Ronnie is quite amazingly domesticated, some of the feminine arts having been imparted to her by her grandmother practically at gunpoint. Gammer Shepherd had, as has been alluded to in previous stories, some Very Definite Ideas about the skill set a young lady required to see her through life: she should be able to maintain her own weapons, get stains out of delicate fabrics, load her own ammo, knit and crochet and make her own clothes, speak Latin well, bake a perfect sponge, throw a competent jab-cross combo (leading with either hand), make a flawless soufflé, drive a getaway car, press a business shirt with set-in sleeves, use a knife competently on an opponent or a fish, dance a waltz, unwind a curse in a hurry, exorcise a demon, make dinner for six without less than an hour's notice, shoot off a gnat's dick at fifty yards with her non-dominant hand, wreak lethal and bloody havoc with nothing but a handbag and a positive attitude (and how to get the mess off the bag afterwards) and know how to make puff pastry from scratch. All with good posture, whilst keeping one's knees together.

Chapter Eleven

Later in the day, Ronnie announced that she was going back to the workshop to set up the next step of her silver reclamation process.

"All I have to do is drop some chunks of copper in," she told them, "So I won't be long."

"You need back-up?" asked Dean.

"I am not having a Winchester get anywhere near that place," she growled.

"She's a big girl," Andrew waved a hand, "She was doin' it safely by herself well before I met her." He grinned. "Although, next time you pass through Singer Salvage, ask Bobby about one time when she was usin' one of his sheds; she spilled some acid, and she didn't realise how much had gone through her apron, and when she went outside to rinse it off with the hose, her pants just dissolved off her and left her standing there in her..."

There was a high-pitched, gurgling growl from Ronnie. Andrew yipped, and shut up. Sam burst out laughing.

"Something funny, RinTinTin?" asked Dean a bit sourly.

"Oh, er," chortled Sam, his amusement abating. "It was, uh, a kind of threat. The exact message was, well, telling him she's not receptive to mating, but the way she kind of said it..."

"Canine is often largely about context," Andrew explained sheepishly. "She may technically have said 'Not tonight, dear', but the meaning was more something like 'If you do not shut your mouth right this minute you will not get laid for the next six months'." He turned to his wife. "Didn't your grandmother ever tell you to make sure you wore decent underwear every day in case you got hit by a bus and had to go to hospital or spilled acid while you were reclaiming silver to cast ammo for Hunters? OW!"

The thwack that Ronnie landed on Andrew might've broken something in a human.

"Canine 101, Lesson Two: that's how we say 'I love you too, darling," she said sweetly, as Andrew rubbed his arm and whined. "Didn't your grandmother ever tell you to make sure you always wear decent underwear, in case you got hit by your wife and had to go to hospital?"

"Led with your chin on that one, dude," smiled Sam.

"Whose side are you on?" demanded Andrew.

"She's the one who feeds me," Sam pointed out.

"Tonight, I'm the one taking us all to the steakhouse," Andrew reminded him.

"In that case, Ronnie, there is no call to resort to violence," Sam tutted in a disapproving voice. "Violence never solves anything."

She gave him a long look. "In our line of work, violence solves just about everything," she countered. "Give or take the odd countercurse."

"Speaking of which, what are we gonna do with him when he does his shapeshift, before we can undo the whole shebang?" Dean wanted to know.

"Basement, I guess," shrugged Ronnie, "It held Andrew first time around; I'm guessing it'll hold Junior here, if necessary."

"Hey!" yapped Sam, "Who are you calling 'Junior'?"

"Well, I didn't think you'd like Fluffy," she replied. "That is, if we need to contain you."

"I guess we'll just have to wait and see," sighed Andrew. "Has Bobby found anything more about, you know, whether he's likely to have, uh, 'inherited' control of the shapeshift?"

"Not so far," Dean told them. "Although, with his newfound habit of walkin' around naked, maybe he'd enjoy the whole gettin' chained up in the basement thing."

"I'm not gonna knock it 'til I've tried it," Sam mused equably, making Dean exclaim in disgust.

"Behave yourselves," instructed Ronnie, picking up her keys.

"Hey, get beer!" yelled Andrew.

"Get fucked," the reply drifted back.

"Well that's you told," commiserated Dean.

Sam went back to his laptop, and Andrew and Dean ended up playing on the Playstation.

"Hey, Sam!" called Dean after beating Andrew, "Wanna come and get your ass kicked?"

When there was no answer, they both turned around.

Sam was staring thoughtfully at his hands.

"Uh, dude, what's with the staring?" asked Dean.

"Hmmmm? Oh," Sam looked up, "I was, uh, well, actually, I've been wondering, you know, what kind of wolf I'll look like." He stared at his hands again. "I wonder what colour I am?"

"Can't really tell, until we see you," Andrew told him.

"I've seen you guys do the hand thing," Sam said. "And you did it, Dean, when you and Ronnie swapped bodies..."

"It's not easy to explain," Andrew empathised, "It took me a while to get the hang of it. But it's easier if somebody demonstrates it." He took a seat opposite Sam, and held out his own hands. "Ronnie describes it as letting your body 'expand' into the wolf. To me, it feels more like stretching."

With a look of intense concentration, he glared at his hands. After a moment, his fingers changed, thickened and elongated, and wicked claws extended from the ends, then his form snapped back to human. "See? Imagine your hands stretching, visualise your claws..."

"Focus, grasshopper," Dean intoned seriously.

With a brief scowl at his brother, Sam renewed his concentration on his hands, the crease between his eyes deepening. Nothing seemed to be happening, and then...

"Oh. Oh!" His hands reluctantly lengthened, in a stop-start fashion.

"That's it! That's it!" encouraged Andrew. "Concentrate on that feeling!"

Sam glared at his hands. Like a special effects sequence, they enlarged, transformed, and became a pair of large, hairy paws. A long, vicious claw finally extended from the end of each digit.

"Wow," he breathed, a small smile on his face, "Just... wow..."

"Kinda cool, isn't it?" enthused Andrew, holding out his own hands and letting them change again.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Sam closed his eyes.

His arms began to stretch, lengthening and thickening, with a dense, dark pelt growing from them.

"Fuck me!" yipped Dean, as the change travelled up his brother's arms, bursting the sleeves of his shirt.

"Way to go, pup!" enthused Andrew, as Sam opened his eyes to look at himself.

"I'm... brown," he breathed, apparently in wonder, gazing at the astonishingly large appendages now extending from his shoulders. He slowly turned his arms over, and flexed his paws. "Wow, that feels... " he made fists; muscle bulged under his pelt. "That's... wow..."

"That's amazing," Andrew breathed, "I don't think brown pelts are very common; grey is more usual..."

"Uh, maybe you should, you know," Dean waved a hand vaguely, "Get back to human."

Sam didn't appear to be listening. Sam was staring at his arms, mesmerised by what he saw. Andrew watched him, and smiled.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he grinned.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "It feels... strong..." he smiled like a kid finding a new toy in the toy box. "It feels... great..."

"Sam," Dean warned.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam assured his brother, examining his paw-hands, "I got this. I can... it's hard to explain, but I can feel what to do. I can... uh... " his gaze became unfocussed. "Uh-oh... whoaaaaaaaaa..."

Buttons popped off his shirt.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa..."

There was a sound of tearing fabric.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa..."

His shoes made odd popping sounds.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaa-aaawwrooooooooooooooooooooo!"

A last button hit the ceiling, then there was silence.

Dean stared. "Sonofabitch!" he managed.

Sam was brown. His pelt was a magnificent deep, glossy, luxuriant chocolate brown, And he was tall. Very, very tall. If Dean was honest, his little brother was a magnificent specimen of wolfdom. Yep, if he was any judge, definitely the sort of guy that lady wolves would like to see in the centrefold of their Cosmowolfitan magazine.

"You are!" Andrew laughed, "You're brown! Oh, wow, look at youuuuuu..."

Buttons popped off his shirt, there was a sound of tearing fabric...

"Uuuuuuuuuuoooowwwwwwwooooooooooooooooo!"

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, Dean sighed to himself.

A Hunter and two werewolves are sitting in a living room. Suddenly, one shapeshifts to his wolf form. In the excitement, so does the other. The first wolf says...

"Awrooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Then the second wolf says...

"Awrooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Then the Hunter turns to them and says...

"Do you idiots have to do that inside?"

It really wasn't a very good punchline, but it got their attention.

The two wolves stood looking at each other. Andrew was dark grey, and more heavily built, but Sam was clearly taller, and he panted his amusement. Sam looked down at himself, clearly amazed by what he saw, and let out a happy bark.

"Well, this is..." Dean began. "So, uh, I guess you got the cognitive thing goin' on, huh?"

Sam panted happily, and gave him a clumsy thumbs up.

"Well, at least we know," Dean shrugged in resignation. "So, uh, what now?"

Sam let out that happy bark again, and spun around on the spot as if trying to confirm that he didn't have a tail. Jimi, who had been watching from his snoozing spot on the rug, barked and jumped, tail wagging furiously. Sam reached down to bump him gently, playfully, and Jimi's whole back end started to wiggle.

"So, uh, you got the whole, you know, wolf out thing happening," Dean acknowledged, watching the wolves sniff at each other and exchange a brief growl-wrestle like dogs playing, "So how about now you show him how to HEY!"

Dropping to all fours, Andrew bounded out of the living room. With a moment of hesitation, Sam followed him.

"Hey!" Dean followed them to the door, "What the hell do you think you're doin'?"

Sam stood again, and pawed at the door handle, whining. He turned back to Dean, and turned the most convincing Sam Winchester Puppy Dog Eyes he'd ever done on his brother.

"Look, I know this place is outta the way and all, but I'm not sure if it's a good idea for you to go outside," Dean said sternly, "So, no, I'm not gonna let you out."

Sam whined again.

"No," Dean repeated, "And don't you dare pee on the carpet."

Andrew nudged at Sam's flank with a reassuring whuff, then stood. Slowly, painstakingly, he pawed at the door handle, the massive hand closing over it...

"You can't open doors, dude," Dean told him, a little smugly. "You're a werewolf, not a velociraptor."

With a small click, the knob turned, and the door swung open.

Radiating excitement, both werewolves, followed by Jimi, disappeared into the back yard.

"Sonofabitch!" squawked Dean. "Sam! Sam! You get your shaggy ass back in here!"

They bounded off the back porch without using the steps.

"I mean it, Sam!"

With room to move, Sam stood up, threw back his head, and howled. Andrew and Jimi joined him.

"Saaaaam! Don't make me come down there with a collar and leash!"

With a cheeky huff, Sam reached out and cuffed at Andrew's ear, and they began a playful wrestle.

"Oh, crap." Dean sank down onto the back step, and put his chin on his hands. "You guys need me to throw you a stick, or something?"

Sam gave him a happy whuff, and Andrew managed a clumsy yet identifiable flip-off.

"Great, just great," griped Dean. "For the record, if either of you make a mess, I for one am not manning the pooper scooper!"

In the encroaching evening, they seemed content just to grapple and roll around, with Jimi joining in. It was a scene of pure fun, friends enjoying each other's company in the moment. Dean found himself feeling a bit left out.

After a while, he got up, wandered back into the house, and returned with beers.

"If I'm gonna sit here and watch you ladies grope each other, I might as well as enjoy it," he announced.

Andrew loped to the porch, picked up a beer, put a claw delicately through one end, bit into the can, and shotgunned it. Sam watched him, then carefully picked up a beer of his own.

Unfortunately for the younger Winchester, he hadn't had the practice that Andrew had; his hold on the can was way too tight, and it ruptured, spraying him with beer.

The surprised look on Sam's face was so comical that Dean fell over backwards laughing, then did it all again when he realised that, even as a seven-foot-plus werewolf, Sam could still pull a bitchface.

Sam sprayed himself with beer once more before he managed to hold a can without crushing it, bit into it, and get most of it into his mouth.

"You really need to practise, bro," Dean grinned. Sam stuck out his tongue, then produced a long, rolling, sonorous burp. Andrew let out a panting rumble that was clearly amusement, and Dean collapsed with laughter again.

It was a moment of pure bro-ness, an authentic bro mo, three guys just having a real laugh about the gastrointestinal prowess of one of their number, a moment of which there were far too few in the Winchesters' life, and Dean decided that the fact his brother and his other companion were werewolves was just a minor detail in the grand scheme of things. Apparently, belch humour crossed species.

Right up until the bro mo was brutally dispelled by a voice yelling in an accent so thick it was barely comprehensible.

"What the bloody 'ell j'you frigging idiots think yar doing?"

Oh dear. The phrase we use Down Here is 'sprung bad', which means, you've been caught red-handed, in the act, in flagrante delicto, with both hands in the cookie jar. They're supposed to head off to dinner shortly; if Andrew gets stuck, Ronnie won't be happy. And if Sam has 'inherited' getting stuck from his 'sire'... oh dear.

Would somebody like to point out to Dean that, technically, his brother is naked again?

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