Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG-13 language
Written for zelda_addict 's prompt at the Outsider POV comment fic meme at spn_bigpretzel:Maybe that homeless man wasn't the only person Dean ran into/past while fleeing that vicious yorkie in "Yellow Fever"?
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If it isn’t one thing with Melanie it it’s another.
First she’s mad that I went out the other night with Mike and kicks me out of the house (Okay … so maybe staying out at the strip club until 4 a.m. was a bad idea), but then two days later, she’s calling me again, sobbing about her damn dog, Butterscotch.
The stupid, little, rat-sized, yippy bitch has run away and Mel is beside herself, crying her eyes out and drenching my shirt with her tears, begging me to help her find the mutt.
I can’t say that I’ve ever liked the dog. It’s annoying as hell, always barking and snapping at me whenever I walk into Mel’s apartment. To make matters worse, Mel treats the thing like it’s her goddamn kid or something. She carries the tiny furball around in her purse everywhere she goes and she’s always dressing it up in frilly, little tutus and tying ribbons in its hair even though it’s a boy (I may not like dogs, especially this one, but I can’t imagine doing that to another male). And then she’s always calling it ‘Baby-scotch’ or ‘Booboo-scotch’ or whatever ridiculous variations on its name she can think of. ‘Butt-scratch’ is probably a better name for it in my opinion since that’s all it really does, but Mel never asks for my opinion.
I guess I can see why the thing ran off – probably just wants to act like a normal dog for once.
‘Course, it’s not that I’m jealous of a freaking dog or anything, but c’mon … The thing’s allowed to shit on the floor wherever and whenever it wants, but if I want to go out with a friend and have a couple of beers, then my ass is out the door.
However, if finding the tiny ankle-biter puts me back on good terms with Mel, then I guess I better find it. After all … Melanie may be a high-maintenance pain in the ass most of the time, but I love her and I’d do just about anything for her – even roam around dark street corners and piss-reeking alleys looking for her retarded dog until the butt-crack of dawn.
It’s about 4AM and I’ve been out for the last three goddamn hours calling for the little shit. I’m tired and cranky, but when I finally hear a series of high-pitched yips and barks that can only belong to Mel’s demented dog, I’m more than a little relieved; if I so much as tried to go back to Mel’s without her dog, then she’d probably never want to see me again. In fact, hearing its annoying yip makes me almost glad to know that it’s okay and hasn’t been run over by a car or anything like that.
I jog towards the noise coming from just down the street, and in the next moment I’m nearly run over by a deranged lunatic in a cheap, dark suit, sprinting down the road as if a fucking zombie hoard was after him. The whole time he’s raving about the ‘hell-hound’ getting him, but when I look behind him, all I see is Butterscotch in pursuit, wagging its shaggy, tiny tail and barking in that deranged way that Mel gets all gushy about.
Sure … Butterscotch may be the devil’s own spawn, but a ‘hell-hound’? Damn … I’m sure there are goldfish out there that are more dangerous than Mel’s spoiled pet.
As the man and the dog run by me, I make a lunge for Butterscotch, hoping to catch the dog and finally put this night to bed, but the whack-job’s screaming only seems to rile Butterscotch up even more. Thinking that the guy must be playing with it, it runs faster and gains on him.
A sound I had never heard another man make before squealed out of the guy in the suit as Butterscotch nips playfully at his heels.
I see no other option than to run after them.
My only plan is to catch Mel’s dog and then beat a hasty retreat before whatever drugs the crazy guy has taken make him turn against me too.
I know just how ridiculous this all must look; one grown-assed man being chased by a tea-cup sized dog, being chased by yet another grown-assed man. It’d be funny if it was happening on TV and even the toothless, homeless guy, taking a piss against a dumpster laughs as we race by him, but I’m really not in the mood to see the humor in all this.
Now … I am not what you would call ‘fit’. In fact some, if not all, of my friends might call me ‘slovenly’ and seeing as how it has been several years since my body has been forced to run, I quickly fall behind. I have to stop and gasp, panting for air as the guy in the suit runs across a motel parking lot and dashes for one of its doors, nearly knocking it down in his haste to get into the room and away from Butterscotch.
The door slams shut behind him and I never see him again -- thank God.
Butterscotch stops in the middle of the parking lot and pants, giving out a little whine and cocking its head like it has just lost its best friend.
When I finally catch my breath, I call out to the dog, hoping it will come without me having to chase it again and thankfully, the dog turns and begins to trot my way, stopping for just a moment to lift his hind leg to take a quick whiz on the hubcap of a pristine, classic black car parked in front of the door the loony guy just dove into.
At last, the little bastard comes to me and I pick the dog up, thankful that I can finally take it back to Mel and hopefully get her to let me back into her bed tonight.
I lift him up so that we can see each other eye-to-eye, the little ribbon on top of his head, drooping to the side. If Mel didn’t love the damn dog so much I might have drop-kicked it for making me chase it all night.
“Hell-hound, my ass.” I snort.
Butterscotch growls and its eyes slide into black.
All I see are tiny jaws snapping.
Everything goes dark.