For those Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In who may be new to the Jimiverse, or who have been battling with Real Life and have been absent for a while, this story picks up immediately after 'Brains, Brawn, Beauty and Rumsfeld' - Jimi's 3/4 Hellhound pups (that he sired when he was really still a pup himself, in the story 'Balls') are about three months old, so they're almost four months old in this one.
Chapter Two
"And make sure you get it all off the window," instructed Dean, honking on Oinker Stoinker to coax the pups into the bathroom.
"I remember the drill," Sam assured him as he changed his own clothes, "I think the blanket took the worst of it." He glanced mournfully at the pile of towels and clothing that looked like it was collateral damage from a gang war fought largely with poster paint. "I guess I better do laundry, too."
"That's fair," Dean nodded judiciously, "I wash these guys, you wash our laundry." He shut the bathroom door, and Sam heard preparations for Operation Decontamination get underway.
It had been a long time since he'd had to clean up the car after one of Jimi Junior's carsickness spells, but they'd been prepared – the old blanket had once more done sterling duty as a seat cover, and cleaning the windows was easy enough, although it added to the pile of cleaning towels that would need washing.
When he was sure that Dean would be grudgingly satisfied with his efforts to purify the car, he headed back towards their room, expecting to hear the strains of the Oinker Stoinker song, and the slightly waterlogged whonking of two puppies being distracted from their bathing by chomping on the beloved toy.
What he had not expected was a yell of "Sonofabitch!"
"Er, Dean?" he called hesitantly.
There was a thump, a splash, and a yodel of surprise from Dean.
"Dean, is everything all right?" Sam tried again.
"Everything's just peachy, Sammy," replied Dean, "Everything is peachy, fine, and okey-dokey, just go do the laundry."
"Er, okaaaay," Sam turned towards the heap. "This place has a laundry, so I won't be gone for too long..."
"Come back here right now, you little bitch!" Dean shouted.
Sam turned. "What now?" he asked sourly.
"Not you!" yapped Dean. "Him! Hey! HEY! Get back here!"
"Dean?" Sam knocked on the door. "Dean, what's going on?"
"Just a minor difference of opinion about the desirability of taking a B-A-T-H, Sam." To the trained observer, Dean's voice held a small element of strained cheerfulness. "It's all under control, just go do GET BACK HERE AAAAAAAAAARGH!"
SPLASH WHOOONK
"Dean!" called Sam, "Are you okay?"
"Yes, Sam," Dean told him in a level voice, "I am okay. As okay as a man can be when he's just practically been violated by a blue squeaky pig..."
"Maybe I should give you a hand, bro," Sam suggested.
"No, no, it's all under control," Dean answered brightly.
"Maybe I should help anyway," Sam put his hand on the door handle.
"No! No!" Dean yelped, "Don't open the door! Don't open the HEYYOULITTLEBASTARDGETYOURFL UFFYASSBACKHERE!"
There was a sudden subtle displacement of air at about shin height, and Sam looked down to see a streak of soapsuds suddenly appear on the floor, and a trail of small wet pawprints rapidly make its way across the room.
With a dive and save that would've seen any of his school soccer team coaches move him immediately from striker to goalkeeper, he pounced on the frothy blob. Lars reappeared, wearing the expression that had been passed down to all dogs, from the first grey wolf that had found out thousands of generations ago that hanging around with humans was a pretty good way to live, right up until it was firmly ushered into the nearest river for a wash. It was a mixture of betrayal, disappointment and undiluted woe.
"We've talked about this," Sam chastised the pup, "No messing with the fabric of the universe unless we're training, or on the job." Lars gazed up at him in soapy unhappiness. "Sorry, little guy," his Alpha consoled him, "But it's gotta be done. You don't want people to think you're some sort of little fluffy that goes to a salon weekly to get a new rinse, do you? Come on."
He snuggled the pup under one arm, and opened the bathroom door.
"It's okay, Dean, I got him, he didn't get... what the hell?"
Dean was jumping up and down, trying to grab Lemmy, who was hovering unsteadily just below the ceiling, his ears flapping rapidly as he panted with the effort.
"Get back down here, you little asshole!" demanded Dean, making another jump. Lemmy let out a yelp, and put on a burst of ear speed, wafting just out of Dean's reach.
"Dean, don't yell at him!" snapped Sam, "You'll just frighten him!"
"He'll be lucky if that's all I do," growled Dean, "Come on, Lem, covered in that stuff you look like a mascot from the Greasy Bottoms Formation Hairdressing Team, or something. The hot bitches will make assumptions if you get around looking like that. Worse, some confused dogs will make assumptions..."
Apparently finally getting too tired, Lemmy dropped suddenly to the floor, and hit the ground running.
"Hey!" Dean shot out of the bathroom after him, trailing suds, "Come back here!"
"Don't worry," Sam reminded him, "He can't do the through the door thing yet..."
Lemmy hit the door of their room, and disappeared through it.
"Sonofabitch!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Pam was getting on with tabulating check-ins and check-outs for the next day when her cell rang.
"Look outside! Look outside!" shrieked Deena's voice.
"Deena? Look I'm kinda busy right now..."
"Just look outside!" insisted her workmate.
With a put-upon sigh, Pam pushed her chair back, and wandered to the glass door. "Whatever you're doing, all I can say is, I hope it doesn't involve improvising at toga with a sheet, you nearly got sacked last ti - OH MY GOD!"
The guy they'd dubbed Hot Lips less than half an hour ago was running around in the parking lot, in his shorts, dripping wet.
"You can thank me later," Deena said smugly. "Oh, look at that piece of manflesh... What's he doing? Did he have a tiff with Tall Dark & Handsome?"
"I think he's chasing something," Pam relayed, "I think... yeah, he's chasing a puppy."
"There's a puppy?" squawked Deena. "Oh my God, there's a hot wet guy in his shorts, and there's a puppy? Hang on, I gotta get a better view... OH MY GOD! As soon as he catches it, I'm totally going out there with a towel..."
"Deena..."
"Tell you what, if I can follow him back to the room offering towels, maybe I'll get a look inside – if TD&H is wandering about in his shorts, I'll let you know... okay, gotta go!"
"What? Deen, what the hell..."
"Can't talk anymore, Pammy, I gotta film this!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"So, er," Sam began, "The car is clean, and the laundry's done."
"Whatever," mumbled Dean.
Unfortunately, when he had finally stumbled out of the bathroom wearing a towel and an expression of resigned grumpiness, followed by two still-slightly-damp but clean puppies, he had only made it as far as sprawling face down on his bed, so it came out more as "Mrrtrrfr".
"I thought the housekeeper was really nice about it," Sam went on. "She gave me some more towels. And a mop. And she said that if we need anything else, I should just go ask Pam in the office."
"Nrrrrrrg yrrrrrzrrrrrr rrrrrd," said Dean.
Fortunately, Sam was fluent in a number of dialects of Deanish. Muffledeanish was often easier to understand than Drunkdeanish, and considerably easier to interpret than Loopyonpainkillersdeanish. For a start, the grammar and vocabulary was a lot more similar to English. Knock yourself out, in this case.
"They seem to be settled down now, though," Sam said, smiling as he eyed the two puppies, as they made themselves a nest of towels, already recovered from the trauma of being required to bathe.
"Rrr grrrdr, hrr wrrdrrvrr frr drr drrrrr rrrrdl frngggz," replied Dean without enthusiasm. Oh, goody, how wonderful for the dear little things.
"I guess they really are a lot like Jimi," mused Sam. "Remember that trip to Kentucky when Jimi was about six months old? The Level Five Event?"
"Irr nrrrrd lrrrrrkrrrr trrrr frrrrrgrrrr," Dean answered, "Nrrrrd rrrrfgrrr hrr prrrrrkd wrrrrr thr crrp." I'm not likely to forget. Not after he puked on the cop.
"Maybe it's something I could do some research on, sometime," Sam continued, putting away laundry. "Maybe if we can find out how they manage to produce so much, uh, yeah, well..."
"Drrrrrd brrrrrdrrr, rrrrnlrrrz rrrs trr frrrd r wrrrr trr grrrr thrrrr strrrrmrrrr shrrrr." Don't bother, unless it's to find a way to glue their stomachs shut.
"Well, Jimi grew out of it," Sam pointed out, "So I think they will too."
"Rrrrr shrrrrrv crrrrrks rrrb thrrr ashrrrz." And shove corks up their asses.
"Er, may not be a good idea, bro," Sam replied, "They'd probably just fart, and shoot you. With lavender scented corks."
Lemmy sat up, yawned luxuriantly, stretched, and made his way to Dean's bed, where he clambered onto the duffel at the end of it, and, on the third try, made it up onto the mattress where Dean was sprawled. In order to get his Alpha's attention, he used the oldest trick in the book.
"Yeeeep!" Dean's head shot up. "Hey!" he scolded the pup. "Cold nose! Not cool, little dude," he went on, "Butt sniffing is a thing you only do with other dogs, okay?" Lemmy considered that seriously, then kissed his Alpha on the nose.
"It's no good," Sam told him, "Trying to stay angry at one of these guys is like trying to stay angry at a day-old kitten."
"I could stay angry at a day-old kitten if its mom had it in my underwear drawer," Dean offered. "Maybe I could give you to the housekeeper," he mused, scratching Lemmy's ears. "She seemed to think you were cute. In fact, she seemed to think that both of us were cute." He smirked up at Sam. "She did offer to come in and help if we needed the bathroom cleaned up."
"She did?" asked Sam.
"Yeah," Dean nodded, adding a complimentary Sam-infuriating eyebrow waggle. "She said that if the drainage was backed up, she'd be happy to come in and help me flush the plumbing..."
"Gah!" Sam's face screwed up into Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "I've got a better idea: I'll go get food, while you get dressed and completely fail to have sex with the housekeeper while I'm gone."
"Or," Dean countered, "You could go get food, then I'll have sex with the housekeeper, and you can go have sex with Pam in the office..."
"Dean..."
"I'm sure you'd have so much in common: you could show a polite interest in her spreadsheets, and she'll ask you if you'd like your column widened a few points..."
"Dean..."
"Oh, Sam, she'll say, how about I Grow your font?"
"Dean! Shut! Up!"
"I'm just trying to help," Dean insisted in a hurt tone, "You need to get laid, Sam."
"I need to get fed," Sam grumped back, "We all do. So, I'll get food, you get dressed, and don't let your dog pee on any of my shirts. The last thing we need to do is set off the smoke alarm."
"The battery's always dead in places like this," Dean assured him airily. "I promise I won't let Lemmy pee on any of your emo shirts." His face took in a serious, sincere mien. "I promise. Seriously. I won't. If Lemmy so much as looks like he wants to pee on one of your shirts, I shall stop him, chastise him, and rescue your shirt. I will be your wardrobe Prince Charming, saving even your most unacceptably girly clothes from being set on fire. Even if they arrive and drag me off to take away my Man Card, you can rely on me, Queen Sammy, Your Elongated Emoness, for your faithful knight Sir Sexgod will save your wardrobe from the firestarting pee of the rampaging Hellbeast…"
"Jerk." Sam gave him a final scowl, took the Impala's keys, and left.
When he returned, he discovered that Dean had been as good as his word; not a single item of clothing had been set on fire by Hellpuppy peeing.
However, Lemmy was busying himself chewing the other sleeve of a turtleneck sweater that Sam had picked up in a Goodwill store, and found comfortable – the fact that Dean had declared its pale colour to make it unfit to be worn by anything with a dick was a deciding factor in the purchase.
Later, when Dean sent him out to buy beer, he stopped at a gas station to fill the tank on the way back, and, in a small gesture of brotherly retaliation, bought a lavender air freshener and hid it under the front seat.
Goooooo Randolph! Reviews are the Chasing Of The Hellhound Puppy Or Winchester Of Your Choice Around After They've Escaped From The Bath Of Life!*
*Towels are compulsory.