Gaudeamus igitur - ah, the Latin of our education. 'Lux mea christus' - that was my secondary school's motto, 'Christ my light', changed by the less devout amongst us to 'Podex mea christus', or "Christ my arse'. (It was a high Anglican girls' school, so it was prudent for the atheists to keep their heads down; it was our equivalent of a secret handshake.) Then there's 'Postera Crescam Laude', motto of the University of Melbourne - 'I shall be held in growing esteem by future generations.' Suitably up itself for the Australian university second most up itself in the country... now, what exactly might a twelve-year-old with a selection of magazines at his disposal get up to in the workshop?

As Bartlebead has discerned and others have no doubt worked out, I'm not really with the Samgirls or Deangirls, I'm over there with the Bobbywimmen. Now, have Singer washed and brought to my cabin, I like a man who can give great mind, heh heh...

Chapter 4

There was a sudden mechanical wheezing, spluttering, clattering sound from the yard outside, and a prolonged bout of coughing and swearing. Bobby looked up to see large clouds of thick blue smoke drifting past the window.

"Well, I'll be," he muttered, "Looks like your brother actually got that piece of junk going."

"What's a wildheart dog?" Sam non-sequitur-ed his way into a completely different direction as he drew.

"Hmmmm?" Bobby tried to catch up.

"You said Kali is a wildheart dog," Sam repeated, "When she followed Dean. What does that mean?"

"Ah, that's Wildhunt dog," Bobby clarified. "She was bred at Wildhunt, a kennel that breeds very special dogs. Kali was… is a Hunter's dog."

"Like Rumsfeld?" asked Sam.

"Oh, she's very different to Rumsfeld," Bobby grinned, "In her heyday, she'd have torn him to shreds if he got in her way."

Sam's eyes went wide. "But, but she's… she's…"

"Old, and creaky, and half-blind?" Bobby finished. His smile was sad. "Yup, that she is."

"Is that why she came to live with you?" Sam pressed. "Because she's too old to Hunt any more? Did her Hunter get a younger dog?"

Bobby sighed. "Her Hunter died, Sam," he said quietly. "He was up against some real nasty things, and, well, they beat him. It's rare for a Hunter's dog to get old," he went on, "They'll die to protect their Hunter. It's bred into 'em. But Charlie was a friend, and he made me promise that if… I told him he was an idjit, 'cause dogs never outlive their Hunters, but…" he stopped, remembering the grief of the call he'd hoped he'd never get: the trip through the night, building a pyre for another friend, and bringing home the injured dog, already a grizzled veteran, who'd pleaded with her eyes for a merciful death so she could follow her Hunter, but he'd promised Charlie, so here she was…

"What makes her different?" Sam cut into his musings.

Bobby chose his words carefully. "She has very rare bloodlines," he answered, "Very specialised instincts. There's only a few places breed dogs like her." He watched the kid's face – he was Working Things Out again.

"Why is she sticking so close to Dean?" he asked, peering keenly up at Bobby. Damn, one of these days, that brain was gonna overheat and explode.

"Because she knows an idjit who could do with a bit of extra supervision when she sees one," he said gruffly, hoping it would be enough. "Dogs can be very sensitive to… all sorts of things. Sometimes, your brother broadcasts 'idjit' in the megawatt range. She's another pair of eyes, and she's as sharp as a tack, despite her looks," he continued when Sam kept staring at him, clearly not diverted. "There's nothing can harm you boys here. Not with the house warded, and Rumsfeld and Kali in the yard. Anything out there that got past them would have to get past me. And that just aint gonna happen."

Another burst of swearing, a gust of blue smoke, and a distinct cracking sound echoed through the yard outside.

"Personally, I think that one day your brother is going to launch himself into orbit or just pass out from terminal idjitry," Bobby confided. Sam giggled at that. "Now, why don't you get on with that picture, then we can look at some more vocabulary, and I'll make a start on our next lesson: how to introduce yourself to a zombie robot sailor…"

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Dean scowled, and jerked his hand back – the jagged end of the broken con rod cut his thumb – but he quickly forgot that as he mused over his next step. For about thirty seconds, before the thing tore itself apart, it had run harder and faster than it had ever been designed to do. Dean had never heard of a 'porting and polishing' – the words 'head job' would come to mean something entirely different to him within just a couple of years. He'd never heard of engine blueprinting, or wave dynamic timing, but he could see how burring out the ports there and there on the cylinder and piston, and swapping that part out for another he'd scavenged, and knocking in one side of the exhaust outlet there would make it run better. It just made sense…

He downed his lunch quickly, scribbling and doodling on a notepad, barely registering surprise when Sam asked him, in simple but passable Latin, "If I cut your head off, will you stay dead?" ("Dude, what the hell? What are you trying to kill?" "Well, zombie robot sailors, actually…"). He'd begged permission to use a couple of power tools, then headed outside, Kali silently shadowing him again.

He'd found the parts he needed in the junk of the yard, crawling under piles of tangled scrap and into the metal bins and nearly scalping himself in pulling some blades off another mower, but eventually he had what he needed. He had to alter some of them, which was a lot easier with the metal reaming bit on the drill than using a file, then patiently smooth them back, but eventually, he had his engine ready to go. Holding his breath, he yanked on the starter cord…

It roared into loud, high-pitched life, spitting blue smoke and whirring ominously. He grinneed in delight when it held idle, and conspicuously did not self-destruct. He released the rusty wheel brake, and experimentally gave it a push across a patch of weedy ground.

Greenery flew backwards, coating his jeans. He laughed, and pushed it across another strip. The machine denuded another line of ground.

He cut the engine. It was clearly working. Bobby would make good on his promise, but… he looked speculatively at the half-crushed ride-on he'd salvaged the plugs and rings from. It worked, but he could make it better…

It was upside down on the workbench when Bobby came out in response to Dean's request for some welding. He had the pieces ready to go, and had even drawn a clear diagram of what he wanted. Slightly bemused, but pleased that Dean had so far been responsible in his tinkering, Bobby quickly made the requested joins, then headed back inside. He exchanged a look with Kali, who sat unobtrusively in the shed. This is how pups learn, her expression told him.

A few holes, a few large bolts, and the superstructure was in place. He managed to saw the seat off the ride-on, and fix it to the metal struts. He double-checked the gearing he'd pulled from a push-mower and a washing machine gearbox, inspected and re-greased the axle he'd improvised, then pushed it out of the shed.

Lawnzilla, Sioux Falls' first ever two-stroke ported and polished backwards-running self-propelled ride-on-instead-of-walk-behind mower with manual steering, chock brakes, modified tin can exhaust with custom expansion chamber and GT stripes painted on was ready for its maiden flight.

As an afterthought, he evicted a nest of mice from an old helmet he'd found and jammed it onto his head.

He started the engine, took his seat, grabbed hold of the folded-back handle steering rod, and pushed the throttle lever open...

In principle, the basic design was sound, apart from one or two small hiccups.

One small hiccup being, the intricacies of gearing ratios is as much art as science, and is usually not taught in depth until students of engineering have entered their second year of formal study, so it wasn't completely surprising that Dean didn't actually get it quite right.

Another small hiccup proved to be that two-stroke engines run at a much lower compression than four-strokes – as a result, they do not engine brake.

So, while in principle the basic design was sound, in practice Lawnzilla shot across the yard, over one of the two garden beds that actually had something approaching flowers that weren't weeds, across a gravel path and through a heap of empty cans, shredding a good number as it went, tweaked engine revving and blades flying. When Dean managed to close the throttle partway, Lawnzilla didn't slow down; in fact, the engine hit what Dean would learn later was the power band, and shot forward with renewed energy, jumping a rutted path and cutting an efficient trail of neatly mowed weeds across a stretch between rows of car bodies.

It was a tribute to the robust nature of the two-stroke cycle, the quality of Bobby's welding and Dean's death-grip on the steering handle that the whole thing held together as it accelerated through Bobby's herb patch, gave an unwary skunk a haircut it wouldn't forget in a hurry, and hit a deep wheel rut without shaking to pieces.

Lawnzilla launched into the air, where Dean identified yet one more small hiccup: no matter how good you brakes or steering are or are not, once all four wheels are off the ground, they're about as useful as a pork chop at a bah mitzvah…

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

It spoke volumes about the sort of things Bobby was used to dealing with that, when he heard a loud howling yell travel past the window and glanced out in time to see Dean riding a mower travelling backwards through his herb patch at high speed, then take off and sail through the air to land quite gracefully in a large rosemary bush, his first thought was, "Thank God for that – I really need a break from The Ocean-Going Adventures of the Zombie Robot Sailors: Escape from Bimbo Island."

He and Sam wandered outside, and followed the swathe of death, destruction and neatly trimmed herbage that was the wake of Lawnzilla. It lay on its side, engine stalled, while Dean wiggled and squirmed in the depths of the rosemary hedge. Bobby grabbed an arm and pulled.

"I don't recall requestin' that you mow my gravel," he commented.

Dean pushed the helmet back from his face and grinned, eyes slightly crossed. "That was awesome!" he declared. He caught sight of Lawnzilla, and righted it, scanning it. "I think I know what went wrong," he said, "I think it needs better brakes."

"Some brakes at all would have to be an improvement," agreed Bobby. He caught sight of Kali, who was watching the proceedings calmly. It is the way pups learn.

"Maybe you can leave off that for today," Bobby told him, "I'll get us some chow."

"You could read Latin with us," offered Sam. "The zombie robot sailors are negotiating peace with the bimbos."

"No thanks, squirt," Dean rolled his eyes, "I might catch nerd."

"Podex perfectus es," Sam muttered. You're a total asshole.

Dean's head whipped around. "Stercorem pro cerebro habes." You have shit for brains.

"Interfice te cochleare." Kill yourself with a spoon.

"Canicula."

"Malum."

"Tace!" barked Bobby. Shut up! "Let's go inside." He made a mental note to hide his more inclusive Latin dictionary out of an eight-year-old's reach.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

That night, he was perusing his German manuscript, but morbid curiosity kept dragging his attention back to the illustrations that Sam had provided for him as 'inspiration' to write the next set of Latin lessons. Some of them were quite gruesome - letting the zombie robot sailors marry the pretty farmers' daughters and breed a new race of robot zombie bimbos was going to make for some pretty interesting grammar exercises. He rubbed a hand over his face. If he was honest, he really enjoyed having the boys stay with him, but they were exhausting. And tomorrow, he might have to spend some time in his herb patch, dealing with the aftermath of the Flight Of Lawnzilla.

A quiet but determined scratching at the door drew his attention. Frowning, he opened up to see Kali sitting there, gazing up at him urgently.

"Well then, what's burnin' your biscuits, old woman?" he asked, patting her greyed head. She woofed once, then made her way past him, and up the stairs. He followed her to the room the Winchesters shared.

She settled just inside the door, out of the way, but with a clear view of both beds. And the window.

"Okay, then," Bobby said absently, stroking his beard, "I'll leave you to it."

Before he went to bed that night, he checked the wards and the salt lines again.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Patience had paid off. She smiled to herself, eyes fixed on the upstairs window of the house.

He'd dumped his kids with the old drunk, and headed off. And Daddy's overprotective, interfering little soldier had happily spent the day outside, by himself, in the shed, tinkering away with pieces of junk. She sniggered to herself; well, that wasn't' the only 'junk' he'd played with – she'd managed to get close enough to see what sort of magazine he had folded inside the others…

In fact, that gave her an idea. She might be better off ditching the meatsuit she'd originally chosen, a kindly older lady with grey hair, for something a lot younger, and a lot more scantily clad. That might be more likely to get his attention, get his guard down.

The yard dog could be a problem. It was a large, male Rottweiler, and they didn't scare easy. It had nearly found her, tracking her stealthily. She'd have to take it out, if it got in the way, before it could raise the alarm. No, her best bet was to wait, and find him by himself. Then show him a bit of teenage leg, a bit of cleavage.

You dirty little devil, she chuckled quietly to herself, her eyes bleeding to black. Why Azazel had chosen the younger, shyer, almost mousy one, she didn't know – that older one, he was ready to mature into a man just made for sin; he would've made a positively delicious Boy King.

Patience.

She faded back into the night.

Before anyone takes me to task over a twelve-year-old turning a lawn mower into a performance vehicle, I'm basing it on something my brother did when he was twelve. Only he mowed through the dahlias, and ended up bingling it in the rhododendrons. My grandmother was unamused. My grandfather laughed his arse off, then helped fix the gearing. My grandmother was doubly unamused. Rhubarb and apple crumble was withheld that night as punishment. They raced their lawnmower-gocart around the yard until the engine died, and the lawn was severely afflicted. The rhododendrons never really did recover.

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