Dashing 'cross the screen

With a demon at their heels,

Here come Sam and Dean

To kick you in the feels,

You may see flexing back,

You may see heaving chest,

But 'til they move to HBO

You'll never see the rest

Oh,

Nudity, fangirls squee,

Nekkid Hunter bros,

Oh what fun it is to think

About them without clothes,

Oh,

Nudity, crudity,

Rudity, and then

Oh what fun the Denizens

Have with G.W.N.

Chapter Eleven

Dean sat staring at the screen, his mouth fallen open as he read through the contents of the file. The last of the doughnut dropped from his hand, where it was quickly snuffled up by Jimi, who fell upon it like a tween girl upon a beach towel with a boy band printed on it.

"She… and then… and afterwards… huh?" his eyes bugged as he looked through 'his' medical file following the encounter. "So, mostly she just kills Hunters, but with these guys, she beat the crap out of 'em, and then… is that even possible?"

"She has done before, but she didn't manage it with you." Sam gave his brother a wry smile. "You managed to do what nobody else could."

"I stuck a knife in her. It's just one of those universal constants again," Dean hummed with some satisfaction. "Thanks to Dean Winchester's awesomeness as a Hunter, whatever reality he may be in, he never goes anywhere without a silver blade."

"Well, I was gonna say, you made her angry," Sam clarified, "In accordance with another apparent universal constant: Dean Winchester's God-given talent for annoying one Veronica Shepherd. Up until you, she'd always been as cool as a cucumber: casual about it while she shreds some poor bastard. Right up until she encountered FOOCER-Dean, who managed to set some sort of PB in werewolf provocation – her thoughts went from 'mate' to 'irate' to 'exterminate' at the speed of outrage."

"You can bet your ass she started it," commented Dean tartly, "That's another universal constant."

Sam rolled his eyes and gave Dean a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Let's just accept the assumption that this is one more reality where you two idiots push each other's buttons with the enthusiasm of a crackpot jihadist left alone in a missile silo. But that was when the teeth and claws started to show, and FOOCER-Dean figured out that she was a werewolf. Then he stuck a silver knife in her. This would explain the scars on your chest; she was goin' for the heart. And she really did a number on you, bro."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, taking in the list of injuries he'd sustained in the encounter, but sounding slightly smug nonetheless. "But I still stuck a knife in her." He kept reading. "Where did you find this?"

"It's a protected file," Sam told him, "Because it's got your medical stuff in it – but I talked to Charlie, and told her that you remembered something relevant to Kevin's work, and she let me have a look at it."

"Don't see why," Dean shrugged, "Everybody knows that I was attacked, hence the name Harry."

"Yeah, but not everybody knows just how badly you were injured," Sam explained.

"What a load of crap," scoffed Dean, "I got a few boo-boos from tangling with that cranky cow…"

"Dean, it wasn't just physical injuries that FOOCER were worried about," Sam clarified. "There were, er, psychological issues."

Dean did a convincing impression of a goldfish, or possibly an ex Big Brother contestant being informed that the fact that anybody watching after dark had seen their bare arse did not entitle them to an upgrade from economy to first class the next time they flew to Bali to try to drum up more personal publicity in one more desperate attempt to translate their complete lack of talent for being entertaining into a career as some sort of 'media celebrity' (probably by baring their arse again). "What?"

"Here. After the attack, it says you developed, uh, unhealthy behaviours." Sam scanned down the page. "Excessive alcohol consumption… some sort of hero complex… self-doubt… risk-taking behaviour, lack of concern for personal welfare… engaging in rampant casual sex…"

"Show me that," snapped Dean, grabbing the mouse, muttering to himself as he read. "Huh? This is ridiculous! Any Hunter who's frightened of gettin' their hands dirty, or gettin' a skinned knee, is more of a liability than an asset. And of course I drink! Anybody who had to put up with your music and your man-periods would drink. And there aint nothing wrong with casual sex, especially when we're talkin' about the Living Sex God, I mean, that's not pathology, Sam, it's practically a public service…"

"That's not the way that FOOCER sees it," Sam interrupted. "It looks like FOOCER-Dean's encounter with Ronnie basically, uh, turned him into, well, you."

"Good," grunted Dean, "At least something good came out of it."

"FOOCER doesn't agree," Sam informed him. "You went within an ace of being declared medically unfit to continue active duty."

"Well that's just bullshit," growled Dean, "Because self-doubt or not, I do know that I'm a totally awesome Hunter. I'm Harry! False modesty sucks, dude."

"Which is why Bobby spoke up for you," Sam said.

"Well, good," humphed Dean in a miffed tone. "You don't get rid of your best Hunters just because women find him irresistible."

"There is something really wrong with a guy who talks about himself in the third person," Sam muttered, "Anyway, hopefully we'll be out of here and back to our own reality ASAP, and FOOCER-Dean can get on with his rehab…"

"Hey, hey, hold up," Dean cut him off. "We aint goin' anywhere until we finish what I started. What FOOCER-me started. We gotta stop FOOCERverse Ronnie."

"What?" Sam stared at his brother.

"Bobby asked us if we had a case lined up," Dean reasoned, "So, we tell him I remembered something, and Ronnie is our next case."

"Dean, he'll never let you go after her," Sam stated, "Besides, there's some speculation here as to whether she's even alive after you wounded her. She hasn't been spotted for almost a year, now."

"Yeah, right." Dean turned and grinned at him. "Would you believe that Ronnie Shepherd was dead without seein' her cold corpse with your own eyes?"

"Probably not," Sam conceded.

"She's just gone to ground, again," Dean mused, flicking back a couple of pages. "Could be Hunting, but cleaning up after herself. Or she could be plannin' something." He looked wistfully down at beagle-Jimi, who turned on the Big Brown Eyes just in case there were more doughnuts. "Shame we don't have half-Hellhound half-Rottie Jimi with us – with him runnin' interference, Team Winchester would totally win."

"Well, we don't," Sam stated practically, leaning down to scratch beagle-Jimi's ears. "He's here for moral support, though. That hasn't changed. He's got his own designation, like Rumsfeld: Canine Personnel Welfare Officer."

"Does this office have anybody that Hunts with dogs?" asked Dean.

Sam tapped at the computer. "Don't get any ideas," he grinned, "The waiting list to do the course just to qualify to request to present yourself to the Wildhunt or Jaegerhund kennels, with no guarantee at all that a pup will Choose you, is as long as your arm, and the prerequisite qualifications list is even longer. Canine training theory, plus practical, canine psychology, canine nutrition and husbandry… that'd be you out to start with, once they found out about the junk you're willing to feed to a four-legged friend..."

"What the hell?" Dean sounded mystified. "Don't these people realise that if a Hunting dog pup picks you out, that means you're suitable?"

"I guess that in this reality, Hunting dogs are acknowledged as a scarce and valuable resource," Sam postulated, "So you gotta tick all the boxes. They're very specific bloodlines, people can't just summon dogs like that outta thin air…"

He heard the sharp intake of breath beside him, and got a look at Dean's face. His big brother had gone very still – and then Dean's face formed into a smiling expression.

Sam realised that he was familiar with that expression, a smile that was a combination of happiness, anticipation, and shithouse-rat cunning.

It was the face of a boy who had just noticed that the babysitter is so engrossed in helping Sammy retie his shoe that he has a narrow but adequate window during which the contents of the cookie jar are fair game. The face of a teenager who realises that the security camera doesn't cover the corner of the store where the cheapest booze is kept, and the cashier is more interested in watching football than the store anyway. It was the face of a young man watching a girl's father drive away from her house, a house with an ivy trellis running up the wall as far as her bedroom window. It was the face of his brother spotting a canister of salt, and recognising that if he adds enough of it to the popcorn, Sam will turn his nose up at it, and he'll have the whole bowl to himself.

It was the expression Dean wore when Dean Had Figured Out How To Get What Dean Wanted.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Dean," he began in a warning tone.

"You're a genius, Sam!" Dean chirped happily, "You're a total genius!"

"I am?" Sam was nonplussed.

"Totally!" confirmed Dean, his face creasing in thought. "So, from memory, the doily was the important bit, because of the design in it, the rest was just kinda window-dressing. Time for you to do your laptop-dancing, Samantha," he instructed. "Find me Bobby's house."

"Huh?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Why do we need to know where Bobby's house is?"

"Becaaaaause," Dean rolled his eyes, "We gotta go break in."

"Break in? No, hold it, hold it right there," Sam forestalled his brother, "We are NOT breaking into Bobby's house! Come on, this is Bobby! It'll be warded against everything up to and including demons! We try to break in, we'll end up turned into, into, I don't know, ducks or something!"

"Ducks?" Dean looked at his brother. "Ducks? Hey, are you suggesting that Bobby would… duck with us?"

"No, Dean, what I am suggesting is that…"

"Heh heh, don't try to burgle Bobby, you'll end up totally ducked!"

"Yeah, possibly, but really we shouldn't…"

"He could just tell us to duck off."

"DEAN!" Sam snapped out a crushing Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child) in his brother's direction. "Stop. Just stop. Just put aside the fact that there is no way, no way, we could break into Bobby's place and get away with it – why the hell would you want to break into Bobby's place to start with?"

"Well, because we need the doily, duh," Dean rolled his eyes.

"What doily?" Sam demanded. "Did you fall off the damned bike and hit your head? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You know, the doily," Dean insisted. "The doily. It's got little glass beads around it. I'm gonna need it."

"What for, Dean?"

"For your brilliant plan!" Dean beamed as brilliantly as the apparent plan was. "You said it yourself. People can't just summon dogs like that outta thin air. Ordinary people, no – but I can!"

"Dean, what the fuck are you rambling about?" demanded Sam. "What exactly is it you're proposing to do?"

"What I did before, Sammy," Dean offered his most winning smile, "I'm gonna summon me a Hellhound to Hunt with us; I'm gonna summon Jimi Senior!"

Oh dear. We should probably be worried. (You can read about how Dean first summoned Jimi Senior, a Hellhound, in 'Can We Keep Him?' which explains where the doily comes into it.) What is likely to happen to anybody who tries to break into Bobby's house? He'll be pretty ducking cheesed off if he catches them...

I think the plot bunnies are proposing to go into a Christmas shutdown, those lazy leporids, so send reviews, because Reviews Are The Mince Pies That Send Plot Bunnies Into Sugar-Crazed Hyperactivity In The Christmas Lead-up Of Life!