I have not fired a weapon for 20 years, but I swear, if you people don't stop with the plot bunnies, the voices in my head are telling me to go dig up the stuff that's supposed to stay secret until the Zombie Apocalypse...
Chapter 7
"Dean, I'm making the looky-talky interwebs computer juju," reported Sam, hovering over the laptop.
"Aw, Saaaaaam," complained Dean around a mouthful of high-fat refined-carb snack food, "We've got a Rin Tin Tin marathon happening here!" He and Jimi lounged on the sofa, bags of unhealthy crunchy foodstuffs strewn around. Jimi was entranced by the television. "He's about to ambush the leopard before it attacks Rusty!"
Sam paused. "There are no leopards in Arizona, Dean, they're found in sub-Saharan Africa."
Dean frowned at the TV. "It looks like a leopard."
clackity-clackity-tap-tap. "It's a mountain lion." Tap-tap-tap-tap.
"No, really," Dean insisted, "It's got spots."
Tap-tap-tap-clackity-tap. "Dean, if it's in Arizona, it's a mountain lion."
"Are you saying mountain lions get acne? It's a leopard."
TAP-TAP-CLACK-CLACK. "Dean, it is a fucking mountain lion."
"Or a leopard that escaped from a zoo."
Sam gave his brother a glare of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Rin Tin Tin was set around 1880, and there were no zoos in Arizona then."
"Maybe it came from another state, got into a rail car and accidentally ended up in…"
CLACK-CLACK-THUNK "DEAN!" barked Sam. "It – is – a – mountain – LION!"
Jimi pointed at the screen. "I've mated with one of those!" he declared excitedly.
Sam allowed himself a small smug smirk in his brother's general direction. "See? Told you. A mountain lion."
Dean sighed heavily. "Okay, okay, this round to you, Professor Sasquatch." He looked thoughtful. "I've mated with a few cougars myself…"
Sam marvelled at the restorative powers of junk food, and the one track nature of what passed for Dean's mind. "Just half an hour ago, your brain was melting down," he observed.
"It's a miracle – all hail the Mighty God Potato Chip!" grinned Dean with another crunch. "Plus, Jimi and I have had a little father-son talk about, you know, stuff, including the etiquette of Special Times, haven't we Jimi?"
"Yes, Dad," replied the teen, copying Dean's action of stuffing chips into his mouth a handful at a time.
"Why does that not reassure me in the least," muttered Sam. as the connection established.
"Hey, Sam," an accented voice drifted from the speakers, "Bobby tells me you fellas might have a bit of a… situation with Jimi."
"Hi, Ronnie," Sam answered pleasantly. "You could say that. Bobby says you're his go-to guru for Old North werewolves…"
"Wow, a guru, huh? I need to get some minions, and go 'Ommmm' a bit more often." The scarred face grinned as Sam called to his brother, "Dean, come talk to the nice werewolf guru, and be civil."
"I don't get paid enough to do civil to that big-noting, know-it-all, showy-offy assbutt," Dean griped.
"Come on out Dean, don't be shy, little guy, we won't hurt you, will we, Joni?" A Rottweiler, smaller and with a finer-boned face than Jimi, popped her head into view, grinning a cheerful doggy grin.
Dean squared his shoulders and sat down next to Sam. "Veronica Shepherd," he said, not so much smiling as baring his teeth. "Frightened any small children lately?"
"Dean Winchester." The long scar running the length of the face on the monitor puckered as the mouth turned up into an amused smile. "Shot any good books lately?" she asked him.
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It was partly Bobby's fault, thought Sam. He insisted on regarding Rumsfeld's pups as furry grandchildren. He took great pride in the achievements of Jimi and Joni, which wouldn't have been a problem, if Joni hadn't given him so much to brag about, and Dean hadn't taken every achievement of Jimi's litter-sister as a personal slight on Jimi and his own dog-training progress.
At four months old, Joni was, on command, lighting up salted and fuel-doused graves, with accurately aimed hellhound peeing. Jimi, not quite in total control of his capacity for incendiary excretion, was setting fire to Sam's shirts when he got excited, or Dean's bedclothes (and on a couple of memorable occasions, shorts) when he was cowering from a thunderstorm.
Before she turned six months old, Joni tackled a turned rugaru. Jimi dug up his first grave – unfortunately, this had the effect of assisting the revenant who was trying to get out of it.
At seven months, Joni brought down her first vampire. Jimi brought down his first hang-glider.
At eight months, Joni killed her first shapeshifter. Jimi killed his first (and only, the Winchesters hoped) sofa.
Just short of her first birthday, Joni had scared a demon right out of its host – and she'd done it in the middle of a thunderstorm. Jimi had chased a curious pigeon out of the Impala, scaring the crap right out of it. Literally. He had done it in the middle of a shitstorm. Literally.
Joni had not yet had sex with a police horse, a stud bull, a mountain lion, or a full-blood hellhound – Jimi had. Dean liked to point this out frequently.
Bobby seemed happily oblivious to Dean's murderous expression whenever he read choice bits from Ronnie's emails, or printed out another picture of Joni – his absolute favourite was the one of her just after she'd disabled a wendigo by tearing its arms off: she stood over its corpse, dancing eyes glowing like red embers, tail waving happily, with one of its limbs in her mouth.
The fact that Bobby was equally effusive the first time Jimi spent all day in the car without needing a puke stop, or the first time that Jimi spent all night indoors without having to Go Outside, didn't seem to help much. Dean was the adoring parent who did not appreciate any reminder that his own child was more 'Special Needs' than 'Accelerated Learning'.
They'd only met Ronnie and Joni, back at Bobby's, once since she'd left the yard. Bobby had fussed happily over the 'granddaughter' he saw least frequently, and Ronnie had demonstrated Joni's range of 'Fetch' vocabulary: knife, gun, shotgun, salt, water, bag, blanket, rope, key, torch. Dean had been primed to dislike them both, but when Joni had demonstrated 'beer' – and the damned animal had actually gone to the refrigerator, fetched a beer, closed the damned door and brought it back, he'd decided that loathing her Hunter was going to be his new hobby.
It had all gone downhill from there, really.
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Well, isn't this off to a promising start, thought Sam. as he filled Ronnie in on the case background and events since Dean's evening fishing trip.
""Wow," she said, finally, when Sam finished, "Just… wow. You have anything to add, Dean?"
"Only that if he hadn't left the car and come after us, we'd probably be dead," he growled at her.
"Good thing he had the sense to come help, if not to stay out if the wolf's way," she commented. "So, where is my second-favourite half-hellhound in the whole world? Jimi!"
At the sound of his name, Jimi looked up, and bounded over to the table. He peered at the screen and his face lit up. "Sister!" he cried happily, spraying corn chip crumbs, "Sister-Alpha!" He uttered a short and very canine bark; Joni cocked her head, and woofed back.
"Holy crap," breathed Ronnie, "That's… creepy. In an amazing way. He looks so much like you, Dean…"
"He's just lucky, I guess," smirked Dean.
"… I'm not surprised that Bobby wondered if you'd been bonking Rumsfeld…"
"You're just jealous," he sniffed dismissively.
"Oh, puh-lease, Gorgeous George, I don't do youngsters like you, especially when they're so much prettier than me," she said airily, "So, he definitely got bitten?"
"Absolutely," confirmed Sam, whie the Living Sex God seethed at being called 'pretty' and so casually dismissed, "The teeth marks are visible on his arm."
Ronnie looked thoughtful. "I'm only theorising here," she told them, absently petting Joni's ears, "But this is new territory – it must be tied up with his hellhound heritage. I've seen ordinary dogs get bitten by these things – if they survive, they don't turn, um, werehuman? Crap, I don't even know if that's a real word…"
"It's the one we've been using," Sam sympathised.
"I think you fellas are on the right track," she continued. "The previous pattern suggests an older wolf, with enough self-awareness to try to stay under the radar, or take steps to keep himself out of trouble, maybe lock himself in somewhere, avoid hunting during the change when he can, try to take victims who won't be missed. Not easy – it's like a vampire trying to abstain from blood - but it can be done. If you have back-up – family maybe, who know about your unfortunate monthly excess body hair problem – so much the better if they help.
"Now, let's say something happens, something goes wrong, and a teenager gets bitten. So, now there's a Young to deal with – his son, Jimi says, and I'd trust his nose. He wouldn't have developed any self-awareness, so come full moon, he wolfs out, and is uncontrollable. Maybe the containment procedures didn't work, maybe he got out – maybe the Elder took a decision to let him get it out of his system, in a coverable way, until he could learn some control himself. If they weren't related, the Elder would just kill the Young, if he thought the Young was likely to draw unwanted attention." She paused. "If this pattern goes back far enough, it might even cross another generation. This could be the third, or fourth, in the line."
"So, what happens tonight?" Sam asked, "If the Young wolf has no 'mentor' to watch over him? He breaks the pattern completely, goes nuts without a responsible adult to watch him?"
"If you winged him with silver, I can guarantee that he won't prowl tonight," she said, "If it hasn't killed him by now, he'll feel as sick as, er, well, a dog. His instincts will tell him to hole up, at least for tonight."
"How the hell can you know that?" sniped Dean.
"Because it's what I'd do," she told him, studiously ignoring the snark, "And I know how these things think. Plus, if there is family involved, they'll want to take extra care to keep him in tonight – you've broken cover, and they know Hunters are on his trail."
"If they keep him locked up, there could be no attacks for months," postulated Sam. "And if he has no pre-considered pattern, we have no strategy for finding him."
"I'm not so sure about that," she countered, "He'll be angry – after all, you killed his Alpha, his father. Remember how pissed off Luke Skywalker was? If he does shrug off the silver, and if he's young and otherwise fit he'll do just that, he'll likely come after you, and Jimi. He'll see red, and have no thought for consequences. I'm guessing, tomorrow night, or the following night, he'll come looking for you."
"Well, let's look on the bright side, think of the gas we'll save," humphed Dean. "Hunters Inc. Werewolf Delivery – we bring the fuglies to you, to gank in the privacy and convenience of your own dwelling."
"How about changing Jimi back to, well, Jimi?" asked Sam. Ronnie shrugged.
"Honestly? I'd be guessing, but…"
"I think at this point we'll take anything we can get," Sam told her.
"Even from you," muttered Dean.
"You make me feel special, Dean, you know that?" Ronnie fluttered her eyelashes. "Think about the first time he did the set-something-on-fire pee thing for you. And the first time he did the run-through-solid-wall thing. It was when he was really excited about something, yes?"
"Yeah," replied Dean quickly, kicking Sam who was clearly about to say "Well, actually, he first did them when he was really frightened…"
"So, something got him really worked up, and triggered a manifestation of his… hellhoundness. Maybe - just maybe - if he confronts this wolf again, it'll flip the switch, turn him back into his proper self."
"Which is fine and dandy, except in human form, he has a better chance of getting his ass kicked," Dean scowled at her, "And you have no way of knowing if that'll work."
"You're right. On both counts," she agreed. "But with what I know about how Old North wolves tick, and what I've learned about how hellhounds… work, it's what I'm suggesting." She looked at her watch. "I'm a couple of states away," she continued, "Me and Joni can be there before tomorrow night, give you a hand with Teen Wolf."
"Screw that," muttered Dean. "We're quite capable of handling a werewolf, thank you very much."
"Suit yourself," she answered equably, "Let me know if you change your mind. You'll look after your Alpha and Second, won't you, Jimi?" she finished.
Jimi did his wiggle-dance. "Yes, Sister-Alpha," he said smartly, finishing with a small growl and bark. Ronnie answered him with a gruff humphing sound, and he wiggled harder. Sam raised his eyebrows.
"What can I say? I've Hunted with dogs for a long time – I speak a little bit of Canine. Well, good luck, fellas. Kick this thing's arse. Cheer up, Dean," she added, "At least while he's like this he can fetch you beer. Bye!" Joni barked again, and the connection cut.
"Smug, smarmy, smartass cow," rumbled Dean angrily, "She is so far up herself, she should change her name to Tampax."
"God, you're worse than the mothers on 'Toddlers and Tiaras'," Sam told him.
"Thinks she's so smart, just because she can teach her dog a few fetching tricks!'
"Well, it would be kinda handy, being able to get him to fetch things in the dark, or if you can't find them," Sam told him.
"What happens if her theory doesn't work?" demanded Dean. "What if we find this thing, or it finds us, and Jimi stays human? What if he gets hurt?"
"She said she didn't know for sure, Dean," Sam pointed out, "She told you, she was just theorising, and she did offer to come help."
"Stop being so fucking reasonable!"
"Sorry about that," Sam rolled his eyes, "But I'm right out of ideas about who else to ask."
Dean appeared to reach a decision. "I will give this further thought, but now, since Madam Werewolves-For-Dummies says we have a night off, I am going out," he announced, "I am going out to find me a bar, drink me some beer, hustle me some pool…"
Jimi sniffed. "He wants to mate," he said to Sam, "With the dark-furred female we met while feeding. She was receptive. Her pup is away, and her den is empty."
Sam looked at Dean. "Well, there is that, yeah," his big brother smirked, "Although that blonde, Kerry, she looked like a lady who appreciates male company."
"Oh, she does," agreed Jimi, "Will you fight her pair-bond for mating access?"
Both Winchesters looked at Jimi as if he'd just announced he wanted to live as a woman. And be called Loretta.
"Her 'pair-bond'?" they asked simultaneously.
"His scent was all over her," Jimi explained matter-of-factly. "She is pair-bonded. I do not understand – she is already in whelp to him, Dad, why would you mate with her?"
Sam let out a snort of laughter. "Sounds like you'd best avoid Kerry the Pregnant Pair-Bonded Blonde, bro," he suggested, "Unless you're looking forward to a slot on Jerry Springer."
"Er, yeah," agreed Dean. "You could really tell that from sniffing and looking at her?" Jimi nodded. "Huh. That would be a trick worth learning."
"Can I come too?" asked Jimi, wiggling slightly.
"NO!" Dean said, a trifle hurriedly. "You can stay here with Uncle Sammy, who will feed you boring healthy food, and read you a boring book to improve the boring bits of your mind, and make sure you keep all your clothes on," Dean continued, picking up his jacket and keys.
"Hey, was anybody going to consult me about your social arrangements?" asked Sam.
"I am Alpha here," Dean said seriously, "I don't consult, I delegate. This is the way of things. Don't wait up guys," he finished with a smirk, and left.
Jimi went back to watching his Rin Tin Tin marathon, while Sam went back to his laptop. They sat in companionable silence for a while, until Jimi asked Sam,
"Why aren't I allowed to go with Dad?"
"Because he wants to mate," Sam answered. "You remember you had that talk about, er, 'Special Time' with Dad?" Jimi nodded. "Well, mating counts as a type of 'Special Time', and humans generally don't like to share it with anybody. Except the person they're mating with."
Jimi nodded. "Dad says you don't mate with females," he pronounced.
"Er," replied Sam.
"Dad says you don't mate with anybody," Jimi reported.
"Does he?" replied Sam.
"Not even yourself," finished Jimi.
"Um," went Sam, making a mental note to give Dean a good kick right in the indiscretion. "Look, not everybody wants to mate with anything that has a pulse and the right anatomy, like Dean, and sometimes he says things that are a bit… far-fetched."
Jimi nodded sagely. "I told him he was wrong," he declared triumphantly, "I told him you have Special Time more than he does!"
Sam let out a strangled yelp. "You did?" he squeaked.
Jimi nodded, radiating helpfulness. "Yours lasts longer, too."
Sam put his head in his hands. "Oh, good," he sighed, "Thanks for setting him straight on that, Jimi."
Jimi beamed at having been helpful. "And I don't believe what he said about you mating with that computer thing, either," he added smugly, "Because you never take it into the shower."
"You were very clever to see through his mistake, Jimi, well done," said Sam faintly, wondering if shooting Dean would really count as a murder – he was pretty sure he could make a convincing plea of justifiable homicide.
Still, he thought later, as he settled Jimi under his blanket on the sofa – they reached a compromise, where Jimi would leave his shorts on – Dean hadn't said a word, so maybe there would be no teasing. Maybe he didn't give his older brother enough credit for discretion.
That thought lasted until he got into his own bed, only to sit on the lotion, tissues and wet wipes. All bundled neatly inside a shower cap.
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Dean had never in his life taken a Walk Of Shame – it was more like a Strut Of Self-Satisfied Smugness when he did it, although he at least had the decency to try to make his way back into their room quietly in the darkness. Jimi had been right; Rachel was 'receptive'. Imaginative, too. And flexible.
Two sleepy voices roused briefly. "Dean?" "Dad?"
"Yeah, go back to sleep, ladies," he told them, pulling his boots off. He just had one more thing to do before he climbed into his own bed. He knelt, put his hands together, and closed his eyes.
"Now I lay me down tonight,
This morning I got such a fright.
To Castiel, I pray for help
To fix our canine half-hellwhelp,
Our Jimi has been werewolf bit,
And turned into a little... brat,
A human kid, about sixteen,
Who really isn't very keen
On putting on and wearing clothes –
In fact, they're some something that he loathes,
The questions that he asks are tough,
I've caught him doing Special Stuff
And nearly had a heart attack.
He disobeys, he's talking back.
Sam keeps laughing loud with glee
And saying Jimi's just like me.
I have to keep him safe until
We find a spell, a magic pill
Or way to turn him back again
Before I just go nuts.
Amen.
And if I die before the dawn
I hope that Heaven has good porn."
Having sent his p-mail, he climbed into bed, where he sat on something. Frowning, he investigated the lump in his bed.
The lotion, the tissues, the wipes, and...
Where the fuck had that long-haired smartass found an egg timer?
Now I sit me down to write,
I hope my silly ramblings might
Give giggles, laughs, and just amuse
So people want to leave reviews.
And if before I'm done, I die,
I hope that Heaven has wi-fi.