Maternity smocks; maternity socks. An easy misreading to make. But, Guest, really - knocked-up Sam in socks in box? No wonder you weren't game to leave your name.
See Sam in his plaid grid smocks.
See Sam in his plaid grid socks.
Sam in socks shoved into box.
Sam in box goes into shocks.
Sam in socks without his smocks.
See the fangirls swarm in flocks!
See Dean check each box - he knocks.
Look out, or he'll clean your clocks!
"Who said Sam has been knocked up?
Who says Sam is now in pup?
He is not! Not even maybe!
There will be no Sam assbaby!
Let my brother out right now!
Leahelisabeth, you cow!
Do not stuff poor Sam in there!
No! You may not pet his hair!
Do not pet him on the head!
Do not pet him in your bed!
Do not pet him at a bar!
Do not pet him in the spa!
Do not pet him in the park!
Do not pet him in the dark!
Do not pet him after class!
Do not pet him on the ass!
Do not try to pet him there!
Do not try to pet him bare!
Do not pet him without shirt!
Do not pet him when he's hurt!
Do not pet him on the chest!
Do not pet him when undressed!
I am angry, yes I am,
Do not pet my brother Sam!"
I need another cup of tea.
Chapter Fourteen
Even from underneath his Baby, Dean heard the huff of frustration – it was really kind of amusing how much frustrated wolf-Sam sounded like frustrated human-Sam.
"It takes time," he heard Ronnie say patiently, "Cut yourself some slack."
There was more grumpy rumbling, and Dean heard her laugh.
"Yeah, but I've been doing it for more than twenty years!" she said, "That's a lot of practice. And I can grab something, or use a knife; I'll never write, or fire a gun."
He crawled out from under the car to be greeted once more by the incongruous sight of a massive, shaggy werewolf – his massive, shaggy brother – towering over Ronnie by at least eighteen inches as she held his enormous paw in her hands.
"This little bugger is the problem," she stated, poking at his innermost claw, "It doesn't know if it's a thumb, or a dew claw. So the whole opposable digit thing is really difficult. You're designed to slash and kill, not make watches." She hooked her hand carefully around the offending appendage. "Now, pull against my hand. No, don't use your arm, that's cheating, here, use the base of your claw..."
The wolf whined, and shook its head. Ronnie whuffed to Sam, and he huffed, then tried again.
"So, you're built like a duffel full of watermelons, and you gotta work out your thumbs," Dean grinned as he opened a beer. Sam looked up, stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at his big brother.
"You want that translated?" asked Ronnie solicitously.
"Nah, I think I got it," smirked Dean, throwing his brother a beer. Sam fumbled it, but caught it against his chest; carefully, he took hold of it, then with great concentration, popped a claw through the end and bit into it, slurping away at the contents.
"Oh, you mucky devil," Ronnie muttered, wiping at the dribbles on Sam's pelt with the sleeve of her overshirt, "I see you can get the whole grip thing happening when there's beer involved. Funnily enough, that was the first thing Andrew mastered, too."
"Yeah?" queried Dean, "And what was the first thing you mastered?"
"The shapeshift," she replied haughtily, "So I could drink it properly. And not spill any."
Sam finished, licked his chops, and burped contentedly.
"And that," Ronnie screwed her face up in disgust, "Is a dick thing."
"What's a dick thing?" asked Andrew, "Can I smell beer?"
"Burping. And the thing with the beer," Dean told him, "Ronnie says it's a dick thing."
"Really?" Andrew mused thoughtfully. "Did it ever occur to you to wonder who showed me how to shotgun beers while on four legs?"
"I'm going in to check on lunch," muttered Ronnie.
"How you doin', pup?" Andrew looked up at Sam, who sighed, and drooped, and peered dejectedly at his paw. "Yeah, tough gig, huh? Like learnin' to wiggle your ears, or twitch your nose." He shucked out the plaid shirt he was wearing. "Practising like this helped me – kinda like physio for werewolves..."
He twisted the shirt into a short length for Sam to try to grab, but his brother was having trouble making his paws do what was needed.
"Here, Dean," the older man handed the shirt to Dean, "Would you mind?"
"Uh, no, no," Dean took it, "Go ahead."
"Great." Andrew ditched the rest of his clothes, and shifted. Whuffing in encouragement, he held out his own huge paw, and demonstrated taking hold of the shirt, and getting enough grip to pull on it.
"Try it, Sam," Dean encouraged, as Sam fumbled at the shirt. There was a moment where he almost got hold of it; then, there was the sound of ripping fabric.
"Oh. Er." Dean held up the shirt and peered through the four gaping rents down the back. "Well, I guess it'll be comfortable in Summer. I mean, the pre-distressed look is really in right now, aint it? So at least you'll be fashionable."
Sam tried a few more times, and finally actually managed to get hold of the shirt, and pull against his brother, then yank the shirt away from him entirely.
"Way to go, Toto!" enthused Dean, while Andrew nudged at Sam happily. Sam nudged back, and held out the shirt. Andrew grinned doggily, took hold of the other end...
And the tug-of-war was on.
"Uh, guys," Dean began, as the two werewolves spun and woofed in amusement, looking and sounding very much like Jimi and either of his sisters playing with the old rope toy Dean had made for them when they were just pups, "That might not be a real good idea, because that shirt is already..."
With a prolongued rrrrrrrrrrrrrrip, the shirt underwent a traumatic radical bisection.
If the wolves' reaction was anything to go by, it was the funniest thing since the last time a congressman had stood up and said he was sorry for cheating on his wife. The tug-of-war degenerated into a rassling bout.
Barking happily, Jimi and Joni joined in.
Dean looked at his watch. "Er, look, I don't mean to bust your bubble," he said, completely failing to gain their attention, "But Ronnie will be callin' us in for lunch soon, and I don't think she'll be terribly impressed if you're, you know, not able to use cutlery."
Sam paused, and threw half the shirt at Dean.
"Oh, you little bitch," scowled Dean, marching up to his brother, "I oughta kick your..."
He paused, and craned his neck to look up at his brother, who looked down with a quizzical expression, and made an interrogative noise.
"That's actually a damned good question," Dean said thoughtfully, contemplating the broad expanse of his brother's chest, "If I was gonna hit a werewolf, where should I aim?"
Andrew barked gruffly, and Sam stood up straight, arms at his side. Andrew patted him just below the sternum.
"Yeah?" Dean was hesitant, but put out a hand and found the bottom of his brother's breastbone. "That's further down than I would've thought," he remarked. "So, if I'm ever in a last-ditch, got-nothin'-to-lose death-match with a pissed Old North wolf, that's the spot I should aim for?"
Andrew nodded, as Sam poked experimentally at his own stomach.
Dean shrugged philosophically. "Well, if I'm this close to a werewolf, I'm as good as dead anyway," he reasoned, "So it's nice to know that there's a spot where I can make the bastard sorry he ate me."
Sam made a face just like the one that Jimi had pulled the first time he'd ever been to the beach, and had tasted salt water. The message was clear: You'd taste so disgusting, he'll be sorry anyway.
"You know, I've never had any complaints," Dean smirked smugly, "And the generous deployment of chocolate sauce can always be..."
Sam let out an anguished howl, then turned to bury his face in the older wolf's shoulder, as Andrew performed a recognisable facepalm.
"Fellas!" Ronnie called from the back door, "I'm just about ready to... oh, for fuck's sake, what are you doing?"
Andrew whuffed cheerfully, as Sam grinned.
"Well, get human!" she ordered. Andrew pulled himself up as tall as he could, and saluted. She flipped him the big vee, and ducked back inside.
"Lunch calls," Dean chirped happily, "So, ditch the fur coats guys."
Andrew humphed, and concentrated, whilst Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly...
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Wow," said Dean enthusiastically, "That smells really good!"
"Yes," replied Ronnie, in a tone as icy as the atmosphere of the room, "It's one of my favourites. My Gammer used to make it for me whenever I was sick."
Dean looked down into the large baking dish as she put it on the table, and plastered the smile firmly onto his face. "That looks wonderful. Just as good as it smells. Doesn't it, guys?" he prompted in a bright voice.
Sam and Andrew, having folded their huge frames uncomfortably onto the chairs, whined ingratiatingly.
"I've always loved Pig In A Poke," Dean nodded vigorously, doing the best he could to keep up the males' end of the conversation in a human language, "Very tasty. Very filling. Very, uh, you know... foody."
"I know it as Toad In The Hole," Ronnie told him with chilly pleasantness, "I always use twice as many sausages as the recipe calls for, and make sure they're good sausages." She bent to a kitchen drawer, and took out what appeared to be a tablecloth. Andrew sat submissively as she stood behind him, and tied it around his neck like a giant bib. "I made onion gravy, or do you like it with sauce? Ketchup, to you."
"Oh, er, gravy sounds, er, yeah, gravy would be good," stuttered Dean, watching as Sam had his bib fastened in place. His baby brother let out a small growl of protest; Ronnie let out a snarl that made him yelp, and flatten his ears."
"So," she went on with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth, "I won't bother putting a bib on you, Dean, because you are human, and don't need one, because you are capable of eating your lunch without wearing it."
"Uh, yeah, yeah," Dean just agreed, "Yeah, that's... yeah."
Ronnie dished up a generous serving of golden fluffy baked pudding, bristling with sausages, and put it in front of Dean.
"Don't wait," she told him, "Start before it gets cold. Just pick up your knife and fork, and eat it like a civilised person..."
Rather than say anything, Dean dug in.
She dished up several large pieces to Sam and Andrew, and put the plates in front of them. Andrew looked at his, and whined.
"What was that, dear?" she asked solicitously, "Oh, the gravy. Certainly." She put the jug down in front of him. "There you are." He looked up at her with Big Brown Eyes. "Oh, but you're an adult," she told him, "You know what you're doing; I'm sure you're capable of pouring your own gravy. Oh, and incidentally, if you spill it, you are not leaving this table until you lick up every last molecule..."
Andrew sighed sadly, looked at the gravy longingly, then carefully reached to pick up a piece of his dinner and bite into it as tidily as possible.
"Um, why don't I be mother and pour?" suggested Dean, picking up the jug to pour for the two wolves. They quietly whuffed their thanks.
"Yes, you do that," she allowed, sitting down to her own dinner, "Since you have actual hands and opposable thumbs."
Dean sighed. "Look, Ronnie, I just know they're sorry, Andrew was tryin' to help Sam, and I was the one who encouraged the whole tug-of-war thing, we're sorry about the shirt, aren't we, guys?"
"They're lucky I don't make them eat outside," Ronnie growled, frowning as a chunk of Sam's dinner fell down his front and onto his improvised bib. "And hose them down afterwards."
"Oh, harsh," commented Dean, taking another mouthful.
Lunch was completed under Ronnie's disapproving glare, and afterwards, they tried once again to shift back to human.
"It's no good," humphed Ronnie, after failing to prompt either Andrew or Sam to resume human form, "They're really stuck."
"What does that mean?" asked Dean anxiously.
"Relax," she rolled her eyes, "Sometimes, he just... I don't know, I think it might have something to do with having the youngster here." Andrew had the grace to look embarrassed. "It's either because he wants to protect him, or because he's got a partner-in-crime now, so to speak." She humphed. "When this happens, confine your werewolf to the living room, turn on the TV, and administer beer."
"Sounds like a plan," Dean said as cheerfully as he could as she shooed them out of the kitchen. "Although lookin' at the size of you, bro," he said to Sam, "I don't know how much protectin' you need." He glanced at back over his shoulder. "Well, except maybe from an angry momma wolf..."
"I heard that!" snapped Ronnie from the kitchen.
They followed orders: Dean found a football game, and passed out the beers. The wolves arranged themselves on the sofas, and Dean took a chair, and they sat watching the game for a while.
At half time, Sam stood up, stretched carefully, and whined.
"What?" asked Dean, "You want more beer? I'll go get it, it's probably better if Ronnie doesn't see you..."
Sam shook his head, and whined again.
"You still hungry?" tried Dean, "You did spill a lot of your dinner, bro, but maybe I can get you..."
With a small annoyed huff, Sam carefully crossed his legs.
"Oh. Oh!" Dean realised what the problem was. "So, uh, you need to, er..." he swallowed. "Are you gonna, you know, can you, um, look, do you have any idea how good your aim is likely to be, because if you make a mess, Ronnie is likely to rub your nose in it..."
Sam made his way to the back door, pawed at it ineffectively, and yipped urgently.
Dean got up. "Great," he muttered, "Just great, I gotta let my baby brother out into the yard so he can go potty. Fuck my life." He opened the door, and Sam bounded away into the trees. "If you cock your leg on my car I will end you!" he yelled.
Sam was back a couple of minutes later, then the game resumed, and more beer was deployed.
"I hope something happens before tonight," Dean remarked, "Because seriously, I don't think you'll fit in the bed like that, and I'm betting that Ronnie will make you sleep outside in the kennel, so..."
Andrew suddenly shook his head, yapped once... and snapped into his human form.
"Oh, thank fuck for that," he sighed, examining his hands. "I don't have to go outside, but she makes me sleep on the floor..."
There was another yip, as Sam suddenly returned to human too. "Oh, God," he moaned, "I couldn't find the switch, and the angrier she got, the harder it was..."
"Well, we're human now," Andrew stated, "That's the important thing. No floor for us." He reached out and picked up another beer. "And no shotgunning."
"Amen," added Sam fervently, taking a beer for himself. "That Pig In A Poke was pretty damned good, though. I wonder if there's any left?"
"Er, guys," began Dean.
Andrew sniffed. "Yeah, there's leftovers," he said, "It tastes pretty good cold, too – she usually makes a second tray of it."
Sam's stomach rumbled. "I am still a bit hungry," he admitted.
"Well, you did drop a lot of your dinner down your bib," chortled Andrew. Then his amusement subsided. "Come to think of it, so did I."
"Yeah, but guys," Dean tried again.
"Will she get mad if I go and ask for more, do you think?" Sam queried.
"Are you kidding?" Andrew grinned, "She doesn't stay mad, especially once you're shifted back. You're the pup here, just turn on those Big Brown Eyes, and she'll shovel another plateful out for you and pour the gravy herself."
Sam smiled. "Cool," he commented. "You want some?"
"Seriously, guys," Dean persisted.
"Actually, I would like some more," Andrew decided. "Maybe if we go together, present a united, penitent front, we'll hardly get bawled out at all."
"Worth a try," Sam ageed, standing up. "We need more beer, too."
The two of them headed for the kitchen, and Sam turned back to his brother. "Hey, Dean, you want some more Pig In A Poke?"
"Yeah, I'd like that," Dean nodded, "But first of all..."
"More beer?" prompted Andrew.
"Well, that too," answered Dean, "But..."
"We're on it," Sam assured him, "Hang tight, bro, we'll be right back."
Dean gawped after them. "Hey! HEY!" he yelled. "For fuck's sake go and put some damned pants on!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam and Andrew were forgiven once they were human again, and Sam spent the rest of the day on the laptop, researching the job he'd found.
"This cannot be a coincidence," he declared over dinner. "Each time the modelling agency disappears, then a new one reappears, the name of the manager, or CEO, or whatever you want to call the head honcho, hasn't changed much: it's been Black, Sable, Noire, Jett, Nigra, Negru..."
"Variations on a theme," acknowledged Dean, "And unimaginative. Which may not be a bad thing; if it is a job for us, then a bad guy who can't think very originally will be in our favour." He made a decision. "Okay, we roll out tomorrow. But you gotta be careful, Sam. We might not be the only Hunters who've spotted this job; if we cross paths with another one who's any good, it could be a problem for you, if he's the shoot-the-werewolf-first-and-don't-bother-to-ask-any-questions-afterwards type."
"I knew a guy like that once," offered Andrew around a mouthful of meat, "A real asshole. But his brother was a good guy, and he drove a really cool car..."
"You call us if anything happens," Ronnie stated, as Dean flipped Andrew off. "If you get stuck, if you get hurt, you call us. And make sure you get your sorry arses back here by the last night of the full moon, to do the countercurse."
"We will," Sam assured her, shovelling more meat onto his plate. "Don't worry."
"Don't worry, he says," she humphed. "Crap. Is this what my mother went through when I went Hunting with Dad? I owe her a written apology."
"He's a big boy, Ronnie," Andrew murmured. "More than capable of looking after himself."
"And Dean's always got my back," added Sam, with a quick grin at his big brother.
After dinner, with Ronnie having made a most unsubtle remark about the state of his shirt, Dean investigated the contents of his duffel, and decided to do a load of laundry before they left. He was sorting through the contents when Sam came in, and asked to borrow the car.
"Enjoy your last night in a non-hovel for a week, Sam, "Dean suggested, "Whatever you wanna get, we can pick it up tomorrow."
"It's not an errand," Sam explained, "It's, uh, Alison."
Dean's ears pricked up. "Alison? Who's Alison?"
"One of the waitresses at the steakhouse," Sam replied, brandishing another napkin with a number on it. "The brunette."
Dean's eyebrows shot up. "The one with the legs that went aaaaaall the way up?"
"Yeah. She, uh, well, I said I'd meet her tonight..."
Dean tossed him the keys. "Call me if she's got a hot sister," he leered.
"Thanks bro," Sam grinned, turning to leave.
"Be a good boy!" trilled Dean. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
"That doesn't narrow it down much..."
"At least take some pictures this time!"
"Jerk."
Spooner swaps, Doc Seuss and rhyming, oh my,
Spooner swaps, Doc Seuss and rhyming, oh my...
Fuddrucker. Fuddrucker. It's even funnier if you know that we had a Prime Minister named Rudd a few years ago. Yep, that's pretty much what happened to him, along came a Fuddrucker, and poor ol' Kevin was well and truly rucked.
Feed the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews are the Relaxing Beers In The Living Room Of Life!*
*You really don't need A Winchester Of Your Choice wandering around in a state of undress. You really don't. Do you?