HUA = heard, understood, acknowledged, Bartlebead. The idea of the Winchester Pack on Iron Chef is an intriguing one. "Special ingredient tonight is... plot bunny!" Nah, unless there was bacon involved, Dean and Jimi would never go for it...

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Sam had always been one for asking questions.

His first word might've been 'Dean', but hot on the heels of that came why, what, how...

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The sudden strident noise startled Sam out of the doze he'd managed to fall into – he jumped, yelped, and fell out of bed.

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It was odd, the sorts of questions that popped into his mind and thoughts when his brain either didn't have anything else to do, or couldn't muster the focus to do anything specific so it wandered off of its own accord. It was like keeping a large, intelligent dog, and not giving it enough toys and training work to keep it gainfully and healthily occupied. It was a perilous thing, allowing a mind as enquiring as Sam's to Wonder About Things...

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When he was a child, it had been endless questions about why the sky was blue in the day and red in the evening, what made candy taste sweet and Brussels sprouts taste horrible and how worms worked.

As he grew older, the questions became more problematic: why do we live like this, what makes the Hunt so important, how can I escape.

Later still, the questions became more abstract, and far more difficult: why did this happen to us, what can I do to stop it, how do I find my way... back.

Deep, philosophical questions, in part rhetorical, in part, a desperate plea to an uncaring universe for, for, for...

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Letting out a sigh dripping with existential angst, he pushed himself to his feet, and made his way downstairs. What he wanted to know, right now, more than anything else, what he really, really wanted to know, was

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Where the FUCK had Dean fucking managed to get fucking hold of a fucking COW BELL?

Fucking.

He answered his brother's summons with as much good grace as he could muster, under the circumstances, which was to say, none whatsoever.

"What now, Florence Nightmare?" he asked with a grumpy yawn.

"Coffee, bitch," snapped Dean, "And ice."

"Want me to get you some toilet paper, too? Because you look like shit," queried Sam.

"Fuck off, Francis," rumbled Dean. Sam muttered something suggesting that Dean was a fornicator who was born before his parents were married, and headed for the kitchen. He hadn't been kidding. The Living Sex God looked more like a member of the Living Dead...

"And you're starting to smell like it too, bro," he informed Dean when he returned with the required coffee. "I can sit with him while you go take a shower, at least, maybe get a couple of hours of sleep..."

The snarl Dean turned on him made Sam wonder if his brother's hellteeth were about to pop out. "Canines," he said abruptly. "Last night. After you crawled away for your beauty sleep." Sam wasn't sure if a short night of uneasy dozing between episodes of being awoken by the insistent clanging of a cow bell counted as 'sleep', let alone an activity that would somehow promote 'beauty', but he decided to keep that observation to himself.

As Dean spoke, Jimi let out a whine, followed by a yelp. As Dean had observed some hours earlier, the largest yet of his new teeth appeared: wicked, curved, upper canine fangs, longer than his middle finger...

"Holy shit," breathed Sam, watching them resheath. Jimi pawed at his face, and looked miserable. It should not have been possible for a dog with black fur to have bags under his eyes, but somehow, Jimi managed it. "Just... holy shit."

"Exactly," Dean agreed.

"This is making progress, bro," Sam started, trying to find a positive angle to the latest painful development, "The C1 canines erupt later in the sequence, so, he's closer to being done..."

"I don't know what else to do," said Dean, sounding and looking as miserable as Jimi as he stroked the sad black head in his lap, "He won't eat, he can't sleep, and these fangs are the worst so far."

"Hang in there," Sam told him, "And if you change your mind about changing places for a couple of hours, just ring your bell, Heidi."

"So, how are Jimi and Deanzilla this morning?" asked Bobby when he joined Sam in the kitchen. "And where the hell did that idjit get hold of a damned cow bell?"

Sam wilted in his chair. "I coaxed him into eating a little bit of soup," he reported. After a short pause, he added, "And Jimi had some, too." He looked at Bobby. "Janis has never shown any signs of getting, er, her third set of teeth?"

"Nope," confirmed Bobby, "Nothing at all like this. Maybe she doesn't need them, because she's not Hunting. Maybe this is only something that's manifested, because Jimi is going to need those teeth now he's old enough to Hunt with you all the time."

"The problem is, there really isn't anything in lore on medical care of diabolical creatures," sighed Sam resignedly. "Humans can't summon Hellhounds, so they've never had to figure this stuff out. As far as I know, not even your library has anything on the birth, development and maturation of Hellhounds. How do they reproduce? Do they reproduce? Full-blood hounds, I mean – where do they actually come from? Do they even have baby teeth, then permanent teeth?" He dropped his head into his hands.

Bobby snorted with laughter. "My Mom always told me that I screamed like a banshee," he confided. "My grandmother had my pacifier blessed by a priest, and gave me a rag soaked in holy water to chew on. She was convinced that the only way for a kid to make so much noise was for Satan himself to have some involvement."

"We tried holy water already," Sam told him, "Out of desperation, really. It didn't help – if anything, it might've made things worse…" he stopped, and frowned in thought.

Bobby watched carefully, but remained silent. That expression meant that Sam's mind was Wondering About Something.

Slowly, still lost in thought, Sam pulled his laptop towards himself, and started searching for something.

"I'll be gone for a couple of hours," he announced, going to get his keys and wallet, "Keep an eye on the Gruesome Twosome for me. Oh, and if you get a chance, get that damned bell away from Dean."

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"It's an unusual request," admitted the pleasant, middle-aged lady who greeted Sam, "But, frankly, I've been asked stranger things in relation to my belief system." She gave him an appraising look. "You do understand that we do not worship the Devil, or Lucifer, or any other supernatural entity?" she asked him. "We use 'Satan' as a term to embody a philosophy, a model of behaviour, a desire to question. We don't thing of him as an individual, a being, an intelligent entity."

"I understand the basics of your philosophy," Sam told her, "But Jimi is a very… unusual dog, Magistra Lydia. I think that what you believe about your philosophy may not be the only factor here – I can't help wondering if what others believe about your philosophy may be involved, too."

"Oh, the eating babies, sacrificing virgins, bacchanalian orgies?" she laughed, and rolled her eyes. "Or is it sacrificing babies and eating virgins? The majority of us are too old, too busy and too tired for orgies. A lot of the time, it's all we can do to remember who's on the roster to bring a cake to have with the coffee."

He smiled. "I know it sounds strange," he agreed, "But, well, we're desperate, here. He's really in a lot of pain, poor thing." He showed her a photo of Jimi as a puppy on his phone, and her face broke into a grandmotherly smile.

"Oh, he is just gorgeous!" she cooed. The power of the Big Brown Eyes, and the double dose of Chick Magnet genes, worked their mojo even via the medium of digital photography. She made a decision. "If you think it might help the little fella, I'd be pleased to do a small ritual for you," she told him. "Come on through."

"Thank you so much, Magistra Lydia," smiled Sam, as she led him through to a room where a simple black altar was set up. She cleared her throat.

"You know, if we wanted to be really traditionalist about this," she said, a small grin on her face, "We'd have the naked human form serving as the altar…"

At the expression on his face, she took pity on him, and laughed. "But that's not essential," she reassured him. "Just put it on the altar there," she finished. He let out a sigh of relief, and placed the gallon jugs where she'd indicated.

Lydia disappeared briefly, and returned wearing a tall hat. "My Hat Of Office," the Priestess grinned. "One thing we do acknowledge, humans have a love of ritual, and dressing up. You can sit over there, I'll make it as official-sounding as I can." Sam thanked her and headed for the chair she'd waved at, as Magistra Lydia bowed to her altar, picked up an ornate knife, and began to recite.

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When he arrived back at the yard, Bobby was in the kitchen, looking pained.

"Whatever you're going to try, I hope it works, boy," he growled, as Sam busied himself with ice cube trays. "It's getting worse." A whining yelp from the sitting room backed up Bobby's statement. "Your brother's moved from pain-in-the-ass right through to plumb ornery. I tried to get that cow bell off him – the boy snarled at me! He's worse than a bitch guarding an injured pup!"

"I'm hoping this will work, Bobby," Sam told him, transferring trays to the freezer, "Right now, I think we'll just go with the washcloth as a stopgap." He soaked a washcloth from his jug, and headed for the sitting room.

Bobby had brought in the heavy artillery: Rumsfeld and Janis sat in the floor in front of the sofa, whuffing and offering what comfort they could as Jimi's teeth gave him grief.

"Where have you been?" glowered Dean, the darkness under his eyes accentuated by the paleness of the rest of his face.

"Following a hunch," answered Sam shortly, offering the washcloth to Jimi.

"That won't work, Sam," sighed Dean in exasperation, "He'll just shred it in ten seconds." Sam ignored him. Jimi sniffed the washcloth, then took it carefully in his mouth…

Something almost constituting a look of surprise crossed the dog's face, followed by a huge groaning sigh.

He sat up slightly, stretched luxuriantly, then settled comfortably back onto Dean's lap, washcloth held in his mouth. He yawned hugely – his four Hellhound canine fangs protruded briefly, then shot back in. He shut his mouth on the washcloth, humphed contentedly, wriggled to get comfortable, then settled. His mother and his sister licked his ears and whuffed to him reassuringly.

Thirty seconds later, Jimi was snoring blissfully, snuggling into the reassuring presence of his Alpha.

Sixty seconds later, the first lavender-scented Hellhound fart indicated just how relaxed he was.

Dean stared disbelievingly at the snoring dog sprawled across him. "I don't believe it," he whispered, stroking Jimi's fur, "I don't believe it. Whatever you did, it worked." He looked up at his brother. "What the hell did you do? What's on that washcloth?"

Bobby fetched them coffee, as Sam told them about his trip to visit a grotto of the Church of Satan, and how the grotto mistress Lydia had been totally captivated by Jimi's photo, and agreed to help. He left out the bit where he was invited to participate as the altar, though, because he knew that Dean would never let him forget about that bit. As it was, it was just one more thing to have nightmares about…

Bobby grunted in amusement. "Unholy water," he chuckled. "I never would've thought of that. I suppose it makes sense, in a way. Hellhound, creature of the Pit…"

"…And deemed to be unholy," finished Sam. "Church of Satan members may know they're not devil worshippers, but a lot more people think they are, and belief is a powerful thing." He smiled at the sleeping dog. "Apparently, just enough to help Jimi's teething pain."

Bobby had a thoughtful look on his face. "I wonder what else this stuff works on," he mused. "Maybe next time Feathers is hanging around, we can get him to have a look at this stuff, see what he thinks. Let him know we've got something interesting for him to see next time he visits, Dean… Dean?"

There was a sudden tenor counterpoint to Jimi's baritone snore; Dean had fallen asleep too.

"You know, that's almost as much as a relief as seeing Jimi nod off," grinned Bobby. Rumsfeld and Janis lay down next to the couch pressed against Dean's legs, clearly intent on a comfy puppy pile snooze. Jimi shifted slightly, yawned – half a dozen teeth extruded, then slid back out of sight – and resettled on Dean's lap.

"Wereflgl," mumbled Dean, smiling.

"I'll go get him a blanket," laughed Sam, getting up and heading out of the sitting room. "Right after I take a picture or two. Or Six."

"Hey, Sam," Bobby called softly to him. Sam turned and caught the object Bobby threw to him. It was the cow bell. "Just run out and drop that in the scrap, would you?"

What happens if you make fun of the Church of Satan? Does it mean you get sent to Heaven?

Every time you leave a review, Satanists eat Celine Dion in an alternative universe.