You've probably already worked out that FFN is, at the moment, deleting random words from story Summaries, so just fill in the gaps for yourselves. It's annoying the hell out of me, because it makes me sound semi-literate...
I know, I know, I still owe you a couple of Bonus Delete Scenes and DDD&SSS visits, but RL is being a pain, the bunnies have all gone AWOL, and my dog keeps throwing up. Srsly. I tell her not to lick the leakings from the compost bin, but will she listen, noooooo...
It was in fact behind the compost bin that I caught a glimpse of this little plot bunny. Not sure what his name is - something faaaabulous, no doubt - and he's a bit reticent, but we'll try our usual trick of getting him to dictate something, and seeing if it goes anywhere. So, for now, he's given me an opening chapter of...
Title: Somewhere Over The Rainbow
Summary: Murders mysteriously linked to a series of sex conventions + good chance of ganking demons = job that Dean is really keen to do. Sam isn't so sure, but Dean's not letting his Upstairs Brain do all the thinking. They can sort out the minor details later, right? Especially if Cas is going to help them with the demon thing. Just for a moment, Dean thinks maybe God doesn't hate him after all. But soon enough, he gets a reminder that Fate likes a good laugh at his expense as much as the next disembodied conceptual construct.
Rating: T. Dean + sex convention = strong possibility of language.
Setting: The Jimiverse, natch. Lars and Lemmy, the three-quarter Hellhound Rottweilers, are about fifteen months old, and RJ, Dean's son, is coming up for his first birthday.
Blame: Lies, as usual, squarely with The Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Hangers-On of the Jimiverse, who egg me on from the sidelines.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. If there were, the sideburns and the popped collars would be set on fire.
Chapter One
Dean stared at his opponent, who stared right back. A lifetime as a Hunter had taught him not to let any uncertainty or hesitation show, even if you had no idea whether what you were planning would actually work. Whatever you were going to do, act with certainty, as though you knew you were going to win…
With deliberation, and not taking his eyes away from the returned stare, he carefully placed the yellow marshmallow on the plate.
"Your move," he said.
RJ hummed thoughtfully, then placed his orange peep on the plate, closer to the rim than the yellow one. He looked up at his father, and blew a raspberry of challenge.
"Oh, a wise guy, huh?" Dean grinned at his toddler son as he picked up the plate, "Well, we'll just see about that." He put the plate in the microwave, then picked up RJ, and hit the START button.
Together they watched carefully as the plate spun. The two shapes softened, puffed, then suddenly expanded, and…
FPLOOF
"Ah, man!" complained Dean as the orange peep exploded first, "That's three in a row! You gotta be cheatin' somehow!" RJ waved his hands, and hooted in amusement. "Well, I'm gonna pick an orange one, this time, you can pick a different colour…"
"Hey, Dean," Sam wandered into the kitchen, "I've been looking for a connection between those murders, and… can I smell something burning?"
"You think it could be a job for us?" Dean asked, retrieving the plate from the microwave.
Sam stared at the sticky mess. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Peep Wars, Sammy," Dean grinned, "RJ is a natural, he's leading 6-3 at the moment. Little bastard is cheating for sure, I just haven't figured out how yet." RJ gave his uncle a cheerful giggle and a wave, then grabbed for a handful of the sticky remnants of the last battle.
"Don't let him eat that crap!" snapped Sam, "They're just sugar and artificial stuff! They're about as nutritionally sound as deep fried Twinkies!"
"No, they're much better than Twinkies," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "We tried those, and they don't really explode, they just kinda ooze."
"Dean," Sam began levelly, "You cannot gauge the nutritional soundness of something by whether or not it explodes in an entertaining fashion when you nuke it."
"We don't care, do we, RJ?" Dean asked his son. RJ giggled, and blew a raspberry at Sam. "But we're nothing if not inclusive. You wanna play? You put your peep on the plate, then we see which one explodes first. You can be pink, since you're such a girl."
"Does Bobby know you're doing this?" asked Sam, "Because I'm not sure that he'd approve of… oh, gross!" he caught sight of the mess in the microwave. "It's all over the microwave! Dean, that's disgusting!"
"We've heated up stuff in microwaves that were worse," Dean reminded him, "Some of the places we've stayed, I think entirely new life forms have been evolving in the microwaves."
"But this is Bobby's kitchen!" insisted Sam with a hearty Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "Stop doing that, and clean it up!"
"Geez, slave driver much?" humphed Dean. "Sorry, buddy," he addressed RJ regretfully, "But Auntie Francis has her panties in a bunch, so I guess you win."
"You're gonna have to spend the next hour scraping this shit off," surmised Sam, inspecting the gunk splattered all over the inside of the microwave.
"Nah, I'll leave it to a pro," Dean assured him. "Lemmy! Lemmy!" The three-quarter Hellhound-Rottweiler, who'd been watching proceedings from the corner of the kitchen, lifted his head, his big floppy ears pricked up in interest, and made his way to Dean, tail wagging. "Give me a hand here, Lem! Up! Up! Up!" As Dean chirped happily to the dog, Lemmy gave his Alpha a happy woof, and his ears began to twitch.
"Dean," began Sam dubiously, "What are you doing?"
"Up! Up! Up!" Dean called cheerfully.
Egged on by his Alpha, Lemmy's ears began to flap, faster and faster, taking on a businesslike hum.
"Good boy! Up here, Lem! We got peeps!"
Lemmy's ears kicked up a notch, the hum took on a purposeful tone, and the dog began to rise gently into the air, nose twitching. When he was level with the microwave, he let out a happy whuff, and began to lick out the melted marshmallow mess with enthusiasm.
"Oh, gross!" yelped Sam, "People cook food in there, Dean!"
"It's okay," Dean replied, "I know you and Bobby don't have any diseases he could catch. Well, there's always the risk that he might catch Great Big Girl from you, but he's too awesome for that, right, Lem?" Hovering in mid-air, the dog paused to wag his tail, then got on with the business of cleaning the microwave.
"Dogs can develop diabetes, you know," Sam informed in reproachfully.
"He's three-quarters Hellhound, Sam," Dean protested. "His mom was a member of the Infernal Pack, sent to tear up the most disgusting and depraved souls the human race has to offer, and his dad, well, Jimi Junior could dispose of just about any occult ordnance by swallowing it and letting it undergo contained detonation; you really think a bit of marshmallow is going to upset his Hell-bred little tummy?"
"Doc Wooley says you have to watch his weight as he grows, because he's so big, so his joints can develop properly," Sam scowled. "He's only fifteen months old, and she doesn't think he's finished growing upwards yet - he's going to be at least as big as Jimi Junior."
"He can help it if he's awesome alpha male material," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "Unlike his runt of a brother."
"Lars is closer to the normal size range for a Rottweiler," Sam defended his dog, "His developmental energies were obviously channelled into his intelligence rather than brute size. A meathead isn't any use if he's so dumb he thinks that his tail is a monster that needs to be caught and chomped."
"Yeah, if anybody ever needs Sneaky Little Asshole lessons, I know who to send 'em to," Dean snorted, "Me, I'll take a dog who can help me clean up after Peep Wars. Hey, you missed a spot, buddy."
"Dean, marshmallow is not suitable dog food!" Sam insisted. "It's not even suitable human food! Letting your dog eat that stuff amounts to negligence!"
"La!" interrupted RJ, banging cheerfully on the table, "Dada, La!"
"What is it, RJ?" Dean turned, seeing his son point to the tray of marshmallow goodies. "You want peeps for lunch? Oh, hey, I think Auntie Francis might have some sort of fainting fit it we did that, might have to make do with some spaghettios, or a PB&J…"
"Laaa!" insisted RJ, pointing again. As they watched, a peep disappeared from the tray. Dean did a double-take; a second marshmallow vanished.
"Lars!" yelled Sam, "What the hell are you doing? Knock it off!"
Lemmy's litter-brother rematerialised, licking powdered sugar from his chops, wearing the expression that he usually wore when he was caught red-handed using his invisibility trick to get into something he shouldn't: complete and utter lack of remorse.
"That's negligence that is," Dean tutted, "What would Doc Wooley say?"
"Jerk."
"What the hell's goin' on in here?" demanded Bobby as he came into the kitchen, "Can't a body get anything done without you idjits yellin' and GOD'S TITS what is that animal doing?"
"Cleaning up the microwave," replied Dean, as Lemmy licked at a particularly adhesive bit of baked on marshmallow.
"Dean and RJ have been playing Peep Wars," Sam informed him, "Again."
"If The Almighty had intended dogs to clean out microwaves, He'd have equipped them with stilts, and surface spray," Bobby frowned, "You get him down from there right now. Disgustin' creature."
"But he's not dirty, or anything!" protested Dean.
"I wasn't talkin' about the dog, boy!" Bobby shot back, "What do you think you're doin'?" Lars had taken advantage of the distraction of Bobby to snaffle another peep. "Don't let him eat that stuff, Sam, it aint fit for a dog. They can develop diabetes, just like humans who eat too much crap."
Sam let out a little humphing noise of outrage as Dean smirked and RJ chuckled.
"You can't be civilised in the house, go play outside and burn off some energy, children," instructed Bobby. "It's the artificial colourin's and preservatives in them things."
"But we haven't finished our war yet!" whined Dean, "We still got peeps to burn!"
"He hasn't finished cleaning the microwave, either," added Sam, "Lars, leave them!"
"Pepepepepe!" chirruped RJ, picking up one of the marshmallows and hurling it at Bobby.
"OUT!" bellowed Bobby, swatting at adult Winchesters and dogs alike, as Dean swept up RJ and they hustled out into the yard.
"Nice going, jerk," complained Sam, "You got us thrown out of the house!"
"It's your fault for being so prissy, bitch," sniped Dean. "Anyway, it's a nice day for it."
Lemmy snatched up a battered and well-chewed frisbee, and dialled the Big Brown Eyes up to eleven.
"Freebee!" cheered RJ; watching his father, his uncle and the dogs play frisbee was one of his favourite games.
"Frisbee, huh?" Dean grinned and took the proffered toy, "Wanna see Daddy and Lemmy kick Sammy and Lars' fluffy butts?"
"In your dreams," scoffed Sam, as Lars woofed in anticipation. With RJ in one arm, Dean flipped the frisbee away with the other hand. Lars raced after it, caught it, and brought it back to Sam.
It was, as Dean observed, a nice day for it, and they took the opportunity to do something as ordinary as flip a frisbee around in the sunshine. The dogs barked in excitement, RJ shrieked with amusement, and Dean and Sam trash-talked each other relentlessly, goofy grins plastered on their faces.
"Hey, runt, catch this!" called Dean, giving the frisbee a particularly vicious back spin. Lars dashed away after it; unfortunately, a sudden gust of wind took hold of the toy, and whipped it up into the air, where it lodged in the branches of a tree.
"Oh, crap," sighed Dean, as RJ squalled in disappointment and Lars and Lemmy danced around the tree and barked.
"No problem, bro, I'll get it," Sam called, heading for the tree.
"Sam, be careful," Dean warned him. "Maybe I should get it."
"You just stay there with RJ," Sam instructed, scrambling up the first branches, "Did you see where it went?"
It didn't take a lot of navigating: the tree was a sturdy old fir, and Dean called directions to Sam as RJ hooted encouragement. Finally, Sam stood on the right branch, clung onto the trunk, and bounced until the frisbee dropped.
"Mission accomplished, dude," Dean called, waving the retrieved item, "Now get your ginormous Sasquatch ass back down here before…"
There was the sound of green wood tearing, flannel tearing, and Winchester luck kicking in.
With a shriek that Dean would later describe as totally unmanly, Sam lost his grip, and fell through the foliage to land with an awkward thump and a series of cusswords.
RJ squealed with delight and clapped his hands as Dean rushed to his brother's side.
"Sam!" he yelped, as his baby brother sat up and winced.
"I'm okay," Sam protested, "Yeeeaaargh! At least, I'm okay, but I'm not so sure about my arm."
"What the hell's goin' on out here?" asked Bobby as he came stomping down the stairs. "God's tits, boy, your face is as white as an Alaskan hooker's hiney."
Dean handed RJ to the old Hunter, sighed, and carefully helped Sam to his feet. "Just a bit of gravity, is all," he explained, as Sam tried to offer him a wobbly smile, "I think we got a trip to the Emergency Room to make. Can you watch RJ for me?"
"Just go get him seen to," instructed Bobby, jiggling the boy, who laughed and grabbed at his hat. "We'll find some way to keep ourselves amused."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean smiled briefly. "Oh, exactly how do you know how white an Alaskan hooker's hiney is?"
"Git," growled Bobby.
"Sorry Bobby," mumbled Sam, holding his arm close as Dean bundled him carefully into the Impala, all the while keeping up the stream of snarking that was his way of dealing with worry over the idea that his baby brother was injured.
"Any time your uncle gets hurt, your Daddy puts me in mind of a bantam hen flappin' after a gosling," he confided to his practically-grandson as the car made its way out of the yard. RJ blew a raspberry of understanding. "So, looks like it's just you and me. I'm too old for frisbee, so let's go back inside."
Bobby took RJ back indoors, and paused thoughtfully at the kitchen table. He put the boy down on his booster seat, sat down next to him, and fixed him with a shrewd stare.
"So," he gruffed, selecting a yellow peep and placing it on the plate then pushing the packet towards RJ to choose his weapon, "Let's see if you're as good as your Daddy says."
So, whaddyareckon? A number of people have wondered what painkillerloopy!Sam is like in the Jimiverse. As loopy as Dean, or does he revert to five years old?
Reviews encourage plot bunnies to dictate further chapters (I think this bunny might be named Fabian, or Tarquin), because Reviews are the Peeps Exploding Entertainingly In The Microwave Of Life!