Well, here it is, the fourth installment of this little crackfest.
Pop culture references:
"It was a shame what they did to that dog." - taken from "Coming to America" (Eddie Murphy)
Fibanaci – The last name of Peter Strothmire's mob boss character in the tv show "Prison Break".
"What we have heah is failure to communicate." – Strother Martin - "Cool Hand Luke"
Homeward Bound: The Further Incredible Adventures of Rin Tin Tin and Pluto
Chapter 4 Dead Dog Walking
One
AAAAAAARRRRRROOOOOOOOO----
Dean?
AAAAAAARRRRROOOOO----
Dean!
AAAAAAARR---
Dude! Sam hissed. Will you shut the hell up!
Huh? Dean lowered his head and blinked those impossibly long eyelashes of his once. Twice. Slowly. He stared dazedly at Sam as if he were really seeing him for the first time in a while.
Jeez, dude. Emo much?
What? Dean's ears came up and he cocked his head to one side.
Sam stared at him, frowning. You were sitting there howlin' your freakin' head off!
Was not.
Was too.
I don't emo. Dean scoffed. That's what you do, Samantha. Dean stuck his chest out and his tail waved lanquidly behind him like a flag. Dean Winchester doesn't cry like a chick.
Dean Winchester might not, but Deanna Winchester was up here bawlin' like a baby. Sam frowned as he leaned forward. His eyes narrowed. You really don't remember?
No. Dean sounded smug. "You're the one who's crazy, not me" kind of smug.
Do you remember biting me?
Biting you? Dean's eyes widened slightly. He stared warily at Sam and shook his head in disbelief. It's not good when the crazy person –ah, dog – thinks that you're the one that's crazy.
I think I'd remember that, Sammy. Dean licked his chops wolfishly. You probably taste like chicken.
Wait a minute. You don't remember anything you did in the last fifteen minutes?
Nothing to remember. Dean shrugged. Didn't do anything.
Uh-huh. Oh-kay then. Where's Dad?
Dean stood up, stared intently down at the house. Dad's in that house at the bottom of the hill.
That's right.
Dean padded over towards the edge of the downward slope.
Dean, what are you gonna do?
Bust through a window and get him out, Dean replied, as though Sam were four years old again and Dean was explaining why eating dirt and mud was such a bad idea.
Sam felt his right front paw itch with the urge to slap his idiot older brother upside his head. And what if Dad doesn't want to come, Dean? What are you gonna do then?
Dean looked confused. Why the hell would he want to stay with her? He jerked his head towards the house, then turned back towards Sam, frowning. You okay, Sammy? Seriously. You're actin' kinda weird there, buddy boy.
I'm acting kinda weird?
Yeah, you are. Dean brightened considerably as he looked down the hill. I'm gonna break into that house and get Dad out. And I'm gonna bite that bitch on the ass for keepin' him locked up in there.
Break into the house and bite the bitch on the…That's your solution to nearly everything, isn't it?
Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. Why, yes. Yes it is. Why so surprised, Sam?
Yep. Sounds like a plan, Sam murmured sarcastically. Dude, there is something seriously wrong with you.
Whatever. Dean shook himself, from head to toe, and as Sam watched he went into stealth mode. Head down, tail lowered, Rin Tin Tin was looking mighty shifty. You comin' or not?
Dean slunk forward a couple of steps, then stopped and stared down at the street below.
Holy crap.
Now what? Sam padded over and stood next to his brother, just in time to see the county dogcatcher's truck pull up onto the street and park two houses down from the house Dad was in.
Five oh, dude. What the hell are they doin' here this time of night?
Sam cocked his head to one side, raised an eyebrow, and just pointedly stared at him.
Duh.
Oh. Well. That…howlin' thing you claim I did. Dean sat down, raised his right front paw and waved it in a dismissive manner. I still don't remember doin' it, he muttered defensively, and if I don't remember, then it didn't happen.
The sheer brilliance of your logic just amazes the hell out of me. I'm speechless.
Dean smirked. Well, you should be.
Sam shook his head in disbelief. Now what?
I'll get 'em to chase me. You go in and get Dad.
Go in and get Dad? How ---
Dean sighed as he stood up. Forgotten, you have, everything I ever taught you, young Jedi. You break a window, and you enter.
Break a---Dean, no hands, remember?
It's not breaking and entering unless you actually break something, Sammy, Dean called back as he moved off down the hill. He actually sounded pretty happy.
Two
Freddie "The Mask" Nicoletti sat in the Two Toes raccoon clan larder at the base of the old oak tree, next to that big metal bucket they'd found somewhere. He was taking inventory, one of the few pleasures he had left in life. He was looking forward to going through that woman's purse one of the made kits had found down by the highway. He could always find something shiny in one'a those things.
The last time he snagged a pair of earrings, and a make-up mirror. He looked absolutely stunning wearing the earrings (they were clip-on, and shiny, with large green stones dangling at the ends, so he kept them), but the lipstick was the wrong color on him and tasted nasty besides.
This was something he kept from the others. Yeah, he had a secret life. So what? Long as it didn't interfere with the family business, wasn't nobody's business but his.
He frowned, shook his head as he heard the shuffling at the door. He knew who that was.
Tony "Two Toes" Fibanaci.
Ever since Tony lost those toes on his left foot during that skirmish back in the day, he'd lost a step. Since then Tony more than made up for that. In the beginning he'd been a wide-eyed, kinda naïve made kit, but that changed soon enough. Couple of years ago they raided that beer distributorship warehouse, and Freddie remembered the place was guarded by a dog, a Doberman. At the time Tony carried around with him a small wooden baseball bat with a lead weight in the tip.
Freddie shuddered. It was a shame what Tony did to that dog.
Freddie could tell Tony was in a mellow mood by the way he strolled in. Nice and easy, a slight roll to his gait, like he had all the time in the world.
So. What'cha got? Freddie drawled.
Don Tucci's clan is out of the war. Tony said gravely. He always enjoyed giving exposition, and if that floated his boat, what the hell, Freddie was more than willing to indulge him. Fish and Wildlife was kind enough to thin out the ranks, as it were, but we still have to deal with Marlon and Sonny. Rumor has it they've acquired a weapon.
That ain't what I heard. I heard they already approached the mutt.
And?
He said no.
All right then. No worries, then.
No worries, my ass. Freddie's eyes narrowed. We should whack this canine anyway. Remove the threat. Level the playing field. Help the pup buy the farm. Stop his clock. Send him to Doggie Heaven---
Whoa, stop! What's with the freakin' clichés, Freddie? You been watchin' Jeopardy again? Those stupid game shows will rot your brain. Tony scented the air, and made a face. The air inside the larder was unbelievably foul, but since Tony had sinus problems, it took a while for it to catch up with him. Wait a minute. What's that stench? Where the hell is Donnie?
Freddie looked sorrowful. He sleeps with the fishes, Don Fibanaci.
They whacked Donnie? Tony's eyes widened. Crap. Donnie was his sister's kid, the lazy bum, and man, was his mama gonna be pissed.
When the hell did that happen? Tony said, frowning.
Freddie rolled his eyes, leaned back and kicked the side of the bucket twice, hard.
Donnie groggily stuck his head out of the top, a rotting fish head perched on his head, right between his ears. A skeleton fish tail hung out of one side of his mouth, and a long string of slobber hung down from the other corner of his mouth. He looked around groggily, saw Tony and smiled lazily at him.
Tony shuddered. Ugh. Never mind. Then his eyes narrowed with a mean glint and he grinned crookedly.
C'mere. He crooked a finger at Donnie. I wanna hug you. You know you're my favorite nephew, don't cha?
I don't wanna. I'm your only nephew. Donnie drew back fearfully. He was suddenly wide awake. You're gonna hit me.
No, I'm not. C'mere… Tony smiled insincerely as he opened his arms. Freddie shook his head in disbelief when Donnie fell for it and climbed out of the bucket. Half eaten fish heads went everywhere. Donnie padded over to Tony with his arms open, ready to hug---
And got whacked smartly upside the head for his trouble.
You know, Tony said smugly, as Donnie rubbed his aching head, you really oughta follow your first instinct sometimes.
Three
Dean slunk around the corner of the house so silently that the men didn't notice him. He slipped in behind some bushes and crouched low. One of the neighbors was standing there in a plaid bathrobe and slippers, and the dude was pointing up at the hill as he talked to a tall lanky dude wearing a dark grey uniform, holding a pole with a noose on the end of it.
Dean didn't need any more visual clues to know that he was dealing with an overworked, underpaid municipal flunky who was pissed off that he had a job that required him to be on call 24/7.
It was showtime.
Dean strolled out of the bushes, and barked once. Both men turned around at the noise. If Lassie had done it, it would have been "Timmy's fallen down the well, come follow me." The way Dean did it, it was more like "Catch me if you can, bitch."
Dean was damned if he was going to start whining, and even though he didn't harbor any personal animosity toward Roddy McDowell (he liked the dude in "Fright Night" – a stupidly good vamp flick) Dean didn't care if McDowell's character ever got out of that well.
Or was that Timmy, that careless little blond kid that was always falling down mine shafts and into holes?
Sometimes Dean got them confused.
"Cujo" was more Dean's style. "Man's Best Friend," another killer dog out on a rampage flick, was another. That was Dean's story and he was sticking to it.
Lassie was all right, but she was a girl, for cripes' sake, and those Lassie movies were all chick flicks. Dean would have died and gone straight to hell before he admitted he ever sat down and watched "Lassie Come Home" or any of those others.
Well, he did, sometimes. When he was by himself, and Sam was out doing research at the library (Dean didn't watch porn all the time, you know. "Old Yeller" was another dog flick he didn't watch. Yeah, right). He always had the television on when he was cooped up in the motel room or the cabin alone and Dean was cleaning weapons or taking inventory of supplies, and it was just noise in the background while he did the important stuff, which meant that it didn't count. So there.
And if Dean's eyes misted up a little as Lassie painfully dragged herself out of that river and tried to make it home, well, hell, that didn't count, either.
Dean barked at them, backed up a little, and barked at them again. His tail swished back and forth (in a manly, heroic way, of course), and he could tell by Lanky Dude's body language that the fool was going for it.
Lanky Dude's eyes narrowed, and his hands twitched around the handle of that noose on a pole, and when he took a swipe at Dean with the pole Dean dodged it so easily he almost felt embarrassed for the dude. Grinning wolfishly, Dean took off past Lanky Dude and ran off down the street, in the opposite direction, away from Sam and the hillside. The trick now was to give Sammy enough time to get into the house and get Dad out.
Four
It's not breaking and entering unless you actually break something, Sammy.
Sam thought that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard Dean say. He felt the hackles on his neck raise up as he crept around the corner of the green house with the white picket fence.
I don't have any hands, Dean, Sam grumbled to himself. How the hell am I going to commit B & E if I don't have any hands? Trespassing doesn't require any hands, breaking and entering does…
Maybe he could push one of the windows up with his nose or head or something. Sam put his head down as he slunk past the back door, and he stopped, frowning. The scents around here were awfully familiar, and it wasn't just Dad's scent, either. There was something…the inside of Sam's nose started to prickle. That female scent was one he'd smelled…sensed before. Sam stood there with his back to the door, and he raised those floppy ears of his and tilted his head slightly to one side.
He heard the door open up with a click behind him, and as he leaped away (his body wasn't quite as nimble as Dean's was, but he could move fast enough when he wanted to) Sam felt something cold and clammy grab his entire body and yank him backwards into the house.
He blacked out when he slammed into something solid behind him.
Five
Damn, what a moron, Dean thought to himself. That fat convenience store clerk was a faster runner. Dean glanced back over his shoulder and chuffed, and when he turned back around he nearly tripped over his own feet as he skidded to a complete stop.
The cop that skritched his head in the Gulp 'N' Go stood in the middle of the street. Dean stared. Just how the hell did that sumbitch do that?
The cop smiled at him, knelt and put one hand out. "C'mere, boy. You remember me, don't you?"
Hell yeah I do, Dean thought to himself. He whined. He didn't mean to, and damn he hated how he sounded, all weak and needy. He wanted to go over, wanted to lay down at the cop's feet, roll over and let the guy rub his belly.
I'm losing my fucking mind, Dean thought to himself, and he backed up, and when he did the cop's gaze slid past Dean behind him, and that's when Dean sensed somebody else behind him. He swung around, a snarl rising up in his throat, and he saw something coming at him. It was fast, but he was faster, and he dodged, turned to the side, felt fingers brush his flanks, try to grab his tail.
Something sharp thunked into his right shoulder, and that stopped Dean right in his tracks.
Damn…I feel…really…really…weird, Dean thought, and he sat back heavily on his haunches.
He swayed from side to side. He could barely keep his eyes open. A shadow fell over him from behind, and another came from the side.
His head bobbled and dipped. He looked down and saw this feather sticking out of his right shoulder.
Son of a…bitch…I've… been…tranked, Dean thought dully. The shadow standing in front of him leaned down and put its hand underneath his jaw, slowly lifted his chin up.
"Wait a minute," the shadow slurred. Everything slowed down to a crawl. "Beau's gonna do hard time because this mutt stopped him at the Gulp 'N' Go?"
"Told that fool not to do it. Third strike," one of the other shadows said.
Dean stared, swayed from side to side. The shadow divided itself, into two at first, then four, then six. There was this sparkly stuff in the air all around, like Tinkerbell had just shaken off a large amount of that damn fairy dust.
I can see time, Dean thought hazily. Then he wondered what Tinkerbell looked like naked under that costume.
Then he wondered why he was wondering that.
"This is the one."
"Company's got a reward out for him?"
"Fifteen hundred."
"Well, we could use the money, but I really don't feel like doing this mutt any favors. I'm feelin' kind of mean tonight, boys, and this pup's luck has just about run out."
One of the shadows laughed. "Sure you're right."
…good drugs…M'a good dog…Dean thought to himself, and when the shadow pulled its hand away Dean face-planted into the pavement….
Six
"Sam? Oh, Sammy? Wake up, dear."
Sam came to wedged up in the corner against the kitchen cabinets. He shook his head to clear it, and he growled at the woman sitting at the kitchen table. One minute he was out, the next he was fully awake. She laughed as he lifted his head and scented the air. His eyes widened.
The illusion she'd cast over herself went slip sliding away. Her skin now had a greenish tingle to it, and her fingers were unnaturally long. Her hair was greenish grey, and some of it moved, all on its own.
It hurts my eyes to look at the bitch, Sam thought.
Sam usually didn't call women bitches. Not usually. That was something he was kind of a prude about, and anyway, Dean could always come up with more colorful word combinations than Sam ever could. Dean could cuss fluidly enough for the both of them.
Sam didn't usually call women bitches, but in this one's case, he'd make an exception.
You lousy bitch…
"Language, young man, language," the witch said smugly. She held John the black Persian cat in her arms, ran her long fingers lanquidly through his fur, and John stretched and purred under her touch.
Sam stared. The great John Winchester, reduced to wearing a pink (PINK! Sam's mind screamed at him) leather collar. And was that perfume he smelled in his father's fur? Sam shook his head. He was so glad Dean hadn't come, couldn't see this.
Dad?
John looked at Sam, puzzled. Do…do I know you?
"Your dad's been with me all this time," the witch said. "Turning the three of you into animals was only the beginning, little boy. The great white hunter John Winchester is going to be my pet for the next ten years, at least. And your big brother, Dean? Oh yes, those demons were certainly right. Your big brother is like a puppy. He's so much fun to play with. What, Sammy? You didn't enjoy seeing Dean go emo up on that hill? I made him do that. Got him in touch with his inner bitch, you might say. He was so cute sharing and caring."
She stroked John underneath his chin, and Sam almost closed his eyes. Dad closed his eyes and purred like a buzzsaw, drool hanging down his chin. Yeech. This was about as bad as walking in on your parents having sex.
"That just leaves you, little boy. Little goofy looking boy," she spat at him, and Sam felt his hackles rise. A low growl vibrated his throat. "I've decided to make the torment of your family the focus of my life for the next ten years."
Sam stared at her. What is it with you bitches and ten years? Dean would've been proud of him for that, he thought.
She shrugged. "All right. You've just become my mission in life. My life's work."
Sam flinched. Way to go, Sammy, he could hear Dean grumble. Antagonize the witch bitch even more, why don't you?
Seven
Dry dog food is fine, Boss, but I want some of what you're havin', Rumsfeld thought. He nosed his now empty food bowl and sighed heavily. Dramatically. He was a damn big dog so he made damn big gestures. He closed his eyes, lifted his head slightly and inhaled slowly. Bobby was having steak tonight. Steak, for cripes' sake, and all he'd gotten so far was three scoops of that dry dog food. His usual.
Stuff tastes okay, Rumsfeld grumbled, but damn, couldn't a fella get hooked up with some table scraps or somethin'?
Aw, man. He could practically taste the pepper, the salt, the butter sizzling at the bottom of the pan, and when Bobby put the steak into the skillet Rumsfeld practically groaned out loud.
He used the pitiful, hollow-eyed stare.
Bobby ignored him.
Rumsfeld sunk his chest in, tried to look as small as he could.
Nothing.
Fine. Be that damn way then, you sumbitch. Rumsfeld sighed heavily and laid down on the floor next to the bowl.
Another twenty something hours until the next bowl of the same old crap, he thought sourly. Damn.
So he liked to eat. So what? He was a big dog, with a big appetite.
Sometimes Bobby indulged him. Sometimes. He liked to keep his dogs happy, and if that meant spoiling them sometimes, then okay.
It didn't do to get too fat or too lazy in this line of work.
Some of the hunters who dropped by weren't as immune to Rumsfeld's sorrowful soulful looks, so if he liked them, he practiced on them.
Like those Winchester humans. He liked them. A lot. The daddy, John, could be talking to Bobby and Rumsfeld could walk over to him, lean up against him, and before you knew it, John's right hand would drop down and he'd absent-mindedly start skritching Rumsfeld under his left ear, hit that spot exactly that made him grin. Rumsfeld would tilt his head back, close his eyes, and raise his right front leg up.
He didn't get spoiled very often, but when the chance came up, Rumsfeld took it. Every single time. Life was too short not to. And the boys, Sam and Dean, well, they slipped him food every chance they got. Just a few pieces of meat here, half a hamburger there, not too much, out of respect to Bobby, but hey, that made it even sweeter.
Other times Dean would give Rumsfeld a two-handed bellyrub that would make the big dog's toes curl. Kid has some major league talented nimble fingers, Rumsfeld thought. The younger kid, Sam, was no slouch either, but he was quieter, preferring to go after the sweet spot just underneath Rumsfeld's chin.
Rumsfeld could even forgive Dean for that time when the eldest slipped him some fried okra.
"Dude," the younger one said. "He's not gonna eat that."
"Betcha he does," Dean replied as he tore open the contents of the greasy brown paper bag. They'd gotten the damn things in a takeout order by mistake. "Betcha ten bucks he scarfs it down in under a minute." He laid the bag on the floor in front of Rumsfeld and stepped back.
Sam grinned as he checked his watch. "You're on, Deanna."
Took thirty seven seconds exactly before Rumsfeld realized he was eating fried rabbit food. It was the chicken grease they'd fried it in that suckered him in.
Damn vegetables.
Ugh.
Damn kids.
So when Bobby's phone rang and Rumsfeld heard the phrase "John and his boys" during the conversation, Rumsfeld made it his business to get up, pad over and flop down on the worn tile floor at Bobby's feet.
"Hey, Bobby."
"Hey, Arvin. You hear anything about John and his boys?"
"Yeah. Earl Kent down at the impound yard over in Evanston said he's got their car, that black Impala with Kansas plates."
"But you haven't heard anything about the three of 'em?"
"Nope. Nothin'."
"It's been over three weeks, and hell, I haven't heard anything from any of 'em. Something's wrong."
"What were they huntin'?"
"A witch."
"Oh, shit. Sounds like she mighta got 'em."
"You hear anything about some crone operating over your way, Arvin?"
"Well, yeah. Some old hag came into town about three weeks ago causing all kinds of a ruckus. Killed a couple of the townspeople right on the spot. Turned 'em inside out. I heard some other crazy stuff, too. They say she turned a few of the civilians into animals while she was at it. Naturally, the so-called proper authorities covered the whole thing up."
"Sounds like the fugly John and his boys were after. Anything else strange going on out your way?"
"Yeah, now that you mention it. There's this dog going up and down the interstate stealing food. German Shepherd. Fast, sneaky. Real handsome looking dog. At first they thought somebody trained him to steal, but now they're not so sure. He stopped a robbery over in Ogdenville, and the cops are looking for him. Convenience store association's put a bounty on his head, too. My kinda dog."
"Just the one dog?"
"They say he's traveling with another dog, a real ugly mutt. You believe that?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I do. Keep an eye out for me, Arvin. You got my cell." Rumsfeld raised up to a sitting position and Bobby stroked the big dog's neck, then scratched that spot right underneath the dog's ear. Rumsfeld grinned like a maniac.
"Call me back if you hear anything else. I'm gonna call Earl and tell him if he sells that Impala I'm going to skin his hide. With one'a my dull hunting knives. Think it's time for me and Rumsfeld to take ride down the interstate tomorrow."
"You don't think…damn!"
"Yeah, Arvin. Damn."
Eight
Hey, fresh meat!
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen…nobody knows my sorrow…
Over here, pretty boy! I wanna have your puppies, oh-kay?
Dead dog walkin'…
They held him up as he stumbled along down the aisle, and Dean didn't like that part so much. He was a good dog, they'd told him so, and he tried so hard to be. He couldn't understand why he was there in the first place. He missed Sammy. He missed his Dad. And his Mom.
When they finally stopped he laid out on the floor with a grateful sigh. The world went away for a while, and when it came back he felt something lick the side of his face, again and again.
Long, smooth strokes that hit all the right spots. Dean kept his eyes closed, stayed stretched out on his side. It wasn't a sexual thing, not exactly, more like a…a puppy thing. More like being comforted by the person who brought you into the world, the one who loves you the most.
M-mom?
You pretty.
Dean frowned up. Funny, he didn't remember Mom's voice being so…damned…deep…
And what the hell was the deal with all the slobber?
You so pretty.
Son of a bitch! Dean opened his eyes just in time to see a huge slobbery tongue right in his face.
Shit. Shit Shit!
It was that damn mastiff mix from Jim-Bob's dog pen. Dean backpedaled and the tongue curled and uncurled on empty air.
What the hell? Are you following me now?
The mastiff stared at Dean with hollow, sunken eyes.
I wish…I knew…how to quit you…
Oh hell no. Dude, we're not doin' the canine version of Brokeback Mountain. I am not the one. Dean got to his feet and snarled as he backed away.
You could be, the mastiff said hopefully.
The other dogs down the row were making noise, calling out, doing anything to relieve the boredom of being locked in for the night…
Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' forth to carry me home…
Shut the hell up, you damn basset hound! Tryin' to sleep over here---
I'll make you my bitch and name you Lassie, boyo---
…What we have heah is failure to communicate…
Dean glared his fiercest Winchester death glare, showed those sharp white teeth of his, promising pain and agony and more pain on top of that, and the mastiff finally gave up and went over to another corner.
Dean sat there growling at him. And why the hell did some people think he was bi-sexual, anyway? Dean backed into the far corner and laid there with his eyes open. The basset down the row started singing "Amazing Grace" in a low sorrowful baritone that would have made Dr. Phil depressed and suicidal.
It was gonna be a long, unpleasant night.
Dean fought the urge to go into a fetal position and start whimpering like a damn puppy.
I am soo screwed.