Well, who'da thunk it? Little Jackie-Joy, the diva plot bunny, has deigned to pop out and dictate another chapter, in between facials, pedis and getting her highlights done. Maybe she's been off somewhere making arrangements for the big day. Or maybe she's just a prima donna who demands that things be just exactly to her liking, and likes to keep people waiting. Kind of like a Mariah Carey, but with more fur and less shrieking.
Chapter Seven
t minus one day
A number of the guests had to travel from interstate, and Sam watched a couple more arrive at the guest house.
"So, where's the co-mother-in-law-to-be?" he asked casually.
"Overseeing some last minute dress fittings," Andrew replied, "Something about bodices, and where the bride and the bridesmaid can stash their weapons. I mean, the women are supposed to worry about shoes, and flowers – the whole time, it's been 'Moooom, how am I supposed to get to my knife?', and 'Auntie Ronnie, doesn't this cut make my gun look big?'."
"I bet there's no advice in bridal magazines about that," mused Sam.
"I didn't ask for details", Andrew intoned seriously. "Sounded like Secret Women's Business, that men ought not wot of." He gave one of Sabine's friends a wave. "What about the co-father-in-law-to-be?"
"Supervising the ironing of the groom's party's shirts," Sam told him, "And making sure that the rings, and the groom's and best man's weapons, are readily to hand."
"What about Bobby?"
"He's surreptitiously putting down some warding," Sam grinned, "And making sure that the co-parents-in-law-to-be know that he's packin' salt rounds laced with silver nitrate."
Andrew looked sceptical. "That won't drop either of 'em."
"Maybe not," Sam grinned wider, "But it'd sting like hell enough to stop either of 'em in their tracks if they should decide to have one of their little moments." He paused. "Although I'm not sure if it's reasonable to call a wrestling match in the shrubbery of a main street a 'little moment'."
Andrew rolled his eyes. "Druids, weasels, and skunks, oh my."
"I guess at least they had the sense to back each other up, even if the story was barely plausible, and that's being charitable," Sam groaned. "What the hell is it with those two? I mean, we're Hunters, she's an Old North werewolf to boot, life can be dramatic enough, and they have to behave like a couple of characters out of a soap opera?"
"It could be worse," Andrew cautioned him, "Just think of the mayhem they could cause if they teamed up. Seriously, consider what might happen if they decided to paint the town red."
Sam paused to consider that. "Do you mean figuratively, as in, go out and have a wild night, or more literally, involving either blood or fire?"
"Either would be equally… unseemly," Andrew opined, "And difficult to explain. That guy Gary, the Sheriff? I'm pretty sure that blaring klaxon noise I could hear was his bullshit detector alarming. Somehow, I don't think he'd be down with bloodshed or arson, even if they claimed it was some sort of Druidic religious observance."
"The temptation to let him lock 'em up is pretty strong," Sam admitted, "It'd make our lives easier… oh, great, speak of the devil, and he shall appear…"
"Pots and kettles, Sammy," grinned Dean, sauntering up behind them.
"I thought you were busy overseeing preparations," commented his brother.
"Efficiency, bro," Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder. "It's all about efficiency. So, have you checked in with Ronnie?"
"What? Why?" asked Sam in a bewildered tone.
"To make sure you don't both turn up in the same outfit, duh," Dean replied. "I mean, how mortifying would that me, to show up and look like the Doublemint Twins with the mother of the bride."
"Jerk," muttered Sam as another car pulled up. "Oh, I thought everybody was here."
The driver left the vehicle to open the rear passenger side door, and a woman stepped out. The three of them stared at her.
She was somebody who would delicately be described as 'a lady of a certain age', partly because she clearly was not young, but also because it was not possible to pin an age on her: wearing a well-tailored suit and flat shoes, she walked with the grace of a dancer, pale blonde hair in a sensible up-do, and offered them a breathtaking smile from a face that was, despite hinting at the beginnings of laugh lines, nonetheless classically beautiful.
The Killer Smile slid onto Dean's face as she greeted him. "Hello again, Dean Winchester."
"Hey there," he drawled, the charm of the Living Sex God dripping from the words. "So glad you could make it."
"I could not possibly miss the occasion," her smile was radiant as she turned to Sam. "And Sam, how wonderful to see you again."
"Uh, yeah, hi," stuttered Sam, "It's, uh, it's been a while. Yeah. You look, uh… yeah."
Finally, she turned to Andrew. "And this is the father of the bride," her voice was like honey as she extended a hand. "How lovely to meet you."
"Nyaaaarg," went Andrew.
Sam sighed. "Oh, God…"
"Or goddess," Dean interjected.
"Yeah, I'm getting to that bit. Andrew, may I introduce you to RJ's mom – this is Aphrodite."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"I feel like an idiot," Andrew mumbled, watching Dean and Aphrodite casually wander away, arm in arm. "I mean, I just met a, a, an actual god, a goddess, and I kind of just went…"
"She has that effect on guys," Sam consoled him. "She's the goddess of love, so it's not completely surprising she's pushing your buttons."
"I haven't had a girl-induced brain-freeze like that since Joanne Kennerly came up to me at a school formal and asked if I'd like to dance," Andrew recalled mournfully. "Yup, sexy just got scary."
"Don't worry," Sam said, "It's worst the first time it hits you."
"I mean, Joanne Kennerly, only the most popular, the most gorgeous girl in our year, I was sure it had to be some joke somebody had put her up to…"
"Well, Aphrodite has manifested with a physical aspect to appear the right age to be the groom's mother," Sam pointed out, "So by default, she's kinda in your age bracket. Not your fault."
"And it was a slow dance, and she put her arms around my neck, and she smelled like jasmine… oh, God, Sam, did I have my mouth hanging open?" wailed Andrew.
"No," Sam smiled sympathetically. "So, er, what happened with Joanne Kennerly?"
"Oh, she let me put my hand on her ass about halfway through the song, then I went outside and was sick in a bush," Andrew sighed. "She, uh, didn't want to dance again after that." He stared after the departing couple. "How the hell did the Goddess of Love, and the Living Sex God, ever, you know," he waved a hand around uncertainly, "Without, I don't know, tearing a hole in the universe, or starting Ragnarok, or dividing by zero or something?"
"I don't know for sure," Sam remarked sourly, "But I'm pretty sure it was part of the cosmos's plan to annoy me."
"Please don't tell Ronnie," begged Andrew mournfully, "She'll laugh at me, then she'll rib me, then she'll laugh at me some more."
"Dicks before chicks, dude," Sam assured him. "Ronnie won't hear it from me."
"What won't I hear?" demanded an accented voice from behind them.
"That Dean's wandering around out here," Sam lied smoothly, "It's been going so well, and the garden is looking really nice – we were just saying we don't want you two rearranging the flower beds in broad daylight."
"How's the, uh, Secret Women's Business going?" asked Andrew.
Ronnie gave him a look. "It wouldn't be very secret if I told you, would it?" she sniffed disdainfully. "Don't look at me like that, everything is on track, A-OK and okey-dokey for our daughter to get hitched. Provided he doesn't do anything to upset arrangements."
"I think you may find that he's forgotten all about you, for the moment at least," Sam grinned, "RJ's mom has come to visit."
Ronnie's eyebrows went up. "What? Seriously? A… A goddess has manifested?"
"Oh yeah, manifested," Andrew nodded, "Manifested, definitely manifested. Manifestly manifested. Wow, is she manifested…"
"It's a mom thing, I think," Sam discreetly elbowed Andrew. "What mother wouldn't want to see her boy get married?"
Ronnie gave him an attenuated version of The Smile. "That's wonderful for RJ," she remarked. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled that she's here… hey," her voice took on a note of concern as she spotted her pair-bond's face, "Are you all right, mate? You look a bit pale."
"I'm fine!" trilled Andrew.
"Go and mingle," she instructed, "Get something to eat, make nice with the guests, tell embarrassing stories about your offspring, you know, do a-parent-of-the-happy-couple stuff."
He complied with her suggestion with alacrity.
"And if they're doing keg stand again, make sure they don't empty them all!" she called after him.
"I'm sure more beer can be arranged," Sam told her.
"We've got college graduates and Hunters here," Ronnie observed grimly. "And it's like an immutable law of matter: the capacity of the crowd to ingest alcohol increases proportionately with the volume of alcohol available. Bloody hell, you should've seen the amount of coffee this lot went through this morning…"
"Well, we can probably go and join them," Sam noted, "I think that's just about everybody we're expecting to arrive today, so…"
He was cut off by the sound of an engine. It was a large, loud engine, and as it approached, it proved to be powering a large, loud car.
"Whoa, big fella," crooned Ronnie as a fire engine red car rumbled to a halt in the lot.
"What the fuck is that?" asked Sam.
"That, my friend, is a 1969 Mustang Boss," she smiled, "Hey, you think anybody would notice if I just, you know, had a quick hump?"
"Oh, God, you're as bad as Dean," moaned Sam, "This must be one of RJ's pals."
However, when the doors opened, two large men got out. One looked like a cross between a poster boy for a Marines recruiting brochure and Anton Le Vey, and the other looked as though he lifted (and possibly also ate) stud bulls for breakfast.
As they approached, it appeared that they were arguing.
"Why is it so noisy?" demanded the poster boy, stroking his beard in irritation.
"Ah, well, there's pieces of metal moving about under the front," the other spoke in the worryingly enthusiastic tones of a trainspotter about to launch into a detailed description of the time he'd visited the workshop during the restoration of the Flying Scotsman and been permitted to hold a coal shovel. "The noise is deemed to be an aesthetically pleasing aspect of the conveyance."
"It's not natural, you know, complained the shorter man.
"That's correct, it is not natural. It is man-made, using natural materials. The oil burns inside the metal space, you see, and it expands very rapidly, which makes the other pieces of metal move, then…"
"The only piece of metal I'm going to move is when I take a knife to your tongue to stop you prattling on about it! Seriously, what kind of chariot doesn't have horses?"
"It is in fact named after a breed of horse."
"It's uncivilised."
"Did you just say that something was 'uncivilised'? You, whose idea of a good time is to slaughter an army or two before lunch then enjoy a bit of pillaging until sunset?"
"Oh, stuff a tunic in it, you gimp, I need a drink – do you think they have any wine here?"
"Given who the parents of the betrothed are, I am certain that alcoholic beverage will be provided… oh, look, there she is!"
The larger man, who had a bit of a limp, paused by the Impala as the other rolled his eyes and muttered something, then they approached the guest house. The car enthusiast saw Sam and smiled.
"Hello again, lad," he greeted him, extending a hand and grasping Sam's forearm, "Good to see your brother is looking after his car."
"Uh, yeah," stuttered Sam. turning to look at Ronnie, who was gawping at both the newcomers. "Er, this is the, uh, mother of the bride, Ronnie Shepherd."
"How do you do, good matron," the bearded man made a slight bow.
"Oh, I'm forgetting my manners," said the other in a worried tone. "How do you do, good matron. Allow me to introduce us – we are Roverto's uncles, come to see him wed. I am Hephaestus, and this ignorant wretch is Ares."
"She has no care for mincing formalities, you anvil-headed dolt," griped Ares, taking Ronnie's arm, "She is a daughter of Lycaon. Let us find refreshment, dear lady."
"She is a worker of metal, you pig-headed boor," Hephaestus told him serenely, taking Ronnie's other arm, "And I am certain that we will have more interesting things to talk about than the last time you stuck a knife into somebody. But yes, do let us find liquid refreshment. And perhaps something to eat."
"Hide your cattle, he's hungry," snorted Ares.
"Nyaaaaaarg," went Ronnie.
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