You people. I mean, really, you people... the regular Denizens of the Jimiverse are a merciless lot. I make some throw-away comments in the last chapter added to 'Prince Charming', by way of explanation, and the Denizens turn them into plot bunnies. I was trying to clear some things up for you, in an amusing fashion, but can you leave it at that, nooooooo, you have to take things I said under the influence of Not Enough Chocolate and shove them though your Plot Bunny Synthesiser, and throw them back at me! Have you no PITY? Have you no COMPASSION? OH THE HUMANITY!
All right, here's the premise. This story is set in the Jimiverse, and includes my OC, Ronnie, who was only SUPPOSED to be someone to annoy Dean with. Sometime after the end of 'Prince Charming', against all odds she ended up pair-bonded (his name is Andrew) and dropped off the radar to avoid Hunters. Until the Winchesters ran into them unexpectedly one day. While the menfolk drink and crash cars on the Playstation, it becomes apparent that Dean is the only one who hasn't slept with a werewolf, and Sam and Andrew hint that he might be missing out on something mind-blowing. Naturally, he pesters them mercilessly for details, after all, what do you expect a Living Sex God to do?
All right. So I'm writing it. I hope you're satisfied, you, you, you SADISTS!
Disclaimer: Not mine, if they were I'd have set myself up as a brothel madam and pimped them to rabid fangirls by now. And I'd be typing this from Monaco, or maybe somewhere in the Bahamas.
Title: The Thing
Summary: After some car trouble, Dean and Sam run into two old acquaintances. When it becomes apparent that Dean is the only one who hasn't slept with a werewolf, he pesters Sam and Andrew for details - he is the Living Sex God, after all, and they've hinted that he's missing out on something mind-blowing.
Rating: T. Because this product may contain traces of Dean.
Blame: Lies ENTIRELY with the slave-driving, unrelenting, cruel, insistent, brutal, ruthless, relentless people that I refer to as the Denizens, regular Visitor/Reviewers to the Jimiverse. They are unashamed breeders, trainers and cross-oceanic catapulters of BLOODTHIRSTY PLOT BUNNIES! THEY WILL NOT STOP UNTIL THEY HAVE THEIR FANFIC! CUUUUUURSE YOOOOOOU!
Chapter 1: SomeTHING Is Wrong With My Baby
"What's the matter, Baby?" Dean spoke tenderly to the Impala, patting the dash, while Sam rolled his eyes.
"Dean," he began, "It's a machine, you can't ask it how it's feeling…"
"Shut up! My baby isn't feeling well. I just know it," pouted the older Winchester, frowning at the temperature gauge. "She hasn't been herself all morning. See that? She's running a fever."
Sam dutifully peered at the gauge. "It isn't in the red."
"But it's hotter than she usually runs," countered Dean, still frowning. "We're stopping next place we find, so I can find out what's wrong. You hang in there, girl," he added, patting the dash again. Sam humphed, and fished out the map.
The next stop, Cascade River, was a reasonably large sized town for mid-east Oregon. Dean pulled the Impala into a roadhouse on the outskirts, and spent the entire break worrying and catastrophising about what could be wrong with his baby.
"She's not blowing smoke, so she can't be burning oil… besides, the oil's not going anywhere… it's not the head gasket…it can't be the pump, I'd hear that, and she'd get a lot hotter a lot faster…"
"Dean, can you try to calm down, bro?" urged Sam, interrupting the running monologue of potential mechanical disasters.
"How can I be calm when my baby is sick? I could never be calm when you were sick, now you expect me to be calm when our girl is sick?" Dean was starting to sound slightly hysterical. "There was no puddle of coolant before we left this morning… oh my God," he looked up suddenly, "What if it's not mechanical? What if she's possessed? Sam, what if some asshole spirit is possessing my car?"
Sam tried to stay reasonable. "Dean, it's the Impala, it can't be possessed…"
"Oh yeah? You never read 'Christine', then?"
"Dean, nothing, nothing, could get past the wards," countered Sam, convinced he could feel a headache coming on, "Look, finish your burger, then you can go look at the car and you'll figure out what's wrong, then you'll fix it. Get a piece of pie. Everything will look better after pie. Everything will be fine. The car will be fine. Why am I talking to you like I'm the paediatrician and you're the parent whose kid has eaten a snail? Get a grip!"
Dean glared at him. "She'll be cooled down, now, I'm going to see what's wrong with my baby." He stalked out of the roadhouse, trailing a miasma of grumpy. Sam sighed, and opened his laptop. He might as well as try to make progress on their next case: it was a strange one, victims disappearing during the new moon, their corpses being found some days later having been battered to death, then bled out, with pieces missing. Sam had found a connection with a deceased couple who had been linked to the disappearances of itinerants on their farm in the 1930s; a tramp's body had eventually been found in a similar state to that of the victims now turning up. Dean told him that it was a confused werewolf who didn't know how to read a calendar, or a wendigo on a diet.
His further inquiries were curtailed when he heard the shout of "Sonofabitch!" from the parking lot, followed by the slam of the hood. Dean stomped back into the roadhouse, and slumped back down in the chair opposite Sam. Sam cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Radiator", sighed Dean, looking angry and sad and forlorn and pissed all at once, "There's a damned crack in the radiator. She's leaking coolant. Slowly, but it'll only get worse. Damn. Where the hell do I find a replacement radiator for a 67 Chevy here?"
"Could it be repaired?" asked Sam.
"Possibly. A crack can sometimes be soldered up, but it's a hell of a job to do properly. Even if we could make it to Bobby's I don't know if I could pull it off." Dean sighed again, looking defeated. "I think I need that pie." The kindly older lady who took his order couldn't help but ask what was wrong as he ordered his pie. With cream. And ice cream. And only one spoon.
"Oh, it's my car," he said, reminding her of a little boy who's just found out that his very favourite toy is broken, "The radiator's cracked, and I don't know how in hell I'm going to fix her…" he smiled ruefully at her. "Unless you sell radiators for classics here, too."
"Sorry, hon, just the pie," she smiled back, "But if you can wait a minute, I'll ask my husband – he's just as attached to his Mustang. He courted me in it. My father hated it." Dean smiled at that.
A couple of minutes later, an older man with a nametag labelling him 'Lou' came out of the kitchen with the pie, and a card. "Here you go son," he said. "May tells me you have a problem with your baby out there." A pained look crossed Sam's face as he identified another car lover with The Disease.
"Yes sir," said Dean wistfully, digging into his pie, "Cracked radiator." The man flipped the card down onto the table. It had an address and phone number written on it.
"You want to try this place. Changed hands a few months ago, and the mechanic is no slouch. There's a welder there too, now, does very good work. If they can't do a repair on it for you, nobody can – at the very least, they'll be able to source you a replacement." He cast an anxious look at the Impala in the lot. "How bad is she leaking? It's several miles - can she get there on her own, or do you want me to call 'em for you, get her towed? They'll get out the flatbed for a classic lady like yours. You can trust 'em, they've taken good care of Sophie for me a couple of times."
"I think she'll make it. We'll call if she doesn't. Sophie's your Mustang?" grinned Dean. Lou grinned back. The Disease, thought Sam. There is no cure.
"Sure is. When you get there, you tell 'em Lou sent you, and if they don't do a damned good price, I'll spit on the damned pancakes next time they come in." With another grin he disappeared back into the kitchen.
Dean humphed into his pie. "Well, it's a start, I guess. We can see what they can do, how long it'll take, how much…"
"If it's too much, we can always call Bobby," Sam reassured him, "He'll come get us, and you can find something at the yard."
Ten minutes later, they were on the road and headed for the workshop, Dean crooning encouragingly to the car, and Sam gritting his teeth and wishing for some aspirin.