Yes, poesie, you heard me, reprobate! Reprobate! *points at poestheblackcat* Reprobate! Don't edge behind the screen, there, Elf and Bartlebead, you're equally bad! I know what you people are up to! You lot and your damned plot bunnies... You're all in this together! You're all a bunch of ringleaders!
Ahem. FFN gremlins. They're getting to everybody. (Poesie, go and have a look at the General Forums, sort by Topic Count, and the Fanfic Help Desk forum comes up at #5. There are some threads stickied to the top, describing the less-than-satisfactory-but-better-than-nothing work-around for publishing a new story - be aware that you cannot edit its properties once it exists, only update chapter content - and the fix for updating chapters in an existing one.) So, from FFN's teething troubles to Jimi's...
Chapter 2
"You cannot seriously be suggesting that this is normal!" exclaimed Dean anxiously. He sat on the floor next to Jimi, not caring about the questionable provenance of what passed for 'carpet' in the motel room of their usual crappy standard. Jimi lay on his blanket, his head on a towel in Dean's lap, with an expression indicating that the wearer was The Saddest Dog In The World.
"Might I remind you that we're dealing with a half-Hellhound here, Dean," Sam said calmly, determined to be the voice of reason, as he tapped at the laptop. "Who's to say what 'normal' is for a half-Hellhound?"
"Stop clacking away at that thing and go get more ice," ordered Dean grumpily. Sam clenched his teeth – Dean had refused to leave the dog's side, meaning that Sam had been forced to grovel around on the floor of questionable cleanliness in order to tend to the wound on his brother's hand. "And more towels."
"Okay, okay, I'm doin' it," he said placatingly, "Can you just try to calm down a little…"
"How the hell am I supposed to calm down?" growled Dean angrily, "He's in pain, Sam, he's scared, he has no idea what's going on, and neither do we!"
"That's not strictly true," Sam corrected him, "I have a working theory on this…"
"You can shove your working theory sideways up your proposition until it comes out your conclusion," continued Dean. "Ice. Towels. Now."
"I scuttle willingly to obey your commands, O Great And Terrible Alpha," grumped Sam, heading out for another run to the ice machine and a break-and-enter on housekeeping's cupboard.
Dean fashioned another ice-pack chew toy, and gave it to Jimi. Like the others, it rapidly disintegrated, slashed to pieces by the emerging demonic dentition.
"This is not normal, Sam!" repeated Dean, "Look, there's blood everywhere!"
"I can't help wondering if this is just another, you know, maturation thing for Jimi," Sam told him, consulting his laptop. "The teeth that are emerging, they're incisors, the teeth right at the front of the jaws. They erupt first when both the milk teeth and the permanent teeth come through. My theory is, it looks like Jimi might be getting his final set of teeth. His Hunting teeth. His Hellhound teeth."
"That's so fucked up," muttered Dean, stroking the mournful face in his lap, "Why do they keep going in and out, then?"
"Do you remember Jimi Senior's Hellhound teeth?" asked Sam. "He only, um, deployed them when he needed to use them, and his mouth didn't bleed. The rest of the time, they were, I don't know, retracted. But they were clearly under his control." He hunkered down to pat Jimi reassuringly. "Maybe it's like his alien-blood incendiary pee, and the running-through-solid-walls thing – it took a while for him to get those under control. Maybe these teeth are like that, he'll have to get the hang of them, learn to control them." He looked down at the dog, taking in the Big Brown Eyes. "Maybe he's just hit the right age for them to start breaking through, then maybe they popped out because he needed them, couldn't hold onto the Okami with his ordinary dog teeth. His firestarting pee and walk-through-walls was like that, they manifested for the first time when he got really worked up about something, and he learned the control after that."
"Jesus, Sam, how long is it going to take?" wondered Dean in a worried voice. "He's going to bleed to death in a couple of days at this rate."
"Dean, you're exaggerating," replied Sam, "Really, bro, I don't think this is cause for concern."
"Right, no cause for concern," nodded Dean, scowling at Sam, "Our dog is lying here with fucking knives popping in and out of his jaws, he's bleeding and yelping and clearly in distress, but it's no cause for concern. Thank you for that assessment, Dr Mengele." He returned his attention to Jimi. "First thing tomorrow, we're heading back to Bobby's," he announced, "Where we will find a way to help him with this."
"I'll give Bobby a call before we leave, see if Janis has had anything like this happen recently," Sam said, yawning, "Right now, I'm turning in."
Dean stared at him. "How the hell can you think about sleeping when our boy is in pain?" he demanded.
"He's going to be teething whether we're asleep or not, bro," Sam pointed out reasonably.
The look Dean gave him implied that Sam had just suggested drowning some cute little kittens in battery acid, followed by some gratuitous pulling the wings off butterflies, breaking the necks of fluffy, not-yet-fledged baby ducklings, then stealing the beanie hats from children with cancer, after running through the ward and bursting every balloon in sight.
"You selfish, callous asshole," hissed Dean, wrapping an arm protectively over Jimi's shoulders. Jimi let out a small whine, then a whumph of resignation, dialling the Big Brown Eyes all the way up to Impossibly Appealing, and Dean crooned reassuringly to him, ruffling the dog's ears. Jimi settled more comfortably against his Alpha.
Sam couldn't help but let out a small amused snort. As a puppy, Jimi had learned the power of the Puppy Dog Eyes, and he made Sam look like a rank amateur. Dean was particularly susceptible to that form of manipulation, and Sam had a guilty suspicion he might be in part responsible for that.
"If you're going to sit up fussing at him all night, at least one of us will have to be awake enough to drive back to the yard without wrapping us around a pylon," Sam told him.
"Fine, Sam," agreed Dean, "Fine, you do that, you go to bed, lay your weary little head down and get comfy and have nice sleepy-bobos, don't let yourself be at all disturbed by the fact that Jimi is having his GUMS cut up by TEETH LIKE KNIVES every FIVE MINUTES..."
"YAIPE!" interrupted Jimi, as another tooth-blade made itself felt.
"... Every THREE MINUTES, you UNFEELING BASTARD!"
"Dean, can we try not to be completely hysterical about this?" sighed Sam, "At least try to moderate your hysteria, try to calm it down to neurotic catastrophisation..." Dean shot him a murderous look, then turned his attention fully back to Jimi.
All Sam could do was return fire with Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), then get ready for bed, and hope that Dean would be more sensible in the morning. While you're at it, he told himself, Why don't you hope that the conflict in the Gaza Strip will be resolved, a non-polluting solution to the world's energy needs will be discovered, Third World poverty will be overcome, and ads for experienced Hunters will start turning up in newspaper employment sections offering six-figure salaries, full medical benefits and fresh fruit in the office on Tuesdays and Thursdays?
"G'night, bro, Jimi," he said, bending down to pat Jimi. The dog offered him a brave doggy grin – he'd also learned as a puppy that Sam had been doing Puppy Dog Eyes for long enough to recognise them a mile away – while Dean ignored him. Sam groaned inwardly - Dean would no doubt sit with Jimi until the dog went to sleep, if he went to sleep, and would work himself into a state of raving mother hendom by the morning. He'd been overly concerned when Jimi's permanent teeth had started coming through, keeping him supplied with frozen washcloths and cobs of corn and hanks of rope to chew on, and ever since Jimi had spent three days as a human Dean had become even more solicitous of the dog's well-being.
Sam crawled into his bed. He really was tired, the last few days had been hectic, interviewing witnesses, sneaking into the morgue, talking to a couple of surviviors, narrowing down the Okami's probable hunting range. Sleep sounded good just about now…
Pity he wasn't going to be allowed to get any.
He couldn't have been in bed for more than an hour when he was startled rudely awake by a piece of wet, cold towel landing on his face.
"Gaaaah!" he sat up with a start, scrabbling the fabric off his face, "Gah! What the… Dean? Dean! Did you throw this at me?"
"More towels," demanded Dean without preamble.
"You woke me up to get you more towels?" yawned Sam, glaring at his brother with Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't Believe You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!). "You woke me up, with a wet and cold and, and, and slobbery chew toy remnant, to get you more towels? When exactly did you lose the use of your legs?"
"I can't leave Jimi," growled Dean, glaring right back. "More towels, NOW, Samantha!"
Sam slid out of bed, grumbling something uncharitable about neurotic big brothers, and set off for another raid on housekeeping.
"Your towels, O Insistent One," he sighed on return, "May I be excused?"
"For now, you insensitive bitch," allowed Dean, fashioning yet another ice pack for Jimi as Sam crawled back into bed…
Only to be woken less than an hour later by something hard, wet and extremely cold landing on the back of his neck.
"Yaaaaaaargh!" he shrieked, jumping awake, his head spinning. "Dean? Dean! What?" he scrabbled for a weapon, then turned to see Dean glaring at him from the floor.
"About time, Rip Van Winkle," chided his brother, nodding at the ice bucket. "More ice."
Sam stared blearily at his brother as his hand went to his neck. Something hard had definitely connected – he looked down to see several chunks of ice on the sheet beside him.
"You threw ice at me? Jerk!" he responded, picking the ice out of his bed before it could melt any further.
"You wouldn't wake up. More ice. Now," repeated Dean imperiously.
"You would still have ice to use," hissed Sam, "If you hadn't used so much of it to throw at me!"
Dean just glared at him, perilously close to pulling a very Samesque bitchface, as Sam humphed in surrender, and picked up the ice bucket.
"Your ice," he announced upon return, avoiding the temptation to dump the contents over Dean, before returning to his bed. "Great, the sheets are damp, thanks Dean," he griped.
"It's the only time you're ever going to have a wet spot to sleep on," Dean told him without humour, throwing a towel at him. "Use this, bitch."
Sam glared at his brother, laid the towel over the melted ice dampness, and went back to bed.
Until he was yanked from sleep by the dulcet tones of 'Highway to Hell'.
He groaned, turned over, and opened one eye to see Dean holding his phone in Sam's direction at arm's length.
Dean indicated brusquely that he wanted the towel in Sam's bed, and further, he required more towels, and expected Sam to make yet another raid to furnish them.
Sam suggested that Dean should make do with what he had, and flung the towel at his brother's head.
Dean made a counter suggestion that Sam haul his lazy, uncaring ass out of bed and fetch the required linens.
Sam opined that the world would be a better place if Dean would stop behaving like a neurotic first-time mother.
Dean thanked Sam for his considered opinion, and wondered out loud whether Sasquatch hair might be fashioned into a chew toy for a teething Hellhound.
Sam complimented Dean on his lateral thinking, observing that it was typical of the sort of fucking ludicrous ideas that Dean sometimes came up with when he was wound up and overtired and over-reacting.
Dean ventured that Sam had best fetch towels before something terribly unfortunate happened to his person.
Sam expressed sincere regret that Dean was behaving like a total asshole.
Deam expressed no regret whatsoever about throwing the remains of Jimi's most recent ice-pack chew toy at Sam; indeed, he emanated a certain amount of satisfaction when said missile made contact with his younger brother's head. He then implied that Sam was a female canine.
Sam referred to Dean as a spasmodic muscular movement. or possibly a weightlifting move involving raising the barbell from shoulder height to above the head by straightening the arms. He did, however, concede to his brother's wishes, and fetch another armful of towels, which he proceeded to drop on Dean's head. After that he retreated to his bed, with an impolite comment about Dean's after-dark proclivities and a recommendation that Dean shove his head up his own ass and whistle Dixie.
Dean made a rather hurtful remark about Sam's probable sexual preferences, implying that they lay towards the fetishistic, nay, the perverse, the pathological, and the downright weird. He made some helpfully demonstrative hand gestures to explain his meaning more clearly.
Enough is enough, thought Sam, deciding to get mediaeval on Dean's ass, figuratively speaking. He closed his eyes, and put his hands together, whispering into his pillow:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
My brother's being a total creep,
I really hate to ask this, Cas, but
Dean is being an utter assbutt.
I think Jimi might be teething:
Hellhound knife teeth keep unsheathing
In his mouth, and he's in pain,
And Dean is driving me insane…"
He paused for a moment, then sighed. Maybe he was being as bad as his brother, and over-reacting. If Jimi was teething, it was a perfectly normal physiological process, and it would resolve itself. Bobby had kept dogs for most of his life, would be level-headed about this, and might be able to help. There were a lot of websites dealing with all sorts of puppy troubles. Castiel was a busy Senior Exec angel, he thought – he might not appreciate being interrupted because a dog had a bit of teething trouble… they should deal with this themselves, he decided. They were, after all, adults, and he liked to think that he himself was capable of rational thought, even if his brother was determined to behave like a complete and total weightlifting move…
"…Cas, please disregard this prayer,
We'll go to Bobby's, fix it there…
...And if before I wake, I'm dead,
I hope my Heaven has a bed.
Amen."
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