A/N: Well, this little tale has taken on a life of its own. This chapter was about twenty pages, so I cut it in half. The second half is the last one, and besides I have to do a little more research before I unleash that puppy on an unsuspecting world in a couple of days.

Hey, Phoebe, you still there?

Much love to everyone who read and posted, everyone who lurked. I got nothing but love for ya!

Disclaimer: If you recognize 'em, I don't own 'em.

Chapter 8 – dean and coyote's most excellent road trip, part 1

Early the next morning Kubrick's RV rolls out of the yard with Palin riding shotgun. Bobby stands there shaking his head. Poor damn fool doesn't even know what he's in for.

Twenty minutes later Brownie pushes a food bowl with his nose in front of Bobby, does the thing with the words and the raised forepaw like Coyote taught all the dogs (well, all except Palin, of course), and the bowl fills up with fried chicken drumsticks.

Bobby's eyes narrow dangerously. Brownie scrapes the ground with his belly and whines for forgiveness like a newborn puppy. Rumsfeld2, Condie and Cheney almost groan out loud.

Bobby doesn't say much.

Five minutes after that Sam's cell phone goes off while Dean's taking a shower. Sam struggles up from sleep and groggily answers it.

It's Rebecca.

Yahtzee, Dean thinks with relief.

Coyote stirs sleepily in the headspace. You think too loud, muchacho. Five more minutes…

Shut uppp.

Coyote snort-chuckles, rolls over and goes back to sleep. In his dreams he's roaming around Lower Antelope Canyon near Page, Arizona, raising hell along the spirits and wind elementals in those swirling red walls and spirals, howling gleefully at the pale moon overhead.

Less than twenty minutes later Sam finds himself on the sidewalk in front of Rebecca's house. The weather in St. Louis is warm and balmy for this time of year. Dean's got this fake smile plastered on his face. He's way too friendly for this early in the morning. He's not a morning person. Never has been.

He's up to something.

Sam gets pissed. A muscle in his jaw twitches as Dean ignores the look, ignores everything else. "Credit card's good, and you got your cell. Give us a call when you wanna come home."

Jesus. It's like Sam's ten years old and going off on some grade school field trip all over again.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, anything, and Dean disappears in a blink of an eye.

Just like that.

Son of a bitch. He ditched me.

Sam stands there for a moment with his mouth hanging open. He remembers to relax the muscles of his face just enough, and when he does his bitchface comes out like early morning sunrise over the Rocky Mountains.

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John Winchester sits on the front porch nursing a mug of hot black coffee. John's having a hard time identifying the way his body feels. It's not a hangover, not exactly, more of a slight buzz from drinking so much of that beer Bear brought over. The top of his head doesn't ache like it's about to come off. He feels relaxed all over. Hell yeah, John can deal with this.

His right wrist does ache a little, but it's got nothing to do with beer. He vaguely remembers arm-wrestling with Ellen Harvelle and makes a mental note never to do that again.

Ever.

Dean and Coyote saunter up to the porch, and Dean tries not to grin at the sight of his dad sitting there all loose-limbed and content for once. He still can't get over the fact that he and Coyote brought John back from Hell. Makes his eyes water sometimes, but that's because of something in the air. Dust, or somethin'. Dean's sure of it.

Coyote circles excitedly around Dean's feet.

"Hey, boys," John drawls softly.

"Hey, Dad." Dean tosses the keys to the Impala to John. John puts up one hand and catches them in mid-air effortlessly, then he quirks an eyebrow at his eldest son.

"Road trip. Me and the old furball here," Dean says. Coyote can't stop grinning. He's practically bouncing on his toes. "Be gone for a couple of days, at least. You need anything before we leave?"

"Naw. I'm good," John says.

"Just dropped Sammy off at Rebecca's in St. Louis. Told him to call us when he needs a ride home."

John nods. Bobby walks up behind Dean in the yard. Singer's got this look on his face. Huh. Last time John saw him look like that was over the business end of a shotgun loaded with rock salt. John doesn't remember doing anything to piss Bobby off. This time, at least.

Dean catches the vibe Bobby's giving off, and for once he doesn't know what to make of it.

Coyote deflates. He and Dean both turn around at the same time and Dean scowls a little. "Somethin' wrong, Bobby?"

"Got a bone to pick with the Old Man."

Dean's confused. "What?"

Coyote freezes in place, stands there with all four legs spread wide, quivering. He looks like he wants to run off at top speed.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't interfere with me and my dogs," Bobby says quietly. "I know how to feed 'em, and what they need."

"I won't come out when Dean's here." Coyote's entire body droops, and that normally lively growl of his is a low, subdued whisper. "Don't wanna cause any trouble."

Bobby huffs, annoyed. "Don't be a damned idjit, boy. You're welcome here anytime." Bobby turns on his heel and walks away. That truck over yonder needs fixin', dammit, and he's burning daylight.

Coyote stands there for a moment, sniffing noisily.

"What?"

"He called me an idjit," Coyote says softly.

"Yeah?" Dean's wary. "I was standing right here when he did it. So?"

"That's the nicest thing he's ever said to me." Coyote sounds like he's going to start bawling.

John rolls his eyes. "Wait until he threatens to shoot you in the ass with rock salt. You'll really feel like you belong then."

"What the hell was that all about?"

"Niño, I don't do sequels." Roamer brightens up just as suddenly. His moods always have been slippery, hard to get ahold of. "We are gone, we are outta here!" the furball says jubilantly.

And they are.

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It's California, by the feel and smell of it. LA. City of Angels. Dean's gotten pretty good at identifying places whenever they 'port like that. He doesn't know how, but the names just pop into his head like some mystical GPS system, even when the Old Man's driving, like now.

Place looks like the atrium of this office building somewhere. It's a jungle inside, lush and green, surrounding an indoor waterfall, with wide blue sky outside, just past these large glass windows. Everything looks expensive, ritzy, even the chairs in the place, carved slabs of bluish grey veined marble on round pedestals. Dean sits down in one and it's surprisingly comfortable. Coyote walks around the pool and wistfully eyes the giant golden koi fish just under the surface of the water.

Dean's been to Cali several times. It was always on jobs, or to look in on Sam while he was at Stanford, never pleasure, like now. "First off," Dean mutters under his breath, "I hate witches."

Coyote huffs softly. "Say it a little louder, why don't 'cha, so everyone can hear. You're a bigot, kid."

Dean scowls. "Circe. Homer's Odyssey? Turned dudes into pigs, didn't she?"

"That was back in the day. Geez, she makes a mistake once and that's the only thing anyone ever remembers."

"I just remember that from helping Sammy with his homework, that's all."

"Uh huh. After all this time you remember that, huh?"

"Focus, dude." Dean's right leg starts bouncing a little. In a moment he's gonna get up and start pacing. "Isn't she also the chick who fights Wonder Woman all the time?"

"Yep." Coyote grins. "Everybody needs a hobby."

Dean looks hopeful. "Is Wonder Woman around?"

"Here? No."

"Too bad. She could tie me up in that lasso of hers." Dean smiles as he imagines that star-spangled body armor, the golden double W breastplate. "What's the deal with the witch?"

Coyote sighs. "It was a surprise, all right? This is for a photoshoot. They need a large white Siberian tiger, and Circe owes me a favor."

"A Siberian tiger."

"Yep. Large, white and majestic. And well trained," Coyote adds pointedly.

Dean quirks his mouth. "Well, that lets me out."

Coyote shrugs. "Beats the hell out of a dairy cow."

A door over on the left opens up, and in sweeps a vision of statuesque loveliness. She's a knockout, dressed in a form-fitting floor length royal blue gown. Her eyes are a vivid blue, framed by long dark lashes. Her long wavy hair is various shades of light and dark lavender, but it fits her face and coloring somehow. She looks and smells warm, exotic and expensive, and she could stop traffic just by walking down any street in any city in the world.

"Hello, Roamer. Glad to see you're out and about." That voice is husky, yet unmistakably female. Dean feels a jolt right down to his toes as he stands up.

The Old Man nods. "Circe. It's been a while."

"And you must be Dean. My, my. I've heard a lot about you, young man." Circe sweeps her gaze over Dean's face and body and her luscious full lips part in a warm, friendly smile. The smile Dean gives her in return is slightly crooked and blinding. Circe's smile gets even wider. "You're exquisite."

Circe offers her hand and Dean kisses it.

Thought you hated witches, kid.

Hate is such a harsh word.

Huh. If you say so.

Circe smiles. "Roamer's told you about the photoshoot, and the white tiger. Now young man, I need to see what you can do."

And that's when the refuse hit the propeller.

(Okay, the s**t hit the fan. You happy now?)

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Two minutes later:

"Uh, Circe," Coyote says slowly, "could you give us a moment alone, please?"

"Of course."

Dean sits perched on the edge of one of those stone chairs. He looks dejected. Circe stops and puts her hand lightly on his shoulder. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. It happens to all men at one time or another."

Coyote shakes his head vigorously. "Hey, wait a minute. Not to me!"

"Be kind, Old Man," Circe murmurs softly.

Dean closes his eyes and shakes his head. Crap.

Coyote's ears go down. He waits until Circe's out of the room before he pads over and sits down right in front of Dean. "You're embarrassin' me here, kid. What? You changed into that cow in front of me."

"That was…that was you. You don't count," Dean says miserably. "Besides, it was for Dad and Sam, too."

"Okay, okay…let me think here…" Coyote gets up on his hind legs, paces back and forth. He becomes Dean's mirror image, freckles, spiky blond hair, faded jeans, leather coat, and even though he's freaking out Dean's already pretty sure the Old Man isn't rubbing his face in it.

"So what's the problem? Why can't I 'shift? I got nothin'."

The light dawns in Coyote's eyes, makes that greenish gold color even brighter. "You're shy."

"What?"

"You're one'a those shy 'shifters."

"What? Shy? No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are. Hey look, it's nothin' to be ashamed of. It happens."

Dean bristles. "Not to me, it doesn't!"

"Was that why you didn't want Sammy to come along? You knew you were gonna freeze up like this and you didn't want baby bro to see it, huh?"

Dean leans forward and scrubs both hands through his short spiky hair. He doesn't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes." Coyote sighs. "There's no shame in this, niño. Look, I forgot. I was born doing this kind of thing. It's new to you. We don't have to do this. I can show you the sights, we can go on a different road trip, call it a day after that."

There's a moment when Coyote can't read Dean, either by face or body language. Misery, frustration and depression rolls off the kid in waves. Dean stares at that expensive brown and gold Italian tile floor, and his broad shoulders sag.

"You said it was a photoshoot."

"Yeah."

"Photoshoot for what?"

"America's Top Model." Coyote says quietly. Doesn't really matter now.

Dean's eyes widen. "What?"

"America's Top Model. Twelve sessions in all."

"Damn," Dean growls to himself. The air around him shimmers with a faint golden light.

"Lingerie, leather, you name it." Coyote pretends not to notice.

Dean's eyes flash bright gold just then.

Coyote pretends to ramble on: "Yeah, you woulda been around all these half-naked women, beautiful women…"

Dean leans forward and the air around him blurs as he drops down on all fours.

"… wearing swimsuits, next to nothing really…"

When Dean fades back in again there's this huge white Siberian tiger with wide green eyes and long dark eyelashes in his place.

Hah, Coyote thinks to himself. I still got it. I brought tricky to town. Hell yeah.

Dean's tail lashes back and forth. He sits down on his haunches and raises one paw the size of a baseball mitt up in front of his eyes. He flexes his paws, unsheathes his claws, and smirks.

That's my boy, Coyote thinks proudly.

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Last chapter up Wednesday. Told ya.