Wow, now that Randolph sees the finish line, just watch him go!

Chapterlet Nineteen

A few days later, Lemmy made his show debut, and was trotting back to the car with not one but two sashes for his efforts. Dean did his best to smile politely for Madam Judge and the audience, but as soon as they were on their way back to their motel, he couldn't contain his vexation.

"I don't understand why you're not happy," Sam snapped at him, "The judge said he was an excellent dog, and showed enormous potential."

"Yeah, she thought he was awesome," Dean growled.

"Lemmy was totally awesome! He did everything right!" Sam told him. "He was the stand-out entry in his class!"

"I thought so," agreed Dean shortly.

"Dean, what the hell is wrong with you? Lemmy won! The judge said he was clearly the obvious winner for Puppy Dog in his Group!"

"Yeah, she was obviously soooooo impressed."

"Dean, he didn't just win, he got Reserve Best In Group too! That's amazing for a dog his age! It means he's outstanding!"

"Second most outstanding," griped Dean, "He was the second most outstanding dog. That's what 'Reserve' means..."

Sam glared at his brother. "Are you really that shallow?" he demanded. "Have you really gone so 'Toddlers and Tiaras' that you can't be happy, because your dog, your puppy, at his very first show, after only a couple of weeks of training, wins not only his class, but is judged Reserve in his Group? You should be proud of him!"

"I AM proud of him!" countered Dean, "He WAS awesome! He IS awesome! TOTALLY awesome! And that stupid judge couldn't see that he was CLEARLY more awesome than... her!"

Sam groaned. "Oh, God, is that what this is all about?"

"What the hell was Ronnie doing there?" demanded Dean.

"Well, they live here. You heard her, she just decided to enter Lita for a bit of fun, to get out of the house."

"She's supposed to be stuck at home, with a baby, wearing puke-stained pyjamas, laundering an endless supply of dirty diapers and not finding the time to shower!" Dean ranted, "Not turning up at dog shows, ruining my day, the smug cow!"

"Don't be so damned unreasonable," Sam barked back, "She couldn't have had any idea that you'd enter Lemmy."

"Oh, really?" asked Dean slyly. "If that's the case, how come she used the pedigree name we made up for Lita on the Perfect Pups classes application, huh? Tell me that, college boy."

"I told her," Sam explained, "When I called her, to tell her about Kelly and her interest in Wildhunt dogs' breeding. She laughed; said 'Ice Queen' was perfect, and she'd use it if she ever needed a cover..."

"Aha!" yipped Dean in outraged triumph, "I knew it! It's all your fault!"

"What?" yelped Sam. "How the hell is it my fault?"

"Consorting with the enemy, Sam," Dean rumbled as dangerously as any werewolf, "Assisting the opposition. Collaborating. You know what happens to collaborators? First, we shave their heads..."

"Jerk," snorted Sam in irritation, "She's not an enemy! She gave Lemmy a pep talk before he went into the ring..."

"She sabotaged him!" Dean hissed.

"She told him to keep his ears pricked up and wear a serious expression, because she'd noticed that the judge like that," Sam countered, "And she was right. She and Andrew were both rooting for you from the sidelines! It's just that today, the judge decided that Lita was Best In Group."

"That asshole went home with my dog's trophy!" declared Dean, utterly irate.

"You're impossible," muttered Sam, turning around to check on the pups. It had been a big day for both of them, Lemmy in his class, and Lars on moral support, and they were curled contentedly together for a nap. Lemmy raised his head, gave Sam a doggy grin, yawned, and went back to sleep. "Look at Lemmy. He's happy. He had a fun day, he won some stuff, and he's probably anticipating some celebratory fried wings tonight."

Dean's glower softened a little. "I guess we can do wings," he conceded.

"Dean," began Sam, with a roll of his eyes and a Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), "Tell me, in your opinion, who is, right now, the most awesome dog in the world?"

"My dog. Totally," answered Dean immediately.

"Well, that is probably the one subject, ever, on which your opinion is really the only one that counts," humphed Sam, "So be happy with that, and shut the hell up." He decided to change the subject. "That woman who asked if he was a Schwartzhund pup," he went on, "He said that if we ever wanted to breed from him, she'd love to cross him to one of her young bitches who's also being trained for the Hunt, and is showing great promise. Might be worth keeping in mind. Succession planning, you know."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean subsided a bit. His face softened into a smile as he watched the sleeping pups in the back. "I've kinda gotten used to having a dog. An extra pair of eyes to watch my back." He gave Sam a pitying look. "And if I can't coach you to even have sex, maybe I'll have more luck with Lemmy."

"Jerk."

"So what's this job you were talking about?"

"In Idaho. Sounds like a haunting, but I'll have to do some more research when we get there..."

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

They made it to Idaho over two days, with only a couple of Level One Events. Whilst doing research in the library, Sam had cause to check back through the laptop's browser history, looking for a previous link he'd followed. He was surprised to find a number of links to sites, clips and articles on raqs baladi, but he quickly decided that the shapeshifter must've taken long enough to do some quick research to compose the supposed farewell note from Dean.

It was a routine salt-and-burn, in the end. Lemmy distracted the irate ghost when it manifested and tried to throw Dean through a hedge, and as it dashed the lighter from Sam's hand at the last minute, Lars squatted at the edge of the grave to light it up on command.

When the salt-and-burn was done, Sam spent a quiet evening reading with the pups snuggled against him, while Dean went out to find himself some female company. The encounter was notable for two reasons.

Firstly, because it was one of the few occasions that Dean did not try to share with his brother, in excruciating detail, with helpfully demonstrative hand gestures.

And secondly, when they got back to her place, it became apparent that she happened to be a teacher of belly dance.

And although the Living Sex God would never admit that he'd ever participated in beautiful natural acts wearing nothing but a come-hither smile and a coin belt, she declared herself impressed; after a brief lesson, his hip drops were sharp enough to punch holes in walls, his shimmy was even, rapid and well sustained, and she declared that his baladi walk alone would make women swoon. It was, she decided, because his hips had clearly had so much experience.

THE END

*SQUELCH*

Aaaaaaaaand another plot bunny stomped. How satisfying. I just love the noises their crunchy little bones make under my boot. Now I suppose the Denizens will be wanting to move on to a visit from the DDD&SSS van. Or possibly a belly dance recital. Sam is quite a big lad, where the hell we're going to find harem pants that will fit him I have no idea. Perhaps instead of a funeral, we can all go and do a belly dance lesson in memory of Randolph, you can do that for Hen's nights, so I don't see why we couldn't...

Oh. Er. Hang on, Randolph is still twitching, I'll just...

What?

*blink blink* Goodness me, Randolph, are you sure about that?

Seriously?

Oh, well, who am I to stifle a plot bunny, maybe just one more bit then...