I have been addicted to silver ruffian's Coyote 'verse since the first story, Dog Eat Dog. If you want to find her, and her incredible stories, check my Favorite Authors tab on my profile. Recently, silver ruffian wrote You Have Mail Witless in Seattle in which she introduced the trickster Bamapana from my story, Quiet Man, to Coyote, via email.
What? I write canon! I don't dabble with Tricksters ensouled in Dean Winchester. Or John back from the dead. Or a 'verse where anything can happen, and does, with a languid wave of a Trickster hand, or paw. Well, except for that one drabble, I'm clean.
And yet, silver ruffian had no fear. And no shame, obviously. She simply hijacked Bamapana into her AU 'verse. So, after I threatened to throw skunk apes at Coyote, to her evident delight, this is what came of it. This, my friends, introduces Canaveral to Coyote. It's just for fun.
Warning: This is totally self-indulgent drivel. There is no Hurt!Dean. Not even a hang nail. There is no Sam – he's off reading a book at Bobby's. There is a shape-shifting Trickster, ambrosia, and a bar owned by Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and inebriation, which I liberated from ruffian's Coyote 'verse story Death by Golden Retriever. Oh, and of course, there's also a character out of Canaveral in here.
There are no skunk apes AT ALL.
In fact, you probably shouldn't read it. silver ruffian will, but then I wrote it for her, so that's okay.
Disclaimer: Kripke would laugh if he thought this was an attempt to shang-hai his boys. It isn't, and I don't have any claim to them.
Dionysus' bar was packed when he padded in. He kept the fur this time, too worn out after a night of carousing with Cerberus to do more than walk. That dog sure knew how to use his heads. And his tongues. There'd been bitches hip deep waiting for a chance to make out with Hell's ultimate stud Hound.
Dean'd been asleep long before any of that started, and if Coyote'd kept him sleeping through that, no one was the wiser. If the pup had been awake for any of that, he'd never hear the end of the 'doggy-style' jokes. The kid was relentless. And he'd tell John, and that was just something that wasn't going to happen.
Coyote shook his head in wonder and stretched. He'd gotten a lot of action, but most of those females had been panting for a chance with a three headed dog. He'd been around forever, literally, and he still couldn't figure out what women would go for. He jumped onto a stool at the bar and checked his good old fashioned single-headed reflection in the mirror behind the bottles of expensive stuff. His green eyes were a little red, and his ruff was looking a little scruffy, but he was still the best looking canine in the place.
Maybe he would try out Cerberus's suggestion and do the Dr Manhattan the next time he hooked up. See how women liked multiple hands, and tongues, and he smirked, multiple other things. Dean might be willing. Hell, he'd bet money that Dean would go for that without a blink. Coyote glanced to the left and right. Weeeellll – speaking of hooking up, there was a feminine creature a few stools down the bar from him and what a babe.
She had her back to him but what he could see was simply intoxicating. That body, that tail – he couldn't take his eyes away from that tail. It was as long again as she was. She was bewitching. Slim, with long hard muscles under a velvet coat of tawny fur, a rainbow of colors reflecting off her flanks, off her perfect shoulder blades, off her long clawed toes reaching for a glass of ambrosia. She exuded power; every lissome movement a deliberate act of grace and beauty. And that adorable tuft at the end of her tail, flicking to some unheard music.
The mystery girl was wearing some kind of headdress, multi-colored feathers streaming back from her head and shoulders. He had no idea who she was but she was fascinating. He looked at her in the bar mirror but could only get a glimpse of whiskers and a rounded cheek.
Waving down the bartender, a big muscle-bound yahoo in a loin cloth, he yipped, cleared his throat, and spoke. "Coffee with a shot of ambrosia."
"No can do. The boss said you were cut off ambrosia unless you brought a chaperone."
"A duenna? What am I, a Spanish virgin?" The man looked thoughtful for a moment and opened his mouth. Coyote interrupted him. "Don't answer that. Who does the boss think could chaperone moi?"
The bartender looked at him suspiciously. "If you're trying to do Miss Piggy, it's already past time for you to go." He wiped the perfectly dry counter. "Anyone here know you?"
Coyote's eyes widened. He looked around and spread his arms. "I know most of the people here, including your boss. Hell, I burped baby Di on this shoulder right here after his first bottle of wine." Coyote scratched his left shoulder with his hind leg and panted out a laugh.
"I didn't ask who you know. I asked who knows you?"
"A fine but crucial distinction, my good man. Change that to an Irish coffee, double, black, no whipped cream, and tell me…" he leaned forward and put his front paws on the bar top. "Who is the entrancing creature with the feather hat?" He pointed his muzzle down the bar.
The barkeep snorted. "Won't matter to you, Coyote. She's a cat, and a rare one. She's turned down Tezcatlipoca, Osiris, and Bast. And they're cats. Can't see her spending time with a canid, even if you are … who you are."
Coyote's eyes flared a golden yellow. Now seated at the barstool was a tall, slim-hipped, green eyed man with dark gold hair and freckles, wearing a leather coat, gray t-shirt, and torn jeans. "I'm not a species snob. Not even a phylum snob." He glanced in the mirror and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "But this," he pointed at himself in the mirror, "cat or not, this is hard to resist."
The bartender set a steaming mug in front of Coyote before clearing his throat. "If she's, uh, not interested, I get off in an hour."
Coyote almost had the grace to blush. But not quite. "Don't enjoy driving a stick-shift, Spartacus, but thanks for the offer."
He hiked up his jeans, drank half his coffee, and did his best saunter down the bar, sliding onto the empty stool next to the goddess. He turned to face her, and in his boy's best oh so deep and smooth voice, said, "I'm Dean. And you are magnificent. May I buy you a drink?" He caught the bartender's eye and held up two fingers, signaling toward her glass and his coffee cup.
She turned her face away from him. The nails on her left paw started to drum out a staccato rhythm on the bar. Her shoulders went up, down, and she sighed. "I'm not looking for company." Her voice was a little like bells and soft rain on the grass and a lot like an enraged screech owl. Entrancing.
"Neither was I, just some conversation maybe. I don't come here too often, past history and all, and I've never seen you here before." He turned to face the mirror, again trying to see her face, but she lowered her head. "I would remember."
"Please, I've heard them all tonight. I just want a drink by myself."
The bartender showed up and refilled her glass of ambrosia. He set a mug in front of Coyote that was dwarfed by a six inch whipped cream version of the Eiffel Tower. "Your Irish coffee, extra extra whipped cream."
Coyote glared at him. "Don't be bitter, Obelix." The dairy version of the Parisian landmark vanished from his mug and appeared on the bar keep's head. The bulky man pouted, and moved back down the bar to wash it off. Coyote heard a muffled snort from his left. That was promising. He took a few sips of coffee. "I don't want to be the tail end of a string of losers. I also don't want you to not relax and drink your drink because of me." He got up to leave, but her paw settled on his arm, although she didn't look up.
"It's alright. You can stay."
He stopped himself from preening. He had it, had always had it, and would always have it. Meow, pussycat, meet prairie wolf. He put an elbow on the bar and turned back to face her profile. Cat, certainly, but also … horns, ram horns curling up into the feathers, and those were scales dusting her cheeks. She was so hot. "Staying. Do you want to talk?"
She bolted the ambrosia and smiled a little, whiskers moving seductively, still staring at her paws set on the bar. "Depends on you. I've been depressed a long time. I'll probably chase you away."
"I don't think that's possible." Finishing his coffee, he signalled Andre the Giant behind the bar for another round. He swung himself around on the stool. "I've been so far down, I was looking up at the ground."
Her head came up and he held his breath. She turned, moving into his space minutely. She looked into his face and smiled.
Everything changed.
Her slit eyes widened to almost take over her face. She hissed, snarled, and her tail puffed up. "You!" Pure and utter disgust. "You should be dead!"
That headdress wasn't a hat. It was her – the feathers shook, rustled, rubbed against each other in a clatter and frenzy of blinding color and movement, then snapped out in a fan around her head as suddenly as those little dinosaur fuckers flipped open their ruffs in Jurassic Park. Her pupils narrowed and she started to lean forward, crouching, tensing… shit, she was an Underwater Panther. An awesomely hot underwater panther. And she was about to attack him.
He slid back on the bar stool, holding up his hands. "Me? Dead? Whatever for?"
Her voice was a low throaty growl. "Your family killed mine." Her eyes were starting to glow, a pair of flat silver mirrors. "I should have finished the job in Florida. Instead, I was merciful. I've regretted that weakness every day for years."
He checked his mind space and nudged the boy awake. Niño, get out here. Who is she? He heard a muffled groan and a quiet Le'me 'lone.
She skinned back her lips to snarl and hiss. If there had been enough room on the bar stool, she would be up there four footed doing the whole Halloween cat arched-back thing. If he'd kept his tail on, it would be wagging. She was stupendous. Another poke at his boy. Dean, I'm serious, wake up now.
"He's gone now, my mate! Do you care? Did your father stop for one moment and think about that? No! He killed Ssssssssssspklltksskkorrr."
She knocked back another shot of ambrosia he hadn't even seen Beowulf deliver. Her eyes were positively glowing with menace.
"These dugs," she waved toward a neat double row of teats, "will never suckle kits again. He was the last. The last. Filthy ape humans killing what you do not understand." She waved the same paw toward his face, casually slicing his cheek open in four long thin arcs.
Dean, wake up now! What the hell is going on?
Wazzat? What have you got yourself into this time? Oh. Son of a bitch. It's the … it's a her?
Her what, you idiot?
Without opening her mouth, she was making this weird banshee wail, rising and falling, and building in intensity.
It's the Copper Cat. Cocoa Beach.
I know what she is. Why don't I remember her?
Sam was at Stanford.
Oh. Yeah. That part sucked. My least favorite four years of your life. Coyote swarmed into the headspace and pushed Dean out into the world. She's all yours. Handle it, pup. He curled up in a ball, tucking his nose under his tail and began making exaggerated snoring noises.
Dean jerked, gold flashing in his eyes. He hissed in pain, his hand slapping onto his cheek. Crap. He felt the cuts knit themselves together and wiped the blood off his cheek with a napkin provided by the ever hopeful bartender.
"Miss, um, Missus… Mizz, ah, Panther." He rubbed a hand over his eyes and stifled a yawn. "I'm kind of an ape-dog, really, but I couldn't be sorrier about your loss."
The glow in her eyes started to fade. Her feathers rustled down around her shoulders. She blinked. Twitched a whisker. Swayed on the bar stool. "Not a human, then? And yet your family killed my mate?"
Conan the Bartender set another round of drinks in front of them. Dean snagged the ambrosia and took it in a gulp. Conan set down a new glass for the lady and filled it. The ambrosia hit in a rush, filling his stomach with fire, before tingling out through his nerves to his fingers and toes until his hair stood up on end. No wonder no one let him drink this stuff anymore.
"I'm sorry. We didn't know at the time about the whole," he hesitated, "non-human thing." His right hand moved to his left shoulder and he massaged the tight muscles there. "I never understood why you spared my life, but I've wanted to thank you ever since." He waggled his empty ambrosia glass at the bartender who just snorted and left.
"Doesn't matter." She looked mournfully at her empty glass and waved the bartender back. "Nothing matters. How could it? I'm the last of my kind." She sipped her ambrosia and looked at him with huge eyes, her ears drooping, feathers soughing as they moved gently around her neck. "I miss Sssssssssssp, Ssssssssssspkettle, Sssss – I miss my Skorrry so much."
He reached a hand out and gently stroked a purple and red feather laying against her shoulder. "I'm very sorry."
Her ears pricked forward and she leaned in very close to smell his face. "I only know the boy in that body. Who are you?"
"Someone who can help." He goosed the dog in their headspace. Old Man. We have to do something.
What would you have us do, Niño?
Get her mate back.
He's dead. The coyote yawned, all tongue and teeth.
Not everywhere. And I owe her, we owe her. Our family owes her.
Dean watched Coyote wink out of sight. "Let me get you another drink." He glanced down the bar to signal the love-sick bartender and then realized the guy was taking up residence right in front of them. He growled, "What, you moving in?" before turning back to the panther and taking one her hands, paws, in both of his. "I want to try to make up for what my family did to yours."
The bartender leaned over conspiratorially and refilled her glass. "Ma'am, you really should be careful with this one. He's a real dog."
"Shove off, Man Mountain. This is none of your business."
She peered at the bartender and stretched, digging her claws into the bar top. "You don't think I can handle myself?" Her tail was lashing back and forth. "You think a little kitten like me needs to be rescued?" She held up one paw and admired her extended claws. "By you?"
The bartender hurried away as Dean barked out a laugh.
She laughed a little bit in return. "I don't need to be rescued by you, either." She drank the ambrosia and sniffed. "The person I need to rescue me is dead."
He felt it first. Coyote was back in his headspace, grumbling. You have what you want. Now let me sleep. I had a long night.
Dean turned toward the door and waved. Ssssssssssspklltksskkorrr was huge, ropey muscles, scars across his shoulders, and a kink in his tail that spoke of a long ago break. He held himself like the force of nature he was as he stalked forward on huge tufted paws, his feathers rattling, grinning toothily at the bar patrons. Dean waved him to a stop, and the cat and sat down a few feet back. Dean could hear him purring. Probably most of the bar could. She had to be able to hear it, but she didn't turn. Instead she hunched down on the stool and looked more miserable.
He shrugged apologetically to Skorrry. Dean leaned his head over and whispered to her, "Turn around."
She said, "No," in a small voice.
"Please, turn around."
"I can't. It's not him."
"It is, as much as he can be. In his world, my father killed you instead of him. If you really don't want to see him, let me know, and I'll return him." Dean looked speculatively back at Skorrry. "If he'll let me. He may not."
She looked at the cat's reflection in the bar mirror. She turned to Dean. "It's really him, isn't it? Ssssssssssspklltksskkorrr?"
"Yes."
"Who are you to do this for me?"
He let his eyes blaze golden, cocked an eyebrow, and with a grin, said, "God's Dog."
She breathed out, "Coyote? We owe you. Collect when you will." She jumped from the stool and landed directly on her mate.
Dean covered his ears and started to laugh.
"Those crazy kids." Dean winked at Dionysus. "Excitable, a little uncontrollable, sure, but who can blame them at a reunion like this one."
"This is your fault. It's always your fault. You arranged the reunion. Now fix the bar. Yourself. None of that 'wave of the hand' stuff either. And don't go all four footed on me and whine that you don't have thumbs." He started to leave, but spun back and pointed at Dean. "And when you get me a new jukebox - don't load it with mullet rock. We're a trans-hyper-multicultural joint."
It took a couple of hours and a little surreptitious hand waving to finish, because, dude, he was not a carpenter. When Di agreed he was done, Dean put his jacket back on and strode for the exit. As he opened the door, a huge black muzzle poked through the opening, followed by two more, and a insanely large coal black three headed dog, with baleful glowing red eyes, was in the bar, knocking him back on his ass, then sat on his legs, panting and slobbering all over his jacket.
"You gotta come, Coyote, you just gotta. There's these bitches and they all want me. Well, some of them want you, you know, after last night, wow, last night was incredible, wasn't it? I gotta figure out where you get your stamina from. So you gotta come. Put on your fur. Hurry up! But this time you gotta try out the three heads, because it's just great. We'll have the best time ever!"
It was a little like listening to a barbershop triplet, except the combined voices sounded like hellfire and the screams of the damned beneath the doggy excitement. He patted the snout closest to him, making the dog wiggle in delight. "Last night? Well, Bud, I'm sure that was one of the best times ever." He pointed across the bar. "Why don't you ask Anubis or Hyena? Tell the ladies I'm sorry to disappoint, but I've got to shag ass."
The dog bounded off and Dean got back on his feet. He brushed himself clean and brought himself home to Bobby's junkyard. He scratched his head. Hanging with Cerebrus, stamina ... sometimes he was glad the Old Man didn't tell him everything.
Though he would really like to know why Bobby's dogs were looking at him differently. Especially Palin.