Wow, Alfie-Con is seriously sprinting for the finish line - he just dictated the last chapter. So now, my options are:

A) Sit on it for a while, as a strategy to get more reviews because if I put two chapters up together people are tempted to write one review for both

OR

B) Put this chapter up right away, and ask the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse to take the time to review both chapters.

Knowing that some Denizens have the same sort of difficulty with delayed gratification as Dean, I am going with Option B. So, here's the last chapter - please pander to my sad, sad, pathetic review addiction, and leave me separate reviews for the previous chapter as well as this one.

And now, onward to the final stomping of the plot-bunny...

Chapter The Last

Once they were on the road, headed for Singer Salvage, Dean quickly recovered from his deforestation despair and reverted to his irrepressibly annoyingly cheerful self. As the Impala rumbled back towards Singer Salvage, he was singing along with his selection of music, drumming on the steering wheel, and stuffing his face with snacks as he drove.

"You're cheerful," observed Sam. "For a guy who's convinced he's gotta go without for a few weeks."

"What's not to be cheerful about?" Dean grinned at his brother. "Job's done, murders stopped, women saved, bad guy sent crying back to Hell, and I'm my awesome self again. I call that a win. Plus, we got an awesome story to tell Bobby."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," smiled Sam.

"Plus, I think I might've over-reacted just a bit," Dean added judiciously. "I'm sure the Living Sex God has nothing to worry about. In fact," he waggled his eyebrows, "In the shower, I couldn't help but notice that it felt kind of…"

"If you finish that sentence," Sam growled, "I will finish you."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Dean beamed. "And, of course, I know I'm more popular than you," he humphed with satisfaction.

"Huh?"

"I'm more popular than you," Dean repeated, "I got two doilies. You only got one. Therefore, I'm more popular than you, and a better writer than you."

"Hey, hold on," Sam stated firmly, "Just because you got two doilies doesn't mean you were a better writer."

"Yeah, it does," Dean countered.

"No, it doesn't. You were best at pandering to the lowest common denominator to get upvotes. And only after that spell improved your writing from appalling to merely bad. That's not the same as being a good writer."

"Okay, then, we'll ask the mirror," Dean stipulated. Sam fished it out, and opened it. "Okay, so the mirror will tell you just how awesome I am. Ahem. Mirror mirror, make the call, who's the wincest of them all?"

"Dean, what the fuck?" squawked Sam. "Wincest?"

"He knows what I mean," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Whose writing makes people wince the most."

As Sam let out a groan, the mirror fogged, then cleared…

Sex does not bad writing make,
But Becky Rosen takes that cake.

"See?" yapped Sam in triumph, "You asked the wrong sort of question. But I happen to agree completely with the mirror on that one. Becky's wincest stories are, well, they are the most winceworthy stories ever to pollute a site."

"Definitely," Dean nodded, "Okay then, let's try again… right. Mirror mirror, tell us true, who writes best out of us two?"

The mirror's mist swirled.

Dean, your stories were a hit…

"Aha! You see!" The mirror knows!"

But really, boy, your writing's shit.

"Yeah, I guess it does," chuckled Sam.

"Shut up!" Dean snapped. "Put it away. Stupid thing."

"I guess it's not totally surprising," Sam decided, "You using insinuations of nudity and sex to get upvoted, because you're such a man-whore at the best of times, you've just got the right mind set to give 'em what they want."

"Bitch."

By the time the returned to the yard, Bobby had returned from his own Hunt, and as they explained the nature of the job they'd just finished, he shook his head, glowered, and used the word 'idjit' with extreme prejudice.

"I'm up to the Mark VII rounds," he growled with a small amount of anticipation, "And next time I see that asshat, I may just test 'em out on His Majesty's schemin' ass."

After lunch, Dean decided to head out to one of the sheds, where he was soon submerged in the Zen of attempting to coax an elderly engine back to life. He was contemplating a timing chain when he heard Sam's footsteps, and popped out from under the hood. "Hey, Sammy, what's up?"

Sam's expression was unreadable. "There's… somebody who wants to talk to you," he said.

Dean wiped his hands on a shop rag. "Yeah? Who?"

"A guy," the faintest trace of a smile crawled onto Sam's face. "Another Hunter. He wants to ask you about a job."

"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised. "Me? He's not here to ask Bobby?"

"Oh no," Sam assured him, "He wants to talk to you. He's sure that you're the only one who can answer his questions."

Dean smiled. "Well, that aint a complete surprise," he noted, preening a little, "After all, I'm Dean Winchester. Let me clean up a bit, and tell him I'll be right there."

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

Sam headed back to the house, where the man in question was talking to Bobby. "He's just gonna clean up," he informed them, "Then he'll be right here."

Then he seated himself on the porch swing, because he wanted to watch this…

It only took Dean a couple of minutes to show up, sauntering through the yard the way a silver-back gorilla makes his way through his patch of rainforest. Sam recognised it immediately, and smiled; his big brother was, inevitably, invoking The Dean Effect.

The Dean Effect was Sam's private term for the way people reacted to Dean whenever he walked into a bar, a room, a meeting, or any new situation. Sam had seen The Dean Effect more times than he cared to count; it was an effect that Dean had been having since his voice broke, and frankly, he thought his big brother enjoyed it.

Basically, it made people stop, pause in what they were doing, and look at him, because everything about him screamed Alpha male.

False modesty sucked, in Dean's opinion – he was an attractive guy, and he knew it. He had a combination of a face that bordered on pretty and a body that had been honed and hardened by Hunting; on top of that, he exuded an easy ambiance of masculinity and confidence in himself, a combination hinting at charm, danger, protection, strength, fun and bloody violence.

Oh, he could damp it down, or turn it up, as the occasion demanded – it depended on whether he wanted to charm a woman out of information or her clothing, or whether he wanted to provoke a guy to confide in him or try to kill him, but it oozed from him at all times, like nectar from a dark brooding bloom or venom dripping from a grinning dragon's fangs. He was Dean Winchester, he was a Hunter, a fucking good one, he was the Living Sex God, and he'd bedded more women and beaten more men than anybody in any place he walked into, and it was all there for anybody to read, in his easy, come-hither, dangerous smile, in the loose and confident way he moved, in the way he just was himself.

It made women smile, and twirl their hair around their fingers, lick their lips, pout and lower their lashes, and wonder just what sort of mayhem that body might be capable of, and think that it might be fun to get him alone in the bedroom and find out.

It made men realise that they were out-classed, out-gunned, out-manned in every way that was possible, and so long as Dean was there, no woman could truly have her full attention on anybody else. It made them resent him, and either defer to him or want to punch him.

Yup, Sam really, really wanted to watch this meeting…

"Hey," Dean called out, seeing the man with Bobby turn to face him, "Sorry about the wait, what can I…"

His voice and his feet stuttered to a halt.

The guy who sauntered down the porch stairs did so as if he owned them. He moved in a confident but non-committal way, a predator who hadn't quite decided whether he wanted to buy you a beer or tear you apart and eat the pieces without even chewing. He was built like a blacksmith – he'd clearly never set foot in a gym, but well-used muscles sculpted by his genes and his life bunched in his tattooed arms, and across wide shoulders, biceps straining at the sleeves of his shirt. His face was ruggedly handsome in a way that Dean's fine features could not match, with a strong jaw and clear grey eyes, long hair pulled back into a braid that did nothing to take away from his overt masculinity: if anything, it made him look like a viking, or maybe a god from an ancient pantheon – if he'd turned up on the set of Troy or The Avengers, the producers would've taken one look at him and cast him as Achilles or Thor, and Brad Pitt and Chris Hemsworth would've gone home sobbing about how puny and ugly his very presence made them feel.

He made his way down the stairs and across the yard, where he looked down – oh yeah, he was a tall one – he looked down at Dean.

Dean looked up, speechless, as the newcomer smiled a dangerous, threatening smile that was not so much a smile as a baring of teeth.

Sam, however, genuinely grinned, savouring the moment. This was the very first time that Dean had ever experienced The Dean Effect the other way around.

Dean's mouth worked a couple of times, as his fists clenched. "Who the fuck…"

"Gday, Dean," the other Hunter said, the thick northern Australian accent clear in the deep voice that could've rumbled seductively as easily as it growled in anger, "Sorry if I startled you, but, well, frankly, I haven't been feeling completely myself for the last week or so."

Dean's eyes bugged. "What the… Ronnie?"

"Well, yeah. On the inside, at any rate." Ronnie stepped back, and spread her (or should it be 'his'?) arms wide. "But at least I haven't had to mess with my name. So, what do you think?" She turned on the spot, then offered Dean a dangerously friendly smile.

"Oh, er, well," Dean stammered, waving a hand at the mannified she-werewolf, "You're, uh, yeah, you're a, uh," he paused, and drew himself up with considerable dignity. "I am secure enough in my masculinity to acknowledge that you are a very attractive man, Ronnie."

She let her arms fall to her sides. "I am, aren't I?" she went on in that dangerously friendly voice. "Of course, it didn't strike me as any sort of positive thing, when I woke up last week and suddenly found out, wa-hey, I'm down one oyster, and up two kiwis and a banana."

"Oh, er, yeah, about that," Dean said sheepishly.

"It's okay," Ronnie held up a hand to forestall him. "Sam explained to me what you did. How you used the leftovers of a spell for something completely outside of what it was meant for, to cast a transformation on somebody who didn't ask for it, didn't want it, and didn't even know about it. Because there's nothing wrong with that, is there? Not a chance that anything could possibly go wrong."

"Well," managed Dean, "Look, I thought, you know, it was makin' Sam and me into attractive women, and I thought, hey, you say it yourself, you aint exactly an oil painting…"

"And so, you decided to use the remnants of a spell on me," Ronnie finished for him. "The remnants of a spell to make attractive women out of men. Turn man into attractive woman. Man. To attractive woman. Man. To. Woman. Do you see the small detail you might've missed?"

"Er," went Dean.

Ronnie sighed, and looked wistful. "If nothing else, it's been educational," she mused. "I mean, given the way the spell was formulated – work with what you've got and what might've been, Yiayia Panagopoulos is a wise woman – I now know what my mother was trying to do, when she tried to give her husband a boy for his first born. This is what she wanted to give my father, this son. If Daddy just could've given me a Y-chromosome instead of an X, well, whammo."

"Whammo?" queried Dean.

"Whammo," confirmed Ronnie. "Goodbye Samantha hello Sam, good by Joanne hello Joe, goodbye Louise hello Lou." The scarred face grinned, and Dean couldn't help but notice how the long-faded claw marks actually conspired to make male!Ronnie look even more devilishly handsome, like the mystique of a duelling scar. "This would've been me. Ronald Shepherd. And everything that makes me such an unattractive woman would've made me, well, the magnificent specimen you see before you."

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Dean nodded. "Uh, yeah, magnificent. Very, uh, manly, very… yeah."

"It has made social interactions somewhat, shall we say, awkward," Ronnie added. "For some reason, every time I try to go into a bar, I end up surrounded by women, who make the most forward propositions."

"Oh, er, really?" Dean smiled wanly.

Yes. But on the upside, there's been no end of men who want to start fights with me," she said. "And, if I'm honest, that has been kind of fun."

"Oh, uh, that's, uh, that's good," Dean nodded earnestly.

"Oh, this ruggedly handsome exterior isn't all," Ronnie went on earnestly, "It's all fully functional. Hell, it scared me the first time I saw it." She reached casually for her fly. "Seriously, none of those women had any idea what they might've been letting themselves in for, this junk is huge…"

Dean let out a scream that Sam didn't think he should've been able to manage now that he was male once more. "Saaaaaaam! Bobbyyyyyyyyy!"

"You made this bed, you lie in it," growled Bobby, "You're on your own, son."

Ronnie relented, and stopped fiddling with the zipper. "Well, okay, I don't want to scare you," she said generously. "But the whole man thing? I'm not sure it's really me." she stared hard at Dean. "But while I've got it, I wonder if I might as well as use it…"

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Dean yapped, "I was tryin' to help, I really was! I wanted to do something nice for you!"

"We know what good intentions pave the way to," called Sam, smiling sunnily at his brother's discomfiture.

"Shut up!" Dean yelped, "Look, it only lasts for a week, so you'll snap back to yourself in your sleep in a day or two, honest, so, uh," he waved a hand uncertainly, "So you won't be doin' your Thor impression for too much longer."

"Oh, don't you start," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "Andrew and Connor made me a papier mache hammer, and he kept speaking German to me. He and the kids think this is the funniest thing since the last time a politician claimed to be telling the truth. When he saw what had happened, he nearly busted something laughing."

"Yeah, well, he's a cool guy," Dean said, "He can see the funny side."

"Oh, he did," Ronnie smiled beautifully, "He definitely saw the funny side. He said I made him feel scrawny. And he didn't know how right he was, because he kept laughing, right up until the point I did this."

With that, she kicked off her boots and shucked effortlessly out of her clothing before shapeshifting.

Dean let out that little scream again.

Ronnie as a female was short when she took her wolf form, even for she-wolf.

But male!Ronnie had been transformed into what she might've been had she been born a male, and the best possible male she could've been at that…

"Whoa," went Sam, taking out his phone to get some pictures as Bobby let out a low whistle. "How big is she?"

"Bigger'n Andrew," Bobby estimated. "Bigger than you were, even, when you spent a lunar month feelin' wolfier than usual."

Dean gawped up at creature before him. It was a male werewolf. And it was enormous. Taller than any Old North wolf he'd ever seen, bulging with muscle, it glared down at him, rumbling like an angry earthquake, massive arms flexing as it inspected six-inch claws thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't bother trying to run, bro," suggested Sam, snapping away, "You'll just die tired."

"Bobbyyyyyyyy!" Dean shrieked, "Bobbyyyyyy, do somethiiiiiing!"

"Not much I can do against that, son," said Bobby philosophically, "I suggest that your best course of action will be to apologise."

"I'm sorry!" Dean squeaked at the growling monster before him, "I'm sorry, okay? I really didn't mean to do anything mean! I was tryin' to help, I really was! Can we just try to calm down and not to anything hastyyyiiiEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

His voice rose to a shriek as arms like knotted oak logs with paws like gardening forks reached for him.

"You don't think this will attract the neighbours' attention?" asked Sam in a worried tone.

"Nah," Bobby reassured him, "Since we got RJ here, and Connor visitin' sometimes, the Widder Witherspoon has just become used to all sorts of shrieking noises." He turned his head sideways. "And really, kids of any age shrieking all sound pretty much the same."

"I guess," shrugged Sam, satisfied that he had enough pictures. "Speaking of RJ, I'll go check on him, he's usually hungry when he wakes up from his nap."

"You get the kid, I'll get the food," Bobby turned to follow Sam indoors, calling over his shoulder. "Don't do any permanent damage," he instructed, raising his voice over the noise.

Mrs Witherspoon next door didn't come fussing to find out what the racket was all about, and as he went to check on his nephew, Sam marvelled anew at just how knowledgeable Bobby was about so many things.

Not many people could've determined that the noise of children playing loud games would be exactly what it sounded like when a gigantic werewolf grabbed a Hunter by the ankles, held him upside down, and spanked him.

THE END

Hang on... hang on... wait for it...

SQUELCH

And so we stomp yet another plot bunny. Alfie-Con was a bit of a diva, frankly, not nearly as much as Jackie-Joy, but a bit of a princess bunny nonetheless - however, in the end, he came good, got his act together, and gave us a good run to the finish line, with a sprint at the end. Well done, Alfie-Con, and we hope you go wherever it is plot bunnies go after they finish dictating their stories and get stomped. It's possible they retire to stud somewhere, I suppose, which would explain where plot bunnies come from.

So, for now, here in the Jimiverse we've just got Jackie-Joy dictating 'Old Dogs Old Tricks', and hopefully she'll be inspired by Alfie-Con's magnificent recovery and performance.

I'm afraid I had no plans to finish Sam's self-insert story (there was seriously no actual plot at any time, and it seems like it might have far too much angst and not enough crack for my tastes). And as for Dean's AU pirate one, I know there was an imminent naked stroll to the brig, but you cannot seriously want that one - even in the Jimiverse, we do have standards. But who knows, I might get a few more chapters out of 'Supernatural DISCoveries'. Or one of the Denizens may send me another bunny (they're depraved, but they get shit done). And of course, at the end of a Jimiverse story, Das Bus could be lurking around the corner...

So farewell to Alfie-Con; send reviews, and I'll bunch them all together in a suitably ugly vase and put them by his headstone.