Chapter 10
Dean, for crying out loud, it won't smell any different to yesterdaAAAARGH COLD NOSE! Sam yelped, clamped his tail down, and scuttled away from Dean.
Just checking you're still you, Sammy, yapped Dean cheerfully, sitting down with one leg in the air and his tongue boldly going where no man's tongue had gone before.
"You'd better behave yourself in the ring," rumbled Bobby, straightening his tie, "I'm pretty sure that tantric yoga doesn't get you any extra points." Dean suddenly stop licking his own groin, and sat up.
Hey, does anybody else hear that?
Three pairs of canine ears perked up, listening…
Dean and Jimi were suddenly shoving at Bobby's legs. He's coming! He's coming!
"What the hell are you idjits doing?" demanded Bobby, taking a step back.
There was a flap-flap sound...
Cas! You've come to visit us! Dean yipped joyfully, leaping to put his paws on Castiel's shoulders as the angel suddenly appeared. Castiel frowned, peering intensely at Dean.
"You are not Jimi," he announced finally, "Jimi is larger than you. You are even more inappropriately friendly than Jimi."
It's great to see you, Cas! Dean panted happily, kissing the angel lavishly on the nose, while his tail wagged furiously.
Castiel stared at the dog licking his face. "Bobby," he asked, "Is this a new dog? Have you acquired a successor to Rumsfeld? Is this the new Rumsfeld? He is over-excitable, and would benefit from further socialisation."
"That's Dean," Bobby explained with a sigh, "He's just taken to the whole being a dog shtick effortlessly, so he's showing you how pleased he is to see you, doggy style."
Could you please refrain from using that expression? asked Sam with a wince.
So, what are you doing here, Cas? snuffled Dean, continuing to lick fondly at the angel's face, Wanna come to the show with us? Check out some bitches, sniff some butt…
"Dean, I would like you to desist at once," Castiel frowned. "While dog saliva does not actually represent a health hazard provided the dog is not carrying any disease or parasites, it has an aroma that might be described as unpleasant. Also, some of it has gone up my vessel's nose, which is quite uncomfortable."
No problem, whuffed Dean equably, dropping back to his feet and nosing around under Castiel's trench coat. Hang on, let me just check…
Castiel's eyes widened briefly.
…S'okay, it's definitely Cas, Dean grinned doggily, shoving his nose into Castiel's groin, Oh yeah, it's definitely, definitely Cas…
"Dean, you quit that right now!" barked Bobby sternly, grabbing Dean's collar. "We get the message, you're pleased to see Cas."
"Thank you, Bobby," Castiel actually managed to look slightly flustered. "I received your message. Danael in Reception once again praised your scansion, but asks if you would perhaps next time consider using the phrase 'dog wind' or 'dog smells'." He cocked his head. "Usually if somebody offends her with crude language, she shreds the offending prayer, threatens to quit, or announces intention to smite the offending petitioner. In the case of Dean's prayers, it's sometimes all three." The angel paused again. "She says that if you would ever like to send her a p-mail, she would be happy to engage in a discussion of prayer composition and metering with you."
Are you here as go-between because one of the office girls upstairs has a thing for Bobby? Dean wanted to know, tail wagging again.
"No, I am here because Bobby asked for my assistance in determining the nature of the occult practice that you suspect is being perpetrated," Castiel replied.
"Well, thanks for turning up, I'm at a complete loss," Bobby confided, as he filled Castiel in on what they knew, and what they didn't.
So, we suspect an attempt to summon something, but we have no idea what, finished Sam. We're hoping to get ourselves, er, dognapped, so we can find out from the inside.
"I agree with Bobby, in that your plan is foolhardy," frowned Castiel, "But entirely in character for Winchesters. I cannot think of anything that large amounts of dog blood might be used for – as you have already observed, the most lowly of demons would demand a minimum of the blood of a human individual before even considering responding to a summons. The organ removal also is most puzzling." He appeared to make a decision. "I shall accompany you to the dog show, and join your effort to detect evil intent."
Great! This is gonna be so much fun! Dean chased his tail a couple of times, then jumping against Castiel's leg. Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas! he panted, humping frantically, You're my friend!
"Profound bond notwithstanding," Castiel intoned, "While I recognize that for a dog this is a play behaviour, or an expression of excitement, I find that… disconcerting."
Oh, God, he's got lipstick… whined Sam, dropping to the floor and shutting his eyes, Make him stoooooop…
"Dean! Enough!" barked Bobby, using The Voice. Dean's rampant reciprocating stopped.
Buzzkill, he humphed, rolling over on his back and throwing all four legs in the air. Hey, Cas, rub my belly!
I think Chuck probably just threw up a little again, sighed Sam.
Castiel cocked his head. "He did not," the angel told them, "But he did spray liquor all over his monitor."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Look at me, look at me, look at me, Dean hummed cockily as they strolled around the show grounds, Look at me, look at me, I'm so awesome look at me, look at me, look at me, you want your bitches to have my pups, look at me, look at me, look at me…
Are you sure I'm not allowed to bite him? humphed Sam irritably.
"Fraid so," Ronnie sounded regretful.
…Look at me, look at me… while I look at you, Dean grinned up at Ronnie, You do know you look like a librarian with your hair up like that, don't you? A strict librarian, ohhhhh yeah, look at you, look at you, look at you and sniff your butt, look at you…
"Yeah, you've only told me five times now," she rumbled.
Do the scary growly hindbrain thing, begged Sam, Make him stop.
"Not unless we're right next to a pooper scooper bucket," instructed Bobby.
Haters gonna hate, yipped Dean breezily, strutting along, Look at me, look at me, look at me…
"Dean is showing the correct attitude for an entry in the Working Group," Castiel informed them. "He should exude easy self-confidence and fearlessness, be alert but unperturbed by what goes on around him, and show a relaxed, happy disposition. The characteristic of 'presence', a sense of inviting and enjoying being the object of attention, is highly prized in show animals."
So, what the judge is looking for, is smartass, smug show-off, summarised Sam. We needn't have bothered turning him into a dog at all.
See? Don't hate me because I'm awesome, Sammy, Dean snuffled, nudging his brother's flank affectionately. Look at me, look at me, everybody look at me...
There's so many people here, it all jumbles together, complained Sam, And I still don't know what evil shit smells like.
"It'll be a while before your classes yet, we can cover more ground in more detail if we split up," suggested Bobby. The general consensus was that his suggestion was sensible, so they went three separate ways.
Castiel's meanderings took him past rows of cars and tables and tents, with dogs and handlers. He let his Grace stretch out, seeking evidence of activity either occult or dishonourable. What he found ranged from innocuously benign (an elderly lady performing a small charm to keep her oldest dog's arthritis pain at bay, a bespelled treat ball that kept a boisterous puppy far too smart for her own good entertained where conventional dog toys had failed) to the pettily dishonest (a handler giving an excitable dog a sedative preparation, another one hoping like hell that nobody figured out that his dog's markings owed more to black hair dye than selective breeding).
He wandered past an administrative building, experiencing what he recognised to be bewilderment. Sam had a point. There was a lot going on. So many dogs, so many people, so many thoughts, so many dogs who thought almost like people, so many people who thought almost like dogs, all moving around like so many motes of dust in a large airy room, impossible to track... It was overwhelming.
He paused for a moment. He was an Angel of the Lord, he told himself, a Warrior of Heaven. If there was something evil afoot here, he would find it. He had, as Dean put it crudely yet succinctly, a nose for evil shit. That was how his Father had created him. All he had to do was be calm, and have faith in his Father's work…
"Monsieur Castille?" a female voice broke into his reverie. "Excusez-moi, êtes-vous Monsieur Castille?"
"Je m'appelle Castiel," he corrected her fluently, "Je suis un ange…"
"Oh, excusez-moi, monsieur," she interrupted him anxiously, "Vraiment, je ne parle pas beaucoup de Francais." She glared at her clipboard. "Je vais le remarquer ici toute de suite, c'est 'Castiel'…"
"I am happy to speak English if you would prefer," he told her.
The rather portly lady, whose name tag identified her as Marie, looked relieved. "I am so sorry about your name," she apologised, "But here you are - I thought perhaps you were lost!"
"I am feeling lost," he confided, "And not quite certain as to where I should go to perform my task."
"Well, I can help you there!" She smiled, and took his arm. "Please come this way…" She radiated helpful confidence – everything about her announced her as A Lady Who Organised Things.
"Thank you," he told her gratefully. "There are so many dogs and handlers here today."
"We have had a wonderful response for the entries," she trilled happily, "I'm sure they'll keep you busy!"
"I look forward to my duties," he told her, sending a small prayer of thanks Heavenward for sending him a guide. He almost smiled to himself. Oh, Father, how many times must you remind me, I need only have faith?
She hustled him to a group of middle-aged people who all appeared to breathe a collective sigh of relief at the sight of him. "This is Monsieur Castiel," Marie informed them, emphasising the correct pronunciation. "He was lost, but now we've found him!"
"Enchante, Monsieur," said a dignified man with grey hair, and a small lapel pin reading PRESIDENT, as he offered a hand. Castiel shook it, as these people were clearly making an effort to be polite and respectful.
"Enchante, Mr…Upwey," he replied, plucking the man's name from this thoughts.
"Will you need a translator, Monsieur?" asked Mr Upwey. "We have two stewards who are quite fluent."
Castiel let his Grace roam briefly, and assured himself that there was nobody present in the Showgrounds who would not be able to understand English. "I am happy to use English," he repeated.
"Excellent!" Mr Upwey and the others smiled. "So, this is Sophie, and she will be your main assistant, and Nathan will be your runner…"
Castiel was slightly taken aback – he was not used to having people offer him willing help in the detection of evil. "Thank you," he said gravely, "It is very good of you to have this so promptly organised."
"Let me get this for you," Marie told him, pinning a small badge to the lapel of his trench coat. "There!" she said, with an air of satisfaction. "Now, these two will show you the way!"
"Please come this way, Monsieur Castiel," said Sophie, setting out purposefully.
Castiel followed her, marvelling at the mysteriousness of the ways in which his Father worked. He glanced down at the small badge that Marie had pinned on his coat. Upside down, he read it:
JUDGE
And that, Readers Mine, is as close as you will ever get me to writing anything that might vaguely be approaching Destiel if you squint. I can't decide if it would be even worse if Castiel was a dog too. What sort of a dog would he be, anyway? A Borzoi? A Basset Hound? A Corgi? A Yorkie? They would NOT get to share a bowl of spaghetti in the fashion of Lady and The Tramp...