Disclaimer: Not mine, I just hold the door open while the Denizens of the Jimiverse rush in and tear their clothes off.
Title: If You Can't Say Something Nice
Rating: K+, surprisingly enough
Summary: Dean can be annoying. He knows he can be annoying. But he promises he'll try to be less annoying. Really. How could you not trust that face?
Blame: No idea exactly where this little plot bunny came from, but I do in particular suspect Bartlebead, who wanted to see an instance in which Dean gets the last laugh on Ronnie, the world's crankiest werewolf. Picks up immediately after 'Six'.
This story picks up immediately after 'Six'. Dean and Sam are staying with Ronnie (the world's crankiest werewolf) and Andrew (her sometimes beleagured pair-bond), for some down-time while they recover from a Hunt. Dean pried pruriently into their sex life. Ronnie hit him. The day after, things have quietened down somewhat, and hostilities appear to have subsided...
If You Can't Say Something Nice
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Dean had always thought that had been a cliché in B-grade films, but now he understood what people meant by it.
He'd been sitting watching Nascars with Andrew, while Sam pecked away at the research, naturally, and Ronnie was sitting, strangely quiet, with her laptop, broken ankle propped up in front of her. With the limited attention span of those taking mind-altering painkillers, she was switching amongst watching the car racing, helping Sam occasionally, snoozing, and doing something else on the laptop. Whatever she was doing, she seemed absorbed in it.
Of course, Dean wasn't going to be dumb enough to ask what she was up to. No, he wasn't that silly…
"What exactly are you doing, Ronnie?" Andrew had asked when he got up to get more beer. Dean groaned inwardly.
"You said I needed to get a hobby," she replied, "So I have one."
"What exactly is this new and fascinating hobby that's keeping you so quiet?" asked Sam. Good one, little bro, thought Dean, you had to go and ask.
Ronnie turned her laptop around to show Sam. "I've been inspired by 'The Hitch-hiker's Guide To The Galaxy'," she explained, showing him the spreadsheet she was constructing. "I am writing down insults to everyone I've ever met who's ever annoyed me in some way." Sam raised his eyebrows, as she explained. "See, here: Surname (where known), given name, who they are, date encountered (or estimate), insult. Simple. It'll be a work in progress; it'll never be finished."
Andrew laughed. "I like this hobby," he decided, "It's quiet."
Sam perused the list, and started to laugh too. "Oh, man," he said, "A lot of people have pissed you off."
"Well, I started as far back as I could remember," said Ronnie, "So I have a lot to work with."
"Really? Who's the earliest person you want to insult?" asked Dean, in spite of himself.
"Our next door neighbour, Mrs Richards," said Ronnie promptly. Sam scrolled down to 'R', and cleared his throat. "Richards, Richards… here it is. Richards, Mavis, next door neighbour, 1976. I know I'm not a pretty girl, Mrs Richards – I also know that you smell like cat's pee and your lipstick is always smudged and the kids who walk past going home from school say you are a witch." Sam looked up. "Was she really a witch?"
"I doubt it," said Ronnie, "I must add that she walked like she was wearing a nappy. Maybe she was." The menfolk laughed, and Sam scrolled up the document.
"Dennison, Chris, classmate, 1979. You are a stinky, stupid, retarded, booger-brain useless boy, and you squeal like a little bitch when you get punched." They laughed again. "Wow, what did he do?"
"He tried to look up my school dress by lifting up the skirt with a stick," explained Ronnie, "So I took the stick off him and beat him up. The little bastard had the gall to go squealing to the headmaster."
"I'm glad I didn't go to school with you," said Andrew, "We didn't have computer games then, trying to look up girls' dresses was the only entertainment we had…"
"Uh-oh, careful there," warned Sam, "You're in here too: Jaeger, Andrew, medic/mechanic/werewolf/pair-bond – couldn't make your mind up, Ronnie? – 2007. I know you drink the juice straight out of the carton, you disgusting individual."
"A man should be able to drink out of the carton in his own house," asserted Andrew.
"Amen to that," Dean nodded in agreement. "Ronnie, if you're already swapping spit with this guy, it's not like you're going to catch anything from a juice carton," he pointed out, as Sam found another name.
"Singer, Bobby, hunter/mechanic, 1997. Most of your mugs are chipped and stained." Sam looked at the entry. "That's it? All you can find to complain about with Bobby is the state of his crockery?"
Ronnie shrugged. "Bobby's just not a very annoying person."
Dean's eyes bugged. "Bobby? Not annoying? NOT annoying? Is this the same Bobby Singer we're talking about here? What about that hat? The hair that sticks out everywhere? The messy house? The way he sticks his nose into your business if he thinks something is bugging you? The way he nags if you don't eat? The way he insists on playing Florence Nightmare if you're hurt?"
"I just don't find all that annoying," Ronnie repeated. "Bobby's cool. I like him. However," she turned to Sam, "If you look under W, you'll find…"
"Winchester," confirmed Sam. "Yep, we're here. Winchester, Sam, hunter, 2005. Don't mope so hard, and get a haircut, emo kid."
"What do I keep telling you, bro?" said Dean, "It's not just me. You gotta do something with the 'do, Samantha. And the moping. But mostly the hair." He smirked at his little brother, who scrolled up.
"Right, thanks for that. Moving on to you: Winchester, Dean, hunter/manslut, 2005…"
"What?" interrupted Dean, "I'm not a…"
"That's not the insult yet, Dean, that's just your classification," corrected Sam, "The insult follows. Dean, you are a cocky, smirking, smug bastard. You look more like a girl than most girls I know, and you chew with your mouth open."
"I can't help it if I enjoy my food," began Dean, "And you can't accuse me of…"
"Hang on, I haven't finished," said Sam. "You have a foul mouth, a dirty mind, an inflated opinion of yourself, and you are a man-whore."
"There's nothing wrong with…"
"Dean, be quiet, I haven't finished!" Sam rolled his eyes. "You are gluttonous and arrogant, and yet at the same time so irritatingly over-protective that I think you would benefit from a good slapping and I don't understand why Sam doesn't hit you more often."
"Hey, just I worry about the welfare of my little bro…"
"Dean!" Sam barked, "I – haven't – finished. Where was I? Oh, right. The fact that you have a Bon Jovi tape in your car suggests that you are suffering from some sort of brain damage, although medical science is probably not advanced enough to determine whether it's through some head injury you suffered, or you're just a genetic dick..."
"Don't you diss a man's music!" snapped Dean, "You do NOT diss my..."
"You don't wash your clothes often enough," Sam cut him off and continued, "And whatever you put in your hair it makes you look like a toilet brush in a jacket, speaking of which, FIX THAT FUCKING COLLAR because popped collars are so 80s and you look like a reject from a recruiting drive to find a third member of Bros."
Dean turned an incredulous look on Ronnie. "A toilet brush?" he said distantly. "You are saying I look like a toilet brush?" Ronnie just quirked an eyebrow at him. Sam continued,
"There's more here, just let me scroll down a bit, about your depraved and prurient interest in other peoples' sex lives…"
"I don't want to hear any more!" grumped Dean, "Why is there so much more for me than for anybody else?"
"Because you can be so much more annoying than anybody else," answered Ronnie airily.
"All right, all right," Andrew intervened, "Stop this right now. Ronnie, didn't your mother ever tell you, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all? Why don't you start another file, where you write something NICE about people you've encountered? That would be a lot more civilised."
Ronnie appeared to consider the question. To the surprise of all three men, she said, "Yeah, I guess I could do that." She turned her attention back to her laptop, and was quiet again.
"How's the new hobby going?" Sam asked casually, later in the day. Dean groaned as she turned the laptop around to show him.
"Sam, don't encourage her…"
"No, this is different, Dean," Sam said, scanning down the document. "For example: Mrs Richardson, you made awesome chocolate cake, and fantastic sandwiches, and your cats were really cute. You were really kind to my Mum, and looked after us when she has to go and help out Dad after a Hunt went bad. It was really good of you to let us play dress-ups with your old clothes." He smiled.
"There, being nice wasn't that hard, was it Ronnie?" said Andrew.
"No, I suppose not," humphed Ronnie dramatically.
"Even Chris the dress-looker-upper gets something nice," continued Sam, "Here: It was good of you to let a girl kick your real leather football, and you were really good at playing marbles. Thank you for inviting me to your birthday party."
"Awwww," said Dean, "That's sweet. What does she say about Andrew?"
Sam scanned the screen, and smiled gently. "Just a single word: Mine." Smiling, he continued,
"Wow, Bobby made quite an impression: A knowledgeable man of few words but much wisdom, and your facility with other languages is impressive. You are generous with your knowledge, your house and your time, and have probably saved many Hunters from themselves without them even realising it. You are a good cook, and wonderful with dogs. The patience of a saint, the courage of a lion, it is a privilege to be called idgit by you." Sam looked up. "Holy cow, I didn't realise that you were the President of the Bobby Singer Fan Club."
Andrew quirked an eyebrow at Ronnie. "Should I be worried?" he asked. Ronnie stuck out her tongue at him.
"Maybe you should start a forum on a Supernatural site," said Dean, "There's bound to be a population of women of a certain age who'd like to write stories about Bobby…" he snagged the laptop from Sam. "W, W, here we are." He started to smile as Sam scowled and tried to get the machine back. "No way, Sammy, don't you want to hear nice things about yourself?" He cleared his throat ostentatiously, and read aloud. "Sam, you are smart. Scary smart. The thought of what that brain could achieve outside of Hunting is somewhere between amazing and terrifying, if you didn't dedicate it to keeping other people safe. It's a hell of a sacrifice, but you do it anyway. As someone who has had to stare down the fugly within, I am in awe of how you have bested yours, and come out on top. Your brother doesn't know how lucky he is to have you. PS You really do have a nice smile."
Dean couldn't help the small smile that crept across his face, while Sam's cheeks turned pink.
"What are you doing looking at his smile?" asked Andrew with a mock frown, "First Bobby, now this kid? You cradle-snatching hussy."
"What, I can't even notice that somebody has a nice smile?" asked Ronnie, feigning high dudgeon. "Noticing that somebody has a nice smile is totally harmless. And anyway, it's all right as long as I keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself."
"This is definitely an improvement on insulting people," Dean told her, scrolling back up, "And I'm willing to help you document my various aspects of awesomeness, in alphabetical order. I'll let you know if you missed any..."
He finally found what he was looking for.
"Winchester, Dean. You drive a really cool car." He scrolled up and down a bit, and looked back to Ronnie. "That's it? I drive a cool car?"
"Yes, you do. The Impala is definitely a cool car." affirmed Ronnie.
"Very cool." agreed Andrew.
"You're always telling anyone who'll listen how cool your car is, bro," Sam pointed out.
"But... where's the rest of it?" asked Dean.
"The rest of what?" asked Ronnie.
"The rest of how awesome I am!" Dean answered. "You know, the bit about me being devastatingly handsome, an incredibly charming guy, a pool and poker player without equal, and of course, the Living Sex God..."
"Sex God, Shmex God," Ronnie waved a hand dismissively, "You're utterly narcissistic, you know that?"
"There are hundreds, thousands, even, of women across this country, who will testify to the awesomeness of the Living Sex God," Dean humphed, "As he makes his way across the country, leaving no bed unmussed, leaving no toes uncurled. It's not my fault that the one time you had a chance to find out about it, you were too uptight to take advantage of me..."
"Dean, you were cursed, and you chased me up a tree!" Ronnie spluttered. "Be grateful that I am prepared to concede that your car is cool, seeing as how it's polluted with a hair metal tape..."
"You leave my music out of this!" demanded Dean.
"All right, that's enough," snapped Andrew. "Seriously, Ronnie, play nice."
"I can't believe you don't have anything nice to say about me," humphed Dean.
"Ronnie," rumbled Andrew, "Write something nice about Dean."
"What?" she demanded. "Whose hobby is this? Who died and made you my Grade Three teacher?"
Andrew let out a wordless growl. Ronnie subsided with a minimum of good grace.
"Oh, all right," she grumped. She thought for a moment, then typed:
Dean saved the world with his brother and we should all be grateful for that.
He also has good taste in desserts.
"That's better," said Andrew, satisfied. "See? You can be nice, if you just try."
"And you have a seven-foot alpha male growling at you," grinned Sam.
"I'm not narcissistic," mumbled Dean resentfully, "It's not narcissism if I really actually am devastatingly handsome and totally awesome..."
A companionable silence settled again, as Sam and Ronnie went back to their laptops and Dean and Andrew went back to watching racing.
Later that evening, Dean sought Ronnie out.
"Look," he started, "I'm sorry about the whole, you know, nipples thing, yesterday. It was rude. I shouldn't have done it. I totally deserved for you to hit me."
She glared at him suspiciously. "Is this some sort of prank?" she demanded.
"What? No!" he exclaimed, "No, It's just... after you wrote about how annoying I was, I started thinking that you were right. I can be annoying. And I was annoying at you. And you made pie afterwards anyway. Which was really good of you. And I'm really sorry. Annoying Sam has been my only entertainment for as long as I can remember, and I'm good at it. I can't promise I won't be annoying any more, but I can try not to be so annoying." He turned a pleading expression on her. "Can we call a truce? Just while Sam and I are here, anyway. If nothing else, it will mess with Sam and Andrew's heads. They'll think we're up to something."
She smiled, and shook her head. "Who'd a thunk it?" she laughed, "If you're not careful, Dean, somebody will accuse you of acting like an adult."
"Don't you dare start a nasty rumour about me," he told her, then his expression changed when she winced. "Is your ankle sore?"
"It's fine," she said, covering a grimace.
"No, it's not," he frowned, "Don't bullshit me, Ronnie. I'm a big brother. Go sit down, I'll get you a cup of chocolate and your meds."
"You are going to make people suspicious," she told him, hopping back towards the living room on her crutches. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you?"
"My motives are selfish," he called after her, smiling winningly as he headed for the kitchen, "I just want you in good enough shape to make more pie!"
It turned out to be a day of surprises.
Sam and Andrew were surprised at the civilised exchange and shared smirk when Dean brought Ronnie a mug of hot chocolate and her pain meds.
Ronnie was surprised that the meds hit her so hard, but Andrew took her upstairs for a nap.
Sam and Andrew were even more surprised later as they watched her chase after Dean when she woke up, calling him every rude name under the sun, and flailing at him ineffectually with a dish cloth.
Dean was surprised at just how fast she could move hopping along on one foot.
But none of them were as surprised as Ronnie was when she woke up from her nap, and found her cast covered in the carefully printed lyrics of 'Dead or Alive'.
There you go, Bartlebead, she's stuck with it for six weeks now.
Small self-insertion there; when I was five years old, I did beat up Brendan Knapper when he and Mark Cook tried to look up my school dress with a stick. I took the stick off them, and beat the crap out of Brendan. I only got away with it because he was bigger than me. He still is; I recently found out that he's a 6'5" instructor at the police driving school. So no more whacking him with a stick.