It's good to see that Randolph isn't letting Nathaniel push him around - his bigger brother may be sitting on him, but he will not be silenced!
Chapter Fourteen
As Kelly's truck pulled into the street on which Barbara the aspiring camel-trainer lived, Sam immediately saw that the Impala was not there. He was out the door and running up the path to the front door before the vehicle had even completely stopped, calling for his brother, with Lars hot on his heels.
"There's nobody here," he pronounced, peering through a window as Kelly popped the lock. Drawing weapons, they entered silently.
The living room looked like somebody had been interrupted in packing in a very disorganised fashion.
"This does not look like the house of somebody systematically preparing to move to Norway," scoffed Kelly.
Lars and Morgan sniffed back and forth across the floor. Morgan growled at another sliver of sloughed skin, and Lars sniffed and gruffed at...
"Is that... is that a burn mark on the rug?" asked Kelly, crouching to examine the small scorched spot on the carpet. "Oh, it's damp just here. That's weird. How did that happen?"
"No idea," trilled Sam, as Lars moved on to bark at a hideous baroque brass candlestick on the floor. "But this has blood on it."
A search of the house failed to turn up any clue as to where the shapeshifter might have gone.
"We don't even know if your brother made it here," Kelly pointed out. "How do you even know he was actually here?"
"He was here," stated Sam, "It's, er, a brotherly intuition thing."
"Okaaaay," she replied, clearly not letting it go but not wanting to get off track right then, "So, now what?"
"Back to the Canine Academy," decided Sam grimly. "We've got silver, we've got the element of surprise, so we get the jump on her – we confront her, and beat some damned answers out of her."
The drive back through town to the Perfect Pooches Canine Academy happened to take them past the run-down motel where the Winchesters had been staying.
"Stop!" yelled Sam, and Kelly hit the brakes with a small shriek of fright.
"What? What?" she demanded, looking around frantically, "Did I hit something?"
"Go back!" Sam craned his neck, "I saw the car!"
Sure enough, the Impala was parked outside their room. And before she'd even shut off the engine, they could hear the strident barking of an unhappy pup coming from inside.
As soon as the truck stopped, Lars leapt from the vehicle, yapping frantically. Sam followed, hoping like hell that Kelly hadn't notice that the pup hadn't bothered to wait for him to open the door first. Fortunately, she had her back turned when Lars hit the door, and went right through it.
"That's Lemmy," Sam said, scrabbling with his key to let them in, "Dean! Dean! Are you in there?"
He wasn't; there was just Lemmy, tethered to a kitchenette cupboard handle by his lead. His barking subsided to whining as his brother Lars nosed at him and whuffed comfortingly, licking at his ears as Sam untied the lead.
"Something is really wrong," he muttered, "Dean would never, never leave one of the pups alone, especially not at this age..."
"Er," Kelly interrupted his musing, "There's a note here. It's addressed to you."
Sam crossed the room and grabbed up the piece of cheap paper, torn from one of his own notepads. It was written in what looked like Dean's hand.
Dear Sam,
What I have to tell you will come as a shock to you. I know the realisation was a shock to me. But I also know that this is something that I want to do. It is something that I need to do.
Ever since I went to that bar and saw the male belly dancer doing his routine, I've been fascinated by it. Yeah, sure, I scoffed at it, because there was no way I was going to admit to my little brother than was entranced by watching another guy dance. But seriously, you should've seen it! It's a really athletic, powerful form of dance, yet he made it look effortless. I've never seen anything like it! The music, the costuming, the technical and physical demands, it's an amazing art form! It was just totally awesome!
So, having done some serious soul-searching in the last few days, I've made a decision. I'm going to Turkey, to study raqs baladi. I'm leaving every part of my old life behind, and making a brand new start. I'm totally terrified, but totally excited, and now that I've admitted to myself what I really want to do, I can't wait!
I know you'll miss me, and I'll miss you too, but this is something that I really, really want to do. I'm leaving everything for you, including the car, and trusting you to look after it. I know you'll do what you think is best for Lemmy – if you can't keep him with you, please take him to Miss Polly, because she will find him a home where he can be the champion she says he can become.
Please don't be mad at me – I don't want you to be upset, or angry, please be happy for me. I will think of you every day, and every time I dance, I will hope that you would be proud of me.
Your big brother always,
Dean
"That was NOT written by Dean," Sam stated with conviction, "I can tell you that for sure."
"Because he'd never ever in a million years decide to run away to become a male belly dancer?" asked Kelly, unable to keep the smile from her face.
"Because this letter refers to the car as an it!" yapped Sam. "He never does that! It's always she this, she that, she the other! She needs gas. I gotta check her transmission fluid. I'll be spending some quality time with my number one girl. And he didn't use the word 'bitch' once! Plus," He bent down and checked the small kitchenette refrigerator, "There's still two pieces of pizza and a slice of pie left. Dean would never leave the town, let alone the country, without finishing those off."
"The shifter must've been in a hurry, to write such an unconvincing letter," suggested Kelly.
"Good," growled Sam, "We got her on the run, now we run her down. Come on, guys," he gestured to Lars and Lemmy, "We gotta find Dean!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Back at Perfect Pooches, they were surprised to find that Miss Polly had returned. Yes, Mrs Blackman of the Showing classes confirmed, she was back, had returned early in fact – a cancelled appointment before her meant that she had been able to return sooner than anticipated – and was in the office.
"Perfect," Sam's smile was predatory as he headed for office, "We box her in, and start breaking bones."
"Hey," Kelly put a warning hand on his arm, "You gotta be able to ask her where your brother is."
"She can talk with broken legs," he snapped, knocking on the door.
A distracted-sounding voice called "Come in!"
Miss Polly was on the phone, and she gave them a worried smile as she was finishing the call. "Oh, hello, Miss Whitestripe, Mr Page," she greeted them, "What can I do for yooOOOUEEEEE!"
Sam was across the room and had his knife to her throat. "Where is he?" he demanded without preamble.
"Mr Page!" Miss Polly squeaked in apparent terror.
"Where – is – he?" repeated Sam, leaning on the blade a little.
"I don't know!" Miss Polly managed to squeak.
"Oh, I think you do," Sam smiled unpleasantly, "And I think you'd better tell me."
"I don't know!" Polly repeated, eyes rolling in appeal to Kelly. "I just got back from my appointment, and..."
"Er, Sam," Kelly began tentatively.
"What?" he snapped, not taking his eyes of Miss Polly's face.
"Uh, look at, you know," Kelly waved a hand at his knife, "It's not reacting."
"Bullshit, I'm just not trying very hard," Sam replied.
"No seriously, look," Kelly insisted.
Dropping his eyes, Sam saw that she was right. The knife was causing no reaction at all. Bemused, he paused.
"But..." he peered at Polly. "You're a shapeshifter..."
"No, she's not," sighed Kelly, striding forward to grasp Miss Polly's hand. Polly let out another small shriek, but Kelly just hung on, and pressed her silver bracelet against the older woman's arm.
Nothing.
"But..." Sam backed off, not believing what he was seeing. "But..."
Kelly helped a white-faced Miss Polly to sit down at her desk. "I'm so terribly sorry, Miss Polly," she began in a sincere tone, "There has been a terrible mistake."
"You... he..." stammered Miss Polly, looking at Sam with frightened eyes.
"But the retinal flare!" Sam burst out, "We saw it! In the images! In the stills, in the footage – her eyes glowed." He pulled out his cell, and flicked it to video mode. "It's happening right now!" he protested, taking a few seconds of footage, then turning it to show Kelly – it clearly depicted the Hunter with a normal appearance, but the instructor with glowing irises. "She's got a shapeshifter's eyes!"
"You... you were going to stab me, because of my eyes?" managed Miss Polly.
"Oh, fuck," Kelly muttered under her breath before turning back to the older woman, "Miss Polly, this is going to be really difficult to explain..."
"I'm 'firin' my lasers'," said Miss Polly faintly, looking at the cell screen.
"Excuse me?" said Sam, bewildered.
"It's what my grand-children call it," she told them, "Whenever they see a photo of me, they say, 'Look, grandma is firin' her lasers!'. It's a never-ending source of amusement for them."
"But... how?" Sam eventually asked.
"I have keratoconus," Miss Polly told them, taking a shaky breath.
"Kerato-what?" asked Kelly.
"Keratoconus," Sam repeated woodenly. "It's a malformation of the cornea, the clear part at the front of the eye."
"Yes, that's the very thing," Miss Polly managed a shaky smile. "I wear corrective contact lenses for it." By way of demonstration, she squinted one eye, and popped a small, barely visible disc out onto her fingertip. "It can cause blurred vision and sensitivity to light – to cut that down, my contacts have a mild metal tint to them. It's the very latest in managing the condition. You'd never know, because my eyes are quite dark, until you see me on film, and the light is just right. 'Firin' my lasers'." She replaced the contact, and blinked it into place. "Mr Page," she went on in a firmer voice, "I must ask you what this is about. It is illegal to threaten people with weapons, Mr Page! My first impulse is to summon the police!"
"Miss Polly," Kelly cut in matter-of-factly, "Sam's brother Dean has disappeared, and we have very good intelligence that he's been... abducted by somebody with eyes that show retinal flaring on camera. Unfortunately, when we saw the footage that we took during treat ball training, we saw your eyes, and thought it was you. We are very, very sorry."
"But..." Sam's face was a picture of bewilderment, "If it's not Miss Polly, who the hell is it?"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Dean hadn't made any progress at all in getting out his bonds when Miss Polly returned.
"All sorted out," she told him brightly.
"I doubt that," sneered Dean, putting as much smirk onto his face and into his voice as he could muster.
"Oh, but yes," grinned Miss Polly. "As far as your brother is concerned, you are on your way to the Near East, to take up your newly discovered passion!"
"Oh, no," groaned Dean, "Don't tell me you've got me heading off to Lebanon to study in the kitchen of the world's greatest maker of pistachio pastries? I'd look like a total dick in one of those chef's hats."
"I can assure you that there was no mention at all of pastry preparation," Miss Polly actually grinned as she informed Dean about the cover story she'd used.
"What?" he struggled furiously against the rope, "A belly dancer? Are you insane?"
"It was the best I could do at short notice," she sighed with an impish grin, "And I was in something of a hurry."
"Seriously, why have you been making up such freaky cover stories for your victims?" Dean asked in genuine curiosity.
"Because if it's one thing that I have observed about people," Miss Polly sniffed disdainfully, "It's that the more bizarre something sounds, the more likely they are to believe it. Leave a note saying that you want to move to a different state to go back to study, or you want to move to the East Coast for a better job, and people start asking questions. Make it so weird that it's completely infeasible, and they accept it as true, because nobody would make it up!"
Dean considered her answer for a moment. "You know, you may be onto something," he conceded. "Demons, and shapeshifters, yeah, them I get, but people are just plain crazy... but that's not the point!" he yapped irritably. "I am totally not the type to go belly dancing! Watch women do it, okay, but the Living Sex God does not waggle around, shaking his thang with other men!"
"I think you'd look good in the pants," she smiled beatifically. And a little silk vest. And you do have the eyelashes for it."
"I am going to kill you," growled Dean, "I am going to kill you, and after you're dead, I'm going to jump up and down on the pieces, and then I'm going to piss on your carcass, and then I'm going to drive it to a sewage treatment plant and throw it in so that thousands of other people can piss on you too..."
"Are you sure you don't want to go belly dancing?" teased Polly, "You do have quite a... vivid imagination."
"Bite me," grumped Dean.
"Oh, I won't," she told him, "A number of others might, but I won't."
There was a brief interlude of silence.
"Well, go on," prompted Dean.
"Go on, what?" asked Polly.
"Go on, with your evil plan," Dean went on.
"What evil plan?" asked Polly.
"You know," Dean nodded, "Your evil plan. This is the part where the monster tells its victim all about its evil plan. Then you can go 'bwahahahaha!' if you like," he offered, his tone suggesting that he was giving the shapeshifter quite a bit of leeway.
"Monster?" she looked dumbstruck. "Evil plan?" Her face became angry. "There isn't any evil plan!" she hissed, "I'm just getting rid of people who aren't fit to have dogs!"
"That sounds like a pretty evil plan to me," Dean said.
"Well, it's not!" she snapped. "I'm rescuing their dogs, AND providing a valuable service to others!"
"Valuable service?" Dean sounded disbelieving. "You call this a valuable service? It might be if you were a hot chick, and you were plying your trade in an exclusive brothel that caters for that sort of thing, but for a start, at the very least, you gotta get yourself a prettier shape. Seriously, if I'm going to be B&D-ed to death, I want it to be at the hands of someone who looks less like Maggie Smith, and more like Charlize Theron." He looked back at the concrete pillar behind him. "And an upholstered headboard. And some more... appealing rope. Something softer. Silk is nice. Slinky. There was this girl in Nevada, called herself Mistress Amanda, and in her back room, she had this set-up with..."
"Shut up!" Miss Polly ordered, "There will be no B&Ding! I'll just kill you, and put you through an industrial mincer in the next room, then take you to a local animal shelter after hours, and feed you to the unfortunate animals waiting to be adopted."
Dean watched her expectantly.
"What?" she snapped irritably.
"You go 'bwahahahahaha!' now," Dean said encouragingly.
"No I don't!" Miss Polly told him in a shrill voice, "If you do not shut up, I will gag you with your own socks!"
"Dean's eyes bugged with horror. "Oh, that's just gross! I just knew you were evil. Mistress Amanda used..."
"I mean it!" she insisted. "I have to get back to the Canine Academy, but I will return later to turn you into dog food." She eyed him speculatively. "You look like there's quite a bit of lean meat on you."
"You'll never convince Sam that you're me," Dean smiled smugly, "He'll be onto you straight away."
"Oh, I wouldn't try," purred Miss Polly. "I'm not stupid; you know each other too well. Anyway, all I have to do is convince him that I'm just..."
There was a strange, tearing noise, a contorting of physique, and a shedding of skin...
Dean's jaw dropped.
"What the FUCK?"
Goooooo Randolph!
Reviews are the Unexpected Leftover Slices Of Pizza And Pie In The Refrigerator Of Life!