Some THINGS Never Change

The household slept until past sunrise, then breakfast was a jovial affair for three of the four participants. Dean was not in a mood to forgive or forget. Even the most innocent use of the word 'thing' made him scowl angrily.

"Come on, Dean, snap out of it," coaxed Ronnie, putting coffee in front of him, "Today we'll fix your baby, and you'll ride off into the sunset, and get back to saving the world from the fuglies, one Hunt at a time."

"While screwing your way across the country, one attractive woman at a time," added Sam. Dean gave him A Look.

His mood improved slightly when they were in the workshop, watching Ronnie at the task of soldering up the Impala's radiator. "Come and watch," she told Dean, plugging in the iron and choosing a rod, "You might have to do this one day." He had to admit, as he watched the solder melt neatly and precisely into the leak under her practised hand, she had a talent for it.

When she was satisfied that the job was done, she left Dean and Andrew to re-install the radiator, while Sam pecked away at his laptop. By the time she got back, the Impala was sitting outside the garage, running without leaking, and Dean's mood had improved considerably. As a bonus, Sam was pretty sure he'd figured out why corpses were turning up bashed, bled and partly flensed during the new moon.

"The Hendersons were exponents of a theory of permaculture of their own devising," he explained over lunch back at Andrew and Ronnie's place, "It was a blend of organic gardening, and mumbo jumbo, but it seemed to work. Old Bill Henderson swore by a blood and bone mix he made to a secret recipe. The farm thrived, and they won prizes for their vegetables at the State Fair every year. Nobody got suspicious when tramps started to disappear after the Great Depression – until a body was found. It turns out that the Hendersons had decided that using human blood in their compost would impart a stronger 'energy' to the farm, and make it even more productive. For maximum 'energy', the 'organic material' had to be collected at the new moon. The victim that was found had been bludgeoned to death with shovels, bled, and had the more accessible pieces cut off to go into the mix. Due to a lack of adequate evidence, they were never charged, and the farm thrived until they died in the 70s."

"So, why is this happening now?" asked Dean, "I still like my wendigo-with-a-body-image-problem theory."

"The land has recently changed hands, been sold to a large agribusiness company, for the purposes of being used as test fields for synthetic fertilizers," replied Sam. "I'm guessing that Old Man Henderson is horrified at the thought of his prize-winning bio-organic farm being used as a test bed for chemicals. They're buried together in a local cemetery, should be a simple salt and burn."

"There's no such thing as a 'simple' salt and burn," corrected Ronnie, "The damned occupant always shows up and gets annoyed when you try to set their mortal remains on fire."

"Well, I think we can handle it," said Sam, "Dean has a hard head, so it's not like being thrown into a headstone and given one more concussion is going to damage anyTHING important."

"Sam…" rumbled his brother in a warning tone. Sam grinned infuriatingly. "My revenge will be terrible," Dean continued, "It will be terrible, you will not see it coming, you will not know what hit you…"

"If you do that, I will send that photo to Bobby, complete with an explanation of why you are standing there, with your hair sticking out all over, your shirt torn, wearing an expression like a deer in the cross-hairs…"

Dean glared at Sam. "That's… that's blackmail!"

Sam looked hurt. " 'Blackmail' is an ugly word, Dean, let's say it's just an incentive for you not to start another stupid prank war."

"Look who's talking!" spluttered Dean as Sam grinned again. Andrew dropped a calming hand onto each of the brothers' shoulders.

"Now now, you two, do I have to put you in time out, or are you going to play nice?" he asked with a mock frown, amusement in his eyes. Dean just humphed.

As they were stowing their gear in the Impala, preparing to leave, Andrew handed a box to Sam. "For the road," he explained. "Ronnie doesn't want you to die of starvation between now and your next stop."

Sam peered into the box. "Wow," he said, "This is what a werewolf calls a snack box?" Andrew nodded. "Well, the pie might improve Dean's mood a bit. I think it'll be a while before he forgives me…"

Dean rediscovered his manners, and the brothers shook hands with both Andrew and Ronnie, thanking them for the help. "No worries," said Ronnie, "Anytime you're passing through, drop in."

"Yeah," echoed Andrew, "If you need anyTHING…" Dean looked pained. Sam tried not to laugh, and failed.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," continued Ronnie, "Here, Dean, this is for you." She handed him something wrapped up in a plastic carry bag.

"Er, thanks," he said. "Okay, Samantha, time to hit the road, and go and dig up your blood and bone man." The Impala's engine settled into a comfortable rumble, and pulled out onto the tar. With a beep and a wave, they were underway, watching Andrew and Ronnie disappear in the mirrors.

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

"Ronnie packed us food," said Sam, indicating the box on the back seat, where Jimi sniffed curiously at it. "We'll eat well tonight. Possibly tomorrow as well. There seems to be a lot of pie in there." Dean grunted non-commitally; it was going to take more than pie, even Ronnie's pie, to forgive and forget this episode.

"What did she give you before we left?" asked Sam.

"No idea, I didn't open it," replied Dean. "It's sitting on top of the box. Is it ticking?"

Sam reached over to the back seat and picked up the small package, squishing it experimentally. "Feels like fabric," he remarked.

"Probably harmless, then," replied Dean, "Open it up."

Sam opened the bag. It contained a t-shirt, and a small note. He read the note aloud:

" 'Dean, I owe you a t-shirt. Hope this one is okay. R.' " He shook the shirt out, and smiled widely, holding the shirt up for Dean to see.

"What the hell are you grinning at?... oh."

Ronnie had found him a Three Wolf Moon t-shirt.

Dean let out a pained sigh. "Did I mention recently how much I hate you?"

"Not in the last ten minutes or so."

"In that case: I hate you."

"Oh, what's the matter Dean?" asked Sam, "I think it's a nice gesture, replacing your shirt."

"…really, really hate you…"

"You don't like it?"

"…"

"SomeTHING wrong with the design?"

"Shut up!"

"Awrooooooooo!"

"SHUT UP, Samantha, or I will seriously give you something to really howl about!"

"AWROOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I'll put you in the trunk!"

"You wouldn't!" exclaimed Sam in horror, his eyes going wide, his face shocked. "You wouldn't do such a THING to your baby brother…"

"I hate you."

THE END

There, I hope you're happy now. One more plot bunny stomped. Hopefully, I'll have a bit of a breather before the next one comes along, although there are some fairly insistent little buggers telling me that I must write some more about the gargoyles in 'We'll Wing It'.