I really don't know why I bother with the story, really I don't, you lot are obsessed, and all you really need are some vaguely suggestive mental pictures of Winchesters, a certain amount of undress and possibly the odd strategically placed bandana or smear of grease. I could just write a series of unconnected sentences or short paragraphs of Dean and Sam getting some kit off in various situations, permutations and combinations. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Dean rolling about on a bed covered in money, wearing nothing but a smile, and possibly doing something to pass the time... Sam in the shower with a bottle of shower gel and a waterproof thesaurus, getting clean, purified, unstained, cleansed, washed, spotless, stainless, decontaminated... You should all be in therapy. I have a feeling you're going to put me into therapy.
Fear not, I am sure those nasty-wasty werewolves will not harm a single adorable hair on the Living Sex God or the Puppy-Eyed Sammy. Although Ronnie may call Dean a rude name at some point. I'm sure he'll return fire. I can't say the same for Creepy Croydon (he is creepy, isn't he?) and his horrible henchmen, though. And let's face it, there are far too many people out there who enjoy a bit of Winchesters In Peril. Did I mention that I think you're all depraved?
Chapter 9
Dean sighed. Dean hummed. Dean drummed on the steering wheel. Dean sucked his teeth. Dean made every noise he could think of with his mouth. Dean belched. Dean sighed even more heavily. Dean slurped his coffee. Dean fiddled with the binoculars. Dean whistled through his teeth. Dean made high-pitched squeaky noises to get Jimi to cock his head sideways and look adorably confused. Dean grinned worryingly at Sam for no apparent reason. Dean practised his evil laugh. Dean trawled his vocabulary for words that would make Sam uncomfortable. Dean broke wind with astonishing ferocity.
Dean was bored.
"Jesus, Dean!" snapped Sam, rolling down the passenger window, "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"I'm bored," his big brother complained. "He should've turned three hours ago! Moist."
"He did, if the howl was anything to judge by," Sam commented, taking the binoculars and scanning the house.
"So, what's he doing in there? Brushing his teeth? Admiring his new physique? Giving himself a good grooming before he heads out into the night?" asked Dean. "Orgy."
"I don't know," Sam replied, "Your guess is as good as mine." He looked thoughtful. "It's possible he may have managed to… contain himself," he added.
"What, like, lock himself in the bathroom or something? Vibrating," asked Dean.
"The occasional one figures it out, or at least figures out that something is seriously wrong," Sam reminded him. "He did seem a bit, you know…"
"Hinky?"
"Yeah, a bit hinky about us, like he suspected something." Sam said. "He might know something, or suspect something…"
"His name sounds German," noted Dean, "So it's possible that a grandparent might've told him stories from the old country. Hell, these days, he could've googled it. Blindfold."
Sam scowled at his brother, and reached for his computer. Then he smiled. "Get this, 'jaeger' is German for 'Hunter'. Maybe there is some family connection. One way or the other, it looks like our wolf has found out at least enough to keep himself out of harm's way."
"I'm not going to complain about that, but I'd better let Alex know what's going on. Threesome."
His phone rang as he reached for it.
"Yeah. Yeah, I was about to call you," Dean told Croydon. "We're watching the house, but he hasn't got out. Yeah, pretty sure, we heard him howl, but we think he's found some way to keep himself locked in. No movement. Yeah, we'll keep watching, but I got a feeling this one's going to be a no-show. Uh-huh. That's cool. Bye." He shut his phone. "That was him," he told Sam, "Tumescent."
"So, what now?" his brother asked.
"We stay here, and make sure he doesn't get out and go rampaging," replied Dean. "If he doesn't, we can probably chalk him up as one who's not going to be a threat. If he shows before morning, we dart him if we can, ganking him if we have to. Moan."
"Fine," said Sam, "But you can stop being so damned annoying right now."
"I'm just bored," complained Dean, "I don't like sitting and doing nothing. I'd rather be ganking. That would make a good bumper sticker. 'I'd Rather Be Ganking Fuglies'. Except not on my Baby. Nobody is putting a bumper sticker on my Baby. Engorged."
"Dean, I don't care if you're bored, stop it," snarked Sam.
"Slick."
"Dean…"
"Hot tub."
"Dean…"
"Naked."
"Dean…"
"Daffodil."
De- what?"
"Sorry. Hog-tied."
"DEAN!"
"Chromed nipples?"
"DEAN! I swear, one day I'm going to gag you with your own socks!"
"Oh, God, Sam, you kinky bastard, I had no idea…"
"Jerk."
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Waking up feeling like crap was something Andrew had done previously. Usually, though, he had at least some memory of having had some sort of fun the night before, involving consumption of large volumes of alcohol, even if it usually got a bit hazy around the time people started puking or passing out or drawing on each other with markers.
He rolled sideways carefully, just in case there was a puddle of something unpleasant lying in ambush. Waking up in a strange place, be it strange as in 'unfamiliar' or strange as in 'unexpected' was also something he'd done before. Certainly, this wasn't the first time he'd woken up with his face stuck to a hard and uncomfortable floor.
However, it was the first time he had ever woken up naked, and chained up. Well, the first time he could remember, anyway. No, belay that, he was pretty sure that if it had ever happened before, he'd definitely remember. It wasn't the sort of thing you were likely to forget. Depending on who else was involved, it could possibly be a treasured happy memory…
The word Ronnie popped into his head.
For a truly confronting moment, his beleaguered brain tried to recall if they'd resolved the argument that seemed to have cropped up between them, and gotten, um, friendlier, and, and, and, oh, God, if something really interesting had happened and he couldn't remember he'd never forgive himself…
Then reality had to go and spoil it all, and come crashing back in with an almost audible 'thud'.
You stay down here, and turn into a werewolf. Film it. Go on. It'll be quite a show.
Andrew groaned, and sat up.
His hands were bruised and bleeding – they really did look like he'd been punching the walls. The rest of him was splattered with what was presumably his own blood, and his ankle was bruised where the chain was still locked around it. Every bit of him ached, and he felt exhausted.
Oh, it gets better. You'll wake up stark naked tomorrow. And feeling like shit.
It really wasn't fair to feel like this without some serious partying having happened beforehand. Although judging from the trashed state of the basement, there had obviously been some serious something going on. The work bench, a monstrous thing made of hardwood (he'd carried it down the stairs with two friends and assembled it in situ) had been tossed aside.
Oh, shit.
He was dazedly contemplating the situation when he heard the door unbolt. It opened a fraction, and Joni came trotting down the stairs with a bag in her mouth. She dropped it at his side, and began to sniff anxiously at him, whuffing and licking at his hands.
The bag contained some of his clothes, a couple of towels, a bottle of water, and a key on a piece of string.
He unlocked himself, cleaned up as best he could and dressed. As he was about to head up the stairs, his eye landed on something small and silver on the other side of the room. A video camera. The lens and view finder were cracked.
Ronnie was in the kitchen, with her back to him. He slid into one of the chairs, and she dropped a steaming mug on the table in front of him. He sniffed at it.
"Houndswort," she told him, "It'll help. Vitamins for werewolves."
"Werewolves," he repeated dully.
"Werewolves," she repeated. "Just like you. Here." She put a plate piled with toast, eggs and bacon in front of him. "You'll feel better if you eat something."
"I'm not hungry," he muttered.
"Bullshit," she replied in a no-nonsense tone. "Did you do much damage down there? Sounded pretty spectacular."
"The, er, work bench," he said, staring into the mug, then back at her. "Have you been here all night?" he asked.
"Yep," she confirmed, "Keeping an eye on you. Or more specifically, your basement door. In case you got out." She pulled out her gun, dropped the clip out, and waved it under his nose. He hissed, and jumped backwards at the acrid, unpleasant smell that burned at his nose. She grinned mirthlessly. "Stinks now, doesn't it?" she said. "Silver. Remember that scent, it might just save you hurting yourself."
He sat silently, uncomprehending.
"Ah, you retrieved the camera," Ronnie noted. "You got a card reader on your computer?"
"What?" he looked at her, still feeling dazed.
"With a bit of luck, you may have filmed yourself transforming," she informed him. "It's no good me doing it, you'll just accuse me of doing some amazing things with photoshop while you were down there." She dropped into a chair beside him. "What do you remember?" She was relentless.
"Nothing," he told her, "I don't… you left me the camera, and I started it, then… "
There were no articulate memories, just impressions, thoughts, and strange drives.
Fear. Confusion, bewilderment. Hunger. And then, anger. Rage. A burning urge to rend, claw, bite, feel the blood in his mouth and the meat beneath his claws…
He found he was cramming another piece of toast into his mouth, and the plate was half empty. He sat up with a start.
"Have a shower, get some sleep," Ronnie told him, getting up. "Call me when you're feeling almost human."
"Ronnie…" the soft pleading note in his voice stopped her. "Ronnie, what happened?"
The smile she turned on him was sad. "Andrew, you know," she answered. "I told you what would happen, but now, you know. You know what you are."
"I don't…" Confusion, bewilderment. Hunger. And then, anger. Rage. "Fuck," he breathed, "It…it really happened." He turned a bemused, lost expression to her. "It really happened."
"It really happened," she echoed. "And it's permanent, and it's not fair, and it sucks, and it may yet be the death of you. But it doesn't have to be. Your basement held you last night. You can learn to contain yourself. If you don't get out, and you don't kill, Hunters won't notice you, and you'll be left alone." Her voice was gentle. "Andrew, I'm so sorry," she said. "But it can be done. I mean it. Call me when you feel better. Eat, wash, change, sleep, then eat. You'll find you want to eat a lot more. The good news is, it won't go straight to your gut." She called up Joni and prepared to leave.
"Wait!" he sounded so plaintive that she couldn't help pausing, "Where are you going?"
"To eat, wash, change, sleep, then eat," she grinned at him. "I'm knackered. And you have a lot to take in, and think about. You'll need to be contained for the three nights of the full moon. I'll give you a hand tonight." She left the same way she'd come. He sat at the kitchen table, his aching head buzzing with questions, the most insistent one being How the hell do I apologise for being a total dick on such a grand scale?
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"Really? Well, that was unexpected. Good, obviously, because a werewolf who doesn't run loose can't kill anyone," Alex Croydon made himself keep any trace of anger out of his voice. "Any idea how he managed it? Well, I suppose we should just be grateful that he did." He managed to sound a little bit thankful. "Still, if you're willing, I think it would be prudent to keep watch tonight, just to make sure it isn't some sort of fluke. If he's going to be self-contained, obviously, he won't be a problem, but if he does get out and hurt someone, I'd never forgive myself, and I'm sure you wouldn't either. Uh-huh. Yeah. That would be great. Okay, keep me informed. Thanks Dean, good job." He stuffed his phone angrily back into a pocket. "Damn, damn, damn," he muttered darkly.
"Problem?" asked the unshaven man sitting across the table from him.
"Actually, yeah," Croydon told his companion. "They watched the house all night, and they're sure he changed – heard him howl – but he didn't get out. He would have changed back at least an hour ago now. He's still in there. Somehow, he managed to contain himself."
"Is there any chance he knows what he is?" asked the unkempt man.
"Highly unlikely. Any Hunter that finds him would gank him. No, it's some sort of coincidence. He's got himself locked in, somehow."
"So, you think he'll get out tonight?" the other man persisted.
"Oh, I know he'll get out tonight," Croydon smiled in a predatory fashion, "Because you, Burke, my friend, are going to pay him a little visit, and make sure the silly fellow doesn't get stuck somewhere too confining. It's not healthy, for a big strong werewolf to be cooped up inside. They need open space."
The man named Burke grinned unpleasantly. "Funny, I was thinking something similar," he said. "They do need their exercise."
"Exactly," confirmed Croydon. "And as you know, nothing, but nothing, is more important to me than the welfare of the wolves I want brought in."
For some reason, Burke found this remark uproariously funny.
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