Yes, as much as it discombobulates me to say it, you can buy teddy tits on the interwebs. Dear Japan, WTF? Sincerely, the rest of the world...
Chapter Eleven
Sam stared at his brother. "Dean, do you really want to take your kid on a Hunt?"
"Well, he can't stay here by himself, duh," Dean rolled his eyes.
"But he's only a toddler!" protested Sam.
"He's a Winchester, Sammy," Dean replied, "He's got it in his blood."
"Titi!" piped RJ helpfully.
"Look, we got as much intel as we can get without actually being there," Sam went on, "It's not too late to pass this on to another Hunter, and…"
"No," snapped Dean, "We are NOT passing this Hunt to anyone, you hear me?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, what about Ronnie? She already knows about fan fiction, if we call her, she could turn around, and…"
"No," Dean insisted; a vaguely evasive expression passed over his face so quickly that only Sam or Bobby would've noticed it, and even then, Sam, who had gained a PhD in Deanology before he hit his teen hears, wasn't completely sure he'd seen it. "Don't bother Ronnie, I'm sure she's got other stuff she needs to be doin'."
"Are you sure about this, son?" Bobby echoed Sam's concern. "I could maybe see if somebody could watch him…"
"He'll be fine," Dean stated firmly. "We're goin' after something that's targeting women, not kids. And he's a Hunter. Ronnie says she can smell it on him already. Besides, it'll be great for our cover. We're just a couple of friends, takin' some time off to attend a fanfic convention to improve our writing, and I can enjoy some quality time with my kid at the same time. He'll have you to watch him, and he'll have the dogs to watch him…"
"They've been Cockapoo-ed," Sam reminded him.
"They're still part-Hellhound," Dean said, "Physical form don't mean squat to a Hellhound, you know that. And the females of the species can be more deadly than the males, after all."
Bobby contemplated the two curly-coated dogs: 'Lennie' looked up at him with 'her' usual good-natured if somewhat clueless happy expression, whilst 'Lara' bore 'her' habitually reserved mien that suggested she was waiting to see if an opportunity to solicit treats from gullible humans might arise.
"The thing about Poodle blood is, it can make a dog smart," he ventured. "Very intelligent breed, Poodles."
"Well, could be an improvement," mused Sam, studying 'Lennie'. "Your dog definitely got the cocker spaniel ears – let's hope 'she' doesn't have the purely cocker spaniel brain to go with it."
"Yeah, well, let's hope it don't make your dog any more of a calculatin' little asshole," growled Dean. "So, he's got you, he's got the dogs, and of course, in anythin' looks sideways at him I'll kill it. No problemo."
Sam gave his brother – his bestie? It was going to do his head in, he'd decided – a long look. "Fine. We take RJ, use him to charm women, and kill anybody who looks at him funny. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Sometimes simple is best, Sammy," grinned Dean, "And at least you won't have to knit a pair of tits for him."
"Titi!" yelled RJ with enthusiasm.
"Okay, we'll change that to, 'You can knit him a pair of tits on the way'."
"Dean, I am NOT knitting a pair of cuddly toy boobs for your kid!"
"Sure you can – think what great cover it would be, a woman sittin' and knittin', nobody will look twice."
"They will if they bother to look at what I'm knitting!"
"You can just tell 'em that you're knittin' 'em for yourself because your chicken fillets gave you a contact allergy."
"I hate you."
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Both RJ and the dogs had become happier travellers as they grew, but Dean checked the stash of old towels anyway just in case of an Enfecalation or Regurgitation Event of Level Two or higher. Between the dogs' excited barking, and RJ's enthusiastic hooting and clapping (interspersed with occasional cries of "Titi!"), and Dean's bitter complaints about having his Baby turned into a powder blue Volvo, it was a noisy departure from Singer Salvage.
"Does the seat have to be this far forward?" complained Sam.
"Yeah, it does," replied Dean, "Unless you want me to put us into a tree, or something."
"Figures," grunted Sam. "You're still bossy and short. We change into women, you're bossy and short. We changed into dogs, you were bossy and short. If we changed into giraffes, you'd still be bossy and short."
"I'm not short!" snapped Dean, rolling his shoulders. "Damn, I hate the underwire thing."
"You're shorter than Ronnie," Sam commented slyly.
"No I aint," Dean shot back, "I was lookin' down at her the whole time last night."
"That's only because of the heels you were wearing," sniffed Sam. He fished the compact out of the console, and opened it. "Mirror mirror, be the sorter, Dee or Ronnie, who was shorter?"
Wearing killer heels was cheating;
Dean you're shorter, so stop bleating.
"That thing is defective," growled Dean, as Sam laughed and shut the compact.
"Speaking of Ronnie," wheedled Sam as he pulled out his cell, "She's not too far gone to turn around and look after RJ for us – you know how much she likes him, and he loves to watch her do the thing with her fangs…"
"NO!" yapped Dean, "Don't you dare call her!"
"Look, she could meet us there, pick him up, so we don't lose any time," Sam continued, "I think you're right about her not taking the Hunt – she walks in looking like herself, with a Rottweiler bitch, the minute she opens her mouth and that accent falls out she might get rumbled, and I can't see her being willing to pretend she's cosplaying herself, that'd just be weird…" The fleetingly guilty look that he'd seen earlier flitted across Dean's immaculately made-up face once more. "What?"
"What what?" asked Dean, completely casual.
"You had that look on your face," Sam said.
"What look?" asked Dean guilelessly.
"That look," repeated Sam.
"What, my usual awesomeness?" Dean's female version of The Killer Smile packed the same megaton wattage as its usual version.
"No, not your CFM face," Sam growled, "I saw your 'I've Done Something' face."
"Well, I've, uh, done lots of things," Dean pointed out. "This morning I brushed my teeth, I cleansed and toned and moisturised, I filed my toenails – I wonder if I'd have time to get a pedi while we're there…"
"No, your 'I've Done Something' face," Sam insisted. "The expression you get when you've done something and you're hoping you won't get found out. You had it this morning."
"No, I didn't," protested Dean.
"Yeah you did."
"No, I didn't."
"Yeah, you did."
"Sam, really, I didn't."
"You totally did!" insisted Sam. "You've been doin' that expression since you were a kid, and your poker face is better now, but it was still there. It's the expression that crosses your face when you eat the last of the bacon, and try to blame the dogs. It used to be there when Dad told you to stay in, but you'd sneak out to go get into a bar or meet a girl. It used to be there when Bobby told you to stay out of his booze. It's there when you use my shower stuff after I tell you not to, you jerk. And this morning, it was there, when I mentioned Ronnie." His eyes narrowed. "So, what have you done?"
"I haven't done anything…"
Sam let out a huff, and gave his brother a searing Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk).
Dean's expression was all wounded innocence. "No, seriously, I haven't done anything. Much."
Sam cranked up the Bitchface™ intensity.
"Look, I haven't done anything bad, okay?"
Dean thought he might be able to feel his underwires heating up…
"My motives were totally pure, and helpful, Sam, I did a good thing."
"Dean," Sam's tone was level and pleasant, the tone of a professional woman who comes home from work to find a trail of footprints in green paint leading to a child's room along the newly laid hallway carpet, "What have you done?"
"Well," began Dean, "After you started talkin' about how lucky I was to have become such a hot woman last night, I got to thinkin'."
"That right there is dangerous," muttered Sam.
"Yeah, well, I got to thinkin' about how Ronnie is so much less hot than me," Dean went on, "And how I should be, you know, nicer to the less fortunate."
"With you so far," nodded Sam, "Not in the least bit reassured, but with you so far."
"Yeah, so, I started thinkin', it would be a really nice thing to do, to do something for her," Dean said earnestly, "Because I should be charitable to the less fortunate."
"By which you mean, the less hot than you," Sam clarified.
"Exactly!" Dean beamed. "So, at breakfast this morning, I made her a cup of coffee before she left."
"Yeah, I noticed that," Sam commented, "And I kind of wondered… oh, Jesus, Dean, tell me you didn't put a laxative or something in there, you jerk…"
"No!" Dean cut him off, "No! Absolutely not!"
"Well,what was it?" demanded Sam. "A diuretic? Because if this is some hare-brained idea of yours to help Ronnie become more 'hot' by somehow losing weight or something, then…"
"No, Sam," Dean said with conviction, "No. I didn't put any meds at all her coffee. I didn't. Anyway, Ronnie doesn't need to lose weight. It would help if she could rearrange what she's got, maybe, but she doesn't really need to lose any…"
"What did you do, Dean?" asked Sam through clenched teeth. "What did you put in Ronnie's coffee?"
"Nothing!" insisted Dean, "Nothing! Well, apart from coffee."
"Just coffee?"
Coffee. And an extra spoon of instant, to give it a bit more oomph, she likes that."
"That all?"
"And some sugar."
"Sugar."
"Uh-huh. And a bit of hot water, to make sure it was nice and hot."
"Coffee, and coffee, and sugar, and water."
"Right. And a bit of cream, because she likes that sometimes."
"Coffee, coffee, sugar, water, and cream."
"That's all, Sam."
"Okay, then."
"Plus some of YiaYia Midget's Make-You-A-Hot-Woman potion."
Sam let out a shriek of outrage that was so loud it woke up the dogs in the back seat, and drew an answering squeal and a round of applause from RJ.
"You did what?" he shrieked, giving his brother a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't Believe You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), "Are you NUTS?"
"Look, think about it," said Dean in a reasonable voice, "From rock bottom, she can only go up, yeah?"
"Dean, it doesn't necessarily work like that!" yapped Sam anxiously, "Spell-casting is not an exact science, you have to know exactly what you're doing!"
"I do know what I'm doing!" insist Dean, "Look, I only put a little bit in there, so it'll just, you know, give her a little lift."
"What are you now, a cosmetic surgeon?" asked Sam trenchantly. "Which bits are you suggesting she needs to get 'lifted'?"
Dean hummed thoughtfully. "Well, maybe not so much 'lifted', as 'nipped and tucked'. Or possibly 'cut off' and 'ground back'. That jaw, for a start, even a quarter inch off each side, and just trim down those arms, maybe take a bit off the shoulders, and graft it onto where her bust should be…"
Sam groaned, and dropped his head into his hands. "I don't believe you've done this."
"I know," sighed Dean, "Neither do I. Given that it's Ronnie. But I actually feel really good about doin' something nice for her. It must be my female nurturing side comin' out."
"We gotta call her," said Sam, "We gotta let her know, so she can go back to Bobby's and…"
"Bobby aint there," Dean reminded him, "He's off gabblin' Sumerian at some malevolent artefact. Don't call her – I want it to be a surprise."
"Dean, I don't think you realise just how much of a surprise it might be."
"Yeah, it could really be amazing!" Dean enthused, "Goodbye ugly duckling, hello swan, goodbye Amelie, hello Maria, goodbye Brienne, hello Daenerys…"
"Well, maybe if it wasn't much, it won't actually have any effect," Sam mused uncertainly. "From Brienne to Daenerys, huh?"
"Got a thing about eatin' hearts already," Dean grinned, completely unrepentant.
Sam slumped in the seat. "Fine. But if she comes after you with an angry, hungry dragon, don't come bitching to me."
Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. The whole spellcraft thing really isn't Dean's forte, Cas knows what will happen now. 'Dee' really isn't doing anything to help dispel the stereotype of the dippy blonde, is she?
So, Alfie-Con finally has them off to the convention. Which sessions will they attend? Who will they meet there? Will Dee manage to get a decent pedi? Tune in next chapter! (Watch out for any dragons, actual or metaphorical).