Ah, St Valentine's Day, because nothing evokes the ideal of romantic love like commemorating someone who was beaten with clubs, then stones, then beheaded.

As to what pair-bonded werewolves might do on St V's Day, I suspect Ronnie isn't the really romantic type. They probably went to that steakhouse that does the 72oz bathmat steak, and she gave Andrew a card that said;

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
St Valentine's Day is a cynical marketing exercise,
Hand over the fucking chocolates.

Chapter Six

"I'm tellin' ya, Bobby, it's... weird," Dean complained into his cell. "Sam's not just eating meat, he's, well, there's no other word for it, he's wolfing it down at every meal. He wanted bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast!"

"Aint nothin' wrong with bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast," Bobby declared happily.

"That's what Andrew and Ronnie say," Dean confirmed, "So, Ronnie made us bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast."

"So, what's the problem?" asked Bobby.

"He demanded onion rings as well."

"Oh dear – what happened?"

"She growled at him."

"Ronnie growls at everybody..."

"I swear, I saw his ears droop. And last night was the second time Sam and Andrew had a staring match over the last piece of dinner."

"Oh. Oh." There was a silence. "So, er, what happened?"

"Well, Andrew takes it, tears it in half, and gives some to Sam, while Ronnie pretends not to notice. Then she dishes up dessert."

"Well, that's actually a good sign of a healthy pack dynamic," Bobby told him, "The Alpha animal is reinforcing his position, but makin' it clear that the younger one is accepted..."

"I don't think they even realise they're doin' it," Dean said.

There was a deep sigh at the other end of the line. "Son, you gotta tell your brother what you did," he stated firmly, "He deserves to know. He needs to know. It aint fair on him."

"I know, but... Bobby, what if... what if he hates me for it?" The anguish in Dean's voice was clear.

"Dean, if you don't tell him, he'll be even more hurt and angry," Bobby warned. "If you two idjits haven't figured out by now that keepin' secrets like this from each other always leads to a world of pain, then there aint no hope for ya. You're his brother, you did it to save him, and we can undo it. It's that simple."

"Are you sure it can be undone?" Worry leaked into Dean's voice.

"Absolutely," Bobby was reassuringly confident. "This aint your usual werewolf bite, where a wolf attacks to kill. And we got the help of the one that bit him, so we can get what we need for the countercurse, a tooth and a claw and a whisker. I'm still workin' on the details, but this can be undone." There was another pause. "That is, if he wants to undo it."

"Whaddya mean, if he wants to?" snapped Dean. "Of course he'll want to! He's a Hunter, Bobby, not a damned fugly!"

"As I recall, so is Ronnie," Bobby went on calmly. "And Andrew aint no slouch, either, provided nobody threatens to strangle a kitten if he doesn't stand down because that'd make him back off right away. So's Ian – remember Ronnie's Huntin' buddy, 'Dr Dracula'?. And his young sidekick Ryan is comin' along just fine; turns out the kid has an aptitude."

"But that's... different," Dean almost yelped, "He was bleedin' out, Bobby, he was gonna die! It was to save his life!"

"And it worked," Bobby replied. "Well done you. I'm just sayin', Sam needs to be in possession of all the facts. Once his is, he has as much say as you do in this. It's his body, his choice."

"His body, his choice?" repeated Dean. "What is this, you gonna burn your bra next?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, boy," Bobby growled, "What I'm sayin' is, if Sam decides to take this particular lemon that life has handed him and make hairy lemonade, you remember that he's all growed up now, and able to make his own decisions."

Dean let out a sigh, and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'm supposed to look after him," he almost moaned, "He's my brother, and I'm supposed to look after him."

"Well, he was fatally wounded, and thanks to you, right now he's still alive," Bobby pointed out, "So I'd say you're doin' a pretty good job. How is he, anyway? Physically?"

"Healing up," Dean said simply, "He's visibly improved every day. It's like, meat goes in, health comes out."

"Good," grunted Bobby. "Now, you go tell your brother."

"Yeah, you're right." Dean huffed in resignation. "Ronnie's cookin' a roast tonight. It'll barely fit in the oven. I dunno what I'm supposed to do if he and Andrew get into a fight over the bone; whack 'em with a rolled-up newspaper?"

"I don't think you'll have a problem there," Bobby chortled. "You have a good look at the pack dynamics next time. Andrew's a great big soft marshmallow who'd turn an ankle rather than stand on a mouse; but it's a marshmallow with a heart of steel. And Ronnie's solid iron all the way to the core; but that core is all gooey melted chocolate. I think it's why they make such a good pair."

"Deeeeean!" came Ronnie's voice from the kitchen, "You want to lick the bowl?"

"Speaking of chocolate, I gotta go," Dean brightened considerably, "Ronnie's cooking brownies, and I'm on QA detail."

"Well, don't let me delay ya," the eye-roll at Bobby's end was practically audible. "And if they're the ones with the walnuts, ask her to send me some."

Dean rang off, and headed for the kitchen. Trays of gloop sat waiting to be baked, as Ronnie poked more walnuts into one of them.

"That one," she pointed to a bowl which Dean fell upon with little noises of delight."

"Bobby says he wants you to send some of your brownies," he announced, through a mouthful of chocolatey goodness, "The ones with the walnuts. Mmmmmmmm, ohhhhhhh, yeah."

"We can do that," she nodded, "Will you try not to sound so pornoriffic while you're doing that?"

Dean just redoubled his efforts. "Ohhhhhh, yeah, that's so goooooood."

"I hate you," Ronnie mumbled. "What else did Bobby say?"

"That I gotta tell Sam that he's, you know, Australian," shrugged Dean, not to be deflated by any angst-ridden crisis while there was a bowl of brownie mix to be licked clean. "Oh, yeah, that's how I like it, just like that, mmmmmmmmmmm."

"He's right," Ronnie considered her work, giving a tray a final prod, "And you're disgusting."

"You should take it as a compliment," he said, turning on the sad puppy eyes. "Can I have the spatula?"

"Fuck you, Winchester," she smiled smugly, then stuck the spatula into her own mouth with evident enjoyment.

"Oh, God, do that again, you tease."

"You pervert."

"Hey, you're the one puttin' on the show."

"Did I mention I hate you?"

"Why do you hate him now?" asked Sam, wandering into the kitchen with Jimi and Joni at his sides.

"How long have you got?" Ronnie sniffed disdainfully.

"I'm just sittin' here enjoyin' the view," Dean grinned, "She's the one puttin' on the show. Go on, do it again – let's see a little tongue action this time."

"Why has nobody debarked you?" Ronnie wailed.

"Don't think I haven't considered it," muttered Sam, sitting down. "Oh, hey, brownie mix!" He took up the other bowl, and ran a finger around the inside. "This is good. Have you ever considered running a small business from home? You'd find a market for these, you got a definite talent."

"I've done a few batches at a local market," she confirmed, putting trays into the oven, "But mostly I'm busy enough, at the workshop, and I still cast silver ammo most Fridays. Those ones sold out really fast."

"I can see why," Sam hummed happily, scraping at the delicious mess.

When the bowls were licked completely clean – first by the Winchesters then by the dogs – Sam announced that he was going to do some more research on something he suspected was a case that required the attention of Hunters, and headed for the living room, the dogs shadowing him once more.

"Dean," Ronnie sighed, "You really have to tell him. Soon. Very soon. Like, yesterday soon."

"I know," Dean sighed, "I'm just not sure how to raise the subject."

"Well, you could start with this," she held out the empty bowl that Sam had licked out.

Dean looked at it in confusion. "I tell him by starting with chocolate brownie mix?"

"No – you tell him by pointing out that he just licked out a bowl that had been used to make the mixture for liver 'brownie' dog treats."

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

Dean spent the afternoon cleaning his Baby, the activity being a moving meditation for him when he wanted to think about something.

Sam was a werewolf. Sam didn't know he was a werewolf. At least, Sam's brain didn't know he was a werewolf; Sam's stomach seemed to have figured it out pretty quickly.

Sam was a werewolf because Dean had begged for it, to save his life. A desperate measure. A desperate temporary measure, as it turned out. Or maybe not. He'd assumed it would be temporary, because Sam would want to undo it as soon as possible.

Wouldn't he?

And if he didn't, would Dean have any right to object, since this was his fault to start with?

He was still waxing and wondering when Andrew got home.

"Hello, you gorgeous creature," he purred to the Impala.

"I could never be serious about a married man," Dean simpered, as the werewolf rolled his eyes.

"You really are a smartass," Andrew humphed, "So, have you told Sam about the, er, change of nationality yet?"

"No," Dean admitted, "But I think I gotta do it tonight. He licked out a bowl of brownie mix today."

"Well, Ronnie's brownies are pretty damned good."

"A bowl of liver brownie dog treat mix."

"Well, they have their merits also..."

"Oh, dude, that's gross!"

The joint of pork served up for dinner was enormous, with slabs of crackling, roasted potatoes and onion gravy.

"Got a 69 Mustang in the shop you might want a look at tomorrow," Andrew told Dean, "Boss 302. Most of it still original."

Dean looked like a little boy who'd just been given the keys to a candy store. "The 5 litre V8?" he breathed.

"The very same," Andrew grinned, "Although, she's had some work done. A thing of beauty."

Dean made a little noise that was part reverence, part prayer, and part lust.

"He comes in his pants at the table, I will blame you," sniped Ronnie, reaching for more meat. "More, Sam?"

"Please." he passed his plate over.

Dean suddenly refocussed on his baby brother. "I can't leave Sam by himself," he said firmly.

"Dean," Sam whined, "I'm not five years old! I don't need babysitting! Go look at the car!"

"No," Dean reiterated, "I'm stayin' here."

"Then I'll come with you," Sam shrugged.

"I got orders to meet," Ronnie said quietly, "I told Bobby I'd have ammo for him; I gotta cast tomorrow. He can't be there."

Sam let out a snort of amusement. "I think I can probably stay out of the way..."

"No," she growled, "No."

"Et tu, Ronnie," humphed Sam, "Why is everybody so worried?"

"We're just... concerned for you," mumbled Dean, stabbing a potato rather more viciously than was warranted, given the threat that the potato actually represented.

"Dean..."

"No," Ronnie repeated vehemently, "There's... fumes. It's not safe. He's not going."

"But..."

"Sam, no," Andrew rumbled quietly. "Ronnie says it's not safe."

"What the hell is goin' on?" demanded Sam, "And why the hell are you..." he paused, and looked at the werewolves watching him.

They weren't angry, he realised. They were worried. Genuinely worried for his wellbeing. In fact, the expression on Ronnie's face was remarkably evocative of the one that Rumsfeld had worn when her puppies first started to make excursions out of the whelping box. He relaxed, and smiled.

"Look, I'm really better," he told them, "I am! I'm healed up, my stitches are ready to come out, it's all good. What?" He watched the other three exchange looks. "What? What is it?"

Dean put down his fork, and turned tortured eyes on his baby brother. "Sam," he began, "When you were attacked by that Black Dog, you were badly injured."

"You're telling me," Sam chuckled, "I think I'll have some permanent scars from that one."

"I mean it, Sam," Dean said seriously, "You were torn up real bad. You were bleedin' out. You were dyin'. And I couldn't let that happen."

Sam smiled at him, looked confused. "And you didn't," he said, "You got help, you got me to Emergency. My big brother saved me. Again."

Dean ran a hand over his face. "Sam, there's more to it than that," he sighed, his eyes pleading for understanding. "You gotta understand, Sam, you were gonna die. And I couldn't...I did... something else." He took a gulping breath. "Sam, I did something else, to pull you back. I had to, to save you. I couldn't let you go, little brother."

Sam's face became a mask of horror. "Oh, fuck," he breathed, "You didn't... not... you... you didn't make a deal? Tell me you didn't make a deal..."

"Huh? No!" yelped Dean, "No! Absolutely not, Sammy! Never! Never again! I did not make a deal with a demon!"

Sam's brain had once been marinated in Pre-Law, and it jumped on the wording of the statement the way a journalist would pounce on 'I did not have sexual relations with that woman'. "So, you didn't make a deal with a demon? Then who did you make a deal with, Dean?"

"What?" Dean blinked. "Sam..."

"Oh, God, no," Sam moaned, "You made a deal with Chuck, didn't you?"

"Sam, I... huh?" Dean's eyes actually boggled.

"You idiot!" wailed Sam. "What was the deal? What did you trade for my life? Your car? No, not your car, it's still there. Your own life? What does he want to do with it? What does he have planned? Oh God, what is he going to make you do, Dean?"

"Sam, there is no deal with Chuck!" Dean interrupted, "I did not, I repeat, I did not do a deal with Chuck! He's just the writer, anyway!"

"Well, what then?" Sam's voice was shrill. "Not a demon, not Chuck, what... oh, no, no, no, not her..."

"Sam, if you'll just let me explain..."

"You cannot explain this, Dean!" Sam shrieked, "You cannot explain this! I don't believe it! There is no explanation for this!"

"Er, what exactly is 'this'?" ventured Ronnie carefully.

Sam glared at his brother. "It's her!" he yelled, "He called her, and she's done some sort of spell, she's just the person who'd be willing to do anything to bring me back from the dead..."

"Who?" asked Andrew.

"Becky!" Sam warbled in distress. "My big brother has done some deal with Becky, in exchange for my life! What did you promise her, you moron? Whatever you promised her, it wasn't worth it! She's a freak, she's a weirdo, she's a monster, Dean, it wasn't worth whatever she wanted from you..."

"Sam," Dean tried again, "Can you just..."

"Or was it something," Sam swallowed and his face went white, "Was it something she wanted... from me?"

"Sam..."

"Oh, God, that's it, isn't it? She offered to save my life... in return for... me..."

"Sam..."

"What does she want?" Sam asked brokenly. "What does she want? Not a... a husband..."

"Sam..."

"I can't do this, I can't, I'm sorry, Dean, I cannot play House with Becky, even to stay alive..."

"Sam..."

"I'd rather be dead that Becky's sex slave!" Sam squeaked.

Andrew dropped his head into his hands. "Sam," he began calmly, "Under the circumstances, it's completely understandable that you feel strongly about the situation, but I think it might help if you just calm down a bit, and let your brother give you the details..."

Sam wasn't listening; Sam was in The Horror Zone. Sam had seen his future, and it was worse than anything Tumblr could offer. "I wonder if she'll want me to wear a collar," he giggled.

"Right now, I'd be happy with a gag," muttered Ronnie.

"And insist that I call her Mistress..."

"Sam," Dean made another heroic attempt, "If you could just hear me out, bro, just hear what I have to say..."

"And she'll take away all my shirts..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," snapped Andrew, standing up. He grabbed Sam by the scruff of the shirt and gave him a shake, like a dog disciplining a defiant pup. "Listen! Dean called Ronnie, and she sent me to you because I'm bigger and can go faster – it was a full moon, so I bit you, and turned you into a werewolf, so you'd heal up from wounds that would've killed a human, but Bobby says it can be undone."

There was a sudden stunned silence at the table as Andrew sat down again. "So, now we've got that sorted out, pass the crackling please, dear."

I have a recipe for liver brownie dog treats. My dogs love them. And so does my Obedience instructor. Oh, and his name is Andrew. I excrement you not.

I really don't think I can find a way to work Sister Fic or Crowley into this one; maybe he popped in on her a week ago, and said, "Hey, Felicity, I have a vacancy for someone to wrangle the Hellhounds..." and she threw holy water at him and slapped his face and picked up a chapel candlestick, and snarled "Get this in thy behind, Satan!" and chased him screaming out the door whilst using some appalling language...

Feed the plot bunny, because Reviews are the Delicious Brownies Served Up At The Dinner Table Of Life! (Nice yummy chocolate ones. Not liver ones.)