SomeTHING Unexpected

The auto shop rolled into view, and Dean pulled into the parking lot. The double doors into the workshop were closed, which seemed strange for a Friday afternoon.

"Are they closed?" wondered Sam out loud.

"Let's find out," said Dean, getting out and heading for what looked like the office. A bell over the door clinked, and a man in overalls entered from the workshop, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Afternoon, what I can do for…" he started, then stopped, gaping at the Winchesters. "Sam? Dean?"

"Andrew?" the brothers gaped back at him, and he broke into a grin.

"Large as life, and twice as hairy," he confirmed. "Three times at the full moon."

"Dude!" exclaimed Sam, "What are you doing here?"

"Working. It's an auto shop. That means, we fix cars." deadpanned Andrew. "It's called 'making a living'. I realise it's probably a bit too close to 'normal' for your liking, but for some of us, 'normal' is almost all we've ever known, give or take the odd werewolf bite."

"Speaking of 'we'," started Dean, waggling his eyebrows at Andrew, before he was cut off by a stream of swearing, delivered in a broad accent, from the workshop. Andrew smiled. "Yep. She came with me." Dean started to smile an evil smile, but Andrew put a hand on his shoulder. "No, don't. Any other time, I'd say go scare the hell out of her, but she's casting right now, and you don't want to mess with molten metal. Come on in, just stay out of the way."

In a corner of the workshop, a robust figure bent to a crucible over a small gas furnace, wearing a leather apron, long gauntleted gloves and a visor. Andrew approached, shouting, "Hey looky here! They followed me in. Wanna keep 'em?"

The figure stood back, and flipped up the visor. A scarred face stared at the Winchesters, and an exasperated expression spread over it. "Oh, fuck me…"

"Not if you're still with him, darlin' ", smirked Dean flippantly, while Sam pulled Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "Hi Ronnie," he added.

"Be right with you, fellas," said Ronnie, "But I've just hit molten, so if you'll excuse me…" she turned back to the furnace, picked up the crucible with a long pair of tongs, and started to pour the spitting contents into a mould on the floor. The metal hissed and sparked, dribbling neatly into the small holes, until the crucible was empty. Ronnie shut down the furnace, and the cooling equipment pinked with the dissipating heat. "Right, that's done. I need a drink. Don't stand there, Andrew, fetch the beer. Beer! Fetch!" Andrew rolled his eyes, and muttered "Woof" under his breath, as he headed for a battered refrigerator. "So, what brings Tweedledum and Tweedledee Winchester here?"

"Well, we didn't come looking specifically for you," said Dean, accepting a beer from Andrew, "We've got a cracked radiator, and Lou at the roadhouse said…"

"That was you?" Andrew's expression was suddenly serious. "He called here earlier, said a guy with a classic had a radiator problem and he'd sent you our way… there was some threat about spitting on our pancakes…"

"Don't just stand there," said Ronnie, frowning, already at the control and opening up the doors, "Get her in here and let's see what the damage is." Dean handed his beer to Sam, and went to bring the Impala into the shop. When it was inside, they had the hood up, and the three of them hovered like anxious aunts over a sick toddler. Sam watched bemusedly: Dean was pointing and waving his arms around, Ronnie was peering and nodding and frowning, Andrew was fetching tools and shop rags and asking questions. The Disease, it can strike anywhere…

"It'll have to come out," pronounced Ronnie, "I can solder it for you - yes, I am that good - but it'll have to come out for me to do a proper job on it."

"Okay then," said Andrew, "We let her cool down, drain the system, flush it out…"

"The radiator has to be dry on the inside," said Ronnie, "We can get it nearly dry with the air line, but we'll have to let it dry overnight just to be sure. There can't be any water, or the solder won't bond. This has to be done right." They both looked sympathetically at Dean; he looked stricken, but nodded in agreement.

"Why don't we just go sit down and have a drink and wait," suggested Andrew, herding Dean in the direction of the back room. Like a doctor on the children's ward shepherding a worried parent into the waiting room, thought Sam: I'm sorry, Mr Winchester, but we're going to have to operate on your girl, we're just getting her prepped now…

"Er, don't you have work to do?" asked Sam, "You know, the fixing cars, making a living thing?"

Andrew took a swig of beer. "Weeeeeeell, we don't do a lot of that on Friday afternoons," he said, "Except for the odd case of emergency surgery. Fridays usually finish up with… other things."

"What sort of other things?" asked Dean, waving his beer in the direction of the furnace, "What have you been up to here? You're not running a counterfeiting racket, I hope, I thought you were a fine upstanding citizen for most of the lunar cycle, Andrew…"

"Not exactly," explained Ronnie. "Casting silver rounds." She took a drink, and paused before she continued. "It's not easy to do well, as you'd know. Much more difficult to do than lead. Harder to cast, harder to finish. But, what can I say? Mad metalworking skills – I has them. My Dad put the gas axe in my hands for the first time when I was nine years old. Hunters pay good money for well made silver ammo. Mine is real good. Hollow points. Usually the esteemed R. Singer takes care of my distribution, but I could do you a deal. Mate's rates, even."

"I thought you'd retired, Ronnie," said Sam.

"I have. More or less," she replied, a small, slightly sad smile on her face. Andrew put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, as they exchanged a wordless communication. Sam and Dean couldn't help smiling to themselves.

What did you expect? After all, werewolves pair-bond for life.

They drank, and talked, waiting for the Impala to cool down, about things the Winchesters had ganked, and about Andrew and Ronnie's move to a new place and a new start. The place was doing well: Andrew was good at what he did, and Ronnie really was a damned good welder. To all intents and purposes, they were just another couple running a business, making a living.

"So, how is civilian life?" Sam asked Ronnie later, as Dean and Andrew set about removing the Impala's radiator.

"It's not as easy as it looks," she conceded, "I mean, I never did completely 'normal' to start with, my Daddy started training me up for the Hunt when I was seven. Now, there's a house. A home. And a vacuum cleaner. I hate vacuum cleaners. They're intrinsically evil. They're possessed. Andrew wouldn't let me exorcise it, but I did anyway…"

Sam smiled at that. "Did it help?"

"No. But it made me feel better."

He laughed outright at that. "So, you two. Things are, well, good?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him, then smiled her gorgeous smile. "Yeah. Things are 'good'. Things are better than good." She looked into the workshop, where Dean and Andrew were double-teaming the radiatorectomy. "What are those two doing?"

"Dean's probably grumping at Andrew for touching his baby inappropriately" explained Sam, "He's been positively irrational about this all day."

"Well, some of us relate to machinery better than we relate to other humans. Or almost-humans," replied Ronnie. "So, which theory do you like for your current job? The dyslexic werewolf, or the wendigo on a Weight Watchers program? How many diet points is a surveyor worth, anyway?" Sam groaned, and Ronnie pointed him at the office desk. "Wifi hotspot right there, fire up your laptop and I'll give you the password." Sam shot Ronnie a grateful look as he went to fetch the laptop.

Reviews keep the author's histrionics and melodramatic hissy fits down to a dull roar.