Thank you, generous (if slightly demented) reviewers - I share my chocolate-coated internets with you. Do I detect a couple of guilty consciences? Surely, Gentle Readers, none of you have ever sneaked off to a party to consume copious amounts of alcohol or indulge in other iniquitous behaviour? You're all surfing the interwebs from the libraries of various abbeys and monasteries, aren't you?

Chapter 11

This is what was meant by the expression 'You could cut the air with a knife', decided Sam. Jimi sat in the back seat, apparently oblivious to Dean's seething, possibly because he had been drinking, or possibly because he didn't understand just what a shitload of trouble he was in.

The expression on Dean's face was one he hadn't seen since he'd argued with their father. Then, it hadn't been the least bit amusing, but on his brother's face? Fucking priceless.

Nonetheless, he carefully kept any trace of a smirk off his face, for a wise man once said: when a skunk is angry at someone else, do not sneak up behind it and poke it with a pointy stick for fun, for yea and verily at that moment is it's ass pointing in your direction...

Back at the motel, Sam sat on his bed, where he hoped he would be outside of the immediate blast radius, and waited with a detached interest to see what would happen: The Lecture, The Argument, or the Flat Out Explosion That Made Hiroshima Look Like A Disappointing Fart In A Rather Small Bathtub.

Dean stalked back and forth across the room, then paused to glare at Jimi. "So," he said quietly, menacingly, "Exactly how much have you had to drink?"

Jimi answered with a hearty burp followed by a small hiccup, listing gently to starboard where he sat.

"I see," Dean nodded. "So, would you care to explain to me, because I'm having some trouble understanding this, would you care to explain to me exactly what the hell you thought you were doing taking off with those kids?"

"Amusin' m'self," replied Jimi, with a smile and a slur, "Just like you tol' me, Alpha. When the Elderses busy, amuse m'self. Wingsesman was busy, talking with other Elders – he said I could go play, so I amused m'self." He appeared genuinely confused as to why Dean might be angry.

Dean's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "Right, right," he mused, "So, taking off and not answering your phone, that seemed like a sensible thing to do, did it?"

Jimi looked puzzled. "I didn' hear the phone," he said, hiccupping again.

"No, I imagine you didn't," agreed Dean, "Because the music was loud, and your attention was elsewhere, apparently focused on licking that girl's pancreas clean, from the enthusiasm with which you had your tongue down her throat." He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me, Jimi," he said, "Tell me that you didn't... mate with that girl I saw you with."

"No, Alpha!" Jimi said, radiating truthfulness, "I didn'! I didn' mate with her!"

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realised that he'd been holding. "Thank Christ for that..."

"That was Sally. I mated with Barbara," continued Jimi.

Sam let out a squeaking snort and turned it into a cough as Dean's head whipped around.

"You... mated... with a human girl?" he growled through his teeth.

"It will be all right, Alpha," Jimi told him with a reassuring smile, "There won' be any pups. Wingsesman said I mus' not mate, 'cos a female Young will be driven outta the den 'f she gets in whelp, an' I tol' her, an' she said..." his grin widened, "She said, 'Jimi there's something you have t' learn, an' she showed me... um... these..." he pulled a small square plastic packet from a pocket, and waved it triumphantly if somewhat uncoordinatedly, "An'... an'... an'... no pups!" he finished with a bright smile.

Dean stared open-mouthed at the teen in front of him, smiling, swaying gently and brandishing a condom like a prized concert ticket.

"It w's awesome!" he added enthusiastically.

Dean continued to stare.

"She enjoyed it too," continued Jimi, "She said so."

Dean was still staring.

"Both times," Jimi clarified.

Dean's mouth opened and shut, but nothing came out.

"I said thank you," Jimi assured him.

Sam let out another stifled squeak.

"D'you want one for nex' time you mate?" asked Jimi, proffering the small packet again, "She did thiz thing – hic! – an' she put it in her mouth, an' she..."

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Dean burst out.

"S'okay, that bit's awesome too," Jimi reassured him, pressing the packet into one of Dean's hands. "You c'n use your hands if'n she can't do the thing..."

Sam face-planted into his pillow.

"We will discuss this in the morning," Dean rumbled dangerously, "When you will hopefully be more sober, and I will hopefully be less homicidal. Canicidal. Jimicidal. Possibly also Samicidal. Right after I get the holy oil, jam it so far up a certain Angel Of The Lord's ass that he has to change his name to Olive, pull every single feather out of his wings and jam them down his throat and set fire to him..."

As if on some cosmic cue, Castiel appeared with his usual flapping sound, standing too close to Dean.

Dean didn't bother with the niceties of complaining about the annexing of his personal space; he turned to the angel, curled his top lip and snarled.

Castiel jumped backwards.

Jimi hiccupped.

Sam wheezed with muffled laughter.

Castiel let out a sigh of relief when he saw Jimi. "It is reassuring to see that you have located Jimi," he announced, allowing himself a small smile. "There is no sign of werewolf activity in this town – the juvenile wolf must still be holed up, or made unwell by the silver. There will be no attacks tonight, and Jimi is back. All is well." He turned a satisfied expression towards Dean.

"Castiel," Dean said pleasantly, "May I borrow your angelic sword?"

Castiel cocked his head. "I would first like to know what use you intend to make of it," he answered.

"That's fair," agreed Dean. "I want to poke out your eyes, carve the word 'IDIOT' across your face, slit you from gut to throat, sign my initials on your liver, slice your heart into teeny tiny pieces then use the hilt to bash in your skull and turn your brain into a slurpee for underprivileged ghouls, then cut off your wings and make a feather duster." Dean held out his hand expectantly.

Castiel looked at him seriously. "Dean, why do want to wish to dismember my vessel and turn my wings into a cleaning utensil?" He looked down at Dean's hand. "And why are you offering me a contraceptive item?"

Dean glanced down, then threw the packet across the room. "It was given to me by Jimi," he hissed angrily, "Jimi, who you were supposed to be watching, because while you were busy with the remedial religion class, he wandered off to a party where he found himself a human partner who taught him aaaaaall about avoiding having puppies, and now thanks to your lecture, he thinks it's fine to go around screwing any girl who'll have him just so long as he doesn't get her pregnant!"

"An' she's not paired with an'body else," added Jimi seriously, waving a finger to emphasise the importance of his statement. "Even if'n she's receptive."

Castiel looked confused. "You fornicate with any woman who will have you," he pointed out.

"I'm not a teenager!" yelled Dean.

"But you were," Castiel told him, "You were younger than Jimi is, in this human form, when you experienced your first actual successful sexual penetration, and if you count the earlier unsuccessful attempts…"

"GAAAAAAAAH!" roared Dean, "CREEPY PERVY ANGEL!"

A fresh round of stifled shrieks of laughter emanated from Sam's pillow.

"…And Jimi has shown moral judgement in seeking to avoid engendering an unwanted pregnancy, or disrupting existing relationships," finished the angel. "He has tried to follow instructions. He has tried to be a good boy."

"I don't remember instructing him to get drunk," snarled Dean.

"You were routinely consuming alcohol, including hard liquor, at that age, despite your father's instructions to abstain," Castiel said reasonably.

Dean groaned, and sank to the sofa, putting his head in his hands. "Cas, you are not really helping, here, I mean, he's a kid! He's actually a dog, who's a kid! I don't know whether I'm an accessory to, to, to bestiality by deception here! I have to look after him, until we can turn him back into himself!" He looked up. "What if the werewolf had come after him?"

"It did not, Jimi is safe, and there was no harm done," Castiel reassured him. "While I do not condone casual fornication," he frowned briefly at both Jimi and Dean, "I thought you would be… pleased; he was a considerate partner, and was keen to ensure that the young lady involved enjoyed herself too."

"Oh, goody, that makes everything all right, then," sighed Dean. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

"He is… thinking very hard about it," confided Castiel. "Mentally shouting at the top of his voice. In much the same way you do. It is… very difficult to ignore whilst in such close proximity."

"Kill me now, somebody," Dean moaned. "Fuck, what am I supposed to do? Confiscate his squeaky pig? Ground him until he's forty - in dog years?"

Jimi grabbed him in a hug, and wiggle-danced a little. "It w's awesome, Dad," he sighed happily. He kissed Dean on the nose.

"Well, we can talk about this in the morning, okay?" sighed Dean. Jimi nodded. "Right now, you go have a shower – you stink like a whorehouse – and go to bed, while I go get some food for the Elders. And maybe some Tylenol for you, because you're going to need it." Jimi stood obediently, if a little unsteadily, and made his way to the bathroom.

"I must leave now," Castiel told them. "I will continue to search for any information relating to Jimi's situation when I can."

"Yeah, thanks Cas," said Sam, finally sitting up and clearing his throat again, "You've been a big help with the kid. No, really. We've tracked down three possible families, and we can probably take if from here." He glanced at Dean. "Provided surrogate fatherhood doesn't give Dean a heart attack."

"Being torn limb from limb by a crazed unnatural beast is starting to sound not so bad," muttered Dean, picking up his keys. He knocked on the bathroom door, and pushed it slightly ajar. "I want you cleaned up and snuggling under your blanket by the time I get back, and don't you move from that sofa, you understand?" he instructed.

"Yeah, Dad, yeah, ohhhhh, yeah…." came the breathy reply.

Sam smiled as Dean's face drained of colour.

"Nyaaaaaaarg," went Dean.

"He really is just like you," Sam beamed.

"I totally hate you," Dean scowled.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Sam noticed the gasping hitching noises before the sun came up, and decided that there would be fewer tears all around if Dean didn't have to deal with it. He made his way to the sofa. While Jimi had snored blissfully the previous night, he'd scrounged a bucket from a janitor's cupboard; now, he moved it with his foot, and positioned it under Jimi just as the teen's head emerged from under his blanket and dumped ballast.

Jimi glanced down, then looked up at Sam with big, sad brown eyes. "I'm not eating that," he declared, "It's all… mushy."

"No," Sam assured him, using one of the provocative wipes on Jimi's face, "I'll get rid of it."

"My stomach hurts," whined Jimi, flopping back to the sofa. "My head hurts."

"You have a hangover," Sam told him. "Humans can get sick after they drink alcohol – beer – and that's what's happening to you."

Jimi let out a whimper and retreated under his blanket. Sam fetched him some Tylenol and a bottle of water. "Is Alpha – Dad – angry at me?" he asked in a small voice, his eyes watery.

"I think he was mostly worried when we didn't know where you were," Sam reassured him. "You try to get some more sleep, okay?"

"Yes, Uncle Sammy," came the mournful reply. The tousled head emerged again. "He was angry that I mated with Barbara, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was, a bit," agreed Sam, "But he'll get over it."

"Oh." Jimi appeared to consider this. "Will he get over it if I tell him that I mated with Angela, too?"

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

The lump under the blanket hadn't emerged when the Winchesters were up after sunrise. Dean considered ordering him up and dragging him out for a walk, remembering the way his Dad had reacted to his first major hangover, but the face that emerged from under Jimi's blanket looked up at him with such big eyes in such a green face that he didn't have the heart to do anything except sit on the edge of the sofa to ask,

"How you doing there, kiddo?"

"Uncle Sammy says I am hanging over," Jimi answered quietly. "I think it must be because I am hanging over this bucket."

"Yeah, he told me," Dean let the language misunderstanding slide, "You feel pretty sick, huh?"

Jimi nodded miserably.

"I didn't mean to make you angry, Dad," he said, Sammy Eyes making Sam's most heart-wrenching expression look like he'd bitten a lemon by comparison.

"It's okay, Jimi," Dean reassured him, patting him on the head, which elicited a small smile. "You just stay there until you feel a bit better. Uncle Sammy will go out and get us some breakfast. You'll feel better if you can eat something." Jimi looked up at him hopefully. "What would you like to eat?"

"I can pick him up some crackers, and some juice or ginger ale, maybe," began Sam.

Jimi thought for a moment, then said plaintively, "Dad… bacon?"

Sam rolled his eyes in disbelief, while Dean grinned. "You know, Sam, I'm starting to think he really is just like me." He threw the keys to his brother. "Don't' just stand there, Francis, the carnivores are hungry. Go get us food before we decide to bring down a nice juicy plant-eater to drag back to our den and consume at our leisure."

"I hear and obey, O Alpha Of My Pack," acknowledged Sam, turning for the door.

He was halfway to the Impala when he heard two voices, remarkably similar, chorus "And pie!"

Pie for breakfast is wonderful. And therapeutic if you are feeling unwell, possibly a bit hungover. Not that I'd know, of course...