We Know SomeTHING You Don't Know
Sam spent some time communing earnestly with his laptop, and Dean and Andrew started a game of Army Of Two on the Playstation, while Ronnie did "Secret Women's Business Bugger Off You Lot" in the kitchen, glaring daggers at anyone who encroached on her domain (after Sam was swatted on the butt with a spatula, the menfolk stayed the hell out of the way). When dinner was served up, it appeared to consist of an enormous amount of food.
"Hey, two werewolves under the same roof," explained Andrew.
"What's that?" asked Dean suspiciously, poking a serving spoon into a large dish of what looked suspiciously like vegetables.
"Ratatouille", replied Ronnie.
"Does it really have…"
"NO," she cut him off and slapped at his hand, "It does NOT have rat in it. This is not a Monty Python sketch. Don't play with your food."
"Pot to kettle, pot to kettle, calling in Code Black, over…" cackled Andrew, suddenly gulping into silence as Ronnie turned to him, holding a large carving knife.
"Watch it you," she threatened, then turned her attention back to the large roast chicken on the table. "So, Dean," she smiled sweetly, lifting one eyebrow and cutting into the bird, "Are you a breast or a leg man, and do you fancy some stuffing?"
Dean choked on a mouthful of beer. Sam and Andrew laughed at him. Ronnie positively leered at him, and patted him gently on the back. "Something wrong, dear?"
Later, there was pie. Glorious pie. Pies, plural, one apple, and one apricot. When asked to choose, Dean's eyes swivelled from one to the other, like a kid who couldn't decide between two equally desirable toys. Rolling her eyes, Ronnie cut him a piece of each, and plonked the plate down in front of him. Watching him attack his dessert, Andrew asked Sam, "Are you sure he doesn't have any werewolf in him? Because he sure eats like one…"
"Hmmmmmmmmm… I think we'd have noticed by now," concluded Sam.
After dinner, Ronnie announced that she was going to work on her current project, a demon-killing knife, leaving the menfolk to clean up, then amuse themselves.
"I think I might have found something," said Sam, referring back to his research, "A connection between the victims and the Hendersons' farm. Apparently, they were thought to be a bit weird by the locals, having some strange theories about land management and crop planting…"
"Sounds like geek boy's brain is stuck in gear," sighed Dean, "God forbid he should do anything that might be FUN." Sam glared at him, and shoved more plates into the dishwasher.
In the end, they retired to the lounge and fired up the game again, pleasantly buzzed from the beer. After a while, even Sam relented, took a controller, and joined them for Twisted Metal.
Man, this is the life," declared Sam, slouching contentedly back on the sofa, toasting the ceiling with his beer and burping gently, "I could get used to this."
"It aint half bad," agreed Andrew, putting his feet up. "The catering is good – Ronnie really is a good cook…"
"The pie, the pie, I could stay for the pie," added Dean. He looked at Andrew. "Does it ever make you feel, you know… domesticated?"
Andrew considered the question. "Yeah, sometimes, a bit, but… it's worth it. The whole package, definitely worth it. The catering, like I said. Including the pie. And the company, I really like that bit." He smiled to himself. "Yeah, that bit's really good."
Sam waved his beer at Andrew. "Andrew, you know Ronnie's a, a, werewolf?"
"Yeah," said Andrew carefully, "I kind of found out the first time she beat the crap out of my hairy ass and dragged me down to the basement…"
"And chained you up…" Dean reminded him, leering slightly.
"Yeah, and chained me up… heh heh… ahem. Yeah, I know she's a werewolf, Sam. So am I, in fact. Really. A shock, I know, but there it is."
"Don't mind him," said Dean, "He can't hold his drink, and he asks silly questions under the influence."
"No, no," continued Sam, still waving the bottle eloquently, "What I mean is…" he leaned toward Andrew and asked in a low voice, "Has she ever done…" he cocked an eyebrow at Andrew, "Has she ever done, some… Thing…?".
Andrew stared at him for a moment in confusion. Sam looked just a little smug. "I've slept with a she-werewolf, you know," he announced, "And I wondered if… if… they all do… that Thing…"
Understanding suddenly dawned on Andrew's face. "Ah, right, you mean… the, the Thing…"
"Yeah." A lewd expression that Dean didn't ever think he'd see on his baby brother's face appeared and Sam said, "So, what do you think of the… Thing?"
Andrew smiled widely. "Never you mind, young Samuel," he intoned, "It's not the sort of thing… the sort of Thing, heh heh… that ought to be discussed out loud."
"Why not?" demanded Dean.
"It just, it just, you know, isn't," continued Andrew. "You can talk about it later with your brother. I'll get into trouble."
"No, I can't," Dean burst out, "Because I don't know and neither of you assholes will tell me what the… the Thing is!"
Andrew and Sam looked at Dean with a mixture of pity and amusement. "That's really sad," Andrew said eventually. "It's like… it's like… what would you say it was like, Sam?"
Sam considered this carefully. "I'd say it was like… " he gave his beer a final wave, and gave up. "I can't put it into words. Sorry," he said to Dean, defeat all over his kicked-puppy face.
"It could possibly, just possibly, be described as… as…" Andrew went on, gesturing encouragingly at Sam.
"Yeah, as, as… yeah," agreed Sam.
"Like having your brain sucked out through your dick," finished Andrew.
"Just like that, only completely different. Hee hee," went Sam, hiccupping gently.
Sam, you have to find him a willing she-werewolf," instructed Andrew, "For educational purposes."
"Is there any other sort of she-werewolf?" asked Sam archly, and he and Andrew laughed together as if sharing some private joke. Dean slouched into the sofa and scowled, muttering insults under his breath, as Ronnie walked in.
"Are you boys playing nice?" she asked, seeing two giggling faces and one pouting one. "Dean, don't pout, the wind will change and you'll be stuck like that. Actually, belay that order, it's kind of cute…" Andrew and Sam laughed again, and Dean humphed, straying perilously close to infringing on the Bitchface trademark. Ronnie continued, "It's late, and we have a wounded Impala to tend tomorrow, I'm going to bed. Don't stay up with the Playthingo too late. Anyone hungover in the morning will be harassed mercilessly."
"Okay, okay, we've got one level to go, then I'll be right up," said Andrew, smiling up at Ronnie as she put a hand on his shoulder. She sighed theatrically.
"Really, I'm insulted. I thought I'd be at least as entertaining as a car crash game. There are some things that computer games can't do," she huffed, twitching an eyebrow at Andrew before heading out of the lounge. Sam and Andrew exchanged A Look, and Dean twitched slightly.
"Er, look, I'm tired too, I'll leave you young folks to crash cars, just turn it all off when you finish, okay?" Andrew said, getting up to follow Ronnie. "See you in the morning."
"Yeah, see you in the morning," said Sam, muttering under his breath, "You lucky bastard."
"What?" demanded Dean. Sam smiled angelically at him.
"Nothing. You want to finish this level?"
"No, I'm going to bed, too." growled Dean. Sam followed him to the guest room, where they went through the familiar routine of bickering about use of the shower, changing, and settling into the twin beds, Dean in the one closer to the door.
"He's right, you know," said Sam, "This is better than the places we stay on the road. I fit in the bed!" He boinged up and down on the comfy mattress, then sighed contentedly. "Night, Dean."
"Night Samantha," mumbled Dean from under the blankets.
A restful quiet descended. Sam started to snore gently, enjoying the luxury of stretching out full length to sleep. Dean considered throwing something at him, but couldn't bring himself to do that to his giant baby brother. Sam was right; it was a comfy place to stay. Full of beer and pie, he started to drift off.
Then he heard The Noise.
Faint, but insistent, and strangely repetitive.
creak-thump..… creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
It was barely audible. Someone without a hunter's instincts would probably never have picked it up at all, but now he'd heard it, he couldn't stop hearing it.
creak-thump..… creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
And he had no idea how long he'd been hearing it.
creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
Coming from upstairs at the other end of the house.
creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
From a lifetime spent in cheap motels with thin walls, he knew what caused that sort of noise – he'd caused enough of that sort of noise himself – but after a long, vexing and in parts infuriating day, it was too much. He groaned, and put his head under the pillow.
"Whassup, Dean?" asked Sam sleepily from the other bed.
"The noise, Sammy, the noise… nooooooooooooo" moaned Dean, his voice muffled from under the pillow. Sam listened, then grunted.
"Dean, it's barely audible, you have to concentrate to hear it, and we've slept through worse. Go to sleep, bro." Dean heard him roll over, and settle again.
"Jeezuz, Sammy, how am I supposed to shut out… that?"
"Calm down, will you?" sighed Sam, "It's not like it's anything you haven't done a thousand times before. Just ignore it."
"Ignore it?" asked Dean incredulously. "Ignore it? Sam, they're…"
"I know what they're doing, Dean," said Sam, irritably, "It's their house, and we are guests. I thought I was supposed to be the prude, here. What are you doing listening in, anyway, you perv? You wanna borrow my iPod?"
"No, it's full of crap," countered Dean.
"Then relax. Count sheep. Hum Metallica. Just SHUT UP and go to sleep." That, apparently, was Sam's final word on the subject. Shortly afterwards, the gentle snaaaarking snore started again.
So did The Noise.
creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
Dean settled into his bed. Sam was right, he was being irrational. He'd just relax, and ignore any extraneous noises…
creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
Snaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl
Dean's eyes shot open. Had he just heard…?
creak-thump….. creak-thump….. snaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrl… graaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrl…
"Sam?" he called in a loud whisper. "Sam!" He got no reply except another gentle 'snaaark'.
creak-thump….. snaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrl… THUD…
He felt rather than heard what sounded suspiciously like a body being shoved against something.
snaaaaaaaarl… grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SNAAAAAAAAAAAARLLL!
"Sam!" he called more loudly, "Sam, I can hear growling!"
"Hmmmmm?" asked a sleepy voice from the other side of the room. "Wha', Dean?"
"I can hear growling, bro! I swear, I can hear growling!"
Sam sighed audibly. "Can' hear an'thing. Not our bi'ness. Shut th' fuck up, go slee'."
Dean couldn't let it go. "Sam, it was growling. Growling. What the hell is going on up there?"
Sam yawned, and laughed, already half asleep again. "She prob'ly doing... Thing… lucky bastar'… snaaaark…"
creak-thump..… creak-thump….. creak-thump…..
Jimi went "Hrrrrrmph", and snuggled into his blanket on the floor, apparently completely unconcerned by any noises.
Dean pulled the covers over his head, and whimpered softly. The Thing, the Thing… his imagination was starting to cause him some, er, discomfiture. He found himself getting some seriously intriguing mental pictures. Damn it, now he couldn't stop thinking, wondering about the… the frigging Thing!
creak-thump creak-thump creak-thump creak-thump
If he'd known, he'd have gone looking for some female company. Or even, you know, in the shower... At least he wouldn't be here, listening to
snaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl
Please, please, he found himself pleading to the universe, make it stop (the Thing), make it stop...
… and then, he heard The Howl.
It was a deep-throated, full-bodied howl, starting somewhere in the bass-baritone range, and making its way to tenor. It spoke of lust, longing, belonging and wild abandon, a great crescendo, a climax of a howl…
It was a howl from a human throat…
… it ended with what sounded like a gasping sob, then the house was quiet.
Dean wasn't sure if he really heard the quiet, feminine chuckle (the Thing, the Thing), or if his imagination added that bit.
"Sam?" he called softly.
"snaaaaaaark…" Sam was no help – he was still asleep.
Dean let out a serious humph – it really had not been his day, it really had not. His Baby was injured, and that had really worried him a lot, he was never happy when the Impala was off the road, and his brother was holding out on him, and he'd just been forced to listen to a couple of werewolves pair-bonding, and those two total assholes still hadn't told him what the Thing was, although it appeared that he'd just been forced to listen to it taking place…
Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow, he would corner Sam, and, if necessary, he would beat an explanation (the Thing) out of him…
Dean got out of bed, and headed for the kitchen, to get a drink of water. And stop wondering about the Thing. And maybe eat a piece of pie. Pie could fix a lot of things (the Thing). The chronic political tensions in theMiddle East could probably be solved if everyone there would just sit down, and eat enough pie…
To the tune of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, let's all thing, er, sing!
Thing, thing thing, thing thing thing thing thing thing! Thing, thing thing, thing thing thing thing thing thing,
Thiiiiing thiiiiiing, thing thing thing thing thing thiiiiiing, thing thing thing thing thing thiiiiiing, thing thing thing thing thing thiiiiiing,
Thing thing thing thing thing thingthingthingthing thing thing thingthingthingthing thing thing thingthingthingthing thiiiiiiing...