Jackie-Joy the bridal plot bunny graces us with her presence once more, how lucky we are...
Chapter Thirteen
"What are you doing?" asked Dean, scattering salt as Ronnie tossed crocheted items into the disused urinal trough.
"Sorting 'em," she replied, screwing her nose up at a particularly intricate and lacy table runner. "Seriously, anybody who has the time to sit down and do this needs to get a life."
"What for?" Dean rolled his eyes, "We're gonna burn 'em, not launder 'em!"
"Cotton," Ronnie said, waving a doily that, if her expression was anything to judge by, struck her as particularly egregious. "They'll burn consistently – the synthetics will go up like torches, and if we strike any actual wool we'll need more accelerant."
"Whatever you say, Smokey," shrugged Dean, reaching for the lighter fluid. He paused. "How do you know so much about setting fire to crocheted items?"
She offered him an angelic smile. "Let's just say I've set fire to more than one irritatingly twee toilet roll dolly in my time," she told him, throwing a few more items in. "Okay, start that lot off and we'll see how it goes."
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"Is that strictly within the spirit of the game?" asked Aphrodite.
"Meeeeeeeep," went Andrew.
"Well, skilled players can make a long play if their team-mates can keep the opposition at bay, and they get physical 'emselves," Bobby told her, "Although it is unusual for 'em to be, uh, carried along like that."
"The defence team don't actually do any scoring, usually, until they swap over with the offence team on their side," Sam added, "But, well, whatever works, I guess."
They watch Ares stride purposefully along the playing area with at least half a dozen offence players hanging off him, ball snuggled under one arm, barking instructions at the rest of the defence team to get out of his way. Frankie was sitting on one of his feet and clinging to his leg, but that didn't seem to hinder him; he made his way towards the end of the improvised field.
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The first items caught and then burned steadily as Ronnie fed them into the burning pile. Rio wagged her tail and whuffed, play-bowing to the small fire – given their Hellhound heritage, Jimi Senior's descendants had a tendency to regard fire as a potential plaything, so Dean carefully shooed her out of the way.
"So far, so good, so incendiary," he noted, keeping one eye out for the dementedly crafty spectre of Jackie-Joy, "And there's not a lot of smoke."
"So far," Ronnie said grimly, picking up an afghan rug and tearing it in half. "Here come the acrylics – hang on to your nasal cavities."
She was right; the synthetic yarn flared and burned fast, giving rise to a dreadful grey smoke that smelled of incontinent industrial storage tanks.
"Oh, fuck me!" muttered Dean, putting a sleeve over his face as Rio sneezed and whined at his side.
"Not if you were the last man on Earth," wheezed Ronnie, "Oh, fuck, that really pongs."
"Just get it all on there, get this bit over and done with," instructed Dean.
"That might not be a good idea," Ronnie cautioned. "The smoke…"
"The windows are venting it," Dean cut her off, "So, modo fac, vacca." (Just do it, you cow.)
"Te futueo et carrum tuum," (Screw you and the wheeled conveyance you rode in) Ronnie shot back as she held her nose and threw more crochet onto the sputtering mess. "Oh, that's really bad – it's going to take forever at this rate."
"Then pick up the pace," Dean snapped, grabbing up a piece featuring a frilly decorative motif that was probably intended to evoke the idea of ruffly flowers and yet put him in mind of chupacabra guts, "This has to go before it starts bleeding."
"Is it just me," Ronnie mused as he threw it onto the fire, "Or does that somehow look like chupacabra guts?"
"Possibly," he wheezed, "But it could also be hallucinations brought on by chemical fumes… oh, shit!"
"What?" Ronnie looked around wildly, brandishing her large salt canister like a weapon, "Is it Jackie-Joy?"
"No!" Dean yelped, pointing to the ceiling, "Look!"
She looked up at the windows; most of the sticky smoke was being funnelled out of them, but tentative tendrils were making their way across the ceiling.
"Oh, crap," she muttered, "That'll mark the paint."
"It aint the paint I'm worried about!" Dean yapped, still pointing, "It's the damned smoke detector!"
"Huh?" There was indeed a small modern smoke detector fitted to the ceiling. "Oh, bugger! Why didn't you say before?"
"I didn't see it before!" he snapped back, looking around frantically then grabbing up an ancient and dusty floor mat.
"What, you forgot your bifocals?" asked Ronnie, letting out a small 'Oof!' as he flung the mat at her.
"Well, you didn't see it either!" he snapped, grabbing up another mat, "Now, shut up and fan!"
Wielding their mats, they fanned vigorously at the ceiling, sending the smoke back towards the windows. Unfortunately, the greater air circulation also had the effect of fanning the fire, which burned even more readily.
"We're making it worse!" wailed Ronnie, flapping her mat desperately. "We have to cover the smoke alarm, now!"
Cursing under his breath, Dean dropped his mat, and put his boot to Ronnie's cupped hands. With a grunt and a crack about geriatric weight gain, she boosted him back onto her shoulders, where he cupped his hands carefully around the small appliance.
"Give me something to cover it with!" he ordered, snuffling as his head rose into the smoke layer.
"Like what?" she demanded. "I'm busy being the ladder!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" he snarled, "You're supposed to be a frigging Hunter, so improvise!"
She used some more colourful language, then wiggled around a bit under his feet as he complained about the stability of his footing.
"Here, catch this!"
Something small sailed through the air and hit him in the face.
"Pfah!" he grabbed it. "Okay, I'll… oh, you bitch, it's your sock!"
"You told me to improvise!"
"You threw your sock in my face!"
"If you don't deal with that detector now, you'll have Sam and Bobby in your face!" she hissed, "Which will be worse than my sock!"
"Jesus, when was the last time you washed your damned feet?"
"Oh, put a sock in it, you fainting violet."
"Not this sock, that's for sure," Dean growled, folding the offending item in on itself and fitting it around the detector. "Let's just hope this aint one of those models that will detect toxic chemical vapours as well as particulates, or your damned sock will have it screamin' like a fangirl at a boyband gig."
"Fuck off."
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Eventually, Ares reached the end of the playing area, where he carefully placed the ball on the ground.
"I have touched the ball down!" he roared, raising his arms and shaking off a couple of players, "We are victorious!" He turned to the spectators, who were laughing and cheering. "You may pour libations unto me now," he declared generously.
"Well, in the end, the object of the exercise is the same," Bobby noted philosophically.
"To take the ball to the end of the field of battle, and put it down?" enquired Hephaestus.
"Nope," Bobby grinned, "To give the spectators a reason to yell and drink beer."
"It is a most refreshing beverage," Aphrodite opined, "Andrew, would you be so kind as to fetch one for me?"
They watched him go.
"Got a hell of a turn of speed for a guy his size," muttered Bobby.
"So, now what happens?" asked Hephaestus, drawn into the game.
"Well, uh, I'm not sure," Sam admitted. "Technically, the defence should not have just scored, but they have, so I guess they become the offence now…"
"Then the defence will need some assistance," Hephaestus decided, turning to Aphrodite. "Here, Affy, hold my drink."
"Is this wise?" the Goddess of Love asked, cocking a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. "Do you even know how to play this game?"
"I don't know, I've never tried," Hephaestus shrugged good-naturedly, then limped onto the field.
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With the sock in place, Dean and Ronnie let the synthetic items burn down to the point where the smoke was no longer crawling along the ceiling, then dealt with the rest.
"Well, thank Cas that's over," Dean sighed, watching the glowing remains, "So, now what?"
"These ones are wool, or wool blends," she told him, "Wool doesn't burn easily."
"Well, we'll just use a bit more fuel," Dean stated confidently, picking up the lighter fluid and splashing some more into the trough. "You use enough fuel you can get anything to burn."
Ronnie put several items into the urinal, and stood back as Dean flicked his lighter. The resulting fire was disappointing to say the least – even Rio yapped at it in encouragement a couple of times before being shushed by the two Hunters.
"This aint workin'," Dean observed in irritation as the pile smouldered
"I told you," Ronnie said, "It's got a high nitrogen and water content, so it doesn't burn, and has a tendency to self-extinguish. It's got a really high Limiting Oxygen Index, so it takes…"
"Oh, great," Dean moaned, "Not only with this stuff not burn, you're channellin' Sam."
"I'm just saying," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "The properties of wool make it difficult to burn. It needs quite a high temperature, 500 or 600 degrees."
Dean looked at the can in his hand. "Hell, this stuff will burn hotter than that," he declared. "Get all that into the trough, and let's do this."
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Sam and Bobby watched Hephaestus make his way along the playing 'field' with his rolling gait, unhindered by the opposition, who simply bounced off him or clung ineffectively to him.
"Well, if he's headed that way to score, I guess maybe we should call this side the offence," Sam mused.
"And this game is played throughout this realm?" asked Aphrodite.
"Well, yeah," Bobby answered, taking his hat off and scratching his head. "Although I aint ever seen it played exactly like this before."
"The aim is to convey the ball to the end of the field, and place it on the ground, is it not?" she pressed.
"Well, yeah," confirmed Sam, "The thing is, the thing is, it's usually a player carrying the ball, and evading the opposition."
"Uh-huh," Bobby agreed, "It's not usually done by having a player carry the player who's carryin' the ball…"
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"That smells completely gross," complained Ronnie, surveying the smouldering pile, "And it's not working anyway."
"We need more of this," Dean said firmly, picking up his other can of lighter fluid.
"Hey, be careful," Ronnie cautioned in a worried voice, "Just don't set yourself on fire, maybe we should do this in smaller piles…"
"We'll run out of fuel before then," Dean stated grimly, shaking both cans over the heap.
He jumped back and Ronnie let out a little shriek as the heap caught, and burned with a high orange flame.
"Don't worry," he told her, "The smoke detector is covered, it won't go off."
He was right. The smoke detector didn't go off.
However, the fire sprinkler was another matter altogether.
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"Thank you, Andrew," Aphrodite smiled up at the werewolf, who offered her a wobbly smile of his own as he handed her a beer. "Now, perhaps you can explain some more of this game. Oh, well done, Heph," Aphrodite called encouragingly, as Bobby and Sam watched, bemused. "It seems you do know how to play after all."
They applauded politely as Hephaestus made his way past at a casual pace. He had RJ, who had hold of the ball, clamped firmly under one arm, and Ares in a headlock in the other, complaining and cursing loudly. Several opposition players attempted to tackle him and clung on ineffectively or simply bounced off. Sabine clung to him like an outraged backpack, howling in frustration.
When he reached the end of the field, he carefully put RJ on the ground where he could put the ball on the grass.
"And now we have touched the ball down also!" The smith of Olympus beamed widely and gently dislodged Sabine as his team-mates cheered him and Ares scowled.
"Unhand me, you crippled oaf!" barked the god of war, finally extracting himself from Hephaestus's enormous arm. "Hera's tits, you smell worse than a plough horse in season!"
"How would you know what a plough horse in season smells like?" Hephaestus asked mildly.
"Heh heh, you know who those two remind me of?" Bobby grinned at Sam.
"Don't say it," Sam griped. "Although it's a shame Dean isn't here to see this, he'd think this was his kind of football."
"It might also finally get Ronnie to appreciate our style o' football," theorised Bobby. "She's not a big fan of it the way it's usually played, is she?"
"Uh, no, no, she's, uh, not," Andrew stuttered. "She's, uh, well, she comes from rugby territory. She'd, um, she'd appreciate this."
Looking thoughtful, Bobby scanned the other spectators, who were falling about laughing. "Speakin' of the mother o' the bride, where is she?"
"I was just wondering the same thing about Dean," Sam mused, "This is the sorta thing he loves…"
They exchanged a look.
As he did so, a fire alarm sounded from the guest house.
"Idjits," muttered Bobby, following as quickly as he could when Sam turned and sprinted for the guest house.
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"I'm getting drowned up here!" yelled Dean.
"Well, I'm getting drowned down here!" Ronnie yelled back, "It's all running down onto me as well!" She shook water out of her eyes. "Can't we just get out of here?"
"No!" Dean told her, "We gotta keep the spray off Jackie-Joy's stuff until it's all gone!"
"Why didn't you tell me there was a sprinkler system?" Ronnie wailed.
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Sam quickly located the fire board and identified the source of the activation. Leaving Bobby to man it and deal with the staff by telling them that Sam was a firefighter who was qualified to check out the problem, he headed for the outer reaches of the building, heading for an area that hadn't been renovated and seemed to be mostly used for storage.
He'd quickly checked the map, but he groaned inwardly when it became apparent that all he had to do was follow the arguing voices…
"I didn't know, okay? This bit wasn't renovated yet!"
"Well, somebody renovated enough to put in a smoke detector and a sprinkler!"
"I couldn't know that! It's one of those modern systems, you know, not like the old ones – these ones are recessed into the ceiling, you don't see 'em until they activate and pop out."
"Shouldn't you have found out, Mr I'm-A-Hunter-And-I-Never-Miss-A-Detail?"
"Well, I didn't hear you breakin' any records for sprinkler detection either!"
"Dean! Ronnie!" Sam called anxiously, hearing what sounded like running water behind a door, so he barged it open.
His jaw dropped as he took in the scene before him.
Dean was standing on Ronnie's shoulders, with his hands clutching at the ceiling; he realised that his big brother had his hands wrapped around a fire sprinkler, and was attempting to staunch the flow. He was not being successful; his action was preventing the water from spraying all over the room, but instead it was gushing downward in a torrent, cascading over him and then over Ronnie below him. For some reason, Ronnie's feet were bare.
"What the hell?" he burst out.
They both offered him sunny smiles. "Hey Sammy!" trilled Dean. "Think you could, uh, maybe shut this thing off?"
After gawping for a few more moments, Sam pulled out his cell, and told Bobby he could deactivate the sprinkler, then watched as Ronnie neatly boosted Dean into the air, caught him, and set him back on his feet.
He glared at the two of them; they stood looking back, as if standing around soaking wet and covered in weird burnt-smelling smuts was what everybody did every day.
He summoned a ferocious Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean). "What the hell is goin' on here?"
"Goin' on?" Dean echoed, all bemused innocence.
Sam looked around the room. "What the fuck have you been doing in here?" he demanded. "Can I… can I smell lighter gas? And burning? Have you two morons been tryin' to set fire to each other?"
"Of course not!" replied Dean promptly. "That's ridiculous. Isn't it?"
"Oh, yes, completely ridiculous," Ronnie nodded vigorously. "Set each other on fire? Totally ridiculous. What are we, rugarus?"
Sam smiled like a friendly shark. "Then I'm sure you have a perfectly rational explanation for what you're doing here."
"Of course we do," Dean said loftily.
"Great," continued Carcharadon samwinchesterus prettydamnedpissedus, "Because I'm just dying to hear it."
"Well," Dean began firmly, "We were just, you know, checkin' the place out, a last sweep before the big day, and, and, we found, we were just checking, and we found… rats."
"Yes, we found rats," Ronnie echoed firmly.
"Rats," repeated Sam, in the tone of a parent who has just been informed by a straight-faced four year old that the colourful marks along the floor have nothing to do with crayons being carelessly stomped into the carpet because it was all caused by Rainbow Alien Fairies crash-landing their travel pods in the hallway.
"Rats," Ronnie repeated with conviction, tapping her nose. "I smelled 'em, and traced the smell to this room. The nose knows."
"So, you decided to get rid of the rats by burning down the building?" queried Sam.
"The building was never gonna burn down," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "We were just, you know, fumigatin' this room a bit."
"Fumigating." Sam wasn't buying the Rainbow Alien Fairies. "You smelled rats, you tracked 'em here, and decided to do some fumigating."
They both beamed angelically at him.
"Did it occur to you that putting down poison might've been a bit more…" he sought the right word. "Discreet?"
"That wouldn't work," Ronnie stated, "That wouldn't kill them off right away. They could still be in here, nesting, and lurking, and waiting, and then, on our kids' big day, burst out of hiding and upsetting everybody!" She looked appalled. "Where you get people, and food, you get rats. You may not see them, but they're there."
"Haven't you ever read James Herbert?" asked Dean ominously.
"This way, we'll scare them off, and they'll go to ground for days," Ronnie stated with dignified authority – well, as much dignity as anybody can muster when they are dripping wet, covered in sooty gunk and standing in bare feet. "They won't be any problem at all for us. The management can put down baits later. She picked up her sodden boots, and turned to Dean with a pleasant smile. "So, now that little problem is all taken care of, why don't we go and get a beer?"
Dean beamed back. "I thought you'd never suggest it. We can go tell the youngsters what's wrong with their football."
"Football? Oh, you mean that game of hands-knees-and-boomps-a-daisy that you Seppos like to play. It's completely incomprehensible."
"Right, like rugby is any better – four guys get behind three other guys and try to push two guys' heads up one guy's ass, how the hell does that work?"
"How can you call it football when mostly you carry the ball? It should be called carryball."
"Throwing the ball backwards? What the hell is with that?"
Sam stared after them as they sauntered out casually, leaving wet footprints behind them, and arguing genially about the merits of the two different codes. Rio gave him a happy bark, then followed them. He narrowed his eyes; Ronnie may or may not have smelled a rat, but he sure as hell did…
He looked around the room; it seemed to have been a men's restroom at some stage, now used for storage. There wasn't any damage except for the water on the floor, and that was slowly running down the drain in the middle of the room. He took a last look around, then made to leave…
"Dean? Dean! Why the fuck is there a pair of socks on the ceiling?"
So, all the offending crochet salted and burned. It must all be plain sailing from here, right?
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