Oh, Real Life are a pain. This whole thing with having to turn up to work, and actually do a job, to earn money, well, if I'm frank, it's starting to pall. I should've gone into Economics, so I could major in embezzlement. As it is, the only embezzling I'm in a position to do would be to embezzle the money for the milk club - the kitty is usually around $50, and might get me a bus ticket to Narbethong (a small timber mill place a couple of hours north of Melbourne that's straight out of 'Deliverance'.) And here's me, literate, not in-bred, and unable to play the banjo.
Chapter Sixteen
They hit the outskirts of Portland late afternoon, while Sam was making his way through some waffle fries.
"Find us a place to stay, Balto," ordered Dean. "Then I wanna find a-aAAAAAAARGH DUDE WHAT THE HELL!" He started to slap at his brother's hand, which had crept into his lap. "Bad touch, bro!"
"Don't flatter yourself," sniffed Sam, grabbing a handful of fries from the box in Dean's lap.
"Hey!" Dean yipped in outrage, "Leave my fries alone!"
"But I've finished mine!" Sam whined, giving Dean the exact expression Jimi used whilst watching his Alpha eat bacon.
"Well, maybe if you bother to chew before swallowing next time, yours will last longer," griped Dean. "And don't do the eyes thing."
"I'm hungry," said Sam in a sad whisper, dialling the Puppy Dog Eyes up another notch. "I can't help it, I'm always hungry, Dean..."
"What's left in the snack box?" Dean prompted, waving a hand at the package that Ronnie had prepared to sustain them on the road.
"Crumbs," noted Sam, looking in the box, then back to his brother. "Dean," he begged, "I really am hungry..." the Puppy Dog Eyes went all the way up to eleven.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," muttered Dean, pushing the box towards Sam, "Here, you starving-warving maltweated wittle werewolf..."
"Thanks, bro!" Sam chirped happily, grabbing up the box.
"Bitch," Dean growled. "Now, can you find us somewhere to stay while you're stuffing your face?"
Sam wiped his hands on his jeans and reached for his laptop, locating a motel of their usual suitably cruddy standard. "And there's bars, a couple of blocks away," he added.
"Cool," Dean noted, checking his watch. "It's too late to head to the agency today, and we're runnin' low on funds, so tonight, we play pool." He glanced at Sam. "Is there a place to eat that does any sort of stuff-your-face-fast-enough-and-it's-free deal?"
"Yep," Sam confirmed, beaming, "There's a steak place, and a seafood place that does steak too, and an Italian place that specialises in traditional Chianina steak..." Sam looked up. "I, uh, did some research before we left Chez Jaeger."
"I'm picking up on a theme, here," Dean observed with a grin, "But I guess can't object."
They checked in, then Dean found a 'Dr Sexy' re-run on the TV, so Sam called Bobby to let him know what they were up to.
"I'm kinda with Ronnie on this one, boy," growled the old Hunter, "I'd rather you'd stayed put until we could debark you, and make sure it worked."
"It won't be a problem," Sam assured him, "I can flip the shapeshift switch, so I can probably avoid shifting at the full moon if I want to. It must be because I was turned by a self-aware wolf with control, not a feral one who was out lookin' for a heart to rip out."
"Why is it that that don't reassure me none," griped Bobby. "So, how are you doin', son? Not the injuries, I mean on the inside. The whole wolf thing."
"It's..." Sam found himself lost for words. "It's not so bad," he said eventually. "In fact, it's kinda..." he looked back to where his brother was hurling imprecations at a character who'd had the temerity to question Dr Sexy's diagnosis, relationship status and capacity between the sheets. "I don't really mind," he went on, "I know I'm supposed to be some sort of monster, a fugly, and if I wasn't me, I'd be Hunting me down, but I don't feel like a monster – and I know what feeling like a monster feels like. This is totally different. I don't have any urges to act like a monster. Well, if you asked Ronnie about my table manners, she might disagree, but... it's hard to explain." He recalled the wordless 'conversations' he'd found himself understanding, then having, with the Jaegers, with... his pack, and the feeling of belonging. "It's like, I've been adopted, and, and, I've got these two people, I know they're not my parents, and I know that Dean's my family, and always will be, he's the one who raised me, when you weren't doin' it, but..." he sighed and gave up. "It's just been kinda... nice, actually."
"And how's your brother?" asked Bobby.
"He's... puttin' up with it," Sam replied. "He's totally on board with the idea that his little brother wants to eat at places that dish up lots of red meat, and if we get stuck with a flat and the jack isn't working, I could probably just go four-legged and hold the car up while he changed it, but for some reason, it's turned him into, well, he's turned into something of a prude, which is just weird. And he doesn't like me drinkin' houndswort, which he calls ass tea."
"Uh-huh," noted Bobby, keeping quiet about his own suspicions about what the elder Winchester's newfound status as 'prude' might stem from. "Well, it's all a bit confrontin' for him – you know what he's like, he'll still be beatin' himself up over getting you bitten and turned."
"What? But... that's nuts!" Sam burst out. "He did it to keep me alive! And it worked! And it's turned out all right, and it's reversible if necessary, and I've got control, well, except for the beer thing, it's not a problem..."
"Well, see that you make sure he knows it," instructed Bobby, letting the 'if necessary' qualifier slide by unremarked, "He's enough of a mother hen when you Hunt as it is."
"Tell me about it," sighed Sam. "But we really do have to deal with this job now - we might not have much time to figure out what it is." He went on to describe the mystery of the disappearances and the serial modelling agencies. "The pattern suggests it's about time for it to happen again."
"Just be careful, ya idjits," Bobby insisted. "And if you do shapeshift, stay outta sight."
"If worst comes to worst, we always got the South African Hippohound story," Sam said.
"Which will hold for approximately zero seconds if you end up talkin' to anybody who actually knows about dogs, and knows that there aint no such breed," snapped Bobby.
"We'll be careful," Sam promised, "We'll finish this job, and go straight back to Casa Jaeger."
Bobby mumbled a few more veiled threats about what he would do to them if they exceeded usual background levels of idjitry, then rang off.
"Ha!" Dean barked at the TV in triumph, "And that is what happens to anybody who crosses Dr Sexy!"
"Do I even want to know?" asked Sam.
"It's a modern morality tale, Sammy," Dean sighed happily. "Good defeats evil, the bad guy is beaten, happy ending, and Dr Sexy get's the girl. Then another happy ending. That was tense for a moment, though, I thought the boots really were gonna get shoved in the autoclave..."
"Sounds like a real nail-biter," muttered Sam. "Come on, let's go eat."
"Isn't that my line?" protested Dean, grabbing his jacket and keys as Jimi jumped to his feet and followed eagerly to the door.
"Well, you were busy," Sam jerked a thumb at the TV. "So I said it for you. I wouldn't ever want to put you in the situation of having to decide between steak, and Dr Sexy."
Dean shuddered at the very thought of such a dilemma. "Crap," he muttered, "That would be harsh. Like when I was eighteen, we were at that school in Topeka, and there were the Lewis twins, Brandi and Shandi, and I had to decide which one first, and..."
"Jerk."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
They decided to try the steak place first. Sam first set a new record for eating a 72 oz. piece of meat - under three minutes - then got his meal for free by eating a steak dinner with trimmings in a more leisurely fashion, but still well under an hour, while the proprietor made jokes about starting a handicapping system for carnivorous giants.
"I should probably be worried about the fact that you weren't that far behind me," he said to Dean, who also ate a steak dinner for free that night, "At least I got the reason of bein' a werewolf."
"And I," Dean grinned, "Got the reason of bein' a real man. Not like you. You're some chlorophyll-powered freak. Heliotropic. Put you in the sun, you'd probably photosynthesize."
"What... Dean, did you just say 'heliotropic'?" marvelled Sam, stunned. "Five syllables, bro? 'Heliotropic'? Since when do you know words like 'heliotropic', let alone 'chlorophyll' and 'photosynthesize'?" demanded Sam.
"Since I can use 'em to point out what a weirdo you are," Dean smirked annoyingly, then burped heartily. "Or were. Seriously, pre-wolf thing, if I stood you in a pot of damp soil, you'd probably put down roots."
"If I did, I'd make sure I was a triffid, and you'd be the first person I'd sting," grumped Sam, opening the rear door of the car where Jimi Junior was waiting patiently. He stood to greet them, and his tail wagged even harder when he caught the scent of the little bag of leftovers Sam had begged from the kitchen for him. Alpha! Second! Affection! I greet you!
I greet you, Sam whuffed back, Affection. We have eaten. He turned the bag inside out so Jimi could snuffle up the goodies.
Jimi eats! The dog happily scarfed down the treats.
"What was that about?" asked Dean, as his dog and his brother whuffed at each other.
"Hmmm?" Sam started, as if he hadn't even realised what he was doing. "Oh, it's kind of to do with pack ranking," he explained a bit sheepishly, "To him, we're the dominant animals of his pack, so once we've finished eating, it's okay for him to have whatever's left over."
"Like Andrew and his potato pancakes," nodded Dean in understanding.
"Or the last piece of chicken," added Sam, with just a touch of resentment.
"So, having been adequately sated with delicious chunks of charred mammal flesh," enthused Dean with another burp, which was echoed by Jimi, "I think it's time to find a bar to drink some beer, play some pool to make some cash, and, of course..."
"Meet some frisky women to worship at the altar of the Living Sex God," finished Sam in a resigned tone. "You really are a simple creature."
"I like to think of myself as 'uncomplicated'," agreed Dean happily. "The great thing about simplicity is that there's fewer things that can go wrong."
"Could explain why, after you've had so many head injuries in your life, you're still more or less compos mentis," observed Sam. "Inasmuch as you have any mentis left to compos."
"Bitch."
They found a suitable venue, and left Baby in the lot secure in the knowledge that she was perfectly safe with the JimiAlarm MkII on board.
"I never get tired of that," smiled Dean, as a casual figure got too close to the car for the dog's liking and jumped backwards as a half-Hellhound shaped like a Rottweiler went ballistic defending his 'territory'. "He's better than a MagnaVolt. Just like his old man."
"Plus, that steak will be workin' its way through as we speak," Sam reminded him, "And no self-respecting car thief wants to boost a ride that's been infused with the smell of lavender."
"Don't remind me. Come on."
Dean was in his element in bars, and they quickly fell into the hustling routine they'd used so many times.
Of course, it wasn't always successful; neither of them was infallible, and they'd been hustled themselves. When that happened, all you could do was salute a fellow hustler, and gracefully acknowledge that you'd been had, because playing against somebody better was the only way to improve your game, and nobody wanted a fight to break out when that could lead to police being called and asking all sorts of awkward questions about fake IDs.
(The only exception to this was when Dean had his fluffy butt whupped by Ronnie the first time they played. He was so incensed that he refused to pay up – the stake had been a packet of bacon-flavoured corn chips – and it was only the timely intervention of Sam and Bobby that prevented a punch-up. After that, the gloves were off, and on every occasion they played at the top of their games, the tally usually about 50:50 in an ongoing grudge that made the little spat between the Hatfields and McCoys seem like a bit of a tiff over What Sharon Said About Our Rose's Lemon Sponge At The Church Bake Sale.)
Dean always thought it was a bit more interesting when an opponent actually had a bit of skill, and it was extra amusing when the one who was on the losing end was his brother. He finished his own game, shook hands and collected his winnings, then sauntered over to watch the guy Sam was playing line up yet another shot.
"Never mind, Sammy," he grinned, "I'll buy you beer. Or maybe one of those weird cocktails that girls like, since you're clearly playin' like one."
"Shut up," muttered Sam, as his opponent grinned at the teasing too. He considered the table, moved around to the cue ball, lined up his next shot...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
The sound travelled to him through the floor rather than the air, and it went straight to his hindbrain; he jumped as if he'd been bitten, and spun around.
Sam was examining his fingernails.
Thinking he must be imagining things, the guy turned back to the table, and lined up his shot...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
He bolted upright as, in deference to millions of years of evolution, his heart pounded and his mouth went dry.
"Did... did you guys hear something?" he asked, his voice coming out pitched higher than he'd intended. The Winchesters and a couple of kibitzers looked bemused, and shook their heads. So he told himself to stop being such an idiot, turned back to the table, and lined up his next shot...
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
He missed.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"You know, that probably counts as cheatin'," Dean told his little brother as they celebrated being much richer than they'd started.
"I like to think that I just used all the weapons to hand to turn the situation around," shrugged Sam, "You know, improvise, adapt, overcome. Anyway, he was trying to hustle me, so it serves him right."
"He wasn't tryin', he was hustling you," Dean pointed out with a smirk.
"Yeah, well, psyching out the opposition isn't cheating if your opponent is hustling," stated Sam in a virtuous tone. "And we got cash, that's what's important."
"Can't argue with that," agreed Dean, letting the Killer Smile slide casually into place as he noticed a buxom blonde watching him from the other end of the bar. He quirked a come-hither eyebrow at her, and she turned to giggle with her equally well-endowed friend. "So, what's our plan for scoping out this agency?"
"We present ourselves as earnest types looking to maybe earn a little bit of extra money by getting our names on their books," Sam suggested. "Then ask casual but pertinent questions, then we pool our intel – we really gotta work out what we're dealing with." He got up from his stool. "I gotta hit the head," he went on, "Don't touch my beer."
"What? And catch girl germs?" scoffed Dean. Sam gave him a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), and headed for the men's room.
Dean chuckled to himself, then turned and slouched casually as the blonde and her friend, giggling and elbowing each other, approached him. He wound the Killer Smile up a notch.
"Hi," the blonde trilled, "We, uh, we saw you playing pool earlier, and thought we'd come over to say hello."
"Well, then, hello, ladies," purred the Living Sex God, cranking up the juice on the Come Hither ambiance.
They giggled again. "I'm Stacey," the blonde continued, "And this is Rebecca."
"Hi!" chirped Rebecca.
"Dean," he replied, the Killer Smile stropping its claws in anticipation. "So, if you saw me playing pool earlier, you'll know that I can definitely offer to buy you a drink." He cocked an eyebrow in query, with a good dose of insinuation behind it.
"Oh, that'd be great!" trilled Rebecca, as he nodded to the bartender, "But, well, we saw you sitting here, and wondered..." she trailed into silence, and they giggled again.
"Uh-huh?" he prompted, loading the two syllables with more invitation than an air-headed party girl's Facebook page.
"Well," Stacey took up the conversation, "We were wondering... could you introduce us to your friend?"
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