SPN fic -- The Jersey Devil -- 1/1
Apr. 1st, 2007 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyTitle: The Jersey Devil 1/1
Authored by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vanillafluffy
Pairing: None
Rating/Work-safeness: PG-13
Approximate word count: 4400
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Kripke & the CW, etc.
Summary: A crack-ish crossover between SPN and the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich
The Jersey Devil
Trenton, NJ
Dean lets himself into the motel room, trying to be ultra-quiet. He really doesn't want to wake up Sam; he's in no mood to discuss his evening. His efforts at stealth are in vain. Sam is flat on his back on one of the beds, fully dressed...except that his pants legs look like they've been caught in a lawn mower, and Dean's not even going to try to guess what he's been rolling in.
"Rough night?" Dean asks, his curiousity winning out.
"That girl's a freak, dude. Seriously. She's weird, her family is weird, her friends are weird---I'm starting to think this whole town is weird."
Coming from a Winchester, that's saying something. Dean wracks his brain for any memory of overt weirdness from the woman he befriended. "She likes Metallica," he says finally. Sam rolls his eyes and sits up, looking like he's been slimed. There's...stuff...in his hair, too. Dean's not going to ask. "Come on, all you had to do was keep an eye on her for a few hours while I took care of the Jersey devil. Just baby-sitting, that's all it was. Go out, have a couple beers, shoot the breeze, make sure she doesn't get attacked by anything. That's not so hard, is it?"
"They don't serve beer at funeral homes," Sam remarks. "That was our first stop."
"She didn't say anything about having to go to a funeral," his brother replies. "And she didn't seem upset---"
"No, that's her grandmother's idea of a good time. Oh yeah, I ended up riding around with her, and her grandmother, a 200 pound ex-hooker named Lula and some guy in drag---Dean, I'm telling you, this was the biggest freak show on four wheels. And did I mention that the four wheels were attached to a 1953 Buick?"
"No more electric kool-aid for you, Sammy-boy." This almost makes his evening sound tame, and he can tell Sam is just warming up. A '53 Buick? That must be her grandmother's car; yesterday she was driving around in a Firebird.
"Okay, so her grandmother wants to go to the viewing for this lady, it's her late husband's poker buddy's widow's sister-in-law, or something like that. So, we get there, and right away, like, ten people come up to your girlfriend and start asking her a bunch of stuff about her car blowing up. And then this creepy old broad comes over and accuses her of breaking Joseph's heart and she's gonna put the Evil Eye on your little buddy. I thought the old gal might be possessed, or something, but she crossed herself a few times, and she was carrying a rosary."
"What did you do?" Dean tries to keep a straight face, because the guy Sam's talking about is Joe Morelli, and he was anything but heart-broken a couple hours ago.
"I didn't get a chance to do anything, because that's when one of the funeral directors caught grandma trying to get the lid up on the coffin."
A number of potentially scary reasons someone might want to get into a coffin crowd into his mind. "Think we should burn it and salt it to be in the safe side?"
"She's being cremated; this was just the viewing beforehand, except that it was a closed casket. I found out later that grandma tries that any time the deceased isn't on display. I also found out what happens when you try to exorcise an old lady who isn't possessed...she hits you with her purse and tells you to stop talking dirty."
Dean chuckles outright. "And then what happened?"
"By now, it's almost 8:30, and Sally's gig is supposed to start at nine."
"Who the hell is Sally?"
"The guy in drag," Sam says, sounding impatient. "He's about your age, my height, and we're in the backseat together because that's where the leg room is. He's wearing this big frilly Carmen Miranda dress---strapless, and dude, the guy could pass for a Sasquatch in low light."
"Did he hit on you?" Dean is fascinated.
"Geez, no! He was trying to talk me into getting a job with him---he drives a school bus part-time, and they're short-handed. Lula, on the other hand..." He shudders. "Lula thinks I'm cute."
Dean understands his brother's reaction completely, but at least she hadn't threated Sam with a taser. "Was she still wearing that leopard-print spandex number?"
"No, a pleather jumpsuit with rhinestones and studs. It looked like she was shrink-wrapped in it. For a while there, I thought I was gonna have to climb into Sally's lap to get away from her, but we got to the club, and went in. Everything was okay for a while. The band played their first set---I wish you could've seen it. Chiquita Banana with a two-day beard rocking out to 'You Give Love a Bad Name'."
He's gesturing as he talks, and Dean catches a whiff of something. "Why do you smell like a Twinkie?"
"I was getting to that. Sally goes on for the next set, Lula goes off to powder her nose, or whatever she has to powder to get that outfit on, and comes running back to the table, says she just saw Jake Mandelbaum over by the pool tables, and they need to make an apprehension, quick! Your girl jumps up, and we go over there, and this Mandelbaum creep sees us coming and bolts out a back door." It must've been like a parade, Dean thinks, picturing the three of them charging the bail jumper.
"We chased the guy for two blocks, and I got attacked by three puggles somebody was walking on a leash. I wish I'd had had a sawed-off and some rock salt for the little yappers. Then, the punk tried to make it up a fire escape, and I went up after him, and then Lula started shooting." Sam gives him an expression that says there's gonna be ice skating in hell before he'll do Dean any more favors like this.
"She didn't hit anybody, but the fugitive fell off the fire escape, knocked me off the fire escape on the way down, and landed on top of me and a trayful of day-old cream horns in a dumpster behind the Tasty Pastry bakery. But your ladyfriend is okay, and she and Lula are going to split the finders fee with me. Help me out here---how much is three-hundred fifty dollars three ways?"
"It'll buy you some new jeans," Dean answers dryly, wishing he'd been there to witness the attack of the killer puggles.
"Ri-i-ight. And how was your evening?"
"Not in the same league as yours. I got to meet the two guys our femme fatale is fooling around with. We killed the Jersey devil---the guy that owns the house was keeping it as a pet, can you believe that shit? It was messy, but still not as messy as whatever you got into. Lots of testosterone and male bonding after the weird shit was over with. The usual. Oh, and we're running low on holy water."
"Speaking of water...I need a long, hot shower." Sam winces as he stands up. "Uhh, he was shorter than me, but heavier by about forty pounds. It was like getting body-slammed by The Fat Bastard."
Dean rolls his eyes as the bathroom door closes behind his younger brother.
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Twelve hours earlier
A news article about pets being torn apart in New Jersey has led them to the conclusion that they may be on the trail of a Jersey devil (although that's something of a misnomer---according to Dad's journal, John Winchester once toasted one in northeastern Pennsylvania). Sam's triangulated locations of several of the killings giving them a rough fix on where it seems to be coming from, all subdivisions centered around a patch of woods in one neighborhood. Now Sam has VH1 blasting on the motel TV and running a search on unexplained phenomena centering on the area. One spot in particular stands out, because it predates the other development around there, and that's a house and acreage owned by one Otis Baker Newell.
Dean is supposed to be making a lunch run, but he's antsy. There are plenty of delis, sub shops, fast food places and diners to choose from, but he's not that hungry. Right now, he wants some action. The last few potential cases turned out to be nothing---things that had natural explainations, and one out-and-out hoax---and what with running all over chasing these wild geese, he hasn't even had his ashes hauled in the last couple weeks.
He manages to walk off with a Map Quest printout that should get him to the property owned by O.B. Newell, because Sam's snickering at a Twisted Sister clip and not paying attention. What the hell, it won't hurt to go take a look at the place in daylight. Folklore---and Dad's notes---indicate that the Jersey devil is probably sensitive to light---it favors dawn and twilight. (He's already made a note to himself to make sure his magnesium flashlight has fresh batteries, and that's something else he can do while he's running around.)
Parking the Impala a little past the modest frame house, Dean doubles back to the Newell residence. The house stands on an acre of land, with a garage out back, and Dean prowls around cautiously. The shades are drawn; when he takes a look through one of the garage windows, he sees it's empty. Nobody home. That's good. He doubts the damned thing is in the house, but the garage is a possibility. Something smells pretty rank in the vicinity.
Sure enough, when he eases in there and scopes the place out, he finds the remains of a cat under the workbench. Dean measures the span of the claw marks; not that that's infallible, but either it's a small one, or it isn't full-grown.
Okay, so the Jersey devil has a den around here somewhere. Sam pegged that with his searches. It's just a question of catching and killing it before it has any more puppies and kittens for dinner, or graduates to small children. He hears loud music and the rumble of an engine, and he has maybe a minute to hide before Newell catches him trespassing---he doesn't even have fake i.d. on him to say he's from code enforcement, or something like that. Shit!
There's a narrow window on the tilt-up door, and Dean steals a fast look. Two women are climbing out of an old gold Firebird---they don't seem to be coming this way, so he waits. They're Avon ladies, maybe, or Jehovah's Witlesses. One of them is African-American, as wide as she is tall, and she's falling out of a leopard-print dress. The other one is fair-skinned, and wears jeans and a Wonder Woman tee shirt---and she has the biggest hair Dean has ever seen.
It looks like they're heading toward the front of the house, so Dean eases back toward the side door of the garage. He can always cut across that vacant lot to get back to the Impala and come back later with Sam, who's probably starting to wonder where his lunch is. When he tugs open the door, he finds himself face-to-face with Leopard Woman, who up close is one of the scariest things he's ever seen---not because of her fashion sense, but because he immediately identifies the box in her hand as a taser.
"Get down, scumbag!" she screams at him. "Or I'll fry your ass!"
On Dean's personal list of shit he doesn't need, getting tasered again, ever, is right up there. He hits the ground as fast as he ever did when Dad ordered "Drop and give me twenty!".
"I got him! I got him!" Leopard Woman yells. Something rattles, and he steals a glance at her. Handcuffs. Terrific.
Wonder Chick charges up as her ally is tugging his right arm behind his back. Talk about behind between a rock and hard place. He and cops don't exactly get along, but, he reminds himself, anything's better than getting tasered again.
"Hey, look, I can explain---" he begins, hoping there's some way to talk himself out of this before they drag him in to the cop shop and run his prints.
"Lula, that's not him," Wonder Chick interrupts. Taser Woman lets go of his arm, but Dean doesn't struggle or try to make a break for it. These are not the droids you're looking for, he prays, stomach knotted with dread.
"What do you mean, not him? I caught him coming out of the garage."
"Look at him---Obie Newell is 68---does this guy look like he's 68 to you?"
"I was just looking for my dog," Dean says, giving Cagney and Lacey his best 'I'm a really nice guy' smile. "I was looking through the woods, and when I got close to the garage, I smelled something funny." He grimaces. "There's a dead cat in there."
"I'll go look," says Wonder Chick, reluctant, and steps over him. The side door squeaks, and a moment later, he hears a squeal of "Eww!". "Very dead cat," she says, returning. "Your dog's name isn't Cujo, is it?"
"Could be he's hiding that son of a bitch Obie and came by to get something for him," says Taser Woman. "I bet if I zapped him---"
"No!" Dean yells in unison with Wonder Chick, who says, "No zapping, Lula. He's not an FTA."
A light goes on in Dean's head then---thankfully not caused by being tasered. Cagney and Lacey here are bounty hunters, which makes him wonder for a moment if they've been on the wrong track and Newell really is behind all this, sacrificing the animals for reason of his own. No. No human made the marks he found on that cat. Whatever is going on with Newell, it isn't directly related to his case.
Then he flinches as a something---probably a foot-shaped something---nudges his butt and toes upward toward his waist, pulling up the loose shirt he's wearing over his Pink Floyd tee. "He's packing," Lula says. "He don't look 68, he looks 9-mil to me!"
He twists his head to look up at them. Lula is still holding the cuffs, but it looks like she's put the taser in her purse. Wonder Woman doesn't seem to be brandishing any weapons---if she has any, they're in her purse, because they certainly aren't concealed in what she's wearing---so Dean carefully pushes himself to a sitting position, doing his utmost to seem unthreatening. "Can we talk?" he asks, turning on the Winchester charm.
"Connie would've said if she'd hired someone new and set him on our FTAs," Lula says to her partner, shaking her head. "She's got no secrets from me. And I don't think he's Vinnie's type."
Wonder Woman gives her a dubious look. "Vinnie's type has a pulse...maybe."
They have some interesting friends. Dean takes a deep breath, and starts coaxing info out of them. He admits that he is a hunter---hey, he didn't say he was a bounty hunter---but keeping a straight face while telling the almost-truth turns out to be even harder than when he's slinging bull outright. He finds out that Wonder Woman's name is Stephanie Plum, she and Lula are bond enforcement agents who works for Steph's cousin, Vinnie, and that Newell, who she calls Obie, is a retired biology teacher wanted for a failure to appear in court on charges of shop-lifting from a local pet store.
That's all he needs---Dean launches into a story of tracking an interstate ring of thieves who steal pets and sell them for animal testing. Newell has been one of the middle men brokering the animals to labs in a three-state area. By the time he's through playing them, Stephanie looks horrified almost to tears and Lula is scowling---he has a feeling if she sees Newell, the poor bastard's in for a tasering.
Stephanie is a babe; Dean is polite to Lula, ever mindful of the taser in her purse, but Wonder Chick is more his type. (He wonders with amusement if she's wearing a Wonderbra under the shirt.) She has a lot of curly light brown hair, teased into the stratosphere, and it's hard not to notice---in more ways than one---the way her slim legs and derriere fill out her stonewashed jeans. He flirts---Dean can flirt in his sleep---and gets a recommendation of a place called Pino's for pizza. By now, Sam's probably gnawing on his sneakers. They give him a lift back to the Impala---might as well, his cover is blown anyway---and follow him to the pizza joint.
Too bad he can't ask her where's a likely place to hustle a few games of pool; it would be out of character for the suave professional he's acting to be hard-up enough for that. "So, what's your idea of a good time?" he purrs in her ear as they wait for their orders.
"A friend of mine is in a band---Lula and I are going to go see him tonight."
A friend, he notes. Not boyfriend. And where there are bands playing, there's usually alcohol being served, and pool tables. "That sounds like fun. Mind if I tag along?" He's leaning in close, giving her the conspiratorial grin that gets him lucky most of the time.
"We're meeting in front of the bail bonds office at 7---" she starts to say. Then Dean's shouldered aside by a guy who's got a couple inches in height on him.
"Cupcake," the other man says to Stephanie, "if those jeans are gonna get any tighter, I want to watch." Crap. Dean will bet cash money that this guy is no musician, and he has a suspicion he isn't a bounty hunter, either. Dean's been streetwise from a young age; something about this guy screams cop. He eases back half a step, and the maybe-cop-boyfriend turns to look him over. "Friend of yours?" Maybe asks Wonder Chick.
Dean doesn't want to go into that whole load of bull about poodle-nappers---he doesn't think for a minute that it'll fly with this dude---so he says, "I'm new in Trenton, and the lady was kind enough to recomment this place for the best pizza in town."
"Uh-huh." He grew up having Dad inspect him regularly, so this guy's scrutiny doesn't unsettle him...much. He must be sending out the right vibe of righteousness, because Steph's guy extends a hand, and Dean catches a glimpse of a shoulder holster. "Joe Morelli."
"Dean Corso." Morelli is still eyeing him, enough to make him a little uneasy. He isn't quite as tall as Sam, but Morelli's got some shoulders on him, and he's no lightweight. Not someone Dean would want to get into a fight with; Stephanie is cute, but not that cute.
"Welcome to Trenton," the other man says, and kisses Stephanie possessively, like he's marking his territory.
By the time Dean gets back to the motel room with lunch, he's had a warning from Morelli to keep his distance from Stephanie Plum, and an invitation from Stephanie (who apparently doesn't care for being called 'Cupcake') to join her that evening. Tough call; as much as he'd like to test his mad cue skillz against Jersey pool players, he's not about to poach a cop's girlfriend. Cable porn is a safer option than that. On the other hand, if he and Sam both go after the Jersey devil, they could both wind up getting busted if Steph and Lula decided to drop by to look for Newell after a couple beers.
So he plys Sam with pizza---which really is good, loaded with real cheese and pepperoni, dripping with grease---and talks his younger brother into hanging out with the gals and giving Dean a heads up if they decide to go after their bail jumper. It's not like he's up against a Wendigo, after all. It's one measly Jersey devil, he's pretty sure he can handle it by himself, and that way, if Morelli shows up to check out the band and his girlfriend, Dean will be safely out of the picture.
Of course, it doesn't quite go according to plan. Dean goes back to Newell's place and toasts the remains of the cat. He lets himself into the house, thinking maybe the Jersey devil has found its way into the basement and is denning down there---and makes it as far as the kitchen before getting busted. Twice. First by a guy he's never seen before---Latino, compact build, tough customer---who wants to know why he's looking for Newell. He's saved from testing the pet-napping ring story by Morelli, who appears from the hallway and seems to know the first guy.
"Well, if it isn't Ranger Manoso," says Morelli, looking at them. "I should've known he'd be one of yours."
Ranger glances from Morelli to Dean, shrugs. "Never saw him until this afternoon. He was hanging around Babe, and I wondered what was up."
The hairs are prickling on the back of Dean's neck. It's two against one, and he recognizes that these guys aren't your Average Al barroom brawlers. They're both more controlled than that, and he has a feeling that regardless of any personal differences they may have, if it comes down to it, they'll work together to take him down.
Then the backdoor is pushed open; there's a scurry of feet as something small darts in, grunting---that doesn't sound right---and an elderly man in thick spectacles shuffles through the doorway and asks, "Who are you people, and what are you doing in my kitchen? I'm calling the police!"
"Mr. Newell, I am the police," says Morelli, holding up ID.
Meanwhile, Dean has put together two and two, and it's running around on four legs and making a strange, asthmatic noise that sounds like "skronk-skronk". He'd noticed the food and water bowls in the corner of the kitchen, and he remembers now what Stephanie said about the charges---shoplifting pet toys. What's bizarre is that he seems to be the only one who's noticed that the creature isn't really a dog. It has tufts of fur and mottled skin, and a scrunched-up face with pointy ears. The way it's bent over makes it appear to be walking on all fours, and in that position, it comes midway up his calf in height. The size and shape evidentally resemble a dog enough to fool someone as near-sighted as Newell.
"What the hell is that?" Manoso exclaims, studying it, and Dean feels vindicated as Morelli does a double-take.
Dean has a sports bottle---filled with holy water, natch---and he works the nozzle and sprays the Jersey devil with a stream of liquid. Its hide starts to smoke, and in a couple of heartbeats, it's gone from looking like a homely ankle-biter to red-eyed, roaring and baring some fangs you wouldn't see on your average Pomeranian.
Morelli and Ranger both take shots at the damned thing, while Newell yells, "Skippy! Bad dog! Sit!"
Skippy takes a couple bullets---these guys hit what they aim at, but it's going to take more than lead to put this thing down. Dean has silver rounds in the 9-mil, and he pops it in mid-air as it's going for Morelli's groin. The Jersey devil spatters impressively---Dean's glad he won't be the one cleaning up the mess in the kitchen---and now all he has to do is try to explain what's really going on without landing in a rubber room or behind bars. He takes a deep breath, but it's Obie Newell, looking sadly at the mangled remains of his pet who says,
"That, boys, was a Jersey devil."
Morelli prods the remains with the toe of his shoe. "I've heard about them, but I always thought they were an urban legend."
"So did I, until I found Skippy." The old man's lips are trembling. "I was a science teacher for forty years. I knew he was an important biological specimen...but I didn't want him to end up in a cage at a zoo somewhere. I passed him off as a dog, for months while I made notes...I thought I could observe his behavior in a natural setting and make a scientific contribution, confirmation of a new species and its habits. And now you've killed him. Poor Skippy."
"Meanwhile, he started eating neighborhood pets, and you shop-lifted toys for him from Kritter Kingdom," Dean says, sliding the 9-mil back under his jacket, "and got caught. You missed your court date, and I'm here to take you in." The last part is a huge bluff on his part---everything he knows about bond enforcement he learned from cable TV---but it might throw off Morelli.
"Was that this week?" Newell asks, surprised. "I took Skippy to a pet show in Atlantic City. He was third runner-up in the Ugliest Dog contest!"
The three of them stare at the old man in disbelief, and Dean makes a mental note to investigate the winners. God knows what the hell they're breeding here in Jersey, but if they're supernatural, he'll exterminate them.
"You're not taking him anywhere," Morelli announces, his eyes narrowing. "Stephanie's been working this case, and that's the way it's going to stay."
Dean makes a show of looking pissed off, but he's secretly relieved. At least the cop isn't talking about running him in. The other guy, Ranger, is watching them both with calm detachment. He catches Dean looking at him and for a moment, the young hunter feels himself being checked out.
"Don't let the door hit you on the ass," says the cop, and Dean goes. This way, the worst case scenario is, he'll sneak back tomorrow or the day after, find the fresh patch of earth where Newell has planted "Skippy", and do the usual. It beats making Morelli suspicious enough to run the Impala's tags. He scrams back to the motel, where he finds out Sammy's evening hasn't exactly gone according to plan, either. That's Jersey for you.
The End
Feedback is love.
Authored by:
vanillafluffy Pairing: None
Rating/Work-safeness: PG-13
Approximate word count: 4400
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Kripke & the CW, etc.
Summary: A crack-ish crossover between SPN and the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich
Trenton, NJ
Dean lets himself into the motel room, trying to be ultra-quiet. He really doesn't want to wake up Sam; he's in no mood to discuss his evening. His efforts at stealth are in vain. Sam is flat on his back on one of the beds, fully dressed...except that his pants legs look like they've been caught in a lawn mower, and Dean's not even going to try to guess what he's been rolling in.
"Rough night?" Dean asks, his curiousity winning out.
"That girl's a freak, dude. Seriously. She's weird, her family is weird, her friends are weird---I'm starting to think this whole town is weird."
Coming from a Winchester, that's saying something. Dean wracks his brain for any memory of overt weirdness from the woman he befriended. "She likes Metallica," he says finally. Sam rolls his eyes and sits up, looking like he's been slimed. There's...stuff...in his hair, too. Dean's not going to ask. "Come on, all you had to do was keep an eye on her for a few hours while I took care of the Jersey devil. Just baby-sitting, that's all it was. Go out, have a couple beers, shoot the breeze, make sure she doesn't get attacked by anything. That's not so hard, is it?"
"They don't serve beer at funeral homes," Sam remarks. "That was our first stop."
"She didn't say anything about having to go to a funeral," his brother replies. "And she didn't seem upset---"
"No, that's her grandmother's idea of a good time. Oh yeah, I ended up riding around with her, and her grandmother, a 200 pound ex-hooker named Lula and some guy in drag---Dean, I'm telling you, this was the biggest freak show on four wheels. And did I mention that the four wheels were attached to a 1953 Buick?"
"No more electric kool-aid for you, Sammy-boy." This almost makes his evening sound tame, and he can tell Sam is just warming up. A '53 Buick? That must be her grandmother's car; yesterday she was driving around in a Firebird.
"Okay, so her grandmother wants to go to the viewing for this lady, it's her late husband's poker buddy's widow's sister-in-law, or something like that. So, we get there, and right away, like, ten people come up to your girlfriend and start asking her a bunch of stuff about her car blowing up. And then this creepy old broad comes over and accuses her of breaking Joseph's heart and she's gonna put the Evil Eye on your little buddy. I thought the old gal might be possessed, or something, but she crossed herself a few times, and she was carrying a rosary."
"What did you do?" Dean tries to keep a straight face, because the guy Sam's talking about is Joe Morelli, and he was anything but heart-broken a couple hours ago.
"I didn't get a chance to do anything, because that's when one of the funeral directors caught grandma trying to get the lid up on the coffin."
A number of potentially scary reasons someone might want to get into a coffin crowd into his mind. "Think we should burn it and salt it to be in the safe side?"
"She's being cremated; this was just the viewing beforehand, except that it was a closed casket. I found out later that grandma tries that any time the deceased isn't on display. I also found out what happens when you try to exorcise an old lady who isn't possessed...she hits you with her purse and tells you to stop talking dirty."
Dean chuckles outright. "And then what happened?"
"By now, it's almost 8:30, and Sally's gig is supposed to start at nine."
"Who the hell is Sally?"
"The guy in drag," Sam says, sounding impatient. "He's about your age, my height, and we're in the backseat together because that's where the leg room is. He's wearing this big frilly Carmen Miranda dress---strapless, and dude, the guy could pass for a Sasquatch in low light."
"Did he hit on you?" Dean is fascinated.
"Geez, no! He was trying to talk me into getting a job with him---he drives a school bus part-time, and they're short-handed. Lula, on the other hand..." He shudders. "Lula thinks I'm cute."
Dean understands his brother's reaction completely, but at least she hadn't threated Sam with a taser. "Was she still wearing that leopard-print spandex number?"
"No, a pleather jumpsuit with rhinestones and studs. It looked like she was shrink-wrapped in it. For a while there, I thought I was gonna have to climb into Sally's lap to get away from her, but we got to the club, and went in. Everything was okay for a while. The band played their first set---I wish you could've seen it. Chiquita Banana with a two-day beard rocking out to 'You Give Love a Bad Name'."
He's gesturing as he talks, and Dean catches a whiff of something. "Why do you smell like a Twinkie?"
"I was getting to that. Sally goes on for the next set, Lula goes off to powder her nose, or whatever she has to powder to get that outfit on, and comes running back to the table, says she just saw Jake Mandelbaum over by the pool tables, and they need to make an apprehension, quick! Your girl jumps up, and we go over there, and this Mandelbaum creep sees us coming and bolts out a back door." It must've been like a parade, Dean thinks, picturing the three of them charging the bail jumper.
"We chased the guy for two blocks, and I got attacked by three puggles somebody was walking on a leash. I wish I'd had had a sawed-off and some rock salt for the little yappers. Then, the punk tried to make it up a fire escape, and I went up after him, and then Lula started shooting." Sam gives him an expression that says there's gonna be ice skating in hell before he'll do Dean any more favors like this.
"She didn't hit anybody, but the fugitive fell off the fire escape, knocked me off the fire escape on the way down, and landed on top of me and a trayful of day-old cream horns in a dumpster behind the Tasty Pastry bakery. But your ladyfriend is okay, and she and Lula are going to split the finders fee with me. Help me out here---how much is three-hundred fifty dollars three ways?"
"It'll buy you some new jeans," Dean answers dryly, wishing he'd been there to witness the attack of the killer puggles.
"Ri-i-ight. And how was your evening?"
"Not in the same league as yours. I got to meet the two guys our femme fatale is fooling around with. We killed the Jersey devil---the guy that owns the house was keeping it as a pet, can you believe that shit? It was messy, but still not as messy as whatever you got into. Lots of testosterone and male bonding after the weird shit was over with. The usual. Oh, and we're running low on holy water."
"Speaking of water...I need a long, hot shower." Sam winces as he stands up. "Uhh, he was shorter than me, but heavier by about forty pounds. It was like getting body-slammed by The Fat Bastard."
Dean rolls his eyes as the bathroom door closes behind his younger brother.
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Twelve hours earlier
A news article about pets being torn apart in New Jersey has led them to the conclusion that they may be on the trail of a Jersey devil (although that's something of a misnomer---according to Dad's journal, John Winchester once toasted one in northeastern Pennsylvania). Sam's triangulated locations of several of the killings giving them a rough fix on where it seems to be coming from, all subdivisions centered around a patch of woods in one neighborhood. Now Sam has VH1 blasting on the motel TV and running a search on unexplained phenomena centering on the area. One spot in particular stands out, because it predates the other development around there, and that's a house and acreage owned by one Otis Baker Newell.
Dean is supposed to be making a lunch run, but he's antsy. There are plenty of delis, sub shops, fast food places and diners to choose from, but he's not that hungry. Right now, he wants some action. The last few potential cases turned out to be nothing---things that had natural explainations, and one out-and-out hoax---and what with running all over chasing these wild geese, he hasn't even had his ashes hauled in the last couple weeks.
He manages to walk off with a Map Quest printout that should get him to the property owned by O.B. Newell, because Sam's snickering at a Twisted Sister clip and not paying attention. What the hell, it won't hurt to go take a look at the place in daylight. Folklore---and Dad's notes---indicate that the Jersey devil is probably sensitive to light---it favors dawn and twilight. (He's already made a note to himself to make sure his magnesium flashlight has fresh batteries, and that's something else he can do while he's running around.)
Parking the Impala a little past the modest frame house, Dean doubles back to the Newell residence. The house stands on an acre of land, with a garage out back, and Dean prowls around cautiously. The shades are drawn; when he takes a look through one of the garage windows, he sees it's empty. Nobody home. That's good. He doubts the damned thing is in the house, but the garage is a possibility. Something smells pretty rank in the vicinity.
Sure enough, when he eases in there and scopes the place out, he finds the remains of a cat under the workbench. Dean measures the span of the claw marks; not that that's infallible, but either it's a small one, or it isn't full-grown.
Okay, so the Jersey devil has a den around here somewhere. Sam pegged that with his searches. It's just a question of catching and killing it before it has any more puppies and kittens for dinner, or graduates to small children. He hears loud music and the rumble of an engine, and he has maybe a minute to hide before Newell catches him trespassing---he doesn't even have fake i.d. on him to say he's from code enforcement, or something like that. Shit!
There's a narrow window on the tilt-up door, and Dean steals a fast look. Two women are climbing out of an old gold Firebird---they don't seem to be coming this way, so he waits. They're Avon ladies, maybe, or Jehovah's Witlesses. One of them is African-American, as wide as she is tall, and she's falling out of a leopard-print dress. The other one is fair-skinned, and wears jeans and a Wonder Woman tee shirt---and she has the biggest hair Dean has ever seen.
It looks like they're heading toward the front of the house, so Dean eases back toward the side door of the garage. He can always cut across that vacant lot to get back to the Impala and come back later with Sam, who's probably starting to wonder where his lunch is. When he tugs open the door, he finds himself face-to-face with Leopard Woman, who up close is one of the scariest things he's ever seen---not because of her fashion sense, but because he immediately identifies the box in her hand as a taser.
"Get down, scumbag!" she screams at him. "Or I'll fry your ass!"
On Dean's personal list of shit he doesn't need, getting tasered again, ever, is right up there. He hits the ground as fast as he ever did when Dad ordered "Drop and give me twenty!".
"I got him! I got him!" Leopard Woman yells. Something rattles, and he steals a glance at her. Handcuffs. Terrific.
Wonder Chick charges up as her ally is tugging his right arm behind his back. Talk about behind between a rock and hard place. He and cops don't exactly get along, but, he reminds himself, anything's better than getting tasered again.
"Hey, look, I can explain---" he begins, hoping there's some way to talk himself out of this before they drag him in to the cop shop and run his prints.
"Lula, that's not him," Wonder Chick interrupts. Taser Woman lets go of his arm, but Dean doesn't struggle or try to make a break for it. These are not the droids you're looking for, he prays, stomach knotted with dread.
"What do you mean, not him? I caught him coming out of the garage."
"Look at him---Obie Newell is 68---does this guy look like he's 68 to you?"
"I was just looking for my dog," Dean says, giving Cagney and Lacey his best 'I'm a really nice guy' smile. "I was looking through the woods, and when I got close to the garage, I smelled something funny." He grimaces. "There's a dead cat in there."
"I'll go look," says Wonder Chick, reluctant, and steps over him. The side door squeaks, and a moment later, he hears a squeal of "Eww!". "Very dead cat," she says, returning. "Your dog's name isn't Cujo, is it?"
"Could be he's hiding that son of a bitch Obie and came by to get something for him," says Taser Woman. "I bet if I zapped him---"
"No!" Dean yells in unison with Wonder Chick, who says, "No zapping, Lula. He's not an FTA."
A light goes on in Dean's head then---thankfully not caused by being tasered. Cagney and Lacey here are bounty hunters, which makes him wonder for a moment if they've been on the wrong track and Newell really is behind all this, sacrificing the animals for reason of his own. No. No human made the marks he found on that cat. Whatever is going on with Newell, it isn't directly related to his case.
Then he flinches as a something---probably a foot-shaped something---nudges his butt and toes upward toward his waist, pulling up the loose shirt he's wearing over his Pink Floyd tee. "He's packing," Lula says. "He don't look 68, he looks 9-mil to me!"
He twists his head to look up at them. Lula is still holding the cuffs, but it looks like she's put the taser in her purse. Wonder Woman doesn't seem to be brandishing any weapons---if she has any, they're in her purse, because they certainly aren't concealed in what she's wearing---so Dean carefully pushes himself to a sitting position, doing his utmost to seem unthreatening. "Can we talk?" he asks, turning on the Winchester charm.
"Connie would've said if she'd hired someone new and set him on our FTAs," Lula says to her partner, shaking her head. "She's got no secrets from me. And I don't think he's Vinnie's type."
Wonder Woman gives her a dubious look. "Vinnie's type has a pulse...maybe."
They have some interesting friends. Dean takes a deep breath, and starts coaxing info out of them. He admits that he is a hunter---hey, he didn't say he was a bounty hunter---but keeping a straight face while telling the almost-truth turns out to be even harder than when he's slinging bull outright. He finds out that Wonder Woman's name is Stephanie Plum, she and Lula are bond enforcement agents who works for Steph's cousin, Vinnie, and that Newell, who she calls Obie, is a retired biology teacher wanted for a failure to appear in court on charges of shop-lifting from a local pet store.
That's all he needs---Dean launches into a story of tracking an interstate ring of thieves who steal pets and sell them for animal testing. Newell has been one of the middle men brokering the animals to labs in a three-state area. By the time he's through playing them, Stephanie looks horrified almost to tears and Lula is scowling---he has a feeling if she sees Newell, the poor bastard's in for a tasering.
Stephanie is a babe; Dean is polite to Lula, ever mindful of the taser in her purse, but Wonder Chick is more his type. (He wonders with amusement if she's wearing a Wonderbra under the shirt.) She has a lot of curly light brown hair, teased into the stratosphere, and it's hard not to notice---in more ways than one---the way her slim legs and derriere fill out her stonewashed jeans. He flirts---Dean can flirt in his sleep---and gets a recommendation of a place called Pino's for pizza. By now, Sam's probably gnawing on his sneakers. They give him a lift back to the Impala---might as well, his cover is blown anyway---and follow him to the pizza joint.
Too bad he can't ask her where's a likely place to hustle a few games of pool; it would be out of character for the suave professional he's acting to be hard-up enough for that. "So, what's your idea of a good time?" he purrs in her ear as they wait for their orders.
"A friend of mine is in a band---Lula and I are going to go see him tonight."
A friend, he notes. Not boyfriend. And where there are bands playing, there's usually alcohol being served, and pool tables. "That sounds like fun. Mind if I tag along?" He's leaning in close, giving her the conspiratorial grin that gets him lucky most of the time.
"We're meeting in front of the bail bonds office at 7---" she starts to say. Then Dean's shouldered aside by a guy who's got a couple inches in height on him.
"Cupcake," the other man says to Stephanie, "if those jeans are gonna get any tighter, I want to watch." Crap. Dean will bet cash money that this guy is no musician, and he has a suspicion he isn't a bounty hunter, either. Dean's been streetwise from a young age; something about this guy screams cop. He eases back half a step, and the maybe-cop-boyfriend turns to look him over. "Friend of yours?" Maybe asks Wonder Chick.
Dean doesn't want to go into that whole load of bull about poodle-nappers---he doesn't think for a minute that it'll fly with this dude---so he says, "I'm new in Trenton, and the lady was kind enough to recomment this place for the best pizza in town."
"Uh-huh." He grew up having Dad inspect him regularly, so this guy's scrutiny doesn't unsettle him...much. He must be sending out the right vibe of righteousness, because Steph's guy extends a hand, and Dean catches a glimpse of a shoulder holster. "Joe Morelli."
"Dean Corso." Morelli is still eyeing him, enough to make him a little uneasy. He isn't quite as tall as Sam, but Morelli's got some shoulders on him, and he's no lightweight. Not someone Dean would want to get into a fight with; Stephanie is cute, but not that cute.
"Welcome to Trenton," the other man says, and kisses Stephanie possessively, like he's marking his territory.
By the time Dean gets back to the motel room with lunch, he's had a warning from Morelli to keep his distance from Stephanie Plum, and an invitation from Stephanie (who apparently doesn't care for being called 'Cupcake') to join her that evening. Tough call; as much as he'd like to test his mad cue skillz against Jersey pool players, he's not about to poach a cop's girlfriend. Cable porn is a safer option than that. On the other hand, if he and Sam both go after the Jersey devil, they could both wind up getting busted if Steph and Lula decided to drop by to look for Newell after a couple beers.
So he plys Sam with pizza---which really is good, loaded with real cheese and pepperoni, dripping with grease---and talks his younger brother into hanging out with the gals and giving Dean a heads up if they decide to go after their bail jumper. It's not like he's up against a Wendigo, after all. It's one measly Jersey devil, he's pretty sure he can handle it by himself, and that way, if Morelli shows up to check out the band and his girlfriend, Dean will be safely out of the picture.
Of course, it doesn't quite go according to plan. Dean goes back to Newell's place and toasts the remains of the cat. He lets himself into the house, thinking maybe the Jersey devil has found its way into the basement and is denning down there---and makes it as far as the kitchen before getting busted. Twice. First by a guy he's never seen before---Latino, compact build, tough customer---who wants to know why he's looking for Newell. He's saved from testing the pet-napping ring story by Morelli, who appears from the hallway and seems to know the first guy.
"Well, if it isn't Ranger Manoso," says Morelli, looking at them. "I should've known he'd be one of yours."
Ranger glances from Morelli to Dean, shrugs. "Never saw him until this afternoon. He was hanging around Babe, and I wondered what was up."
The hairs are prickling on the back of Dean's neck. It's two against one, and he recognizes that these guys aren't your Average Al barroom brawlers. They're both more controlled than that, and he has a feeling that regardless of any personal differences they may have, if it comes down to it, they'll work together to take him down.
Then the backdoor is pushed open; there's a scurry of feet as something small darts in, grunting---that doesn't sound right---and an elderly man in thick spectacles shuffles through the doorway and asks, "Who are you people, and what are you doing in my kitchen? I'm calling the police!"
"Mr. Newell, I am the police," says Morelli, holding up ID.
Meanwhile, Dean has put together two and two, and it's running around on four legs and making a strange, asthmatic noise that sounds like "skronk-skronk". He'd noticed the food and water bowls in the corner of the kitchen, and he remembers now what Stephanie said about the charges---shoplifting pet toys. What's bizarre is that he seems to be the only one who's noticed that the creature isn't really a dog. It has tufts of fur and mottled skin, and a scrunched-up face with pointy ears. The way it's bent over makes it appear to be walking on all fours, and in that position, it comes midway up his calf in height. The size and shape evidentally resemble a dog enough to fool someone as near-sighted as Newell.
"What the hell is that?" Manoso exclaims, studying it, and Dean feels vindicated as Morelli does a double-take.
Dean has a sports bottle---filled with holy water, natch---and he works the nozzle and sprays the Jersey devil with a stream of liquid. Its hide starts to smoke, and in a couple of heartbeats, it's gone from looking like a homely ankle-biter to red-eyed, roaring and baring some fangs you wouldn't see on your average Pomeranian.
Morelli and Ranger both take shots at the damned thing, while Newell yells, "Skippy! Bad dog! Sit!"
Skippy takes a couple bullets---these guys hit what they aim at, but it's going to take more than lead to put this thing down. Dean has silver rounds in the 9-mil, and he pops it in mid-air as it's going for Morelli's groin. The Jersey devil spatters impressively---Dean's glad he won't be the one cleaning up the mess in the kitchen---and now all he has to do is try to explain what's really going on without landing in a rubber room or behind bars. He takes a deep breath, but it's Obie Newell, looking sadly at the mangled remains of his pet who says,
"That, boys, was a Jersey devil."
Morelli prods the remains with the toe of his shoe. "I've heard about them, but I always thought they were an urban legend."
"So did I, until I found Skippy." The old man's lips are trembling. "I was a science teacher for forty years. I knew he was an important biological specimen...but I didn't want him to end up in a cage at a zoo somewhere. I passed him off as a dog, for months while I made notes...I thought I could observe his behavior in a natural setting and make a scientific contribution, confirmation of a new species and its habits. And now you've killed him. Poor Skippy."
"Meanwhile, he started eating neighborhood pets, and you shop-lifted toys for him from Kritter Kingdom," Dean says, sliding the 9-mil back under his jacket, "and got caught. You missed your court date, and I'm here to take you in." The last part is a huge bluff on his part---everything he knows about bond enforcement he learned from cable TV---but it might throw off Morelli.
"Was that this week?" Newell asks, surprised. "I took Skippy to a pet show in Atlantic City. He was third runner-up in the Ugliest Dog contest!"
The three of them stare at the old man in disbelief, and Dean makes a mental note to investigate the winners. God knows what the hell they're breeding here in Jersey, but if they're supernatural, he'll exterminate them.
"You're not taking him anywhere," Morelli announces, his eyes narrowing. "Stephanie's been working this case, and that's the way it's going to stay."
Dean makes a show of looking pissed off, but he's secretly relieved. At least the cop isn't talking about running him in. The other guy, Ranger, is watching them both with calm detachment. He catches Dean looking at him and for a moment, the young hunter feels himself being checked out.
"Don't let the door hit you on the ass," says the cop, and Dean goes. This way, the worst case scenario is, he'll sneak back tomorrow or the day after, find the fresh patch of earth where Newell has planted "Skippy", and do the usual. It beats making Morelli suspicious enough to run the Impala's tags. He scrams back to the motel, where he finds out Sammy's evening hasn't exactly gone according to plan, either. That's Jersey for you.
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