OMGWTFBBQ This thing has hit 80 reviews! You are all so naise, and encouraging, you make me feel loved and wanted *sniff*, I could almost forgive the wretches who keep aiming plot bunnies at me (you know who you are...) Apologies to elf about the Cheetos. Sorry (although it's probably cosmic comeuppance for the damned bunnies).
Whoever thought that Robert and Cody would win fans? Do they need a chapterlet at the end? This thing is already going to go past 40,000 words. Hopefully only one more chapter to go. Then I can get on with stomping those bunnies one at a time - I'm a slave to my OCD, and bunnies are like unpaired socks, THEY MUST BE DEALT WITH! So sure, yeah, go ahead, shoo as many as you like in my direction waves arms about, hell, send me bunnies for Easter, creepy evil demonic plot bunnies that stalk me day and night and crap sultanas and hide under my desk at work and ambush me when I'm trying to think about something work-related and go "squeek squeek squeek" and twitch their evil little noses and won't leave me alone until I write them down - to the sadistic mongrel who told me Castiel has to correct a 'Twilight' novel with his Red Pen Of Heavenly Correction, CURSE YOU! shakes fist I curse your bunny farm, and the camel you rode in on!
Ahem. I'll just take my meds and get on with it, shall I?
Chapter 12
"How you doin', J-Man?" Dean looked up from his burger.
Jimi looked up from his lunch, where he had managed to eat half of his peanut butter sandwich. "I think I am still hanging over, Dad," he confessed, looking so mournful that Dean couldn't help laughing.
"Let that be a lesson to you, Young," he intoned seriously, "Leave the drinking to your Elders."
"I submit," agreed Jimi readily.
"Yeah, right, Dean," commented Sam, nodding sagely, "Because you are such a paragon of self-control in the presence of alcohol, you would never get so drunk that you'd throw up..."
"Sam..."
"...Because you can hold your liquor, why, you hardly ever get so soused you end up singing to a cow, or trying to seduce a lamp post..."
"Sam..."
"... It's okay, Dean, I understand – it was a very attractive lamp post, and it was flashing its 'come hither' rivets at you, and that cow, man, she was hawt, I saw that udder..."
"Sam..."
"...And it's been at least a full calendar month since you danced around the room wearing your shorts on your head saying 'Behold the Living Sex God, cower before my awesomeness puny mortal'..."
"I'm warning you, Samantha..."
"...And God knows, you look so impressively manly and stoic on those occasions when you curl up under the bedclothes and hug your pillow and come out only to puke or make pitiful squeaking noises that, translated out of Deanese and into English, sound awfully like "Pleeeease bring me coffee, Sam, beloved sympathetic compassionate understanding brother I saved from fiery death as a baby, pleeeeeeease bring me coffee..."
"If you don't knock it off, one of these days you are going to wake up with a haircut that makes Patrick Stewart look like Donald Trump," growled Dean. He poked a French fry into the mustard on his plate. "So, what's our next move?"
"We check out the five places on our shit list," answered Sam, absent-mindedly pushing a handful of paper napkins at Dean, "And see if we can work out which one is harbouring a juvenile werewolf." He looked at Jimi. "If he's feeling up to it, getting Jimi to deploy his turbo-charged nose is probably the best chance we have of finding it, but I don't think he should come with us to confront this thing if he's not feeling a hundred percent."
Jim sat up. "You want me to cast with you?" he asked.
"If you're feeling okay," Dean told him, "Not hanging over too far."
Jimi broke into his first real smile for the day. "I will Hunt with my Pack!" he declared.
"Attaboy," grinned Dean. "So, we need a cover story... give me your phone, Jimi." Dean began to fiddle about with his phone and Jimi's. "I'm just gonna put a photo on here, one to tug at the heartstrings... what the...?" a confused look settled on his face as he scrolled through the phone. "Where did these come from? Angela... Barbara... Sally... Teagan... " He frowned at Jimi. "Jimi, did girls at that party put their numbers into your phone?"
"They asked for my phone," explained Jimi, "I didn't know why..." He looked suddenly curious "Does that mean I can use it to talk to them?" he asked.
"No," said Dean firmly, "You don't call chicks back – they get strange ideas if you do that, you call them back once and the next thing you know, they've convinced themselves that you're hooking up, they're looking at engagement rings with their girlfriends and they want you to meet their parents... what?" he snapped sharply at Sam, who was smiling and shaking his head.
"Nothing, O Fearless Alpha, nothing," said Sam, "Why don't you enlighten your humble Second as to your plan?"
"Dad, can I go outside?" asked Jimi. "I think I'm still hanging over," he added ruefully.
Dean looked unimpressed, but consented. "Okay," he allowed, "But you go sit on the bench right outside the window where I can see you, and DON'T MOVE from there, understand?"
"Yes, Dad," Jimi affirmed, heading for the door.
He sat, scuffing his feet back and forth, breathing the cold fresh air – it made him feel better. He was watching a squirrel intently as it made its way between trees in the park across the road, when he heard his name called.
"Adam!" he smiled, as his human friend approached along the sidewalk. "Are you here for play?"
"Depends on who turns up after last night," Adam sat next to him, "Hey, I hope you didn't get in too much trouble. Your Dad looked really angry."
"Yes," Jimi agreed, "He looked very angry indeed."
"So, what's the damage?" asked Adam sympathetically. "No fishing and stuff? Did he confiscate your computer or games?"
Jimi wasn't sure what that meant, but he understood that Adam was asking about the consequences of last night's partying. "He took my phone. And I am grounded," he responded.
"Oh, that sucks," commiserated Adam, "For how long?"
Jimi thought back to Dean's ranting the previous evening. "Until I'm forty," he said. "In dog years," he added.
"Whoa, harsh."
"I will not be allowed to have play today," Jimi told him. Inspiration suddenly struck. "Perhaps your friend who has been missing out will come today. Was he sick?"
"Who, Carl?" asked Adam. "Yeh, he came down with some stomach flu thing a couple of days ago, real sudden. His grandmother said it must've been something he ate, but I called him today, and he's feeling better. She won't let him out, though, wants him to stay in for a couple more days. Sucks to be him. Feeling like crap, and he didn't even get to have any fun beforehand."
The door of the diner opened, and the Winchesters emerged, Dean wearing his stern father face.
"I have to go," Jimi told Adam, "But, thank you for the play. And the party. It was awesome!"
"Hey, hope we see you around again sometime," smiled Adam, "You're a much better player than Carl!"
Back at the motel, Sam had some doubts about Dean's plan.
"So, then what? Once the front door opens, do you just say 'Excuse me, are you sheltering a Young werewolf? We wounded him with silver a couple of nights ago, and we'd like to finish him off before we leave town'?"
"No, I'll be looking for tells," replied Dean, "Nervousness, twitchiness, a Monty Python Silly Walk, anything to suggest that they're worried about something. If Jimi comes with me, he might pick up a whiff of Fido, this is just a ploy to get the door open."
"Where are we going?" asked Jimi.
"Looking for the Young werewolf," Dean told him, "We've got five places to look at – we're going to pretend you've lost your pet dog, and we're looking for him, and you're going to see if you can pick up his scent."
"Yes, Alpha," said Jimi. "We should start with Carl."
"Who?" asked Sam, turning around, "Who's Carl?"
"Adam's friend who did not come for play yesterday or the day before," Jimi told him, "He got sick suddenly. His grandmother will not let him out of the house for another two days."
Both Winchesters stared at their werehuman.
"Er, Jimi, when exactly did you find this out?" asked Dean.
"Just before, talking to Adam," replied the teen, "I asked his missing friend's name. He said 'Carl'."
"There was a Carl," muttered Sam, scrabbling amongst the notes From Dean's excursion through the Births, Deaths & Marriages records, "I'm sure there was… aha! Here. Bierman. Currently... seventeen. One house. And… his maternal grandmother is still alive." He looked up. "Gentlemen, we have ourselves a candidate."
"Well done, Jimi!" smiled Dean, "Good boy!" Jimi wiggle-danced excitedly at the praise. He fished Jimi's phone out of his pocket and handed it over. "Now, here's what you're going to do. I want you to pretend that you're really, really sad…"
"How sad?" asked Jimi.
"Really, really, really sad," Dean told him.
"How sad is that?" Jimi persisted.
"Um… imagine that Oinker Stoinker disappeared forever."
Jimi looked philosophical. "My toys do disappear, though. You take them away when they are damaged."
"Okay, okay, sadder than that. I want you to imagine that you can never ride in the car again."
Jimi looked thoughtful. "Yes, that would be sad, too." he agreed.
"No, no, I'm not getting the pathos here," Dean humphed, "I need sad, Jimi, sad, heartbroken, woebegone! Utterly miserable! What if… what if… what if your Dam died? Rumsfeld?"
Jimi cocked his head. "She will die, one day," he commented, "I will miss her, but it is the way of things."
Dean threw his hands up. "Help me out here, Sam," he pleaded, "You're Mr Talk About Our Feelings, do something!"
Sam considered the problem for a moment…
"Jimi," he said in a quiet voice, "I want you to imagine… no more bacon. No. More. Bacon. Not ever. Not ever again. Imagine you will never eat bacon again."
Jimi stared at him wide-eyed. His face fell, and his eyes shone with unshed tears.
Sam shrugged. Easy, bro," he said airily, "He's just like you."
"That's perfect," smiled Dean. "Jimi, I need you to keep hold of that thought. When the door opens, you make that face, then show them your phone, okay?" Jimi nodded, rendered speechless by merely the idea that anyone could even suggest the possibility of a theoretical World Without Bacon. "Good boy. Let's go, guys," he paused to look at Jimi. "If he was mine," he mused, "I'd push him into acting. That bone structure, that physique, he can cry on demand – they'd love him. I could be a pushy stage parent, and we'd make a fortune, and live in Beverly Hills, and I could hit on his cougar fans."
"With your luck, he'd decided he hated it, and run off to college to become a dentist," commented Sam.
"What?" Dean glared at him in horror. "No child of mine would ever become a dentist! Dentists are evil, Sammy, they are evil, and they enjoy torturing people, and if I ever run out of supernatural things to gank, I will start on the dentists. What sort of weirdo wants to spend their entire working life with their hands stuffed into someone's mouth? It's… unnatural. And unhygienic. And dangerous."
"And extremely well-paid," pointed out Sam.
"But dentists don't have cougar fans for me to hit on!" complained Dean.
"Well, the least worst option is probably to make sure he gets turned back into his doggy self," decided Sam, getting into the car. "And you'll just have to stick with the old fashioned way of finding your own women to hit on."
Dean sighed melodramatically, sliding in behind the wheel. "The life of a Living Sex God is a busy one," he noted.
"Poor you," sympathised Sam. "Some days, I don't know how you find the time to kill fuglies."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Dean knew something was up the moment the lady in her sixties opened the door. With the Living Sex God smiling charmingly at her, and his Mini-me standing with eyes swimming and lower lip quivering, it was clear that all she wanted to do was get rid of them. She barely even looked at the proffered phone picture of canine Jimi at age about four months, grinning adorably and looking as though he was posing for August in the Brain-Explodingly Cute Puppes calendar.
"No, I'm sorry, I haven't seen any dogs," she answered quickly, going to shut the door.
"Might anybody else in the house have seen him?" Dean persisted, "My son's really upset."
"No, we haven't seen any dogs," she repeated, "Excuse me." She shut the door.
"Well?" asked Dean, when they were back at the Impala, at the other end of the street where Sam sat with binoculars trained on the house. "See anything?"
"Nope," replied Sam, "But there is a ground floor window with the shutters boarded shut. What about you guys?"
"Grandma was definitely distracted about something," Dean decided, "She was impossibly resistant to the Puppy Dog Eyes, and didn't even go 'Awwwww' at the photo. With that much cute in one grid square, that wasn't normal." He turned to Jimi. "Pick up anything?"
"The Young's scent was strong there," Jimi told them, "I think that was his den."
"So, we have a location, a lair, and grandma keeping watch," mused Dean.
"Angela's scent was strong there too, Uncle Sammy," Jimi added.
"Angela?" queried Dean, cocking an eyebrow. "Jimi, who's Angela?"
"Oh, Angela was one of the girls I... met. Last night. At the party," answered Jimi, recalibrating the Sammy Eyes from Heartmeltingly Unhappy to Angelically Innocent. Strangely enough, Sam's Sammy Eyes reset to a similar expression.
"I see," said Dean levelly. He paused, then asked, "And how many times did you... meet Angela?"
Jimi dropped his eyes and blushed. "Just once, Dad," he answered.
"Did you know about this, Sam?" Dean demanded of his brother.
"No! No! No!" declared Sam emphatically. "Or, if I'm honest – yes."
Dean sighed. "I'm not going to ask if there were any others," he said in a resigned tone, "Because I might not like the answer. Don't Ask, Don't Tell." He glanced back towards the Bierman residence. "So, all we have to do is get Carl to come out and play."
"Dad," started Jimi, "If I could smell him, then he could probably smell me. Us. He will probably recognise our scent. If he catches our scent, he will track us. He will hunt us."
"Okay, we find a place to tackle him, and let him come to us," Dean announced.
"Will I Hunt with you?" asked Jimi hopefully.
"You have to be there, it's part of turning you back into you," Sam explained, "But you have to stay out of the way, and away from the wolf. You're more likely to get hurt while you're human."
Dean checked his watch. "We got a number of hours to kill, ladies," he noted. "How about we get some supplies and get in a few hours of educational viewing before wolf-time?"
Sam stared at him. "You cannot possibly intend to watch porn with Jimi," he stated flatly.
"No, Sam, that's just your filthy mind," Dean replied primly, "I had in mind the Lassie-athon on cable. I'll bet Jimi will like that."
"I like the TV," agreed Jimi, "But maybe I will eat another sandwich." He looked contrite. "I think I am still hanging over."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Wow, look at the hair on her – she makes Sammy look positively manly."
"Dad..."
"I don't know why she bothers with him, the kid is a moron – falling down cliffs, into rivers, now a damned mineshaft, he's blind as well as stupid..."
"Dad..."
"A smart, attractive lady like Lassie should find a better owner. She can do better."
"Dad..."
"Knows how to handle herself in a fight, too – this bitch totally kicks ass!"
"Dad..."
"What do you think, Jimi? Is she hot, or what?"
"Dad, that dog is male!"
*snigger snigger snigger*
"Shut up, Sam..."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Okay, I think I've found our O-K Corral," announced Dean, peering at the map again, "You got the weather site up, Sam?"
"Right here," Sam tapped at the laptop, "The wind is coming from the West, so..."
*beep*
"...We'll be upwind of him. He'll be able to smell us."
"Hopefully, if he's feeling better, that'll be enough to bring him out..."
*beep*
"...Of hiding."
"Provided he can dodge Grandma," Sam reminded him. "Can we see the house from there?"
"I think so," Dean studied his map again. "Depends on how many trees there are in the way, but with the binoculars..."
*beep*
"...We should be able to at pick it out." He checked his gun again. "You tooled up, Sammy?"
"Silver ammo, silvered knife," Sam checked off his inventory.
"Right, then, let's move out gentlemen. Moonrise is in..."
*beep*
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sam," Dean rolled his eyes, "Plug that thing in before we go, will you?"
"I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it," grumbled Sam, fishing through his bag for the charger for the offending phone. "You ready, Jimi? Know what you have to do?"
"Yes, Uncle Sammy," answered Jimi, radiating obedience.
"He's not hanging over any more, if the way he ate that last pack of Cheetos is anything to judge by," commented Dean. "So, hopefully by the time this is over, you'll be back to your proper self, Jimi."
Jimi wiggle-danced a little. "Yes, Dad," he acknowledged. "Being Upright is complicated."
"You think being a human kid is bad," Dean said, clapping him on the shoulder with a wistful smile, "You should try being a human parent. You should be grateful you won't ever have to deal with puppies – you might get one who was just like you."
"Well, there was that Hellhound he mated with, in Iowa," Sam mused his brother.
"Dr Wooley said he was probably too young," Dean reminded him, "Which is probably just as well." He checked his watch. "Right, let's bug out." He turned to Sam. "I don't want to tango with this thing any more than is absolutely necessary - if this doesn't flip Jimi's dog-shape switch right away, we gank it, then head to Bobby's to figure out how to change him back."
"Gotcha," agreed Sam, with a sigh. His expression told Dean that they were thinking the same thing – neither of them was looking forward to dealing with a werewolf that was, after all, a seventeen-year-old kid.
Half a minute later, the Impala rumbled out of the lot.
Three quarters of a minute later, Sam's recharging phone rang; since there was nobody there to answer it, the call went through to voicemail. The caller sounded anxious.
Sam? It's Ronnie. Look, I think I've figured something out – it's going to take more than just a face-off with the wolf to turn Jimi back into his cuddly canine self, it's going to be waaaay trickier than that... you have to find the wolf, but for fuck's sake, don't kill it! Do NOT kill the wolf! Shit, just call me back before you go and confront this thing. Seriously, don't let that gung-ho brother of yours plug it full of silver. You hear me, Dean? I mean it, you're gunna need it alive...
Lassie was played by male dogs. True dinks. I understand that Dean Winchester in 'Supernatural' is actually played by a male, too...