Chapter Six

Over the next couple of days, the Winchesters kept their eyes open, and asked lots of seemingly casual and unrelated questions. After hours, Sam did research, and Dean did Mandy. However, the willing company of an enthusiastic companion after dark was not enough to lift Dean's mood when Lemmy was shifted to a different class.

Twice.

"This is actually a good thing," Sam argued, "We can cover more ground if we're split up. We can hear more, notice more, ask more if we're in two different classes."

"Oh, yeah, it's a different class all right," muttered Dean, diving into a packet of chips with the ravening despair of a dumped teenage girl seeking self esteem via the ingestion of high calorie comfort food. "It's Dumb Dog class. We spent most of the morning playing 'socialising' games – half of them don't even know what to do with a ball or a tug toy – and sometimes we have two instructors, because most of the pups are so dumb, they need to have someone push their asses down to get them to sit!"

"It's not about being 'smarter' or 'dumber'," Sam tried to tell him, as Polly had done, "It's about finding a level and a learning style that suits a particular dog, and that dog's handler – some dog and handler pairs respond to structured command training, some respond better to more playlike interactions..."

"What are you, their PR copy man?" asked Dean sourly, wiggling one end of Oinker Stoinker as Lemmy enthusiastically tugged on the other. "The instructor thinks I'm dumb."

"That's crap," Sam spat out briskly. "Just because you haven't had much practice at formal dog training does not make you dumb! You just haven't learned yet! You'll be totally brilliant at it! You're the Dominican, bro! You trained full-blood Hellhounds to do their job – that's how awesome a dog trainer you are!"

"You go on using Miss Polly's exclamation marks like that, she'll come after your ass," Dean humphed. "The instructor told us that we needed to practise being the dominant pack member, so we put out dominant vibes, and influence our dog's behaviour accordingly."

"Well, yeah, that's how it works," Sam nodded, "You have to give your dog an Alpha pack member to look to..."

"She made us play dress-ups, to get into a dominant mind-set," Dean went on, sounding unhappy, "I had to wear... a hat. And... stuff."

Sam stared at his brother. "Is that what that was about?" he asked finally, as he recalled seeing Dean's class laughing and hooting over a dress-ups box – they all seemed to be having a great time, except for his big brother. "When I saw your class playing dress-ups, I thought you'd all decided to give the training a rest, and have a go at forming a Village People tribute band, or maybe a Mardi Gras float – I thought you made a great leather dude... joke!" he yelped when Dean glared at him, "It was a joke! Hey, Mandy like it, she wondered out loud what you'd look like in those chaps if you didn't have your jeans on underneath..."

"Well, I didn't find it funny," Dean growled, not even rising to an opening to make a remark that would be bound to provoke a Sam Winchester Patented Bitchface™. The fact that he had no baby brother gross-out comment to make about a very genteel pretend BDSM dress-ups confidence building exercise spoke volumes about how down he was feeling. "That woman with the Westie that's so fat it can barely walk, she kept grabbing my ass, and asking whether I'd like to address her as Mistress Sadistica..."

"Was she the, er, larger lady, the one wearing the, uh, you know," Sam waved his hands vaguely.

"Yeah," Dean shuddered, "I just feel sorry for the hippo that obviously died so they could make that corset..." he shook his head. "I'm going to have nightmares about that," he stated, smiling sadly at Lemmy and petting the pup. "And they all think my dog is dumb."

"No. No. Lemmy is not dumb," Sam told him firmly, unhappy about his brother so depressed. "He's just... distracted. He's so interested in everything around him, he has a bit of trouble paying attention to just you..."

"We screwed up the recall. Again," Dean settled into a blue funk, "It was embarrassing. We're in the dumb dogs class, and everybody got it right instead of us. The Pekinese got it right. The Shih-tzus both got it right. The Bulldog got it right. Scheherazade the Afghan got it right, and she growls at her own tail every time she sees it, because she thinks it's another animal! Hell, even Brutus the Chihuahua got it right second go! It was supposed to be the unfailable exercise! It's supposed to be unscrewuppable, and we managed it!"

Sam fished for something positive to say. The puppy recall was calculated in every way to set up a pup for success: the instructor took the pup several yards away from the rest of the class, then the handler crouched down, waggling a toy if necessary, with all the other pups behind, and called. Invariably, the puppy would make a beeline for the owner, or at least for the other pups and then the owner could catch him or her and pull him in to be praised and rewarded.

Lemmy had first turned around, and wanted to kiss and snuggle with the instructor. Next try, he came halfway towards Dean, then lay down for a nap. After that, he'd set off for Dean, but found an interesting smell to follow, and headed off in another direction. Finally, when it seemed he'd finally got the idea, he headed for Dean, grabbed the toy, then ran back to the instructor to solicit a tug-of-war.

"Maybe he's just more secure and independent than the other dogs," suggested Sam, "He's not anxious about having to be on his own, because he knows that you'll always be there, and he has nothing to worry about."

"You think?" asked Dean doubtfully.

"Totally," Sam asserted, "I mean, he's three-quarters Hellhound, sired by the technical Alpha of the Infernal Pack. Maybe he's even somewhere in the line of succession, technically. A dog with a background like that has gotta be able to operate on his own, work out what to do without his human around. He's gotta be confident enough to go out in the field, and, and, and do his thing. This could be that bit of Lemmy's breeding coming through."

"Yeah," sighed Dean, "So, if we're ever on a Hunt and we're Hunting down satanic butterflies, Lemmy will totally be all over it – all I'll have to do is call him, and he'll go gank 'em." He looked down at the pup that was watching him with dancing, adoring eyes, and scratched his ears. "I don't know why you ran off to chase it," he commented, "There can't be that much meat on a butterfly." He rustled in the bag, and held a chip above Lemmy's nose. "Hey, Lem, Up! Up! C'mon fella, Up!" he encouraged in a chirpy voice. Lemmy yapped happily at the chip, jumping and grabbing at it, but didn't make any move to use his ear-flapping hovering to get to it. "Up! Up! Ah, hell," Dean sighed, and gave him the chip. "I guess he's just not ready to learn it."

"Give him time, Dean," Sam insisted, "He's only a puppy! Being a puppy should be about having fun, and bonding with your human pack, and finding out about the world around you. And Lemmy is definitely doing that," he finished, as Lemmy jumped off Dean's bed and trotted purposefully across the room to growl suspiciously at a drooping potplant that he'd been ignoring for the previous three days.

"Well, between us, I guess we got Advanced Placement and Special Needs covered," Dean smiled ruefully, watching as Lemmy barked intimidatingly at the plant. "So, I can't find any pattern in the presence of the instructors that coincides with the disappearances – they've all been working here for a number of years."

"I did find out something about them," Sam said, "Seven of them were attending as part of an order made against them by local Councils – they were sent here to learn more about being good pet owners, following complaints about their dogs being noisy, or destructive, or overweight, or badly behaved in public, or in need of veterinary attention."

"Yeah? Well, that's something to start with," replied Dean thoughtfully. "People who were not so good at looking after their dogs. Could that be a motivating factor for whatever is HEY!" Dean broke off, and crossed the room to where Lemmy was warming up for take-off, still glaring at the potplant. "Don't you dare pee on that plant and set fire to it, I don't care how satanic it is..."

"No, no, encourage him!" urged Sam, throwing the packet of chips at Dean. "Encourage him, then reward him!"

Giving Sam a dubious look, Dean did so, waving a chip. "Up, Lem! Up! Up! Up! Come on fella, Up!"

Eyeing the chip, Lemmy forgot all about the plant, whuffed happily, and rose unsteadily into the air.

"Good boy! Good boy!" Dean squealed like a cheerleader spotting a TOTALLY cute pair of Jimmy Choos in, like, the most PERFECT colour EVER. "Up! Up! Good boy!" Lemmy grabbed the chip, then dropped back to the floor, crunching contentedly.

"So, we could be looking for somebody who's a really fanatical dog lover, and thought that sub-standard dog owners needed to be punished," mused Sam, as Dean rassled with Lemmy, both of them radiating happiness. "Seems a bit over the top, though."

"So, these people disappeared, but what happened to them?" Dean wondered out loud. "Did they end up dead?"

"Unknown," Sam shrugged, "Possibly they ended up dead, but there's no confirmation. They just... vanished."

"We need to talk to whoever saw them last," Dean decided, "Can you get us a list of names and last known addresses?"

"Sure thing," Sam confirmed, watching as Lars snuffled across the carpet to help his brother snurfle up chip crumbs. "I think this is their way of telling us that they're hungry."

"I can relate to that," Dean humphed, "It's time to eat. What do you say to dinner time, little dudes?" The pups yapped happily at him. "Well, I'll go get food for the humans, and Second of the Pack here can feed you guys." He bent to pat them both. "If you're good, there may be wings in it for you." He straightened up. "Mandy really said that?" he asked, with an expression that was less like Totally Disheartened Dog Trainer and more like Living Sex God.

"Yeah, she did," Sam admitted reluctantly, not adding that another woman had also wondered the same thing, and speculated on what else a man dressed like that might be prepared to do with a collar and lead.

"Awesome!" Dean smiled happily, the ever-optimistic ladies' man avatar of the Living Sex God once again asserting itself. "Maybe I can ask her about it tonight."

"I don't want to know," Sam told him snippily, "Just try not to be too noisy when you come back in."

After they'd eaten, Dean headed out for another assignation with Mandy; Sam noticed that he left earlier, and returned later, but didn't think much of it at the time.

It wasn't until they got back to the Canine Academy the next day, to be told in passing by one of the staff that something a bit odd had happened – there appeared to have been a very tidy break-in, in which the only thing that was tampered with was the dress-ups box, but whilst the contents had been rearranged, nothing was missing – that Sam shot his brother a blast of Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One).

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

After the first week, the handlers had a personal training review with Polly. Dean and Lemmy were in the middle of one more try at mastering the command Drop – the pup would start in a sit, and lower his front legs to the ground, but as the front end went down, the back end came up, leaving him in a good-naturedly confused sort of bow – when he was called into the office.

"So, Mr Page," Miss Polly smiled brightly at him, and gazed fondly at Lemmy, who exchanging friendly sniffings with Max the demo dog, "Why don't you tell me how you think you've been doing?"

"Well," Dean began, "Lemmy's been having a great time – he loves it here, he can't wait to get out of the car of a morning. He loves the company of the other pups, he loves to meet new people, he loves the games, and he goes home and sleeps like a log at the end of the day..."

"But...?" she prompted.

"Yeah, but," sighed Dean, "We don't seem to be making much progress with, well, actually learning stuff."

Polly fixed him with a firm gaze. "Mr Page," she said firmly, "I believe that I may be responsible for that."

"Huh?" Dean looked at her dumbfounded. "How do you figure that? It's our fault, if we can't learn things..."

"Nonsense, Mr Page!" she insisted, "The fault in this is mine! I should've spotted this right away! Look at your dog, Mr Page." She indicated Lemmy, who was stalking the tip of Max's tail, which the older dog bore with equanimity. "Somehow, I managed to overlook the direction in which his talents obviously lie!"

"Er, you did?" queried Dean.

"Oh yes," she confirmed, "Just look! His confirmation is magnificent, even at this age! His temperament and character are flawless! He enjoys being the centre of attention, and he is unafraid of new dogs, new people, and new situations. His action is marvellously economical yet fluid. We have been taking completely the wrong approach to this dog, Mr Page!" she declared, standing up. "Come with me – we are putting you into another class, and this time, he will thrive!"

"I didn't think there was an Obedience class any further down than the one we're in," Dean noted glumly as they headed back out into the Canine Academy.

"We're not going to get your pup doing Obedience, Mr Page," she informed him smilingly as she led the way to a group of dogs doing something distinctly different: they were all on much longer leads, and were trotting around the ring pulling out in front of their handlers. "We are going to play to his strengths!"

"Er, and what strengths would they be, exactly?" enquired Dean, "Because if there's a class somewhere that teaches dogs to chew up socks and pee on potplants, he'll ace it..."

"Not at all," Polly told him with a bright smile, "Dogs are as individual and varied as people, Mr Page – they are all as different in talents and temperaments as we are! Some of us are born to be rocket scientists, some of us are born to be couch potatoes. And a few, a very rare few, are born to be supermodels!" She gestured to the instructor, who hurried over. "Mrs Blackman," she told the instructor excitedly, "I have brought you a Working Group champion!"

Le sigh. The recall. The bane of my Sunday mornings - you can almost hear the dog thinking out loud "Oooooh look something shiny!" as she bolts off in the opposite direction...

You can read all about Dean training Hellhounds in 'In Dog We Trust', in which we learn how Hellhounds come to be Hellhounds in the Jimiverse.

Meanwhile, feed the plot bunny! Goooooo Randolph! reviews are the Adorable Puppies Willing To Learn Commands For Treats In The Obedience Class Of Life!*#

*I should stop using up Miss Polly's exclamation marks so they don't run out before the end of the story.

#For those depraved Denizens who would rather have a Winchester Of Their Choice, I have no desire to know what sort of tricks you want to teach 'em… *pulls Lampito Cat's Arse Face Of Disapproval #1*