A/N This fic was for a prompt from my loverly beta, Angelicaldevil, who rocks my world every day. The prompt was Bobby babysitting a hellhound, and some blink-and-you'll-miss-it (except not really) second part will be up very soon. I hope you enjoy!
Warning: Some crackishness, excessive use of bad language.
Bobby's first dog was taken from him by a demon. It's only fair, really, that his second should come from one as well.
It just wasn't what he was expecting. At all. Ever.
Bobby wakes to the sound of the phone ringing with a half-unconscious sigh. He stumbles out of bed, reaching blindly for the handset he knows is somewhere on the table.
"Singer Salvage." He grunts into the phone, eyes still at half-mast.
"Robert," a silky voice purrs across the line, accented to the point of ridiculousness. "Actually. Wait. Before I start. What are you wearing?"
Bobby glances dumbly down at himself before shaking out of his stupor. "Who the hell is this?"
"I bet it's striped." The suddenly-familiar voice muses. "Something silk, maybe? Do you like to pamper yourself, Robert?"
Bobby grits his teeth, hand clenching around the plastic handset. "Crowley."
"Oh, don't sound so constipated, dear." The demon even sounded smug. "I'm just asking a small favor, nothing more."
Bobby quickly walks by every devil's trap in his house, checking for cracks. He grabs a sawed-off while he's at it, walking to the porch to check the perimeter. "How did you get this number?"
"The question is, how didn't I get this number?" comes the snide reply.
Bobby loudly cracks the shotgun in his hands. "Tell me what you want, or get the fuck off my phone, asshole."
"Alright, alright. I'm dropping off a...guest." Loud scratching reverberates over the phone line. "Quite friendly, though! You'll love it."
"It?!" Bobby nearly drops the phone in rage. "Crowley, whatever the fuck you're doing-"
"What? What, Robert?" Crowley shouts much louder than necessary. "I can't hear you, darling...going through a tunnel! What?"
Bobby's rage triples, until he can barely form the words he grunts at the demon. He runs back inside, leaning down to read from his exorcism cheat-sheet. "Exorzimas te, omnis-"
A bit-off groan echoes across the line, accompanied by fake static. The bastard's probably crinkling aluminum foil. "You'll love... I'll be...back for...this evening!"
With a final crackle, the phone goes dead.
Before he can place the receiver down, a large thump sounds behind him. Hunter instincts flaring, he's on his knees with the loaded shotgun in half a second flat, aiming at the corner.
His heart freezes as a low growl rolls across the room, hands going clammy around the shotgun. Oh no. Oh no.
When he doesn't move another growl sounds, and Bobby watches in terrified amazement as a set of scratches appears in the hardwood five feet away from him.
"Oh shit. Ohhhhhhh shit."
Searching the floor around him, the only thing within grabbing distance is some bag Dean and Sam had left laying around the last time they'd visited. He hadn't even glanced in it, but cleaning had never really been his thing anyways.
The garish orange plastic would be distraction enough for him to jump over the table and into the kitchen. Crossing his metaphorical fingers (cause his normal ones were busy holding a shotgun) he leaped up, tossing he bag at the hellhound.
A high-pitched whine splits the air as Bobby dives, sending his already-terrified heart into fits. He lands hard on his right shoulder, pushing up and into the kitchen with numb legs.
Any second now he's expecting sharp jaws to close around his legs, to rip into his back and tear his spine out, but the teeth never come. Frantically grabbing the salt from his drawer, he turns around and holds it at the ready.
A low whine comes from the corner, and Bobby watches in amazement as the hellhound doesn't move. Its breath huffs out in a hot, frustrated gust.
Bobby's eyes widen in surprise as he sees what's stopping it. Spread across the floor, in an all-too-convenient formation, is a line of salted pretzels.
He almost cracks out laughing as another frustrated growl comes from the corner. The invisible monster seems to pace the brown pieces, clawing the wood with a tortured whine.
"God bless Dean Winchester and his terrible eating habits." Bobby says, putting the salt down with a hesitant glance at the hellhound (or where it's standing). "You gonna stay, or do I have to put more salt down?"
Another long whine is all he gets, vibrating the floor with its intensity. Bobby almost feels bad for it, blocked only by his memories of what the things can do.
Bobby doesn't easily forget burying Dean's body. He remembers sliding it into the nameless grave with a mind-numbed Sam-how it barely held together in the shroud.
The things were vicious, but he couldn't really remember them whining that much-or even at all. Maybe it was a pup of some sort? A hellhound pup. A vicious, blood-thirsty, hellhound puppy.
And he had one for a pet now.
Bobby sits down smack on the kitchen floor, grabbing his shotgun to sit mano a mano with the hellhound. Jesus.
"So...uh...what do you eat?"
After a few minutes of "nice hellhound, nice doggie" he inches forward, tossing a peace offering across the pretzels. It's his last steak, but he figures it's going to a good cause.
Claws dig into the meat almost immediately. Bobby watches in fascination as invisible teeth tear into it, ripping the steak into pieces.
He almost thinks it worked when the hellhound sits back, the meat falling from an invisible maw onto the floor. The damned whining starts again, and if the thing wants human flesh, there's no way the day is gonna work.
Frantically he throws anything his hands can touch, tossing a loaf of bread and what he thinks might be an avocado (or a really moldy tomato) into the circle. The items are decimated in an equal fashion, but the thing doesn't eat anything beyond ripping it to shreds.
"Damn." On a wing and a prayer, he reaches into the freezer and pulls out a frozen chicken breast, throwing it at the hellhound.
Nothing. It doesn't even try swallowing the meat. Now, sure, it was some crappy low-quality meat to begin with, but the damn dog had to eat something.
He curses as another whine-growl combination reaches his ears, sighing in frustration. "Well, if your daddy had told me what you goddamned ate, we wouldn't be in this problem! Don't you fucking growl at me!"
Invisible claws scratch at his near-mangles floors. Bobby puts his head on the kitchen table and tosses whatever's closest to his hand at the thing, the beginnings a migraine forming between his eyes.
A happy barking splits the air, followed by the sounds of liquid hitting the floor. He looks up in amazement to see an orange floating in the air, teeth gnawing through the orange flesh and throwing juice everywhere.
"So you eat oranges." Bobby says, shocked. The hellhound doesn't seem to hear him, too busy ripping the last of the fruit from the peel. Bobby laughs as the thing whines, nudging at its decimated treat with an invisible snout.
"I got more." He reassures it, tossing another orange into the circle. The hellhound descends happily on it, devouring the fruit even faster.
Bobby glances over at the bowl full of oranges sitting on his kitchen table and sighs.
After nearly a full hour of eating oranges the thing subsides, curling up into itself in the circle and ignoring Bobby. Save for the occasional whimper, he wouldn't have even known it was there.
That scares Bobby the tiniest bit.
Snores filter through the whimpers hours later, and from where Bobby'd been crouched on the ground for half the morning it sounds like thunder. He carefully takes his last orange (and how they'd gone through thirty-two in three hours astounded him) and his cell phone, inching towards the backyard.
He's almost out the door, already dialing Dean's number when a loud snorting sound comes from inside the living room. Turning around, he sees the pretzels vibrate as the hellhound growls, very much awake.
Smiling in a panic at the mutt, he throws his last orange at the circle of pretzels. Sighing in relief, he turns around as Dean's voice speaks in his ear.
"Bobby! Where the hell have you been the-"
He's almost to the porch when something tugs on his pajama leg, and the cold fear that runs through him has nothing on what he feels when he looks down.
Teeth marks catch the soft material, making it slightly damp with hellhound spit and what looks suspiciously like orange juice. The circle behind him is broken, pretzels smashed by the forgotten orange.
A growl vibrates his whole leg, until Bobby can feel the press of teeth into his leg and the moist huff of air the beast lets out. He's frozen, Dean babbling away happily in his ear as he and the invisible dog make what he guesses is eye contact.
"Oh balls. Balls."
Dean continues to talk as Bobby counts down from five, already eyeing the shed two hundred feet from the porch. At one, he rips himself from the hellhound's teeth and sprints like the devil's after him.
His pajama pants rip up the seam and then down the other, but he barely notices the fabric fall away in his mad dash for the shed. Any second, he thinks again, he'll feel jaws close around his leg, and there wouldn't be any god-sent pretzels this time-
By some miracle he makes it the the shed before the dog does, red-faced and faster than a teenager at a mall-wide sale. He slams into the wood of hte garage-shed outbuilding, splinters digging themselves into his hands as he throws the door open.
He can hear the hellhound behind him, panting hotly at his heels. With near-perfect timing, he shoves himself aside at the last second and lets the invisible dog slide in. Slamming the door hard (and throwing himself in front of it) he breathes heavy, finally noticing his lack of, well, pants.
He looks down to see the cellphone lying on the dirt, forgotten in his haste to avoid death by hellhound. Dean's tinny voice spirals up to him, angry and typical Dean-sounding.
"Yeah, m'here." Coughing, he leans against the door. A whine comes from inside, but the wood seems to hold. "What do you...what dy'a know 'bout hellhound pups?"
"Hellhound pups?" Dean sounds incredulous, Sam joining in at the exclamation. "You mean the scary wolf-dog things? Those kind?"
Bobby growls before shaking his head. "Yes!"
"What the hell have you been drinking?"
He's gonna smack Dean the next time he sees him. "Boy-"
Just then the windows above him shatter, exploding outwards in shards of so-not-safety glass and pieces of wood. The force of it throws him back a few steps, but it's the cause of the explosion that knocks him onto his ass.
Two distinct thuds slam into his chest as he hits the ground, digging into ribs as his whole life flashes before his eyes. He's gonna die.
Hot breath whispers across his neck, and everything goes black.
A/N To be continued very soon! Drop me a review and let me know what you thought!