Chapter 3
Dean meant what he said. That evening, he sat on the shore of the lake with a rod, tackle box, icebox and ridiculous hat decorated with fishing paraphernalia, while Sam told him exactly how he felt about his big brother using himself as bait.
"Come on, who's going to believe you're fishing out here at this hour?" he asked.
"Anybody who sees this hat," answered Dean, baiting his hook, "Because wearing a hat this stupid, it's a universal sign for 'Do Not Disturb: Man Fishing'."
"Why are you the one who gets to decide to dangle himself as bait, Dean?" grumped Sam.
"Big brother's prerogative. Besides, I'm the one who's utterly irresistable," Dean smirked, batting his eyelashes. "And you don't like fishing. Anyway, if Fido is out on the prowl, he won't see me 'fishing', he'll see 'single human prey item in isolated area'." He breaks cover, we gank him. Easy."
"Yeah, easy," repeated Sam dubiously (the way that nuclear plant visitor might answer after the physicist says 'Look, in order to survive, all we have to do is dig a bunker, several miles deep, line it with metres of concrete and steel reinforcement, and connect a breathable air supply, all in the next few minutes before detonation'). "And it's my job to leap out of the bushes at the dramatic juncture in the narrative, and kill the damned thing before it actually tears you to pieces?"
"Exactly!" smiled Dean, casting his line. "If we're lucky, we might even have bass for breakfast. So don't just stand there, Francis, put Jimi in the car, and go find a bush to hide in. Actually, you'll probably need something bigger, at least 'shrub' or larger. Try not to rustle or pollinate suspiciously, or do anything a shrub wouldn't do after hours."
Jimi whined a little, and put a paw on Dean's knee – I don't like this, Alpha, be careful – then followed Sam back to the Impala. He turned the Big Brown Eyes on Sam, and settled mournfully on the back seat, chewing disconsolately at his pig toy.
"You should know better than to try Sammy Eyes on me," Sam laughed, patting him, "Now, you Stay. Stay in the car. Good boy." He left to take up his position behind a convenient tree, and scanned the surrounding woodland while his big brother 'fished'.
It might actually have been peaceful, thought Dean, sitting and fishing under a practically-full moon, if he wasn't also sitting and waiting for some giant supernatural monster to try to sneak up on him, tear him limb from limb and snack on his heart. He ignored a couple of bites on his line, not having the attention to spare to deal with landing a fish, and concentrated on paying attention to what the hair on the back of his neck was telling him.
Jimi was not happy. He didn't like being left behind when his Pack Hunted. He wasn't afraid to be alone – the Den was the safest place he knew, short of his Dam's Alpha's den – but he was almost grown, and he wanted to take his Place in the Pack. They hardly ever left him in the Den now, like they did when he was a pup, but sometimes he was told to STAY, and that meant no Crossing, staying put, and waiting for the Pack to return.
He whined a little to himself. He could smell something bad in this place. The woods stunk of it. His Alpha's posture anticipated it. He knew what that meant: his Alpha would Hunt with half his attention on the fight, and half on his Second. A pack had to watch for each other while hunting, but sometimes his Alpha had no regard for his own safety… Jimi wondered if he had ever sired any pups that survived: surely inheriting that utter disregard for your own welfare would be a fatal flaw in any animal?
He shook his head, humphed, and dropped his muzzle to his paws. He might not be Hunting, but he was going to play his role in this Hunt, by being a well-behaved junior member of his Pack and doing what he was told, and staying out of the way. That always earned him praise and approval. He lay quietly, idly monitoring the sounds and smells of the night.
A sudden gust of wind brought the scent of rain, damp earth, and... wrong.
He sat up, alert, and put his nose to the gap in the window. Wrong, wrong, wrong, something wrong was out there. Headed for his Pack.
He'd barely had time to register that, when another impression arrived.
Anger. Surprise. Rage. Hunger. And... no, no, no, he was sure they weren't expecting that!
Something red and hot bubbled in Jimi's mind, whispering, urging. Your Pack is attacked.
Protect your Hunters.
Anger. Surprise. Rage. Hunger. Blood.
His Alpha's blood.
His eyes crackling the angry red of hot coals, Jimi backed up, then bolted through the door of the Impala, heading for the lake faster than an ordinary dog should be able to move.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
They didn't have to wait nearly as long as either of them had feared – well before midnight, it came out of the trees, as quietly as mist. No snarling or slavering, just headed straight for Dean at superhuman speed. He barely had time to react to the horrified warning Sam yelled.
It was no taller than Dean, but every bit as horrific as what Bobby had described. With a single backhanded swipe it sent Dean flying across the sand, then dropped to its haunches for the final pounce and kill. The separation gave Sam time to get a couple of shots off, but as soon as it saw him, it was taking evasive action, moving impossibly fucking fast, how the hell was he supposed to draw a bead on that, then it was on Dean, and he'd lost his gun...
As the beast dropped its head for the killing bite, Dean shoved the stupid fishing hat into its mouth. It bit down on a hatful of lures, hooks and assorted pointy things. It dropped back, a look of almost comical surprise on its face, and let out a howl of pain. Sam took the opportunity to put two more shots into it, but it was moving again, and Dean was yelling something, and he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and...
Fuck, there wasn't supposed to be two of them!
The second werewolf was larger. Much larger. And angry. Seven feet walking upright, and not seeming much smaller as it dropped to all fours, snarling viciously to display canine fangs at least three inches long, it began a purposeful high-speed rush at Sam. He brought his gun up, but the thing was practically on top of him...
A black bullet, moving too fast to see properly, cannoned into the larger werewolf, knocking it off-course and causing it to let out an audible 'oof!' It rolled upright, shook itself, and searched out this new enemy.
Jimi didn't waste time with snarling or barking – this was not going to be settled by threat display. His momentum had carried him over the werewolf. He didn't slow down, circling back, teeth bared. He dodged the swipes of its clawed hands, and darted in to bite at its legs.
The wolf roared, and swiped again, but Jimi was gone, circling back again, a black streak with savage red eyes. He charged in for another hamstringing bite.
Seeing the smaller werewolf head for the treeline, Sam ran to where Dean was picking himself up.
"Where the fuck did that big bastard come from?" he asked, hauling Dean the rest of the way to his feet.
"Dunno, must've been watching Junior's back," his big brother replied. "Fuck me, these things are fast... what the hell is he doing?" he yelled, catching sight of Jimi. "Jimi! JIMI! Get the hell away from that thing!"
The werewolf snarled in frustration – it couldn't drop its attention from the dog that was trying to hamstring it, but Jimi was too quick to swipe: the razorlike claws swished through empty air again, as Jimi took another bite behind its hock, this time eliciting an angry yowl of pain.
The thing narrowed its eyes, calculating, and with Jimi's next rush, it suddenly dropped to all fours, and clamped its jaws onto his leg.
With a snarl that rivalled the werewolf's, Jimi twisted, and sank his teeth into its throat.
The werewolf let go, and howled, standing upright, but Jimi hung on, growling determinedly, biting harder into the thing's throat. It heaved, and thrashed, but Jimi clung to it, gripping tighter.
"Come on!" yelled Dean, scrabbling for his dropped gun, "Time this right!"
The werewolf was shaking itself, trying to dislodge the dog. Blood flew, and Jimi dug in harder. It's struggles were becoming weaker. On the next upswing, the Winchesters put several more shots into the massive body. It howled again, more plaintive this time, and dropped back to the ground, gasping for breath.
Jimi didn't let go until it had collapsed to the shore, sides heaving, and Dean ordered him back so he could put two shots in its head and two in its heart. In death, the monster reverted to human form, a well-built middle-aged man with hair just starting to grey.
Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. "Fuck me," he sighed, "Just... fuck me."
"Where's the other one?" asked Dean, scanning the treeline, "I'm pretty sure you winged it."
"Looks like it's gone," replied Sam, "Gone to ground. Damn."
"We'll have to come back for it," said Dean, sounding unhappy about the prospect.
"Right now, what we need to do is get you cleaned up," he indicated the claw marks gouging through Dean's shirt, "And check on Jimi. Come here, fella, let's have a look at you."
"Guess he didn't want to stay in the car," grinned Dean, scratching Jimi's ears, "It's lucky for us you didn't, isn't it? Yes it is! Yes it is!" Jimi grinned doggily at him, basking in the attention, while Sam checked his leg.
"It's hard to say – there's so much blood on him, I don't know what's his and what's Mr Fugly's," he pronounced, "We'll have to get him – and you – cleaned up to survery the damage."
"Look at that," grumped Dean, hissing as his own injuries stung when he moved, "He's not even limping. And this shirt was clean on this morning. Fishing is supposed to be relaxing. Come on, we got us a werewolf to dispose of."
"I've got a werewolf to dispose of," corrected Sam, "You're in no condition to dig. You keep watch – that other one is still out there."
"Sam," began Dean, "I'm fine, it's just superficial..."
"Argh!" barked Sam. "No arguments!"
"Don't do that!" demanded Dean.
"Don't do what?" asked Sam.
"That 'Argh!' noise thing," Dean specified, "That's the 'Argh!' noise you make when you catch Jimi doing something he shouldn't. That's your dominant-dog-correction noise. Don't make it at me, BABY brother."
"Well, stop acting like a puppy who needs to be taught how to behave, and I'll stop treating you like one," smiled Sam.
"Grrrrrrrrr," went Dean.
"Do what you're told, or I'll lock you in the car with Jimi." Sam grimaced as a sprinkling of rain fell. "Come on, let's do this before we get drowned."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Dean insisted that Jimi's injury be dealt with first when they emerged from the bathroom, Jimi wearing the mournfully martyred expression of dogs in every universe, plane of existence and theoretical altertative reality after they have been required to take a bath.
"How does it look?" asked Sam. Jimi squeaked his pig toy in an unconcerned fashion.
"I think we're both shaken but not stirred," answered Dean, "But if you absolutely insist on mother-henning us tomorrow, you can do it in a useful fashion, and bring pie."
"Cluck frigging cluck," muttered Sam, opening the first aid kit, "Those gashes need cleaning. Sit."
"Woof. Do I get a treat now?" snarked Dean, dropping into a chair.
"No, but if you don't behave, I'll smack you with a rolled-up newspaper."
"Ooooooh," purred Dean lewdly, "Mr Vanilla has a kink! Who knew?"
"Dean…"
"You've got the height to carry it off, too. Master Samuel, currently in session."
"Dean…"
"I'm not judging, Sam, in fact, if it gets you laid, I'm all for it. All you need is some leather pants OW!" The sting of disinfectant on one of the gashes across his torso made Dean jump. "Hey, I'm not one of your paying clients, knock it off!"
"For you Dean," smirked Sam, "I'm happy to do it for free."
"Although there was this one girl in Nevada, Sherry, her name was, yeah, and her working name was Mistress Alexandra, and she had the most amazing set-up in her back room, and…"
"Okay, I'll get the stitches done now," said Sam, giving his brother a shot of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk).
"… the bed had all these… what?" Dean's train of thought derailed, jumping the points at the junction between the Libido Line and Sam Central. "These don't need stitches."
"Not those gashes Dean – I'm going to sew your mouth shut."
"Jealous bitch."
"Kinky jerk."
Jimi was already settled on his blanket when the Winchesters made ready for bed.
"We'll have to come up with another plan tomorrow, find that other one," remarked Dean. "The rain's getting heavier," he added.
"We'll have to see if it goes to ground. At any rate, it knows it's being hunted, damn it." Sam checked the laptop before shutting it down. "Looks like there's some thunderstorm activity headed this way," he told his brother, "So if you wake up with a frightened furry extra guest in your bed, don't be surprised."
"Stay out of my bed, Sammy, no matter how scared you get," Dean instructed. Sam flipped him off.
The first distant rumble of thunder sounded, and Jimi picked up his head, ears dropped, eyes large and anxious as he whined a little. Dean smiled at him.
"Hey, you took down an old-school werewolf, how can you be scared of thunder?" he said. Jimi cranked the Sammy Eyes up another notch. Dean could never resist those. "Oh, all right," he relented, "Come on."
Jimi slunk across the room and jumped onto Dean's bed, curling into a tight ball and tucking his nose under his tail. Dean knew that if the thunderstorm got closer, Jimi would hide under the covers. "If it gets any worse, just don't set the sheets on fire, okay?" he whispered, patting the dog's head reassuringly. Jimi let out a contented huff.
The rain beat a steady, soporific tattoo against the windows, and the Winchester Pack were soon asleep.
Sam was right, though. A short time later, the storm passed much closer to the motel, and Jimi yelped and shot under the bedclothes. There was a snort of laughter from Sam's bed. Dean barely stirred, offered the dog a reassuring pat, and went back to sleep.
Jimi settled quickly. No matter how scary the noises of the storm were, he always felt better when he denned with his Alpha. His Alpha's warm, solid presence made him feel safe and protected, and he would always comfort him when the noises became too scary. He curled against him, letting out a relieved whuff. His leg was a little bit sore after his fight with the Wolf – he'd Hunted it with his Pack, just like an adult! – but the approval and adoration of his Pack more than compensated for it. He leaned in close to his Alpha, and slept contentedly.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Dean dreamed of thunderstorms from a long time ago:
…Rain and wind beating against cheap glass and thin walls, draughts finding ways in through neglected cracks, loud thunder crashing overhead, a pair of frightened eyes appearing at his bedside – Sammy eyes. Sam, so much smaller, so scared of the lightshow, and the noise that rattled the tiles. He pulled back the covers, let his brother into his bed, felt the smaller figure clutch at his shirt anxiously. He felt the smaller body shake with fear, and put his arm around it, muttering soothing shushings and stroking shaggy hair until the shaking stopped, and the small form went back to sleep, the noise no longer frightening, but now a steady, calming patter against the windows… The sound and the warmth were restful; he curled contentedly against his brother, and slept…
The rain had mostly cleared when he woke, grey tendrils of reluctant daylight pushing through the thin curtains. He yawned and stretched, wincing a little at the pull from the gashes across his ribs, and looked down at the lump in the bed beside him. He grinned to himself: poor Jimi. Half-hellhound and half Rottie, heading for a hundred and fifty pounds, taker-down and choker-out of werewolves on steroids, and afraid of storms. He wondered if other dogs would tease him about it. Probably not, he decided: Jimi was the sort of dog who got on well with other dogs – he made friends easily and could solicit play with anything else canine, from Mastiffs twice his size to yappy Pomeranians he could eat without chewing.
It wasn't until the lump under the covers stirred that Dean's hindbrain told him that something was… off.
"Hey, J-Man," he said, "Time to rise and shine, polish up our awesomeness and dazzle the world anew."
The lump squirmed briefly.
"Come on," Dean prompted, "Storm's gone, time to man up – or dog up – and get out of the people bed."
The lump twitched, and…
Something felt… wrong.
Dean's brain said something that couldn't be rendered easily, but might be represented as eio80q3*6iaery$iowdf2klfklgahas'kln&WTF?
His eyes rolled downwards.
He let out a shriek of bewilderment as… something touched him.
Touched him.
At the sound of his shriek, the lump under the covers jerked, and a very human hand appeared.
It was followed by a very human head, with an expression as confused as Dean's.
Dean let out another shriek of confusion, bewilderment and OMGsrslyWTF?
"Dean!" Sam was out of his own bed, gun in hand, staring with gaping mouth and bugging eyes at the scene in front of him.
"Guuuuuaaaaaaar?" he went.
It was not unusual for Dean to wake up with a stark naked somebody in his bed.
It was unusual for the stark naked somebody to be male, a teenager by the look of it, and… was the kid wearing a collar?
There was a moment of stunned silence as the three of them held still, waiting for the universe to stop pissing about and snap reality back into focus.
Then the naked kid in Dean's bed tentatively raised a hand, and put it on Dean's shoulder, speaking just one word in a confused tone.
"…Alpha?"