Aaaaargh! The eebil computer gremlins swallowed most of this chapter, and I had to write it again! Aaaaaaargh! It's plot bunnies nibbling on the interwebs, probably.
Chapter Three
"I'm calling this one in as a Level Five Point Seven Event," sighed Sam, surveying the car as the pups made their way out of the back seat.
"They're supposed to be growing out of it!" Dean wailed, surveying the results of a truly spectacular bout of carsickness on his car. "Oh, God, I'll never get the upholstery clean!"
"I thought that police officer was very good about it," Sam went on, watching as the pups took the opportunity to use the wilted grass on the side of the motel's lot, in case he had to stamp on any smouldering spots. "He said when his dog was a pup, she used to throw up as soon as she got into the car. He was very understanding."
"That's because his car had the windows up, and he can just hose it off," moaned Dean, "Oh, Baby, I am so sorry…"
"I'm so glad that old lady who slipped in it didn't hurt herself," Sam sounded relieved. "That could have been awkward. She said she gave her dogs ginger biscuits when they were puppies, and it seemed to help with any tummy upset."
"Somewhere in Indiana, Louis Chevrolet is rolling in his grave," Dean intoned mournfully. "I can feel him judging me – he is looking at me, and asking himself, is that man a fit and proper person to be custodian of one of my works of art?"
"The woman whose roller blades got stuck in it, though, I thought she was going to make a scene," Sam frowned at his brother. "You know, the one who said she was studying to be an animal health technician?"
"She was wearing a bathing suit, Sam," Dean flapped a hand dismissively – the fact that the Living Sex God refrained from making some comment about the way the pneumatically gifted young lady had filled her bikini demonstrated just how agitated he was. "Which indicates that she was planning to go jump in the water somewhere anyway."
"You didn't have to tell her that they'd eaten a piñata full of Skittles," Sam pointed out, "I got a lecture about canine diabetes!"
"And the smell! The smell, Sam! I can smell lavender! It'll never come out! My Baby is doomed!" Dean's voice was full of woe. "She will be forever infused with the stench of that foul herb, the Flower Of Lucifer, the weed of the Pit…" He wiped ineffectually at the rainbow mess on his shirt again, then shook a fist at the sky. "Why? Why? Why do the Fates hate me so much?"
"At least we're here," Sam consoled him, calling the pups back, "So we won't have to worry about this for a while. It only seems to be the long distance hauls that do it." He surveyed the colourful chaos. "I guess we should check in, and clean up."
"I'll check in, and you clean them up," Dean stated grumpily, beginning to stomp off in the direction of the office.
"What?" Sam blinked. "Why do I suddenly get dog washing detail?"
"Because I'm sick of chasing the little bastards around parking lots in my shorts, okay?" snapped Dean. "And I'm sick of hot women telling me that I'm several weeks too late for Mardi Gras!"
"Look, that place we stayed at last night was full up," Sam tried to reason with his brother (always a long shot). "She did us a favour, putting us in the honeymoon suite for a regular room rate…"
"Dat rack, Sammy, dat rack," Dean mourned, "I could've rested my beer on dat rack, and she thought we were a couple. A rainbow couple. See how the Fates mock the Living Sex God…"
"You gotta admit, the pups loved paddling around in the spa," Sam pointed out. "It was more like swimming than bathing, I guess."
"Sam," Dean announced levelly, "When I have access to a room with a super-King bed, a giant spa bath, and free porn channel, 'Bathing two puppies covered in colourful puke' is not on my list of top five things, or people, I want to do in that room. That list includes hot women, breath-holding contests, and possibly the rug in front of the fireplace…"
"Gah!" yelped Sam, giving Dean a shot of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "Not interested!"
"Nor, might I add," Dean went on, "Does 'Sharing a bed with my ginormous Sasquatch baby brother and two Hellpuppies and spending the night wondering who is doing the farting' make an appearance even in the list of top twenty things I want to do in that room…"
"Dean, I think you're overreacting…"
"It was like the battle of the bands in there!" Dean's voice took on a slightly manic tone. "The battle of the brass bands! One tuba and two accompanying furry whoopee cushions! And it's all your fault!"
"Look," Sam began in exasperation, "You bitched so much about the smell thing the day before, I thought that the 'gastric health' kibble might help."
"Oh, it helped all right," Dean nodded, 'It helped them hit notes no whoopee cushion was ever intended to hit! Seriously, it was like being trapped in the cab of a semi with a three-note air horn!"
"All right! All right!" Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll wash the pups! On the proviso that you start taking your medication again immediately."
"Get to it, bitch," snarked Dean, turning back to his car. "Oh, I'm so sorry, girl, let's see what we can do."
"I don't have the technique down like you do," Sam warned him.
"You need the practice," Dean smirked back. "And it's your turn to run around the lot in your shorts."
"Fine," Sam snapped, picking up his duffel and trying not to get any of the mess from his clothes onto it, "I'll wash them while you bond unnaturally with your car. Come on, guys, inside! Inside!"
"Don't listen to him, Baby," Dean crooned to the Impala. "He's a dickless bitch, and he doesn't understand."
Cleaning his car had been a calming activity for Dean since before he began driving her. Like a moving meditation, he found his mood improving as he systematically cleaned the multihued mess from her, inside and out. He checked his watch, grinned, and took out his cell.
"I gotta be ready for when they make a break for it," he grinned to the Impala, "I'm gonna film it, and totally blackmail him with it! What do you think, should we put it on YouTube? Or maybe on a gay dating site…"
He continued to keep an ear out for the startled yell of outrage that would indicate that Lars and/or Lemmy had made a break for it, and were heading outdoors. He was rather disappointed when the moment didn't eventuate by the time he'd finished the car.
"Well, Francis is probably curled up under the sink whimpering by now," Dean told the Impala, "I'd better go and rescue him."
When he made his way back into the room, he did not hear, as he had anticipated, the sounds of ablutionary chaos that might be associated with two Hell-bred puppies running riot while a human cowered in a corner and sobbed gently. What he did hear was Oinker Stoinker honking in accompaniment, but not to the usual doggy bathtime song. Overlaying that was the sound of furious intermittent clicking, as if an irritated click beetle was snapping her prosternum furiously at her husband over his having gone out for a night on the rotting log with his pals and leaving her at home to mind the egg case and the juvenile delinquent larvae.
"We're baaaathing in the rain, clickaclickaclick whonk honk
Just baaaaathing in he rain, honk whunk clickaclickaclicka
We're waaaaashing clickaclicka the puke off honk honk
It's goooooing down the drain…" clickaclickaclicka whunk whonk
Worried that something had finally overheated in Sam's brain – he'd always thought that if his baby bro ran the damned thing at redline for long enough, sooner or later it would seize, with catastrophic results – he knocked on the door.
"Er, Sam," he called, "Everything all right in there?"
"Fine," Sam replied, interrupting his singing briefly. "We're laaaaaughing at the mess…" clickaclicka
"I only ask," Dean went on, "Because it sounds like you're doing flamenco in there."
"No, no dancing," Sam replied, "Just bathing. We're waaaaashing it away…" whonk whunk
Dean made a decision. "I'm coming in, bro," he warned, pushing the door in.
Sam was not rocking gently in the corner, banging his head on the tiles. He was in the shower, in his shorts, singing to the pups as they ran around under the spray. Occasionally, he stomped on Oinker Stoinker to produce the cheerful if slightly waterlogged honking that amused the puppies so much.
"What the hell?" asked Dean.
"Well, you know how much they like to run around in the rain," reasoned Sam, "And you remember how much Jimi enjoyed the shower when he had a stint as a, uh, werehuman, so I thought, maybe they'd be happier in the shower. Just until they're bigger, then perhaps the B-A-T-H won't seem so threatening." As he spoke, Lars let off a fusillade of clicking suggestive of a demented castanet virtuoso.
"Er, Sam," Dean started, "Why is your dog going click at me? He swallow somebody's camera?"
"Oh, I gave him a training clicker," Sam shrugged, "You know what he's like, once he gets hold of one, he's in the zone, and doesn't pay attention to anything else until it's clicked its last."
"What's Lemmy got?" demanded Dean.
"I let him have the sleeve of that sweater you sicced him onto," Sam replied, "He's really enjoying it, and it's keeping all four feet on terra firma. Or, in this case, on shower firma." He reached down, and began to rinse off the pups. "We're geeeeting nice and clean, whonk honk Could you hand me a couple of towels?"
"Okaaaaaay," Dean eyed the scene before him and handed the requested items to Sam, "I'll, uh, I'll just get the rest of our stuff in. Oh, and just for info, if you start to tap dance in here, I will be calling a psych team."
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When Sam and two clean puppies emerged from the bathroom, Dean was on his bed, eating corn chips, watching avidly as a rerun of Dr Sexy played on the TV.
"Well, we're done," Sam announced as he dressed, "Two clean puppies. Plus one dead training clicker, but that's a price I'm willing to pay."
"Well done," said Dean, waving a hand at the pile of laundry on the floor. "So, now you can take care of that."
"What?" Sam rounded on his brother. "I've done the laundry for the last three days!"
"You're on a roll," Dean told him, "Who am I to break that now?"
"It's your turn!" snapped Sam.
"Nuh-uh," Dean shook his head, "I need to rest and recover from the trauma of having my Baby so hideously contaminated. I need peace, and quiet. And puppy cuddles," he smiled, as both Lars and Lemmy scrambled to get onto his bed, eyeing his corn chips with expressions indicating that they were The Hungriest Dogs In The World.
"Dean, I want to do some more research before we go enrol at Polly's Perfect Pooches Canine Academy tomorrow," Sam complained. "I'm trying to work out if there was any trait, any characteristic common to the people who disappeared."
"Well, you can do that later," Dean told him dismissively, holding a corn chip just above Lemmy's quivering nose. "Up! Up!" He encouraged, "Up, Lem, Up! Up! Up!" Lemmy danced from one front paw to the other, and jumped for the treat, but showed no indication at all that he was going to try his hovering trick to get to it. "Oh, he's just not getting it," sighed his Alpha, giving the chip to the puppy, then one to Lars. "I guess he's just too young to learn to do it on command yet."
With a serene smile, Sam took a corn chip, and threw his flannel over Lars. "Stealth, Lars!" he hissed in an intense whisper, "Stealth! Stealth! Stealth!" There was an uncertain whining from under the shirt.
"It's no good," Dean grinned, "He's still there, I can see the lump he's…"
Sam pulled his shirt away; Lars had turned himself invisible.
"Good boy!" praised Sam, offering the corn chip, which disappeared in a couple of bites. "Good boy! Clever boy! Good pup!" Lars reappeared again, tail wagging at being praised by his Alpha, and butted against Sam for pats. "Yeah," he smiled at Dean, "I guess some of us are just faster learners."
"Bitch. –Es," muttered Dean.
"Don't hate us because we're smart," Sam simpered at his brother.
"It's a fine line between smart and smartass," Dean said, "And Bobby says that little asshat walks it like a tightrope."
"You could give Ronnie a call," Sam suggested, "She could probably suggest some ideas for getting him to understand what you want him to do."
"I don't need to talk to that insufferable smartass either," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "I can always go watch Cesar or Victoria if I need ideas."
"Right, right," nodded Sam. "I think I missed that episode of The Dog Whisperer. 'Today, Cesar has come to help a dog who carries the Blood of the Pit understand the command to flap his big jumbo ears'... "
"Shut up, bitch," instructed Dean. "Go do laundry."
"What are you going to do, then?" demanded Sam sourly.
"When I am more recovered, I will go and get food," Dean announced, "And beer. As part of my therapy."
"Look, it's your turn…"
"Can't talk, watching Dr Sexy," interrupted Dean.
"It's not fair to expect me…"
"Talk to the hand, Sam, 'cause the face aint interested."
"Dean, I just washed the dogs…"
"Talk to the ass, Sam, 'cause the rest of me doesn't give a shit."
"Jesus, Dean, you're totally gross sometimes…"
"Talk to the dick, because the rest of me doesn't give a fuck."
"Clearly I am already talking to a dick," snapped Sam, gathering up the various soiled items. "Don't freeze the laptop on porn, jerk."
"Dean settled back to watch TV, the pups snuggled into his sides, until the episode finished. He let out a huff of outraged disappointment when Dr Sexy ended, and was replaced by Little House On The Prairie.
"Never mind, guys," he grinned, opening Sam's laptop, "Via the magic of the internet, we can continue our Dr Sexy-thon until we run out of Doritos."
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The laundry room wasn't too far from their room; Sam grinned to himself when he heard the irate yelling that indicated that Dean had just found out that the new wallpaper was a picture of him in his shorts, dripping wet and trailing suds, chasing Lemmy around the parking lot of the motel they'd stayed in the previous night.
Reviews are the Puppy Snuggles As You Munch On The Corn Chips Of Life!*
*If absolutely necessary, you may have a Winchester Of Your Choice passing you the guacamole.