Unfortunately, Real Life has been getting in the way of fun stuff, but Jackie-Joy is determined, and has given us this chapter. And she would like to inform you that, for anybody who is not familiar with his writing, James Herbert was the author of the 'Rats' trilogy, 'The Rats', 'Lair', and 'Domain', as well as many other excellent books. If Stephen King had a British big brother, it would've been James Herbert, who is unfortunately dead. Those books helped me to get over my reluctance about killing feral rats; after I'd read them, I could participate in the rat-killing when cleaning out a shed, with a spade, a hunk of wood, or if necessary a heavy pair of boots.

Chapter Fourteen

"Rats?" Bobby's tone indicated that he was smelling one. "Fumigatin' for rats?"

"That's what they said," Sam shrugged as the excitement of the 'false alarm' died down. "Ronnie smelled rats, so they did a bit of DIY fumigation."

"What the hell for?" demanded Bobby.

"Well, according to Dean, if they didn't, a plague of mutant rats was going to swarm forth, attacking and killing people left right at centre," Sam rolled his eyes. "With or without nuclear detonations being involved."

"Those two asshats are up to something," growled Bobby.

"But what?" queried Sam.

"No idea," Bobby humphed, "But there aint no point in confrontin' 'em – if they don't wanna tell, they'll just back each other up."

"And that right there is weird," Sam commented, "Since when did Dean and Ronnie co-operate, let alone cover each other's asses? By now, at least one of them should have gone into blame-shifting mode, and be attempting to pin it on the other."

"Well, so far, I guess that all they're doin' is bein' civil to each other," Bobby sighed, watching the objects of his suspicions reappear and head for the beer, "And, like you said, we can't very well take 'em to task for bein' too nice to each other."

"And they both want their kids' big day to go without a hitch," Sam mused, watching the football game turn over. A thought struck him. "I wonder what Rio saw?" he said out loud. "Hey, maybe I could get Andrew to talk to the dog, see if she can tell us what was going on."

"My money says Ronnie will have told her to keep her mouth shut," Bobby said firmly.

"Could still be worth a try." Sam looked around. "Where is he? He was talking to Aphrodite and watching the game, well, when I say 'talking', he was kind of standing there like a rabbit in the cross-hairs and making squeaking noises…"

"Ahem." Bobby pointed to where the father of the bride was discreetly being sick into a bush. "Not sure he's feelin' terribly articulate right now in any language."

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Unable to resist giving the knife just one more little twist before the end of the day, Sam ducked into his brother's room that evening. "So, you're gonna be a father-in-law tomorrow!"

"Shut up, bitch," moaned Dean, "Go and do the right thing by Kelly – if we're lucky, we'll all be too drunk tomorrow for beautiful natural acts, except for me, of course, the Living Sex God could perform beautiful natural acts in a vat of beer, in fact , it's on my bucket list…"

"Yaaaaaargh!" Sam shot his brother a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Too! Much! Information!"

"Well, it serves you right for comin' in here to remind me of the impending apocalypse," Dean sniffed disdainfully.

"Dean," Sam sat down on the bed next to his brother. "You cannot possibly be upset about RJ getting hitched to Sabine, even if she's Ronnie's kid."

"I'm not!" Dean protested, "She's great! She's got a good head on her shoulders, and a good knife arm…"

"And let's face it, they're gonna breed attractive kids," Sam observed brightly.

Dean groaned, and dropped his head into his hands.

"I am not ready to be a grandfather, Sam," he complained. "I am not ready to be somebody's Grandpa. I am not ready to feel that old!"

"Well, technically, you are," Sam reminded him, "Fact is, you're now in your si-"

"Don't you say it!" snapped Dean, with a sigh. "Look, I just… it seems like just a week ago, he was a kid, my kid, and he needed me to hold his hand when we paddled in the stream, and put Batman band-aids on his knees when he skinned 'em, and tuck him in and kiss him goodnight, and… when did my kid grow up like this?"

"I hear ya," Sam nodded, thinking of the way he still thought of his own daughter, a Hunter in her own right, as his little girl. "But it's not like he won't need you anymore. "You're not losing him, you know. He'll still be your kid. You're just gaining another one, too. Pups leave the Den," he grinned, "But they never leave their Pack."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Are you channelling that woman?"

"Possibly," Sam mused. "She's probably having this exact conversation with her pair-bond right now. Assuming Aphrodite isn't around, then he could just be making squeaking noises."

"At least my fellow father-in-law is a cool guy," humphed Dean.

"I dunno how cool he's been feeling," Sam grinned, "Ronnie says he's just being 'adorkable'. Poor bastard, every time Aphrodite smiles at him he can't string three words together."

"Well, she is the Goddess of Love," Dean pointed out, "She can have that effect on ordinary humans."

"Uh, Andrew's a werewolf," Sam reminded his brother.

"You know what I mean," Dean waved a hand dismissively.

"She doesn't affect Bobby, or me," Sam pointed out.

"That's because Bobby aint interested, and you, well, you aint normal," Dean regarded his brother sadly, "You waste what's left of your testosterone growin' those damned sideburns. Plus you drink that sissy frothy coffee, no man who drinks sissy frothy drinks is gonna be capable of responding to the Goddess of Love… aha!" Dean beamed radiantly. "Speak of the goddess, and she shall appear!"

Sam turned to see Aphrodite standing in the doorway. "I hope I am not interrupting," she said politely.

"Not at all," Dean told her breezily, rising to his feet, the Killer Smile sliding effortlessly into place. "Francis here was just off to put his hair in curlers for the big day tomorrow, weren't you?" Dean's waggling eyebrows were as eloquent as a sock on the door handle.

"What? You…" Sam's eyes widened. "Dean, what do you think you're doing?"

"Celebrating my son's last night on earth as a free man," replied Dean.

"But…her husband is here!" Sam yelped.

"The relationship between Heph and I is a purely administrative one put in place by Zeus," Aphrodite announced serenely. "Besides which, he and Ares are enjoying themselves far too much discussing your 'football' with RJ and some of his friends. They have found a game to watch on a television viewing device – it is a great novelty for them, and they are enjoying arguing over it much more than any… physical diversion that I could provide."

"Yeah?" Dean blinked. "Wow – Hephaestus and Ares are, like, Bert and Ernie. Who knew? But," he cranked up the Killer Smile a few more megawatts, "I'm sure I can manage to… divert you."

Sam let out a small shriek.

"So, why don't you just run along, Sam?" Dean beamed sunnily at his brother. "Go divert Kelly, surprise her, do something really kinky, like, oh, leave the bedside light on, maybe..."

Sam ran along.

In fact, it would be accurate to say: Sam fled.

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Ten minutes later, there was a faint scratching and whining at the door of the room he was sharing with Kelly. He rolled his eyes. "Come on in."

Rio walked through the door, dragging her blanket with her, and gazed up at him with large soulful brown eyes. Sam sighed, and shook out her blanket to make her a comfortable nest, thinking that the Chicks I Have Banged stories were going to be particularly lurid if Dean could horrify his own dog right out of the room.

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Aphrodite left sometime after Round Two, leaving a faint scent of hyacinth and violet in the air and Dean stretching and smiling thoughtfully. What a woman, he thought, what an amazing woman, she was totally hot, and totally imaginative, she totally knew what she wanted, and totally didn't want to stick around afterwards. The twinge in his bad knee was totally worth it. Hell, if he was on crutches, it would be totally worth a bit of discomfort afterwards.

Dean had been a Hunter all his life, so out of long habit he slept with one eye open and a weapon under his pillow, but he'd warded the place as well as he could do for temporary accommodation, and that demented doily-doer was well and truly gone, and Rio's nose for evil shit had not been set off, so he slept as well as he ever did when he was in an unfamiliar place.

Right up until something triggered his Hunter's instincts.

He went from sound asleep to I Will Buttfuck Your Soul in zero-point-four seconds and sat up in bed, knife in hand, before sliding silently to the window.

Outside, a figure that only a Hunter would pick out was just discernible in the shadows.

Dean pulled on a pair of pants, and noiselessly let himself out of the room, lowering himself over the sill and down to the soft soil of the garden bed, before making his way stealthily to the figure hiding in the shifting darkness…

He struck like a cobra, knocking his prey to the ground, pinning it with his knife at its throat…

"Jesus Christ, Winchester, what the fuck are you doing?" hissed a voice.

"Wha… Ronnie?" Dean blinked, and peered down into the scowling face of his co-parent-in-law-to-be. "What the fuck?"

"I asked first!" she snapped, sotto voce, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Well, getting the drop on you, obviously," Dean's smugness reasserted itself like a cork bobbing to the surface of Lake Bewilderment, "You're slowing down in your old age – you're dead."

Ronnie smiled slowly. "Oh, really?" she purred.

Dean felt a small tap down low, and let out a muffled yip as his eyes travelled south; four inch claws were extended, and tapped gently yet meaningfully against his most prized possessions.

"If you were lucky, you'd have been the one ending up dead," she suggested brightly. "Not so lucky, you'd just be wishing you were dead…"

"You pervert!" Dean growled.

"Me? A pervert? You're the one running around in the dark jumping on women! Get off me!"

"With pleasure," Dean grumbled.

"Eeeeep! Don't wiggle!"

"I'm not! It's just… it's my knee… can you, uh, you know, give me a push…"

With another snarl, Ronnie put her hands on his shoulders, and pushed.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" he demanded as they both climbed to their feet.

"Wallowing in glum resignation," Ronnie replied, "Because tomorrow, I'm going to be related to you."

"Feel my pain," Dean chuckled without humour, looking around. "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to do a final sweep of the place, while we're out here."

"That too," Ronnie agreed, "I'm just hoping we've seen the last of Madam Crochet."

"It's been all quiet on the fugly front," Dean shrugged, "Well, except for you, but Bobby's pretty adamant that I'm not allowed to salt and burn you. God knows why."

"It would be almost worth you trying," Ronnie smiled like an amused crocodile, "Because the idea of being handed a perfect excuse to whoop your fluffy butt, well, it's one of my fantasies, right up there with jumping into a Mississippi mud cake the size of a truck…"

Dean stared at her. "You really are a pervert."

"If jumping into a giant cake is perverted, then I hate to think what word should be used to describe you – pathologically depraved, perhaps ."

"You see, you aint even a proper woman; women are supposed to jump out of cakes, not into 'em!"

"Oh, puh-lease, that's so 1950s. It's like feminism just never happened for you, isn't it?"

"Hey, I'm all in favour of feminism! I like women to be feminine!"

"You've certainly returned the favour, haven't you? Whoever would've thought that you'd still be so damned pretty, even in your si-"

"Don't you dare say it!"

"Why not? It's the truth."

"Well you're even older!"

"So?"

"You do know that when you shift, your whiskers are all as grey as your hair?"

"Well, at least I still have all my hair to turn grey!"

"So do I!"

"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that…"

"Cow!"

"Mongrel!"

It was only Hunter's reflexes that made Dean change his approach at the last minute, so that instead of aiming a punch at Ronnie, he was grabbing her and pulling her roughly sideways.

The piece of masonry missed them by a hair's breadth, and landed on the grass with a very solid and dense sounding thud.

Ronnie sighed. "Oh, crud, it was her wasn't it?"

"Yup," Dean nodded towards a high window; Ronnie craned her neck to see a pale, irate face peering down at them before it flickered and disappeared. "We'll have to get up there, and find whatever is holding her here, something we missed."

"Oh, great, trawling through attic storage, how I love that," she groaned.

"Well, at least we can do it now without anybody else bein' around," Dean shrugged.

"Hey! Don't wiggle!"

"Well, get off me!"

"You're the one who pulled me over onto yourself!"

"Don't flatter yourself, it was strictly evasive action… what?"

"It's my shoulder, could you, er, you know..."

"I'll be happier when all this is over," grumbled Dean, putting his hands to Ronnie's shoulders and pushing, "And we can get on with loathing each other from opposite sides of the country."

"Amen." Ronnie looked up. "So, what do you think it is?"

"Could be anything," he muttered, "I guess we'll find it when we get there."

"We could ask Rio to have a sniff," suggested Ronnie, "Hellhound blood can track across space and time." She looked around. "Where is she?"

"Uh," Dean had the grace to look sheepish, "She took off for Sam's room."

"Sam's room? Why?"

"Well, when Aphrodite arrived, we were just gettin' reacquainted when Rio started to whine, then she just picked up her blanket and walked through the door when we started to…"

"Sam's right, you are a truly disgusting creature."

Okay, a bit of a self-insert; jumping into a Mississippi mud cake the size of a truck is one of my fantasies. Along with wallowing in a wading pool full of potato gems (or tater tots, as our Merkan cousins call them). And eating a bocconcini cheese the size of a soccer ball. Note that there is no erotic element at all to these fantasies, although I might make some disturbing noises.

What will Jackie-Joy have them get up to next? As if that isn't bad enough, Dirty Miranda – remember her, the plot bunny dictating Dean's pirate story? – has been hopping around, muttering snippets of the most melodramatic and overblown purple prose you've ever heard. I'm not sure if it's a pirate-themed Special Bonus Feature she's trying to dictate, or a continuation of that truly dreadful story… anyway, send reviews because Reviews Are The Gigantic Chocolate Cake Of Relaxed Abandon To Jump Into When You Are Beset By The Terrifyingly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality!