Do you mean to tell me that there are people out there who know not the fun, the thrills, the magnificent entertainment of racing cardboard (or plywood) frogs? You people haven't lived!

There are a couple of clips on YouChoob where you can see these magnificent creatures in action:

This one is a frog breeder and trainer explaining it: paste watch?v=f1Fx48yJLpQ after the youtube prompt, or search for 'Frog racing at the Harworth and Bircotes Town Hall'. T'accent is a bonus.

Then, there's thoroughbred racing frogs in action at: watch?v=hK2zm96jYO4, or search for 'Frog Racing for Save The Children.

For hilarity, just add alcohol.

Chapter Three

Sated with empty-carb-laden donuts, Dean found his way to the right ward and approached the nurses' station to ask whether his brother was settled in.

"This way," said a woman with a more attractive rack than any woman had any right to be having that early in the day, "He's only just come down from ICU. He's on some pretty heavy duty meds, so don't be surprised if he doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Well, most days, he don't make a lot of sense anyway," Dean shrugged, the Killer Smile sliding onto his face out of sheer habit.

His brother was sharing a room with an elderly man whose interaction with the world at large seemed to consist only of intermittent snores. Sam was dozing, but roused and managed a small groggy smile for his brother as Dean came in with the nurse.

"Deeeeeeean!" he went. "You found Deeeeean!"

"He found you, Sam," the nurse smiled.

"He's my biiiiiiiiig brother," sighed Sam sleepily, "And he's awesome!"

"Well, somebody's gotta look out for your sorry ass," grinned Dean, taking a seat.

"He looks after me," Sam told the nurse. "He makes my breakfast."

"He, uh, gets a bit loopy on painkillers," explained Dean.

"He made me go to the dentist," Sam pouted.

"Oh, really?" the nurse cocked an amused eyebrow. "Who would've guessed?"

"He won't let me take my soccer ball outside after dark," Sam humphed in a thwarted voice.

"Oh, what a mean big brother," tutted the nurse, stifling a smile.

"He's a jerk," muttered Sam.

"You're welcome," griped Dean.

"I love my big jerk!" Sam suddenly swung to point due Dean once more. "He saved me!"

"Did he?" the nurse humoured him, checking his IV line.

"Uh-huh," confirmed Sam. "He's, like, Batman. Only, he doesn't ride a bat."

"The SPCA will be pleased to know that," she commented.

Sam turned his head a little, and smiled as if seeing Dean for the first time. "Hi Dean."

"Hi yourself, Mr Chatty," Dean rolled his eyes. "How you doin'?"

Sam's face furrowed into a frown as he appeared to consider the question carefully. "Ow?" he offered tentatively.

"I can imagine," Dean snorted, "Can I stay with him?" he asked the nurse.

"Sure," she said, "Let him sleep if he dozes off again."

"Will do," he confirmed.

"He wants to look at your boobies!" declared Sam, with a giggle. "He looks at girls' boobies!"

"It's a man thing," she agreed serenely.

"Boobies, boobies, Deanie looks at boobies!" sang Sam.

"Kill me now," sighed Dean.

"He can undo a bra with one hand," Sam informed her.

"What a talented individual," she smiled.

"Once, he made me wear one so he could demonstrate…"

"But not before I kill him," growled Dean.

"And I saw him do it with Julia Douglas, when he was supposed to be doin' his homework…"

"Slowly," Dean added.

"Mr Kilmister, I hear worse than that every day," she laughed, "And this is nothing. You wait until he starts about the werewolves."

"Werewolves?" echoed Dean, eyebrows heading for his hairline.

"Oh yeah," she chuckled. "Great big hairy werewolves…"

"With no clothes on!" chirped Sam helpfully.

"I blame those Twilight books," Dean yelped hurriedly. "He's a huge devotee of those. He's practically stalked that Meyer woman for years – he goes to book signings all over the place."

"Really?" she said doubtfully.

"Oh, totally," Dean nodded vigorously, "He's her number one fan! Once, he started hyperventilating in excitement; a paramedic gave him a paper bag to breathe into, and he got her to sign it, and he had it framed. Sometimes, I find him kneeling in front of it, just staring at it, with this smile on his face as if he's experienced Nirvana…" he turned worried eyes to her. "Sometimes, I worry about what it's doin' to his brain."

"Well, I wouldn't worry too much," she reassured him, "My niece has read them; they're just badly-written fantasy, and I doubt they could inspire anybody to do anything except whine helplessly, or maybe run around with no shirt on…"

"Deeeeeeeeean," Sam pouted, "My arm huuuuuuurts…"

"If he starts tearin' his gown off, I want him tested for Twilitis," sighed Dean. She laughed, and left them alone.

"Hey, Sam," Dean put a hand on his brother's good arm, being careful not to make contact with his silver ring, and lowered his voice. "Listen, buddy, I know you're brain is swimmin' in an ocean of the good stuff, but you can't go tellin' anybody about Ronnie and Andrew, okay?"

Sam looked confused for a moment. "What about Ronnie?" he asked.

"That she's a werewolf!" Dean hissed.

"Oh." Sam continued to look bemused. "I thought she was an Australian."

"Oh, God," moaned Dean, "Look, don't tell anybody about the Big Hairy Secret. It's important…"

"I know what kills Australians," Sam announced sunnily. "Silver ammo."

"Well, uh, technically, yeah, it would…"

"And weak beer. And South African cricket players."

"That's… really good to know," nodded Dean. "But listen, Sam, this is important. You cannot, cannot tell anybody about Ronnie, okay?"

Sam blinked in a cross-eyed fashion at his brother. " 'Kay," he agreed. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's Ronnie?"

"I give up…"

He stayed with Sam as his baby brother mostly dozed, rousing occasionally to make some observation about Dean's wonderfulness or complain grumpily about some appointment Dean had made him keep when they were kids. Dean just agreed with everything he said – "Yup, I be dat asshole".

Dean found himself dozing as well; the crash from the previous twenty-four hours came back to hit him hard. He did wake up for the registrar doing her rounds to remark on his brother's remarkable progress, given his injuries, then sat humouring Sam and his baby brother's drug-induced ramblings until a nurse came in to tell him that visiting hours were over.

"Well, I gotta go, bro," he told Sam, who was in the process of falling asleep again, "I'll be back to see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," beamed Sam. "And don't worry, I won't tell anybody," he frowned at the nurse, "About the Australians."

"Good man," Dean patted his brother on the shoulder, then left.

He was leaving the hospital when his cell chirped with a message.

My mate returns successful from the hunt, he has brought down prey, and is bringing food to the den. Our pack will gorge tonight.

Yawning, Dean sent back:

WTF?

The reply was:

Andrew's twenty minutes out with pizza. Haul arse, Winchester.

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

Jimi came running out through the front door of Casa Jaeger as soon as he heard the Impala rumble into the drive, and gave his Alpha an enthusiastic greeting.

"He's been worried about both of you," Ronnie translated as they shared the bounty of Andrew's hunt, tearing the helpless pizzas limb from limb. "He knows how close his Second came to… well…"

"So, how is he?" asked Andrew through a mouthful of prey, surreptitiously slipping a piece of crust to Jimi's sister Joni.

"Well, from the chin down, he's doin' good," Dean answered. "Real good, according to the white coats. Moved him out of ICU this morning. He's on the mend, and gonna make a full recovery."

"And from the chin up?" pressed Ronnie.

"He's tellin' the world about what an awesome pervert I am, but he promised not to let on about the secret," Dean sighed.

"The secret?"

"The fact that you're Australian."

"Ah," said Ronnie, in an understanding tone that indicated that she didn't understand at all. "Well… quite."

"And the Big Hairy Secret?" prompted Andrew.

Dean seemed to droop. "Yeah," he said finally, "It worked. My baby brother is officially a werewolf." He ran a hand over his face. "Fuck knows what Dad would've said about this…"

"He's alive," Andrew growled, "He's alive, and mending, and any father who'd take you to task over that would be an asshole."

"Amen," Ronnie said judiciously, "So don't you dare sit here and beat yourself up for saving your brother."

Dean found a small smile. "Okay."

"Good," humphed Ronnie, "Because if you actually do need beating up, I want to be the one to do it."

"Cow."

"So," Andrew went on, "Does Sam know that he's now, uh… Australian?"

"No," Dean confessed, "He seems to remember that you were there, but that's it. He has no idea about it. Although, the way his is at the moment, you could probably tell him that he was actually an alien named Bruce from The Planet Of The Zombie Kangaroos, and he'd believe you. Or at least, he'd promise not to tell the nurses about it, whilst doin' exactly that."

"It might be better to wait until he's discharged," Ronnie suggested, standing up and heading for the bench. "You two can hole up here while he finishes healing, and until Bobby works up the details of the countercurse."

"Why don't we just plan to set fire to that wendigo when we come to it," said Andrew firmly, reaching for a roll of garlic bread. "Tell him when he's feeling better."

"Good thinking," agreed Ronnie. "So, no angsting allowed over dinner. It's not good for the digestion. Plus, it makes you look like you have wind, or something."

"Gee, thanks," Dean rolled his eyes.

"Don't take that tone with me, mister," she turned around again, brandishing a spatula, "Or there won't be any pie for you."

"There's pie?" Dean's demeanour suddenly improved.

"Only of you placate the pie Nazi," she intoned ominously. "No angsting, Winchester, I mean it. Sam is gunna need you to be his awesome big brother, and you can't do that if you're moping around in a cloud of self-loathing. Well, no more than usual, anyway."

"Well, I aint makin' any promises," Dean replied, "But I can keep the angsting under control until after pie."

"Close enough," she grunted, taking the object of veneration out of the oven. "Andrew, stop feeding Joni crusts. I can hear her licking her chops."

"Awww, but she loves Meat Lovers..."

"She loves rolling in dead skunk, too, but that doesn't mean she should be allowed to."

"Talk about a damned Nazi..."

"No pie for you!"

There you are, drugloopy!Sam reverts to all of about five years old once more, for your reading pleasure. How will Dean explain to him that he's now Australian? Feed Mavgang reviews, to help inspire shim to dictate, because Reviews are the Hilarious Racing Frogs At The Booze-Up Of Life!