sailed through the air. Jimi twisted on his end of the stick and it missed him. The pumpkin landed with a very wet and very productive 'splat'.

"...omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis AAAAARGH!" yelped Sam as a generous spray of pumpkin puree hit him.

"Just finish it!" Dean yelled back, as the air was suddenly thick with flying oversized and overripe vegetables hurled by an overangry demon. He let out a squawk as a ballistic zucchini missed Jimi and exploded on the ground just in front of him.

"...omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolicaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH OHGROSSIT'SINMYHAIR!" howled Sam, as another airborne zucchini hit him in the head.

"Ow! Sonofabitch!" snapped Dean, wiping green goo from his face as a decidedly more solid parsnip smacked into his leg. Jimi wriggled and twisted on his end of the stick whilst he was zooming through the air, until, with a snap, the Wand broke.

The demon was incandescent with rage. "YOU BROKE MY WAND!" she screamed, as Jimi picked himself up and shook vigorously, sending vegetable mash flying in all directions. "YOU BROKE MY FUCKING WAND!" She turned to the hellhound. "Get them! Tear them apart!"

"Come on!" shouted Dean, grabbing Sam, who was trying unsuccessfully to wipe mashed vegetable out of his hair, "Jimi! JIMI! We are LEAVING! JIMI!"

Jimi wasn't listening: he planted himself between his Pack and the demonic threat, just the way his daddy had done...

Then he put his nose in the air, and sauntered casually towards the wavering shape in the air.

The hellhound let out a rumble like an angry earthquake with indigestion, as Jimi continued his fearless strut straight towards it.

"What the fuck are you doing?" shrieked the demon, almost incoherent with rage, "Tear the fleabag to pieces!"

Apparently, Jimi wasn't the only canine companion who wasn't following orders. There was a moment of stillness; Jimi's nose reached up, and the hovering haze in the air moved down, and...

Dean stared with horrified fascination. "Are they..." he began, "Are they... is Jimi sniffing that thing's butt?" Sam's face was the colour of runny oatmeal.

Three humans and one possessed body gawped, mouths gaping, eyes bugging, as Jimi gave another high-pitched bark, then wagged his tail, and, kind of... jumped...

"That's... that's..." Sam's mouth hung open and his face drained of its last vestiges of colour, as Jimi hung in the air, four feet off the ground, doing... something... reciprocating.

"What the...?" Reginald Chumley looked like a man who had stared into Hell, and seen his mother-in-law wearing something skimpy and lacy. And crotchless.

"It's... it's..." Sam tried – and failed – again to articulate what was taking place.

"...Special Cuddles," shrugged Dean, tilting his head. "Wow. That's seriously weird. What with hellhounds being, you know, invisible..."

"Lucifer's purulent cock," breathed the demon, mouth hanging open in horror, "That's... that's... oh shit, I think my meatsuit is about to puke..." her short-term forecasting proved to be accurate, and she doubled over into a flowering shrub.

Dean tilted his head the other way. "Oh, hey, I get it now," he mumbled vaguely.

"Nhuh?" the probably interrogative noise came from Sam.

"Dr Wooley has made slightly, um, burlesque references to 'lipstick' before, and..."

"Nrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh" went Sam, causing Dean to wonder if that was the sound of his baby brother's brain imploding, or just his mind boggling. He'd check that later; right now, he couldn't stop watching the canine copulatory train crash – it was so dreadful he just couldn't look away...

"I mean," he wondered out loud, "He's like a Shetland pony stallion tackling a Clydesdale, only without the fruit box to stand on. How does he do that, without, you know, spraining it or something?"

The mortified silence was broken only by Jimi's happy panting, a gentle rumbling like an extremely satisfied-sounding earthquake, and the demon's vigorous retching in the shrubbery.

Sam's chest started to hitch.

"No!" ordered Dean, "No sympathetic puking, Sam! Don't you dare puke!"

"Bleeeeergl," agreed Sam, settling for passing out instead.

"Oh, Hell's bum!" griped Dean, catching his not-so-little brother and lowering him to the ground amongst the pulped remains of various vegetable missiles, "Where were we up to? Ergo draco maledictus... maledictus? Maledicte, fuck it, et omnis legio diabolica – pfah, fucking pumpkin guts – legio diabolica adjuramus tuo. Te, adjuamus te, fucking declensions, wake up, Sam, I need your Upstairs brain here... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, are you even listening to me, you rude bitch?" he snapped at the demon.

She turned to him with a face as green as the shrubbery. "I'm outta here," she grated, "If I'm lucky, I'll find a sympathetic colleague who will gouge my eyes out and rip the very memories of... of... that," and she waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the coital couple, "out of my brain with red-hot pliers..." with a last gasping retch, the column of black smoke fled its host and headed Downstairs.

"Come on, Sammy," encouraged Dean, patting Sam's face as Jimi slid back to ground level, "The nasty poochy porn is over, the demon's gone, our work here is done." Jimi joined him, licking Sam's face until the younger Winchester stirred.

"That's it," encouraged Dean, "Think of libraries, Sam, lovely quiet libraries, floor to ceiling shelves, all those dry stuffy books with absolutely no copies of the Kama Sutra among them..."

Sam sat up carefully. "Is it safe to look?" he asked in a small voice.

"Yep, the show's over, and Elvis – er, Elvira, actually, I suppose – appears to have left the building," Dean told him, looking around and seeing that the hellhound was gone. "The love 'em and leave 'em type, hey, Jimi? They're the best sort, aren't they, boy?" The dog just offered him a happy whuff, and looked slightly smug.

Sam stood up slowly, pulling pieces of pumpkin out of his hair. "There's seeds," he groused, "They're all sticky."

Reginald Chumley stood looking around the wreckage of his garden in bewilderment. "What about my garden? What about the contest?" he asked in a plaintive voice.

"Oh, dear, so sorry about that, Reggie," started Dean in what Sam recognised as a dangerously pleasant tone, "We do apologise profusely for saving you from a deal damning your soul to eternal torment and despair, but I'll make it up to you. If you show up at this contest, just enter yourself in the special class I'm going to create especially for you, called Human With A Brain Most Resembling A Fucking Vegetable, and I guarantee you that you'll win. Okay? You're welcome. Come on Sam," he put a hand on Sam's shoulder, and steered him out of the yard and back to the car.

"Here," he told his brother, handing him a greasy rag from the trunk, "Try to wipe as much guacamole off yourself as you can."

"Gazpacho," said Sam faintly, wiping fairly ineffectively at himself, "It's more like gazpacho. Guacamole is avocado-based."

"Well, at least the ol' Upstairs Brain is still working, college boy," grinned Dean, trying to wipe down a wriggling Jimi. "Hey, hold still, you! Good thing we did this job before he undergoes his ritual genital mutilation, huh?"

"It only worked because Rex was actually Regina," grumbled Sam, in no mood for an argument. It had been a traumatising evening. He hoped he'd be able to get to sleep – he had a feeling that he was going to need a double session with Dr Uphir, and a really big plate of sandwiches.


Reviews are the guacamole on The Nachos Of Life.