Chapter 2
Dean was poring over a map of the area around Devil's Lake while Sam shuffled post-it notes, pecked at the laptop, glared at the keyboard and humphed.
"It doesn't all quite fit," he announced despairingly, "It's almost, but not quite, werewolf. No attacks for months or years, then recently, disappearances several full moons in a row, corpses turning up with hearts missing, but not always. Then there's the reported sightings of a large dog. A decidedly canine-looking dog. a Mastiff maybe. One guy called it 'Like what you'd get if you crossed a German Shepherd with a Shetland pony with Arnold Schwarzenegger'..."
Dean looked up. "Wow," he commented, "That'd be an awesome threesome."
"...But 'feral dog pack' doesn't fit, either," finished Sam, giving Dean a shot of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often.)
"The attacks have been over a wide area," added Dean, "Right around the lake, and a couple of wildlife refuges to the north. And a nature reserve – it's a werewolf that likes fishing, maybe?"
"It's the first night of the full moon tomorrow, so we gotta figure this out before then," mused Sam. "I'm calling Bobby. He's got half a shelf of books on lycanthropic fuglies..." he glared at his collection of post-its again, and tapped at the laptop.
"I thought you were calling Bobby," said Dean.
"I am," replied Sam. "I'm Skyping him."
Dean looked worried. "Skyping?" he repeated. "Skyping? What the hell is 'skyping'? It doesn't sound like something normal men do, Sam."
"Don't be such a Luddite, Dean," humphed Sam, with a shot of Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk.)
"I'll have you know I've never ludded in my entire life," declared Dean a bit sniffily. "I like to think that I'm a broad-minded man who enjoys the intimate company of broad-minded women, but it sounds just as bad as skyping, which, I repeat, certainly doesn't sound like something you should be doing with a man who's practically a father to us."
"I suppose it's only fair that I be punished for my sins in this life, all things considered..." muttered Sam.
"It sounds like something that even informed mutually consenting adults with broad minds should be wary of," stated Dean primly.
"...but being sentenced to Life EnDeanment, I mean, really? Have I really been that evil?" Sam pleaded with the universe.
"Is it even legal in North Dakota?" asked Dean suspiciously, "They're largely Lutherans, up here..."
The connection established, and Bobby's face pulled into focus.
Dean stared at the screen. "Bobby?" he said, turning to his brother, "Is he on YouTube?"
"Of course not, ya idjit," Bobby rolled his eyes, "I'm in front of the computer. Hey, Sam," he started, then looked aside with a confused expression. "What's wrong with your brother?"
"I think the sudden deceleration after being dragged into the 21st century might have affected his brain," confided Sam.
Dean was still staring. "Hey, how can he see us? That's creepy." He waved a hand in front of the screen.
There's a webcam at the top of the screen. There." Sam pointed to the tiny glass spot.
"So, Sam, what can I do foraaaAAARGH!" Bobby let out a yelp as Dean peered closely at the webcam dot. "Jesus, boy, if I want to see the pimples up your nose, I'll let you know! Don't do that to a body!"
Sam pushed Dean out of the way and explained what he'd found to Bobby. "I need to pick your brain, Bobby," he said, "It doesn't all quite hang together for a werewolf, but I don't know what else it could be."
Bobby looked thoughtful. Finally, he spoke. "It doesn't hang together for a werewolf," he agreed, "Unless you're up against one from the old country."
"What do you mean,' the old country'?" queried Dean.
"Think if it as lingering cultural influences," continued Bobby. "North Dakota has a high proportion of people who are descendants of migrants from the Old North, Germanic and Scandinavian peoples," Bobby explained. "The werewolf has been a part of the folk tradition of those areas of the world for thousands of years, with good reason."
"So, I'm guessing that 'lingering cultural influences' doesn't mean that the fugly has a tendency to wear scarves on its head, practise strange folk dancing while wearing leather shorts, embarrass its pups by speaking its native tongue loudly in public and sending them to language school on Saturday mornings," said Dean.
"You're on the right track," Bobby told them, "They bred 'em big in the Old North. We're talking the six-foot-plus, goes on four legs or two, built like a brick shithouse, opposable thumbs hairy-assed humanoid lycanthrope. That geographical region produced a 'master race' long before some greasy-haired fascist midget with a toothbrush moustache tried it."
"That might explain the sightings," allowed Sam, "But how do the not-quite-werewolf bits fit with this?"
"Ah, this is where it gets interesting," said Bobby, in the same understated way that a physicist with Asperger's syndrome might point out a bank of flashing red lights and screaming klaxon alarms going off in the control room of a nuclear power plant going into meltdown and say, 'Watch this; this is where it gets interesting'. "Old breed werewolves are still bound to the full moon, but as they age, they can develop a certain limited... self-awareness. They can retain some basic cognitive function."
"How much is 'basic' cognitive function?" asked Sam, in the wary tone of a visitor asking the physicist with Asperger's syndrome 'So, this fireball, which will be large enough to vaporise all manmade structures and fuse the underlying ground into glass for several thousand square miles, exactly how hot will it get right here at ground zero?'.
"Enough to think before it acts," answered Bobby grimly, "Enough to plan an attack, lay an ambush, possibly even consider covering its tracks or avoiding detection."
"Fight smarter, not harder," put in Dean gloomily.
"Pretty much," added Bobby, nodding. "Depending on the age of the wolf, it may also turn on four days of the lunar month, if there's enough moonlight, depending on the moon's position in the ecliptic."
"All you have to do is tell me that it shoots death lasers out its eyes, farts nerve gas, and campaigns against pornography on its days off, and you've made my day," grumbled Dean, "So, how to we kill it?"
"Same way you kill any werewolf, but more carefully," Bobby told him. "Where's Jimi?"
Jimi had been sitting by Dean, cocking his head and listening attentively from the moment he heard the sound of his Dam's Alpha's voice. On hearing his name, he jumped up, put his feet in Dean's lap (provoking a startled yelp of "Hey, mind the merchandise!") and stared at the laptop, looking for the voice.
"He's right here, compromising Dean's capacity to father children," smiled Sam, as Jimi cocked his head in confusion.
"Wow, he's grown," breathed Bobby.
"He's a hundred and twenty-five, and Dr Wooley says he's not finished yet," Sam added.
Jimi whined, left to retrieve his squeaky pig toy, and returned to stare at the laptop again, provoking another anguished squawk from Dean.
"Aaaaaaah, bad touch! Bad touch!" trilled the elder Winchester, gingerly repositioning the dog's paws.
"You'd best leave him out of this one," Bobby told them firmly, "He's gonna be a fine animal when he's grown up, but he'd best sit this one out."
"Hey, he can handle himself on a Hunt," Dean defended loyally, "He's strong, he's game, nothing scares him… as long as there's no thunderstorm activity, anyway…"
"…And his body, and more importantly brain, are still growing up," answered Bobby, frowning. "He's still a teenager – pushing boundaries, acting impulsively, and still learning the focus he'll need as an adult."
"I was covering my Dad's ass on Hunts when I was a teenager," countered Dean. Jimi didn't help his case by squeaking enthusiastically at his blue pig toy.
"Your Daddy, utter idjit and miserable excuse for a father that he was, would never have taken you after one of these," Bobby said sternly. "There'll be plenty of time for him to Hunt the Big Bads with you when he's got his full weight, and his mind is matured. You just let him become an adult before you expect him to behave like one."
"Bobby's probably right, Dean," Sam ventured, "You have to admit, Jimi does get a bit, well, excited sometimes."
"He's just… enthusiastic about his working life," Dean muttered.
"Which is good," Sam agreed quickly, "But it's not always the most, er, efficient and unobtrusive way to take care of business. Like, that witch in Illinois? Cursing the food in that steakhouse? Making the house specialty grills explode on customers' plates?""
"He did a marvellous job!" declared Dean, "He defused the entire stock of cursed steaks while we dealt with the witch!"
"Dean, he didn't so much 'defuse' the cursed steaks as subjected them to 'contained detonation' – he ate the lot," corrected Sam, "We can only be thankful that apparently, a half-hellhound's stomach is made of the same stuff as his balls. You were the one who complained bitterly about the smell in the Impala for a week – you know what steak does to his digestion, pure ylangylang. And what about that revenant in Kentucky?"
"Jimi helped us gank him," stated Dean.
"Yeah. First of all, Jimi helped him dig himself all the way out, then he helped us gank him," finished Sam.
"He buried him again afterwards!" said Dean hotly.
"Yes, but not back in his grave, Dean…"
"What about that Leshii he picked?" demanded Dean, "We'd never have spotted it!"
"Dude, it made itself look like Rin Tin Tin, and Jimi humped it!"
"He distracted it long enough for us to identify it and deal with it," Dean asserted, "Just like he did with that demon in Minneapolis!"
"Oh, yeah," nodded Sam, "Fortunately, he only pantsed four people in the process, including a police officer."
"Three people, and one demon," snapped Dean.
"The thing is," cut in Bobby, "If you are after ye olde worlde werewolf, there won't be room for Jimi's youthful hijinks. These things are big, fast, and deadly. You'll have your hands full worrying about each other without having to keep an eye out for himself. Give him another six months, and he'll be up for it, but not yet."
"The attacks have been happening every full moon for several months," said Sam, "Some of the people here can't wait six months for the dog to finish growing up. He has to stay in the car, Dean."
"Yeah, you're probably right," sighed Dean, pushing the dog off his lap, and ruffling his ears. "I mean, if this thing happens to be a female, we don't want him getting in the way, trying to get better acquainted."
"There's that too," agreed Bobby. "Don't mess around with this thing. Plug it with silver, and get out. You idjits be careful."
"Yes, Bobby," they chorused as the connection ended.
"We'll have to go trolling tonight," Sam mused, "Some attacks have been on the night before the three days of the full moon…"
"We head for the north-east bit of the lake," Dean said, reaching for the map, "The attacks have kind of drifted in that direction over the past months."
"So, how do we go fishing for a werewolf?" asked Sam.
"Easy," smiled Dean, "I just go fishing."
Thank you, dear, incorrigible reviewers, for your feedback. If there's no chocolate available, fanfic reviews are a pretty good substitute (and considerably less fattening). I hope you know, every time you leave a review, a hellhound pantses a demon. In a public place. In a really embarrassing fashion.
I learned that Yanks call it 'pantsing' from 'The Big Bang Theory' (Downunder, we call it 'dacking'). That show is very educational, but I'm getting sick of people telling me "You know you're Sheldon, right?"