Chapter Thirteen
Andrew gazed across the table at Dean over breakfast the next morning. "I haven't seen an expression like that since my Dad watched as I won Player Of The Year in my under-tens baseball club," he remarked.
"What's not to be proud?" smiled Dean, "My little brother got laid last night! And this morning, I hope."
"You know, what he gets up to in his own time is really not your business," Ronnie chided him.
"Of course it's my business!" stated Dean adamantly. "It's totally my business! I'm his big brother, and it's my job to look after him! And that means makin' sure that he gets all the things that a healthy guy needs, food, sleep, booze, and frisky women."
"This may come as a shock to you," Ronnie went on, "But no human being has ever died of not having sex. And before you say anything," she waved the spatula at her pair-bond, "Werewolves don't die of celibacy either."
"They might," replied Andrew wistfully, "You don't know that. Do you wanna run that risk?"
Dean shook his head vigorously. "Bad idea."
"It didn't do me any harm for forty years," she pointed out.
"It did too," Dean countered, "It made you as cranky as hell."
"Idiots." She cocked her head. "Sounds like he's headed this way now."
The Impala rumbled into the drive, and Jimi and Joni went outside to greet Sam.
"Don't get on his case, Dean," warned Ronnie, "He doesn't need to be teased about it. He's an adult, after all."
"Sammy!" Dean beamed hugely at his brother, "So, how many rounds was it? Was she a screamer? If you didn't make her toes curl at least twice, you aint a proper Winchester..."
"Jerk," said Sam without rancor, sitting down, "None of your business." He paused. "Not so much a screamer as a howler."
"Oooooh," went Andrew, as Ronnie let out a bark of outrage. "Funny you should say that, becaus-OW!" An egg cup, thrown with deadly accuracy, hit him in the ear. "Sorry, dear."
Dean's eyebrows danced with lecherous delight. "So, was she... bendy?"
"Seriously, bro," Sam rolled his eyes, "Not gonna discuss it." He made a hopeful yipping noise, and Ronnie put some more bacon into the pan. "Would you expect a gentleman to tell you?"
"No," Dean admitted, "But I want my brother to."
"Well, not particularly flexible, but imaginative."
"Sam!" yapped Ronnie.
"Whoa!" Andrew held up a hand, "I gotta go with the lady of the den on that one, veering close to too much information, kids."
Sam resisted Dean's efforts to pump him for further details, and headed for his laptop after breakfast.
"I think I found us a job," he announced later in the day. "Those disappearances I was checking out? There's something... weird goin' on."
"How weird?" asked Dean, immediately all business.
"Well, there have been half a dozen so far," Sam went on, "I was looking for any sort of connecting factor – five women and one guy who've gone have all been about the same age, and I've confirmed that three of them have done some sort of modelling work before, not as professionals, but as a bit of a sideline, a bit of extra money, as well as a regular job."
"Could just be a common or garden human freak who likes pretty girls," noted Dean, playing devil's advocate, "And decided to branch out just for the fun of it. Either that, or the guy was one who wears eyeliner and looks like a chick, now that counts as weird..."
"That's what the authorities think," Sam agreed, "And on the face of it, it could be." He turned the laptop so Dean could see it. "The modelling agency? They call themselves 'Real People'. They don't just employ your typical – or should I say atypical – glossy magazine fashion shoot models, they got people of all ages, shapes and sizes on their books. They can find you a bikini model to launch your new range of swimwear; they can also find you a grandmother for a soup commercial, a cute kid with big ears for your health insurance brochure, an old man with unusual features for an art class to paint, even an amputee or someone with scars for your student medical illustrators to practise drawing."
"So, could be somebody connected to the agency?" Dean wondered. "Still doesn't make it necessarily a job for us."
Sam opened another window. "It's in Portland, got a lot of people on its books. Prior to that, there was another business – called 'All Of Us' – in California. Did much the same thing, and successfully, but then, it just closed down. It was a financially successful business, but it just shut up shop. Prior to that," he opened another window, "There was 'EveryBody' in Arizona. Same M.O. And before that, 'Common People' in Utah. And before that, 'We're America', in Colodado. And before that, 'Everyman', in Texas. The info gets patchier as you go back, but all of them were successful businesses that just shut down. There's breaks of no more than a couple of months between one closing down, and the next one start up."
"So, a serial modelling agency?" Dean frowned at the screen. "Covering, what," he looked at Sam's list, pattern recognition algorithms whizzing through his head, "Sixty years or so? Each one in or near a major city. They run for about ten years, then close, and move to the next state?"
"Looks like it," confirmed Sam. "And get this." He opened one more document. "Just before each one closed down, there was a series of disappearances. I can't confirm that they were all people on those agencies' books, the info just isn't available online, but in each case, at least some of 'em were." He clicked on a link that opened a black and white photo of a young lady wearing a floppy hat and a come-hither smile, taken sometime in the sixties if the outfit she was wearing was anything to judge by.
"Wow," Dean smiled, "I bet she was into free love."
"They all look like this," Sam went on, with a passing Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "Women, and some men: young, attractive, the 'in' look of the time. Of course, young people packing up and moving to chase a modelling career, of itself, isn't exactly strange."
"Until their families lose contact, and realise that something is wrong," grunted Dean. "This current agency in Portland has been goin' for about ten years. You think they could be fixing to do the same thing? Sixty years is a long time for somebody to do this."
He swore briefly under his breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So. I'll call Bobby, tell him that you're sending him everything you've got – he'll know if there's somebody in the area to look into it..."
"What?" Sam looked up. "Dean, we're only a few hours away – we should go check it out."
"Sam, I understand, I really do," Dean told him, "The idea of checking out a job where hot chicks are involved, I'm totally on board with that, but we gotta think about your, uh, condition."
"I'm fine," Sam insisted, "I'm all healed up. I'm ready to get back on the road."
"I aint talkin' about your injuries, Sam," Dean shot back, "I mean your, uh, well, your little problem with excess body hair."
"That isn't a problem," Sam countered, "We got, what, more than a week until the full moon, that's plenty of time to go check this out."
"I really think we should stay here until you're, you know, your old self," Dean reiterated.
"What is this?" Sam waved his arms in exasperation. "You're worried about my delicate condition? Dean, it's not like I'm pregnant!"
"Who's not pregnant?" asked Ronnie, bringing a plate of brownies into the living room.
"Me," answered Sam, nabbing a brownie.
"Well, thank fuck for that," she remarked. "Actually, no, what a shame, if you were pregnant, we could put you in a cage and charge admission – roll up, roll up, and see the world's first pregnant man! We'd make a fortune!" She eyed him critically. "We'd probably have to let your pants out a fair way, though. Maybe make you some nice plaid maternity smocks..."
"What I'm getting at," Sam replied, with a roll of his eyes, "Is that I think I've found us a job, and Dean is worried that this poor little werewolf is not fit to Hunt."
"Heh heh," chuckled Andrew, strolling in and helping himself to a brownie, "Be careful who you say that in front of." He sampled the treat with evident enjoyment. "Although, wolves hunt with their pack right up until they whelp, and very soon afterwards, so even if you were pregnant, you could still probably..."
"Oh, God," sighed Dean, "I'm just... look, what happens if he wolfs out in the middle of a job?"
"I won't," insisted Sam, taking another brownie. "It takes concentration and deliberate effort to, uh, 'flick the switch'."
"Well, what if something else 'flicks your switch'?" demanded Dean. "What if we find that it's something we gotta use silver on, huh? What are you gonna do then?"
"Dean, I know you always got my back, I'll be fine," Sam said firmly.
"But what if you're not?" Dean persisted, "What if..."
What if something happens and I'm not enough?
What if you need... your pack?
"The full moon's less than a fortnight away," Ronnie noted, "You know you're welcome to stay here until then."
"If you want to," Andrew added. Ronnie shot him a look, and he gazed back serenely. "You're guests here, not prisoners."
The look and the rumble that Ronnie gave him suggested that she didn't entirely agree. Sam let out a sharp bark, she turned to bare her teeth at him, whilst Andrew just grinned.
Dean's breath caught; he'd been about to ask trenchantly for a translation, but realised he didn't need it – he'd seen that exact 'conversation' play out before, culminating with Sam's complaint.
I'm not a damned puppy! Don't talk about me as if I'm not even here!
Great. Veronica Shepherd was channelling John Winchester. And Sam Winchester wasn't interested.
"You cannot be condoning him heading out on a Hunt," Ronnie huffed at her husband.
"Whether or not I condone it is irrelevant," Andrew replied, with the same quiet authority he'd used to tell her that Sam's exploration of the shapeshift was not a problem. "He's an adult, and he's capable of making his own decisions."
"Do something!" she hissed.
"What would you suggest?" asked Andrew in an even tone, "Chain him to the wall? Lock him in a closet? Put him in a box, perhaps?"
"You are Alpha here!" she snapped.
"Yes," Andrew agreed, "I am."
Dean found that his heart went out to her, even as his own sank – she was worried about his baby brother.
Andrew put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm his Alpha, not his jailer," he reminded her. "Pups leave the den."
"Yeah, when they're ready, when they know what they're doing..." she sounded resigned even as she protested.
"We aint goin' anywhere until you got more intel on this job," growled Dean, "Until we know there's a connection between these groups of disappearances."
"Good," Andrew grinned, "That will give Sam more time to practise getting a handle on the shapeshift." He stretched and grabbed another brownie. "I need to move the work bench in the basement."
"That giant chunk of hardwood?" Sam asked. "You'll never move that by yourself, the thing weighs a ton!"
"You're right," Andrew agreed, "Definitely not a one-man job. But two werewolves..."
Ronnie knew defeat when she saw it grinning at her. "You might as well as pull the gun safe out while you're down there," she sighed, "I'm sure there's something gnawed a hole behind it and crawled in and died."
"Practice, and housekeeping, both at once," noted Sam, beaming angelically.
"That's just how domesticated the males of this pack are," added Andrew.
Sam shut his laptop, grabbed more brownies, and followed Andrew out of the room.
Dean stared after them. "Have we just been double-teamed?" he asked.
"By experts," she growled.
"I'll kill them both," Dean griped.
"I'll hold, you stab," Ronnie offered.
There was a crash from the basement, and a yelp of pain. Ronnie smiled just a little sadistically.
"That's the thing about paws," she observed, "It takes a bit of practice to use them to hold things."
Dean dropped heavily into a chair. "I was gonna spend some time with my Baby today," he said, "But now I'm gonna worry about Sam dropping heavy objects on himself."
"He'll be fine," Ronnie waved a hand. "Go on. I'll even bring you coffee."
"Thanks."
Jimi sprang to his feet, ready to follow his Alpha, nose in the air as he sniffed at the plate of brownies.
"Well, at least you do what you're told, huh?" Dean grinned. Jimi sat up obediently, and raised a paw in supplication, so Dean broke off a piece of brownie for him, and shoved the rest into his own mouth. "You're easy to keep hap-BLARGH!" he spat out his mouthful, and yelled in indignation, "Oh, gross, that one was liver! RONNIE!"
Fuddruckers? Fuddruckers? There's a hamburger chain called Fuddruckers? I'll bet the joke never gets old for Dean... do they do waffle fries?
So, Sam has got his way, the evil little manipulator. Provided he doesn't drop his end of the work bench on his foot, or something.
Feed the plot bunny those delicious reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Brownies Brought To You When You Are Pondering The Weird Shenanigans Of Life!*
*No liver ones unless you're a dog or a werewolf (or my obedience instructor) and you enjoy them.