I know what that Gamble woman looks like. She'd better not kill Bobby off, or I will channel The Cranky Antipodean Werewolf Within, and I will tear her bloody head off and play football with it...

Chapter 19

"Puppies?" Sam's face creased in confusion. "Bobby said it would take about four months..."

"It did!" howled Crowley, as a particularly playful little smoking meteor swooshed past his ear, "It's been about four months, Hellside! Owwwwww! Call them off, Winchester, call the little bastards off!"

"That would be about right," Bobby grinned, "If a month Up Here is about ten years Down There, then one of our days would be around four months Downstairs..."

"Deeeeeeeean!" Crowley wailed, "Do somethiiiiiiiing!"

"Awwwwwww," Dean couldn't stop the sunny smile breaking out on his face, "But they seem to be having such fun..."

"Pups should learn through play, bein' so young," Bobby nodded sagely.

"Learning to shred expensive menswear is not at the top of the training priority list!" Crowley waved his hands ineffectually at the zooming Hellpups, "Get the damned things off me!"

"You'd best call them away, son," Bobby winked to Dean, "Before His Majesty here ends up the Emperor With No Clothes."

"Um, how do I do that?" asked Dean, becoming serious.

"You're the Domini-bloody-can, you prat!" snapped Crowley, slapping a small zippy puff away from his tie, "Leave it! Leave it! Oh, you little turd, I'll have your balls for that..."

"Just try calling them, bro," suggested Sam, "If you're the Lord of the Hounds, they'll come when you call them."

"Okay. Right. Ahem." Dean had a sudden stab of trepidation; they were cute looking little balls of fluffy smoke right now, but they were still Hellhounds. The idea of actually calling them to himself set off alarm bells ringing deep down in his soul, but he had to do this. "All right. Pup pup pup pup pup!" he called in a high cheery voice, "Pup pup pup pup pup pup!"

The little comets suddenly left off harassing Crowley, and zoomed in at Dean, whizzing around him. He steeled himself for the moment of terror he was sure would come, but the little fluffy smoke-balls just orbited, zipping around him.

Then, on the very edge of perception, he caught the vaguest traces of what he supposed must be their thoughts.

Play! Play! Alpha! Play! Our Alpha calls! Play! We are strong, we are happy! Play, Alpha, play!

Tentatively he held up a hand; two little sparkling trails of vapour chased each other around it, brushing against his skin. He laughed.

"Er, Dean?" asked Sam uncertainly.

"Tickles!" smiled Dean, reaching out to caress another little puff as it surged past him. Another one drifted past his face, and he was sure he felt the ghostly lick of a small tongue kissing his nose. Three smoky wisps chased each other around his waist, and another settled on his left shoulder. "Aaaaaargh!"

"Are you okay, bro?" Sam wanted to know.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean smiled hugely, "Just a cold nose in the ear. Hey, knock it off, you two," he waved a hand gently through two tangling clouds, breaking up their squabble, "Play nice with your sister." The squabbling pups resumed their chase, another two joining in. "These guys are really kinda cute," he laughed, "Which is not something I ever thought I'd say about Hellhounds." Jimi sat next to Dean, tail wagging, whuffing excitedly, nosing at the little balls of vapour as they trailed past him. "Yup, they're all yours, Jimi," Dean grinned.

"You can... see boys and girls?" asked Bobby.

"Yeah," Dean beamed as another one hovered in front of him, apparently soliciting pats, "I count... six boys, and... six girls. No, wait," he homed in on a very small wisp, "There's another one, but it's too fast..."

"Well, when you've finished horsing around, perhaps we can try to figure out what to do next," suggested Bobby.

"Yeah, okay," Dean sounded a little disappointed. He cleared his throat. "Alright, you lot," he intoned in mock sternness, "Let's see you. Make yourselves presentable, so I can see you. Yes, I'm talking to you too," he cocked an eyebrow at the smallest one, which continued to whizz around his head.

The little balls of fluffy smoke broke off, and congregated near the floor. They swirled, thickened, and... took form.

"Oh God," grinned Sam, pulling out his cell, "I just gotta get a photo of this."

Twelve puppies sat on the rug, clustering around Jimi, all looking up at Dean with expectant expressions.

"Yes, yes, very nice," sighed Crowley, inspecting the tattered remains of his suit, "Let's all go 'Awwwwww' at the adorable puppies. The adorable, sweet puppies. The adorable, sweet, destructive, suit-eating little bastardfuckmonster puppies..."

"Absolutely," nodded Sam, snapping away, "I think my head might explode from this much cute in one place."

Bobby inspected the line-up. "I'd say we got two Rotties, there," he indicated two of the pups, one of which was clearly the largest of the litter, "And those two look like German Shepherds, then I'd say Mastiffs, and Wolfhounds, I'm guessing Dogue de Bordeaux for those two, and Cattle Dogs for that pair."

"Says here, six litter brothers, and seven litter sisters," said Crowley, pulling a piece of paper from a pocket. "That's the biggest one, born first," he pointed to the male Rottweiler puppy, who wagged his little tail and gazed adoringly at Dean, "Ippeas. I suppose he must be your Alpha contender."

As they watched, Jimi took the largest pup carefully by the scruff, and positioned it between his front paws, then began to wash his son's ears. The pup squawked in protest, but Jimi rumbled a gentle reprimand; with a humph strangely reminiscent of Sam, the pup subsided, and resigned himself to enduring some parental ablutions.

"Maybe one day," remarked Bobby, "But not yet."

"Ippeas?" snorted Dean. "What sort of a name is Ippeas? It sounds like something that women use on their faces to get rid of wrinkles. Or a perfume being touted by a third-rate celebrity who's only famous for crying when she got arrested."

"It's a Greek name meaning 'horseman' or 'mounted warrior'," Bobby told him. "Of course, you could always pick a different form of it."

" 'Horseman' isn't really much better," mused Dean, watching the pup turn sad eyes to him in a silent appeal to be rescued from personal hygiene.

"Well, you could go with 'Knight', or 'Cavalier'," Bobby suggested. "Or... Chevrolet," he added innocently, "If you don't mind French."

"Ippeas is fine," Crowley put in quickly, "Ippeas is just fine, don't you dare, Winchester, don't you dare name my new lead dog after your bloody..."

"Chevy! Chevy!" Dean called cheerfully to the pup. With a happy bark, the heir apparent of the Infernal Pack pulled himself away from his sire's attentions, and bounded to Dean's feet. "You like that better too, don't you?" he reached down to pat the pup. Chevy grinned doggily at him, and whuffed happily.

"Didn't you say there were thirteen?" asked Sam, doing a headcount as Jimi grabbed another hapless ear-washee.

"Hey!" Dean barked at the one small glob of smoke that continued to circle cheerfully around his head, "I meant you too! Go on, get with the program! Let's see you."

The small strand of vapour streamed away to join the rest of the litter, solidifying, and taking shape.

Sam's cell clicked frantically, as Crowley snorted in disbelief. "That's not a dog!" he declared disdainfully, "It's a fluffy rat!"

"I think you'll find that it's a Toy Poodle," Bobby laughed. The tiny puppy looked up at Crowley, bounded across to him, and began to hump his shoe. "And I think she likes you," he added.

"Oh, Jesus suffering fuck..." Crowley reached down to disengage the animal from his badly mauled footwear. She ran around his feet, and began to chew on his other shoe instead. "Get off, you idiot creature!" he yelled, as the little thing leaped for his face, planting a kiss on his nose. "Get out of it! Aaaaaaargh!"

"At least she's not trying to eat you," observed Bobby, as the smallest Hellpup joined the litter.

"It's probably tasting me," griped Crowley, wiping his face with a sad-looking hanky.

"Okay," said Dean, "So, we got our puppies, now what do we do?"

"First off, teach them to fetch," replied Bobby promptly. "That's where their Daddy can help."

"The J-Man does love his frisbee," agreed Dean. "So, what about it, Dad?" he called to Jimi, who was still washing his pups, "Feel up to a little fatherly bonding with the offspring? Okay, troops, everybody outside! Outside!"

Jimi jumped to his feet, and ran for the door. The pups scrambled to follow him, yapping and squabbling and tumbling after him, in a headlong dash. Jimi hit the door and disappeared through it. The pups followed, one after the other.

Then came the crack of splintering wood.

Heading outside to join the dogs, they saw the small poodle puppy-shaped hole in the door.

"Balls," said Bobby.

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

In the yard, the puppies ran, and chased butterflies, and yapped at an unwary squirrel, and rolled in something dead and smelly. Chevy suffered the indignity of being seized by grandma Rumsfeld and having a second ear-washing inflicted upon him. Sam swapped his phone to video, and filmed with the enthusiasm of a naturalist in a previously undiscovered penguin colony.

"Okay, everybody," called Dean, finding the bedraggled frisbee that Jimi and Janis were so fond of chasing, "We're going to learn 'fetch'. Come and watch. Your Dad will demonstrate." Jimi was eyeing the battered plastic disc keenly as Dean waggled it. "Now, you watch him, and he'll show you what to do. Everybody watching?" He frowned. "I said, everybody watching!" The poodle-shaped Hellpup left off digging at a particularly interesting smelling rock, and joined her siblings. "Okay. Now, watch this. Frisbee, Jimi, frisbee!" Dean waggled the toy again, and Jimi whuffed in anticipation. "Aaaaaaand... fetch!"

The frisbee skimmed away through the air, with Jimi in hot pursuit. He dodged between the car bodies, and leaped to catch it in the air, then came running back to deposit it at Dean's feet.

"Good boy!" Jimi danced on the spot, waiting for another throw. "Aaaand... fetch!"

After a couple of demonstrations, the puppies were bouncing with excitement. "You guys want to have a turn?" Dean waggled the frisbee. The litter yipped and pranced in excitement. "Okay, just a short one to start with." He skimmed it across the weeds. "Fetch! Fetch! Go Fetch!"

Twelve little balls of dark smoke suddenly streaked away, chasing the plastic circle. They whirled around it before it could land, and it hung in the air, caught in a vortex of swirling vapour. The miniature tornado reversed direction, and made its way back towards the house.

"Er, should we be heading for the cellar about now?" asked Crowley nervously.

As the whirlwind approached, it suddenly subsided, and there was nothing but a litter of puppies charging back towards them, Chevy in the lead, with the frisbee between his teeth.

"Good boy!" Dean praised, "Good pups! You're all such good pups!"

"Er, not quite all, bro," prompted Sam with a smile, jerking a thumb sideways. The poodle-pup had gone back to digging at the interesting rock. "Looks like somebody doesn't fancy herself as a working dog."

"I thought I told you to get your fluffy butt with everybody else," Dean frowned at her.

The pup yawned hugely, and flopped down to the ground for a nap.

"Hellhounds do not nap!" snapped Dean.

The pup opened one eye, yawned again, and went back to her snooze.

"Well, you'll occasionally get a dog that doesn't inherit the right instincts," shrugged Bobby, "There are gun dogs who are gun shy, and there a stock dogs that just don't know how to herd. It happens."

"Great, just great," muttered Crowley, "A Hellhound who's too lazy to fetch. Maybe she can learn to be a watch dog; if anyone breaks into my office, they'll trip over her and break an ankle."

A few more flips of the frisbee established that the pups definitely had the fetching instinct – no matter how far or how high Dean threw it, they would tear after it, and snatch it out of the air.

"Well, we've got that established," observed Sam, as Dean and Jimi rough-housed with the litter, "But it's only a piece of plastic. How do we teach them to fetch, well, evil souls?"

The beautifully evil smile that bloomed on Dean's face was one that would've been right at home on his demonic alternative reality counterpart. "You know, I have an idea about that," he announced. "Of course, I'll need some help. Can you give me a hand here, Crowley?"

"Stop that, you wretched creature!" Crowley was swatting at the poodle-pup once more, who'd had enough napping and was attempting to gnaw on his sock. "Get out of it! They're cashmere! What? Oh, look, she's put a hole in that one too!"

"He said, we need your help here," Bobby relayed, following Dean's line of sight, and getting an inkling of what he was planning. "Because there's something here that only you can do, King of Hell."

"Well, yes," agreed Crowley. "They will have to work in my realm, after all. So, what do we do?"

"We give them an evil soul to chase, of course," beamed Dean.

"Oh! Right!" smiled Crowley, "I'll have Orgle bring us a Damned soul right away..."

"No need," said Dean airily, "We got everything we need right here. Tiem! Zan!" he called to the gargoyles on the gates. "I need your help here!"

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

"Aaaaaaaaiiiiieeeee!" howled Crowley, shutting his eyes tightly.

"That's good, Crowley, that's good!" called Dean, "The anguished wailing is getting them really interested!"

"Look at this, they're going nuts!" said Sam happily, filming the pups jumping up and down and yipping excitedly at Crowley, who dangled twenty feet in the air, held aloft by the two gargoyles.

"Put me down, you overgrown coprolites!" shrieked the King of Hell. The gargoyles just grinned at him. "Oh, bugger me, you really should put some shorts on, pal..."

"Look, we need a really, really wicked soul for this," reasoned Bobby, "To give them a really, really powerful scent to follow. Who could possibly be more wicked than the King of Hell?"

"I hate you!" Crowley wiggled ineffectively, "I hate you! I hate you all so much! Aaaaaaargh!"

"Ready guys?" Dean asked. The grinning gargoyles nodded. "Okay. Are you watching, pups?" The litter yapped and bounded. "Aaaaaaand... FETCH!"

The gargoyles flapped off, with Crowley howling between them. The pups smoked out of their physical forms, and tore off after the anguished wailing, with Jimi barking encouragement.

"You know, you could've achieved the same thing by rubbing the frisbee on his jacket," Bobby pointed out equably.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, peering into the distance where the streaking balls of smoke had caught up with the gargoyles. "But this way is much more fun."

"And a frisbee wouldn't make that noise," Sam added, "This is more authentic. Maybe we should find them a Hunt, one of the uncollected souls to practise on. To make sure they've got the idea. There's one that's not too far from here."

"That would be a good idea," agreed Bobby.

"Won't be nearly as entertaining as this," grinned Dean smugly, watching the gargoyles relinquish their cargo. The small tornado approached once more with Crowley whirling around in its midst.

The Hellpups dropped Crowley at the Hunters' feet, and resumed their physical forms.

The small Hellpoodle trotted over to where he sprawled moaning in the dirt, and kissed his nose.

"Yup, she definitely likes you," grinned Bobby.

"Well, she must be the only one in the entire universe," grumbled Crowley, pulling himself painfully to his feet. The pup began to gnaw at his shoe again. "Hey! Get out of it! Oh, Lucifer's bum!" he humphed, pulling the shoe off, "Here, it's so damned delicious, have the bloody thing!" He flung it away into the weeds.

The Hellpoodle raced off after it, retrieved it, and brought it back to him, then began to kiss his leg through the hole she'd chewed in his sock.

"Maybe she can specialise in fetching Damned shoemakers and podiatrists?" suggested Bobby, as Crowley shrieked and hopped up and down on one foot.

The King of Hell flipped him the big vee.

Should any of our Merkin cousins ever visit us Down Here, don't get caught out like George Bush Snr. did; he drove around during a visit to Oz flashing everybody the V-for-victory sign. Down here, that's an obscene gesture, a little cultural difference that the media had quite a bit of fun with at the time.

Reviews are the Hellhound Puppies Chewing Holes in the Cashmere Socks of Life!