OMGOMG so many reviews for one chapter OMGWTFBBQ! You are all so naise! *sniff* You give me a happy. WAAAAAAAAAH!
I am trying for a plot with this one, fair dinkum, but work in the real world gets in the way and distracts me, you know how it is. Oh, and people keep shooing PLOT BUNNIES in my direction, curse you! (Elf, I really don't know if I could possibly even cope with the mention of mpreg in a story, let alone get Sam and Dean to explain it. In Castielsh. Look, I've broken out in a rash just typing the m-word. You really do have to separate the boy bunnies and girl bunnies...)
Oh, yeah - a profile avatar: I has one! But I warn you, put on your tinfoil hat if you want to look at it, because your brain might asplode from the cyoot.
Chapter 5
"Okay, we're going to eat like humans," explained Dean, watching Jimi in the mirror. "It means you have to sit down, at a table, and not face-plant into your breakfast like you usually do."
"I will eat Upright prey? Human kibble?" asked Jimi eagerly, fiddling with the window winder.
"Yeah, but you gotta watch Sam – Second – and me to see how humans do it."
"Will there be... bacon?" Jimi's mouth fell open in awe at the very idea.
"If you like," smiled Sam, "But like Dean says, you have to watch, and learn."
"Yes, Second," said Jimi obediently, "I submit." Then he began bouncing on the seat. "Bacon bacon bacon bacon bacon!"
"Yup, he's just like you," smirked Sam as the Impala pulled into a diner's parking lot.
A waitress with decidedly pneumatic assets, long legs and a short skirt took their order. Dean deployed the Killer Smile with his order – she giggled, and turned to Jimi.
"What can I get you, handsome?" she asked him.
"Bacon!" he replied immediately, with a huge smile. He paused, and sniffed deeply. "You smell good. You rolled in something interesting." He gazed up at her adoringly, as Sam swallowed a snort of laughter and Dean gave her a desperate grin.
Fortunately, she saw the funny side. "I guess you got your charm from your Daddy as well as your looks, sweetie," she told him. Dean stifled a splutter as he finished the order, and Sam let the laugh out.
"Jimi," muttered Dean as she left their table, "Humans don't roll in things. That was probably the smell of the kitchen on her uniform."
"She does smell good, though, doesn't she?" Jimi continued enthusiastically, "Receptive." He studied Dean carefully, and sniffed at him. "You think so, too. You want to mate with her. Will you mate with her tonight?"
Sam let his head fall to the table, shoulders shaking. "Well, 'Daddy'?" he asked, "Answer the boy."
Dean bared clenched teeth at Sam. "When this is over, you are SO dead," he hissed, before turning back to Jimi. "Well, I might get her number, and see if she's interested..."
"She is," said Jimi casually, as if describing a weather forecast, "What's a 'Daddy'?"
"... and maybe we'll go to a bar or something... what?" Dean's brain, off kilter from one awkwardly blunt question, waved its arms wildly in a desperate attempt to avoid falling over entirely.
"It's a human word," Sam told him, "Another word for the, er, Alpha of a pack. Daddy – Dad. Father. Sire."
Jimi regarded Dean seriously. "You did not mate with my Dam," he announced.
Sam clamped his mouth shut, and let out a strangled squeaking noise.
"No, no, that's true, I didn't," Dean agreed, his brain giving up and just tucking its arms in and trying to roll out of the fall.
"As a human, an Upright, you do look a lot like him," said Sam, "And it might be a good idea to pretend that he is. You can't go calling us 'Alpha' and 'Second' in front of other humans."
"Why?" asked Jimi with his guileless expression, "It is how a pack works. It is the way of things."
"Yes," Sam tried to explain, "But human packs – families – work differently. There are different words. You should call Alpha, Dean, 'Dad'."
"No he shouldn't!" Dean shot back, looking alarmed, but it was too late.
"Dad. Dad. Daaaaaaad. Dadadadad," went Jimi, testing the word out. "Dad!" he smiled widely again, seemingly satisfied with the new terminology. Dean shot a death-ray glare at Sam, who smiled back angelically.
"He does have your looks," Sam pointed out, "And your no-frills approach to dealing with the opposite sex."
"Yeah, thanks for that, Uncle Sammy," snarked Dean.
"I like the idea of being an uncle," mused Sam, "All the fun, and none of the consequences..."
"Sam..."
"Uncle Sammy!" piped up Jimi happily.
"Sneak him beer when you're not looking..."
"Sam..."
"Or maybe just fill him up with Red Bull and candy, then give him back..."
Their food arrived before Dean could threaten to do anything that would compromise Sam's ability to have his own children some day, and set to trying to teach Jimi the rudiments of eating like a human.
Knife and fork weren't that difficult, but getting him to drink his orange juice without lapping and slurping at it proved difficult. He coughed and spluttered.
"It's choking meeeeee!' he complained, after spitting out a mouthful back into the glass then lapping at it again.
"Okay, we'll have to work on that," muttered Dean. Jimi sniffed curiously at his coffee.
"What's that?" he asked. "You have that all the time."
"It's coffee," Sam told him.
"Can I have some?" asked Jimi.
"NO!" chorused the Winchesters.
Their waitress returned to clear their plates. "So, what do you boys have planned for today?" she asked pleasantly.
"Oh, we have a Hunt to finish," Jimi replied in a matter-of-fact tone, "And Dad will probably end up mating with you."
"Really?" she smiled, as Sam suddenly found something utterly fascinating to study on the ceiling, and Dean's mouth dropped open.
"Yes," continued Jimi, "I'll get another room with... Uncle Sammy. He doesn't mate. And I'm not allowed, though I'd like to. Or we'll wait in the Den."
"Oh, sweetie," she told him, "I have no intention of doing anything that would get you thrown out of your room, that's mean of your Daddy."
"It's because I jump on the bed," Jimi confided gloomily, "Females don't like it if I jump on the bed while they're mating. Especially if I try to lick them, or sniff their..."
"No, I'm sure they don't," she said, eyeing Dean curiously. He gulped, and gave her a despairing shrug.
"Maybe you could lead him back to your den, and mate with him there?" Jimi asked, big soulful eyes looking up at her hopefully.
Sam cleared his throat. "You'll have to excuse my nephew," he said apologetically, "He's a good boy, he just has... Doingo Syndrome, a condition on the autism spectrum. It means he doesn't have the same sort of filters on his behaviour and speech that most people learn as they become cognisant of social conventions – he can't do the 'self censorship' that the rest of us learn as being polite, or discreet."
Understanding dawned on her face. "Ah," she said, "I have a little cousin with Asperger's. He's a bit like your boy here. Although, I must say, not as charming as this one."
"That's our Jimi," smiled Sam, putting an arm around the teen's shoulders, "We love him just the way he is." Jimi leaned contentedly on Sam's arm.
"Yeah," echoed Dean faintly, "Wouldn't have him any other way, no more legs required..."
"You do smell good, though," Jimi told her.
"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, clearly trying to stifle laughter.
"Pie!" Jimi burst out. "Can we have pie, Dad?"
Dean frowned at Jimi. "You've just had breakfast... son..." he told him.
Jimi turned on the Big Brown Eyes. "Daaaaaaaaaad," he whined, as if he'd been sixteen forever.
"Jimi..."
"Daaaaaaaaaaad," whined Sam, grinning.
"Fine," growled Dean, "Pie. Pie all around for the whiny little bitches."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Well slap my ass and call me Shirley," said Bobby, removing his ever-present hat and scratching his head as Sam explained what had transpired, then pulled Jimi into view front of the laptop.
"Dam-Alpha!" bubbled Jimi happily.
"Unbelievable," breathed Bobby incredulously, "Unbe-fucking-lievable. If you hadn't just filled me in, Sam, I'd assume that you're idjit brother had pissed off a witch. Dean, he's the spittin' image of you at about sixteen, except for the eyes."
"Yeah, so I've been told," Dean answered crankily. Bobby narrowed his eyes.
"You aint been out in the yard doin' anything, you know, unnatural with Rumsfeld, have you, because the resemblance is bordering on creepy..."
"Bobby!" shrieked Dean in a horrified tone.
"I'm just sayin'," Bobby finished.
"Perhaps we can theorise about Dean's possible bestiality proclivities later," suggested Sam, provoking an outraged squawk from Dean, "Right now, we have to worry about getting Jimi back to his normal flatulent four-legged self."
"Well, I've never heard of a dog getting bit by a werewolf, and turning into a werehuman," Bobby told them, "But then again not many Hunters train dogs up, and I've never heard of what happens if a hellhound gets bit. With Jimi, and his sisters, too, we're really in unknown territory here. Like the balls of steel."
"Plus, we still have the Young werewolf to deal with here," Sam reminded them.
"You wanna bring him back here and work on this?" asked Bobby. "It's okay, Dean," he added generously, with a grin, "I'll understand completely if you feel out of your depth handling a teenage version of yourself for a few days..."
"Hey!" protested Dean, "I will have you know that I am totally capable of dealing with a teenager – again," he said, shooting an expression that came perilously close to being a bitchface at Sam, "And Sam's right, we have a werewolf to deal with here. Jimi will behave himself for a few more days, and then we can sort this out," he finished, "Right, Jimi?"
"Yes, Dad," Jimi smiled, hugging Dean again and doing his wiggle-dance, much to Bobby's amusement.
"Well, I'll see what I can dig up, there may be someone I can ask," he told them, "Meanwhile, there's something I'll need you to get for me, Sam."
"Sure, Bobby," Sam replied, "What do you need?"
"Photographic evidence, boy," Bobby smiled hugely, "And plenty of it!"
"You can count on me, Bobby," grinned Sam, as Dean squawked in outrage again.
"I totally hate you both so much," he growled.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"There's at least a dozen medical clinics, but bullet wounds would need hospital treatment," mused Sam. "Gunshot wounds are reportable, and a shooting injury would make the local news at the very least, especially if it was a kid, as Jimi thinks."
Dean was poring over the map again. "If it was a juvenile, being, what, taught? Guided? Mentored? It might've been the adult trying to be discreet, keep their hunting as low profile as possible. Any reports of middle-aged men gone missing?"
"No, but that would be easier to cover," replied Sam. "You could just say that he'd been called away on a family emergency, or a business trip, or gone on vacation, or come down with some chronic illness... if there is some deliberate effort to keep this quiet, whoever is involved may make a point of not drawing attention to the juvenile."
"So, one dead unidentified old-school werewolf, and one juvenile out there somewhere," humphed Dean. "I wonder if they were related?" A thought struck him, and he turned to his new teenaged charge. "Jimi, could you tell... oh God, not again..."
Jimi lounged contentedly on the sofa, chewing on his squeaky pig toy, wearing nothing but a happy expression. Again. "Alph - Dad?" he asked, looking up attentively.
"How the hell does he do that?" sighed Dean, noticing that Jimi had managed to get his shoes off first this time. "I take my eyes off him for two minutes..."
"It must be a dog detection-avoidance thing," replied Sam, "Like he used to do as a puppy, you know, go into Stealth Mode when he wanted to do something he shouldn't – when it went too quiet, we knew he was headed for the trash, or lining up to crap behind the sofa, or abducting socks."
Jimi, you're naked," observed Dean, "What did we say earlier about clothes?"
"That Uprights – humans have wear them when they go outside," replied Jimi promptly, looking pleased with himself for remembering this lesson.
"Uprights wear them all day, because they have no fur," Dean corrected. "Jeez, you could at least leave your shorts on."
"Why?"
"Because I told you to," answered Dean shortly.
"But Dad..." began Jimi.
Sam grinned. "He even sounds like you did," he told Dean.
"Just do it, Jimi," growled Dean, "You put your clothes back on, right now, young man!"
"Why?" Jimi asked again.
"Because nobody wants to look at your junk!" burst out Dean. "It's creepy and pervy and wrong! Get dressed!"
"I submit," sighed Jimi, in the put-upon tone of teenagers everywhere who have been told 'You Are Not Going Anywhere Dressed Like That'.
"Jimi," Sam asked as Dean helped him get his shoes back on, "Can you tell us anything about the Young werewolf from last night?"
Jimi thought briefly. "A male Young," he answered. "You wounded him. He left when you killed his Alpha."
"That was his Alpha?" Dean looked up.
"Yes. His sire. His Dad. He was upset. He felt sick. But he left by himself, " Jimi finished, looking sadly down at his pants-clad legs. "He was naked outside," he added, with a trace of resentment.
"That's because werewolves are monsters," Dean told him, "They're cursed, ravening, blood-crazed monsters, who do unforgivably dreadful things, like kill people, tear their hearts out, and run around with no clothes on. If he told you to jump off a cliff, would you want to do that, too?"
"He wouldn't tell me to do that," Jimi pointed out, "Because if we met again, we'd fight, not talk."
"Don't answer back," Dean said sharply, "That's an order."
Jimi lapsed into silence.
Dean turned back to Sam. "What the hell are you grinning about, Aunty Samantha?" he demanded.
"Me?" asked Sam in a surprised voice. "Me? I'm not grinning, I'm just sitting here, trying to find any reports of missing men or gunshot-wounded teenage boys, and being impressed by your totally awesome parenting skills."
"I will take this opportunity to remind you both that neither of you is too big to be put across my knee," Dean rumbled.
"Master Dean, currently in session," muttered Sam. Dean glared at him. "Jimi, if you met the Young werewolf in his human form, would you recognise him?"
"Of course," replied Jimi, "By his scent. Wouldn't you?"
"Er, no," Sam explained, "Humans – that is, real humans, like me and Dean – don't have a very good sense of smell compared to a dog. Generally, we can't recognise other humans by smell."
"Oh," said Jimi in a small voice full of compassion. "That's sad."
Sam looked thoughtful. "I'll keep at it with the info search – give me that map and your notes – you could go out and, you know, do your social animal thing, mingle with the locals, check out the local purveyors of pie, and see if Jimi can find anything. It's a long shot, but at this point, it's really all we have to go on until moonrise tonight."
Dean sighed heavily. "Oh, the things I do for this job," he complained, "Spending the day roaming from one place to another, eating pie and checking out the talent. I don't get paid enough. What do you think, J-Man? Feel like going out to eat some pie, check out some bitches and, er, generally sniff some butt?"
Jimi's face lit up. "That sounds... awesome, Dad!" he said, doing his wiggle-dance.
"Okay, I just need to talk to Uncle Sammy about this, you go use the bathroom, like I showed you," Dean grabbed the map, and started pointing out the patterns he'd identified.
The handover took longer than he'd expected, both Winchesters getting distracted with possible plans for backtracking and attempting to find the werewolf's home. Dean suddenly looked up.
"Is he still in the bathroom?" he said, largely to himself.
"It's awfully quiet in there," noted Sam.
Dean knocked on the bathroom door. "Everything okay in there, Jimi?" he called.
"Oh, yeah, Dad, yeah," Jimi answered in a breathy tone.
Dean's face drained of colour. "No, no, tell me he's not..."
Sam raised his hands in surrender. "You're on your own, Dad," he told his brother. He turned back to the laptop, trying desperately not to laugh.
The conversation drifting out of the bathroom was something he would take to his grave.
"JESUS CHRIST JIMI STOP THAT!"
"Oh, Dad, it's awesome..."
"STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"
"But it feels really..."
"I DON'T CARE! YOU STOP THAT!"
"But Uprights can't lick it..."
"JIMI! You stop that RIGHT NOW or I SWEAR I'll CUT IT OFF!"
"Why? You do it. I hear you and smell you."
"WHAT?"
"When Uncle Sammy is away casting, or asleep. You do it. When you're in the water."
"That's irrelevant! GET YOUR HAND OFF IT! AND GET IT BACK IN YOUR PANTS!"
"Yes, Dad... ow, that's really uncomfortable!"
"I DON'T CARE! DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT AGAIN!"
"But, but, what about when I want to... go outside?"
"DON'T GET SMART WITH ME, BOY!"
Dean emerged from the bathroom with Jimi in tow, wearing a murderous expression.
"If you say a fucking word, I will break your legs, slit your face, tear your guts out through your ass and cut your hair off," he growled at Sam as they passed.
"Not a peep, bro," replied Sam, not even looking up from his laptop.
As soon as they'd left, he dived onto his bed and buried his face in the pillow, screaming into it with laughter until he thought his ribs might bust.
Then he dialled up Bobby again.
After taking a moment to arrange the lotion, tissues and wet wipes prominently on Dean's bed.
Wearing clothes is not compulsory when writing reviews, but keeping your underwear on is a nice touch.