Chapter Twenty-Five

Sam frowned thoughtfully at the document open before him, and read back over it.

Wake up, I told myself, trying to convince myself that I was not afraid of what was obviously a nightmare, Wake up, wake up now, it's just a dream, so wake up now, before he pulls the trigger…

"Hey!" the snap of his voice made me jump. "Answer me! What are you?"

Apart from shitting myself with fear? observed a treacherous little voice in the back of my head, the one I'd tried so hard to ignore for as long as I could remember. That's probably a sensible reaction; this guy isn't kidding. You do know he's real, right? That this is real? You know it. You'd better answer him, he's shot things that look prettier than you for less than this…

"I…" My mouth had gone dry, and all I could look at was the gun; the bore looked enormous, a cannon, ready to blow my brains out if I didn't come up with an explanation for the Hunter, the fucking Hunter, I was sprawled in front of. "I… I don't…"

…And your brains will splatter just like Mr Benson, remember him, how his head burst like a ripe melon, you know that because you saw it…

The smile that spread across Dean Winchester's face sent a chill down my spine; vaguely I wished that Simone was there with me to see it, because if she had, she might've stopped writing those stupid stories where she bumped into him, and became a sassy, kick-ass Hunter herself, and ended up being Mrs Dean Winchester. This wasn't the Living Sex God – that was just one of the personae dramatis he played as part of the job he'd been doing since he was four years old – this was death on two legs, with a face that would make women swoon and men scowl, and that wasn't the Killer Smile, but it was the smile of a killer, and I had about five seconds left to save my own life but I was going to die of fright before he had a chance to do anything.

The tagline of the books have it all wrong, don't they? That little voice positively chuckled. Scary isn't sexy. Sexy is scary. Now you've seen it, you know it's fucking terrifying. Reality sometimes is, although people are very good at convincing themselves that it doesn't exist.

"Do I really have to count to three?" he drawled. "Ya know, I don't have a lot of patience, they tell me I have a problem with delayed gratification."

Just like Mr Benson…

"Stop it!" I shrieked, grabbing at my head, "Shut up!"

"Lady, you aint in a position to be yellin' at me…"

"Not you!" I snapped back, fear making me reckless, "I don't know, all right? I don't know! One minute I was in my room, then the storm broke, and, and, and, stop pointing that thing at me!"

After a moment he put up his weapon, but otherwise didn't move. "You got a name?" he asked.

"Jack," I heard my voice shake, "I'm Jack. I mean, I'm Jaqueline, but everybody's always called me Jack."

He was watching me the way a wolf might watch a wounded rabbit. "Well, here's the thing, Jack," he said, "I'm just here, mindin' my own business, thinkin' that the thunderstorm brewin' outside might cool the place down a bit, when there's a crack and a flash and then there's some random chick sittin' on the floor, outta nowhere, tellin' me that my brother is in danger. You gotta admit, from my point of view, it's kinda weird. So I gotta ask myself, what the hell kinda thing just zaps into the room, unannounced, just suddenly, you know, poofs on into my personal space?"

My mouth went into gear before my brain. "An angel," I supplied promptly. "Castiel does that all the time. Then you yell at him. Um."

Dean Winchester gave me a long, calculating look. "Yeah," he nodded slowly, "Yeah, he does. Thing is, Jimi here," he gestured at the enormous Rottweiler, "Jimi don't start growling when Cas shows up. Jimi likes Cas. In fact, it's kinda funny to watch Cas get his own personal space invaded."

"That's because Cas is your friend," I went on, unthinking, "He doesn't trip Jimi's nose for evil shit."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth and Dean smiled that slow, knowing smile at me again, I realised what a mistake I'd just made. "No, he don't," he agreed, "But you did. So, I find I wanna know, what are you?" He paused; the look on his face was probably one that Simone would imagine would make panties hit the floor for a fifty foot radius, but it make me emit a small squeak like a frightened mouse. "I mean, there's all sorts o' ways to find out," he went on as casually as if he was discussing the weather, "Some of 'em are particularly messy, but I doubt anybody will notice a few more stains on the carpet in a place like this…"

"I'm just… I'm just me!" I yelped, my breath starting to hitch, "I'm just me, and I'm just here, and I don't know why, and I don't know how," I was mortified to realise that I was crying, "And I didn't want it to happen, okay? This isn't real, this can't be real, it isn't happening, it isn't happening…"

That was the point at which I stopped talking, and just curled in on myself and started sobbing. I was frightened, and I wanted to go home.

Dean Winchester watched dispassionately; he'd been a Hunter for too long to let himself be lulled off-guard by a show of feminine distress when he had no idea what the hell was going on. But then I heard a soft whine, and felt a wet nose pushing at my hand. I lifted my face, and through the tears I saw the dog. Jimi.

Only now, he wasn't growling.

With another whine, he butted his big square head gently against me, leaning in to lick at my wet face, the doggy expression of concern a mirror of the one Monty always used when he thought I was upset. With a sniffle, I lifted a hand to his big, earnest face, and stroked his ears; he let out a gentle whuff, wagged his tail, and increased his efforts to lick me, radiating reassurance just by his presence.

In that moment he was no half-Hellhound, bent on tearing a monster apart; this was a dog, intent on reassuring a human being in distress. I couldn't help myself: I put my arms around his neck, and wailed into his fur.

Dean Winchester let out a heavy sigh. "Ah, shit, J-Man," I looked up and saw him shaking his head in bemusement, "Make up your mind, already, dude."

"I'm not evil," I sniffled into the big warm furry neck, "I don't know how I got here, or even where 'here' is."

"But you know Bobby Singer," he countered. "And you know I have a brother."

"Sam," I nodded, looking up and sniffling some more, "You're Dean Winchester. Sam is your baby brother." And then, because I was feeling completely drained and utterly annoyed at the situation, I added, "You're the bossy and short one."

"So he keeps tellin' me," Dean growled. "So, Jack, Jimi's decided that you aint evil shit. For now. But your arrival here counted as evil shit. The nose knows. And, speaking of knowing, you seem to be doin' a bit of that yourself."

He reached down to me; I grabbed at his hand, and none too gently he pulled me to my feet. "Oh," I said, looking up at him.

He cocked an eyebrow, and if he'd done it in the campus bar after Friday classes had finished, I could name several classmates in my graduating group – not all of them female – who would've run at him backwards. "Oh?" he echoed.

"You're, uh," I squirmed under his gaze. "You're… taller than I expected."

"Hey, I'm the one who's bossy and short," he shrugged. "So, why don't you tell me why you think Bobby and my brother are in danger?"

Gingerly, I sank onto the small rickety stool in the corner, trying to work out where to start. As if reading my thoughts, Dean chuckled, and offered me a smile that was genuinely engaging. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" he suggested, "I'll get you to skip ahead if I think it'll be quicker."

"Uh, okay," I replied, "But, well, I'm not even sure where 'the beginning' actually is…"

"At the start usually," he added nonchalantly.

"O-okay," I stuttered, taking a deep breath. Jimi dropped his chin onto my leg, and wagged his tail. "Okay. This might sound nuts – actually, to you, it probably won't sound so nuts – but to anybody else, you know, anybody normal, it would sound nuts…"

"Gee thanks," he rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean!" I sounded petulant even to myself, "People who don't know about…." I swallowed. "It's just… I've never told anybody this, but… it started in high school, when I hit my teens, I started sometimes to… see things. Before they happen."

He hummed thoughtfully, and then, in the spirit of trying to get as many votes as possible, went back and edited the last few paragraphs. He was in no way motivated by any thoughts of payback, he told himself…

"You're, uh," I squirmed under his gaze. "You're taller than I expected."

"Hey, I'm the one who's bossy and short," he shrugged, scattering a spray of water droplets.

The shrug had the unfortunate effect of making the towel around his waist come loose, and pool around his feet.

At that, he let out an astonishingly high-pitched squeal, and snatched at the mildewed shower curtain, clutching it to himself.

"Stay here with Jimi!" he squeaked, grabbing up his towel and backing out of the small bathroom. "And don't come out until I say you can!" He slammed the door, and I could hear him moving around the room, presumably fishing clothes out of his duffle, complaining all the while about assholes getting into his personal space, and how there's something terribly wrong with the world when a man can't even have a shower without somebody just poofing in on him and I was worse than Cas.

Satisfied with the updated version, he saved it to the 'In Progress For Comment' section of his account.

"So, how's the writing coming along?" he asked, looking up to see Dean contemplating his own screen.

"I'm not sure," Dean replied in a thoughtful tone, "I mean, I really gotta think about the direction before I go any further."

"I can tell you the direction of your story," Sam snarked, "It's going straight to Hell. Possibly in a handcart."

"Nah, Crowley's the parrot in this one," Dean waved a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. "What I mean is, I gotta work out exactly how I'm gonna save you. And some other stuff."

"What other stuff?" asked Sam, not sure he really wanted to know but drawn to ask the way it was impossible not to watch two trains steaming towards each other on the one set of tracks.

"Well," Dean began, "For instance, should I have you swingin' around naked from the rigging, or should I just get you to beat the shit out of somebody naked?"

"WHAT?" Sam let out a yelp. "What the hell would I be doing swinging around naked from the rigging? What would anybody on a pirate ship be doing, swinging around from the rigging, naked?"

"Well, everybody already realises that it's a ship with lots of werewolves on board," Dean explained in a tone suggesting that he really didn't understand why he had to explain this at all, "And that you've clearly been bitten to save you from your wounds when your ship attacked the She-Wolf, so, werewolves are kinda laid back about the whole naked thing."

"Let's set aside the naked thing for a moment," Sam spoke through clenched teeth, "Why would I be swingin' around on the rigging?"

"Well, this is a pirate ship, duh," Dean rolled his eyes. "It's what pirates do."

"I'm not a pirate!" snapped Sam, "I am an officer of the Royal Navy. According to your story so far, I don't even realise that I'm a werewolf!"

"Yeah, but you'd, like, be gettin' into the spirit of it," Dean reasoned, "Bein' on a pirate ship, you'd go all, you know, yo ho ho and swingin' from ropes and stuff."

"A sailing ship can actually be a very dangerous place," Sam said snippily. "Crew members died with alarming regularity from accidents on board: falls from the yards, mishandling of lines, a sheet coming loose could easily break somebody's neck – nobody on a sailing ship, including pirates, would voluntarily do something as stupid as swing around on the rigging!"

"They did it all the time!" protested Dean, "I've seen enough Errol Flynn movies to know that."

"Dean, that's in movies!" Sam snapped. "How many times do I have to explain this to you? Movies is like porn – separate from reality. Porn – reality. Porn – reality. It's like that."

"Well, how did they get onto other ships, then, huh?" Dean demanded triumphantly, "Tell me that, Mr Nautical Genius."

"They waited until the ships were close enough for them to board," Sam shot back, "Trying to swing from one ship to another would be incredibly difficult and extremely dangerous, and would result in more injuries than it did successful boarding parties! Anyway," he went on, "If this crew has werewolves, they could just jump across well before the ships got close enough for humans to cross over. You've seen what Andrew can do; you saw what I could do, when I was werewolfed, I could jump over your car one end to the other and not touch it; it's the hind legs, they generate amazing spring power, because of the digitigrade anatomy I guess, one of these days I've really gotta get around to making some measurements of that guy's hind legs…"

"You can't jump yet, because you haven't shapeshifted yet," Dean pointed out. "You're the one who just reminded me you don't realise you're a werewolf yet."

"So, if I don't realise that I'm a werewolf, then why the fuck am I naked?" demanded Sam.

"Well, you can't be wearin' clothes when you shapeshift," Dean sniffed, "You'll just tear 'em to pieces. Your first shapeshift could be unpredictable; that's why you gotta go to the brig. And Ronnie's been sewin' you clothes, so you will have something to wear afterwards." He gave his brother a reproachful look. "She's been sittin' with you, sewin' clothes for you, and wipin' your fevered brow, and tendin' your wounds, she even held your hair outta the way while you puked, and now, you want to put on the pants she's sewn for you with her own hands, you, a complete stranger, from a ship that attacked hers, and you want to put these pants on, and then just tear 'em to shreds when you wolf out. You ungrateful asshole."

"Can't I have a blanket or something in the brig?" Sam tried not to whine. "I mean, there'd be at least a blanket or something there, wouldn't there?"

"I can't give you a blanket," Dean shook his head.

"Why not?" demanded Sam.

"Because," Dean rolled his eyes like the most mouthy teenager, "What's the point of havin' you wanderin' around naked if you can get covered up? My fans won't like that!" He gave his brother his most infuriatingly cheerful grin. "It's all about the upvotes, Sammy!"

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Just, just realise that there would be no swinging around on ropes on board a ship, okay? There just wouldn't." He glared at his brother. "I will get pants eventually, won't I?"

"Yeah, for human you." Dean paused. "Although you may not want to wear 'em all the time…"

"Oh, fuck, look, just, just don't you dare put any ruffles on my pants."

"Of course not," scoffed Dean, "These need to practical pants. Sailor's pants. Pirate's pants. Made as quickly as Ronnie can make 'em, since you're bein' so precious about having pants to put on."

"Or my shirt," Sam specified, "Don't you dare put ruffles on my shirt either."

"There won't be ruffles on your shirt," Dean agreed. "Again, not practical, on a ship, and they'd take too long."

"Well, good."

"Because she'll have to make a shirt for you from scratch, since you're such a big boy."

"Well, yeah."

"And that could take a while, after all, she's the captain, and she's got other things to do."

"Yeah, okay."

"And shirts are fiddly to get right."

"What? How do you know that?"

"She told me once. Shirts are fiddly to get them to sit properly. The sleeves and stuff. So it could be a while until you get a shirt."

"Dean…"

"Yep, good thing you're a werewolf, little bro, so you won't notice the cold as you get around on the ship, lookin' all tanned and buff and bare-chested…"

"Dean…"

"And you'll constantly be havin' to dodge cabin girl Becky – maybe I'll make you scream like a little bitch when she sneaks up on and offers to braid your hair for you, and pinches your ass."

"Dean…"

"My readers will enjoy admirin' your physique, and thinkin' about your tattoos, for some reason they just love the idea of you with ink."

"Dean…"

"Yeah, and Becky can keep tryin' to ambush you to get a good look at the one on your…"

"I hate you."

Sam turned back to his own story. It was time to do his bit to raise the overall tone of the writing at this damned conference of nudity-obsessed women and shameless pandering after votes. In the next chapter, he had to get Jack on the road with Dean, to find Sam, work out why she was there, and stop whatever was going after Bobby. There was probably scope for Dean to drawl 'Let's hit the road, Jack' somewhere.

Right after he figured out a way for Dean get all his clothes blown off by some freak meteorological phenomenon the moment they stepped out of the motel room at the exact moment that a truck from a desserts factory crashed right on that corner and coated him with custard.

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

The final day of the meeting was a convivial gathering, and in the late afternoon the participants gathered to socialise, admire the cosplayers and watch the presentation of the awards.

"Hello again fanfic readers and writers!" Sam recognised Fiona and the other members of the organising committee as she addressed the crowd, who cheered back. "Well, haven't we had fun?"

"For a given value of 'fun'," Sam muttered under his breath as the assemblage cheered again.

"Well, I know I have, and it's been wonderful to see so many people working so hard on their writing!" Fiona enthused, "And I hope everybody takes away something from this meeting, and continues to keep giving us more great stories!"

"For a given value of 'great'," Sam muttered again.

"Shhhhhh!" Dean hissed irritably, thwacking Sam's arm, "They're gettin' to the prizes!"

"And I know that this is the bit you've been looking forward to," Fiona beamed at the crowd, "And whilst really, everybody here is a winner, we've got some fun prizes to hand out to some authors who have really caught everybody's attention, so without further delay, let me introduce you to the person we all have to thank for being here today!" She turned and smiled off-stage. "She's usually somebody who likes to be in the background, but she's here to present the prizes, fanfic writers and readers, will you please welcome the one who got this shindig kicked off, some of you may know her from her Crobby writing as 'Bobby's Bird'…"

"That's her!" Sam whispered frantically, "That's her, the Crobby writer! She did the spell! And provided the evil doilies for prizes!"

A pleasantly plump middle aged lady in a smart twin-set stepped onto the stage, and beamed as the audience went wild.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Miss Keely Fearguson!"

I think little Alfie-Con may be nearing the finish line - send him caffeine-laced reviews to speed him on his way!