Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural, in fact all I own is the unfortunate girl in the brown cargo pants. May God have mercy on her poor fictional soul.

AN: This is just a wee sequel for my fic A Hollywood Hazing, in which we meet Peggy, a beleaguered PA who almost drowns.

Although I mostly wrote it because someone should send those boys presents more often.

Care Packages

Msg from Peggy: Hey, hw u guys doing?

Msg from Sam: Not bad. Hw's hellhzers?

Msg from Peggy: Epic lame. Nuthin new. So I hav ths idea…

Msg from Sam: Oh no.

Msg from Peggy: Very funny. I need a postal adres 4 u guys.

Msg from Sam: Uh, sure. Mind if I ask y?

Msg from Peggy: Its a surprise.

Msg from Sam: We'r not 2 fond of suprises Peg.

Msg from Peggy: Its a gud 1 I swear. Trust me on ths?

Msg from Sam: Ok

The package comes a week after their jaunt in Green River.

Dean arrives back from picking up lunch with it tucked under his jacket, sheltering it and their burgers as he darts from the Impala to the motel room door. The unseasonable weather seems to have dogged them from LA, finally coming to a head and sheeting down rain as they hole up in Illinois before pushing on to Bobby's.

"Hey, we got mail."

He tosses the package on Sam's bed and settles himself at the table, ripping into his burger. Sam frowns and sets aside his laptop, picking the package up and turning it carefully in his hands.

"I think there might be a job here."

"Yeah?"

There's no return address…

"Yeah, some girl went missing about a week ago."

Sam looks up. "That's it?"

Dean swallows noisily. "Of course that's not it. Talked to a couple of locals at the burger joint, found out there's been other disappearances in the area. Some of them turned up later, dead, exsanguinated…"

"Are we thinking vampires?"

"Maybe, but it wasn't just the blood loss, there were some weird markings on the vic's skin…are you gonna open the damn thing or sit around practicing volleyball serves with it?"

Sam glares. "I'm trying to figure out if it's going to explode when I open it."

His brother frowns at him. "Why would it explode?"

"It's addressed to us, Dean."

"And?"

"And, recently, we haven't really been endearing ourselves wherever we go."

Dean scowls. "By 'we' you mean 'me'," he grouses.

Sam just looks at him.

"Aw, c'mon, Sam, don't bitchface at me. I'm plenty endearing! Ask anyone."

Sam's eyebrows go up. "So you're telling me you haven't done anything that would get us sent an exploding package?"

"No!" Dean retorts, full of righteous indignation. "Not recently anyway…"

Sam sighs, and lets the package rest in his lap, hands going to the tape that holds it closed. Might as well get this over with…

The standard brown packing torn away reveals a second layer, this one in dark green and faintly shiny. A suspicion is forming in the back of Sam's brain…

…and its confirmed when he flips the thing over and sees the small card taped to the wrapping paper.

To the Brothers Grimm (although hopefully not too grim)
From Peg.

He almost forgot about Peggy's request for a postal address. He gave her no less than six of Dad's old PO boxes; the ones they still check when they're close by.

Dean, at the sight of the wrapping paper, sets down the remains of his burger and watches with curious eyes.

"Who's it from?" he asks, avid. "Does it say?"

"Peggy."

"Peggy?"

"Yeah."

"Our Peggy?"

He has to smile at that. No less than two days out of LA, just before Deacon called, Sam woke at three-thirty-five in the morning with his brain on fire and an itch under his fingertips that wouldn't go away. Before he could think better of it, he opened up Messenger and looked for her. Miracle of all miracles, she was online, status showing her listening to some band Sam didn't know called The Veils. From what he could hazily recall their conversation had gone along the lines of,

Sam: Can't sleep. Words'll eat me.

Peg: Itching fingers?

Sam: Yeah. Can't think. Help?

Peg: Stop thinking. Thinking is the enemy of writing. Just put your fingers on the keys and goddamn type. It doesn't matter what you write, just write, write it all.

It worked too. He'd blinked five minutes later, his brain cooling, fingers tingling and there had been a page full of words looking back at him. Things had made sense again, and he'd glimpsed a story swimming under the lines of text.

From then on, lines of communication open, he and Peggy have been steadily texting and emailing back and forward. Its novel, having a friend his own age who knows what he and Dean do, who isn't phased by gun talk and understands why you have to put salt on windowsills and across doorways.

Its novel having someone to talk to about the words that won't leave him alone, about the stories that wait under his skin and the characters who lurk behind his eyes, waiting for him to breath live into them, for him to give them names and faces.

He still hasn't called her though. And after suddenly not mailing her back the day they set the plan in motion and went about getting themselves caught and incarcerated, he thought for sure he's being given the cold shoulder.

Not so much, it turns out.

Unless the package really is going to explode.

Peggy's two eldest brothers, by all accounts, once blew up a cow shed. It stands to reason that Peggy herself probably has a working knowledge of basic explosives. How she managed to send them one through the US postal system he hasn't quite figured out yet. But then Peggy Patcher has six brothers and is very, very creative.

Very, very cautiously, he peels back the tape holding the green paper closed.

His head remains intact. Thank God.

Pushing the paper away doesn't reveal a ticking bomb but what looks like two t-shirts, one in black, one in red and two smaller packages, both wrapped again in dark green. The larger package has his name written on it in white paint marker, while the smaller bears Dean's. There's also a postcard, Peggy's scrawl on one side, a picture of something called 'Larnach Castle' on the other.

Dean's face has lit up.

"Dude, she sent us presents?"

"Looks like. Here, that's your one."

While Dean cackles and shreds wrapping paper, Sam settles into reading the postcard.

So, how're my favourite pair of wanted fugitives?

Oh God.

To Sam: you can stop hyperventilating, I'm not mad (okay, maybe a little cranky) but I don't blame you for not telling me. Kinda sucked finding out on the internet though. I'm not gonna turn you in either. I know there's got to be some back story to those charges.

You bet there is, Sam thinks, darting a quick look at Dean who's blinking at the cassette case he holds in one hand – "Variety is the Spice of Life, Dean!" – and the sheet of A4 that's come with it. Then he looks up at Sam and grins.

"Man, I knew she liked me better. She sent me a mix tape!"

Sam watches him open the case to get at the cassette, only to pause and blink again.

"What is it?"

His brother gets that flat look on his face, the same one he uses when Sam says something so obviously idiotic that it defies description. He flips the case in his hand so Sam can see the inside of the paper cover.

And just 'cause I sent you a mix tape doesn't mean I like you. God, grow up. Love Peg.

Sam tips his head back and roars with laughter. Dean's smiling despite himself.

"Smart ass girl," he mutters, looking back at the sheet of A4. Sam, still chuckling, goes back to the postcard.

Anyway, the warrant had your birthday on it, and since its coming up next month I thought I'd send you something. Then I thought, I can't wait 'til January to make an attempt on Dean's taste in music, your skull might have already caved in by then, so I sent his present too.

Sam bites his lip to keep from laughing. Deans now scowling at the A4, mouthing 'what the fuck' as he reads. Nice.

The t-shirts are kind of a gag present. Just so there's no confusion, the black one is Dean's, the red one is yours.
To Dean: relax, Batman, you and Robin's secret is safe with me. And if you somehow 'lose' that tape, I am so not making that pie next time I see you.
To You Both: love, peace and chicken grease, Peggy.

Sam smiles. Then he frowns.

"How come I'm Robin?" he demands of the unforthcoming postcard.

Dean looks up at him. "What?"

Without waiting for a reply, he takes the postcard from Sam and quickly scans through it. Sam watches the colour leave his brother's face, each freckle standing out like an ink spot.

"She knows."

"Yeah."

"Shit." Dean keeps reading. "Think she's telling the truth, that she won't turn us in?"

Sam sighs. "Yeah. Yeah I do."

Dean still looks wary. "We don't know her, Sam. Not that well."

"Yeah, well, I trust her."

Dean snorts. "You'd trust Peewee Herman."

Sam screw up his face. "Dude."

"I'm just saying…"

"And I'm just saying, I think we can trust her. I think if we couldn't we'd be in cuffs by now."

Dean watches him for a few seconds more, big-brother-stare burning holes in him, before heaving a sigh of his own. "Yeah, okay, fine."

Sam grins; thinking of what comes next in Peggy's message. "Keep reading," he adds.

Dean does.

Dean's jaw drops.

Dean roars, "What's wrong with my taste in music?" as Sam falls back on his bed, howling with laughter. Again.

When can breathe again, and Dean has gotten the majority of the swearing out of his system, Sam manages, "Keep reading. It gets better."

His brother growls, cusses, and if looks could kill, the postcard would be on fire, but he keeps reading. Sam watches Dean's face as he does. Watches the indignation leak away to be replaced with the sort of half-smile Dean gets on his face whenever he thinks about the Impala. Or pie.

"I can't stay mad at her," he says.

Sam raises his eyebrows, still smiling. "Really?"

"Well yeah…I mean she called me Batman. And she's gonna make pie! Pie, Sam! Homemade pie!"

Sam snickers. The road to Dean's heart, apparently, detours through his stomach. He'd probably like most the people they met better if they fed him. In point of fact, most of the people they met would probably like Dean better once they fed him. This also explains his almost pathological need to hit on eatery staff.

Dean's frowning at the postcard again. "Wait a second. How are t-shirts gag presents?"

"Dunno." Sam picks up the black one and tosses it Dean. He watches him unfold it and hold it up. Then Dean starts laughing.

"Oh, that's just awesome. That's just…check this out." Dean turns the t-shirt so Sam could see what was on the front.

Emblazoned on the shirt's chest is a black and yellow Batman logo with yellow block capitals below spelling out the caption, I AM BATMAN. While Sam laughs, Dean shucks his shirt and pulls on the Batman tee.

"I am never taking this off," he declares, posing in front of the mirror. "Hey, what does yours say?"

Sam unfolds the red tee…and freezes.

Aw, hell, Peggy…

"What's with the bitchface, Sammy?"

He sighs and turns the shirt so Dean can see.

On the chest is the traditional black circle and yellow R from the 1960's TV series. Below, in black capitals is the caption, I'M WITH BATMAN, and a small arrow pointing to the left.

Dean, of course, throws himself back on his bed before his legs give out, and howls.

"Hey Sam."

"You. Suck," Sam enunciates as he carefully wedges his phone between his ear and shoulder.

There's an indelicate snort from the other end of the line and Peggy starts cackling.

"Seriously," Sam continues, smiling despite himself. "What kind of friend are you?"

"The kind who can't help herself in a tee-shirt sale."

"Oh, come on!"

"Hey, it was either 'I'm with Batman' or 'sidekick's have feelings too'."

"Well, when you put it like that…"

"That's what I thought. Did Dean like his?"

Sam glances up at his brother, sacked out on his bed, one arm flung over his face failing to hide the open mouth or muffle the low snore, the other hand still clutching the TV remote. Sam smiles.

"He's still wearing it," he tells Peggy truthfully.

He hasn't taken it off all day, even wearing it back to the burger joint where they picked up dinner. Anyone else wearing an I AM BATMAN t-shirt would be labelled a huge dork and sneered at. Dean did it, gloried in it, and still managed to get a phone number out of the girl at the till.

It boggles the mind.

Peggy chuckles. "I promise you'll get the cool tee-shirt next time, Sam."

"I'm going to hold you to that, Peggy Patcher."

He can hear the smile in her voice. "Cross my heart. Um, hey, opened your present yet?"

"I'm just about to now…"

His fingers slip under the tape, lifting it away. There's a flash of more green, matte instead of shiny…and the paper falls apart in his lap.

Sam stares down at it, running reverent fingertips over the cover.

"Peggy…"

"Um, yeah?" She sounds so nervous, like he couldn't love what she's sent him.

It's a journal. Bound in green leather, hunter green, held closed by a long leather cord that winds about it three times, the cover embossed along the length of its spine with a fretwork of coiling patterns. Hidden in the knots Sam finds a dragon, an owl, a pair of wolves…

"Peggy, it's beautiful."

"Oh, well," she murmurs, giving a single shy beat of laughter. "I'm glad you like it."

He gently unwinds the cord and lifts the front cover. There's something written there, in quick, curling script. The ink has a rich look to it; she used a fountain pen.

"For getting the words down," he reads softly.

"Yeah…it's just…sometimes laptops take too long at three in the morning, y'know? And keeping track of little bits of motel stationary could be a real bitch…I figured this might be a little easier."

"It will be…thank you, Peggy," he murmurs, entirely heartfelt.

"Oh, well…"

"Are you blushing?"

"No! Maybe. Okay, a little. Yeah, Yeah, laugh it up, chuckles," she mutters.

"I intend to," he snickers back.

She comes out swinging. "So, outlawing, how's that working out?"

Sam groans. "It sucks."

"I'd imagine so," Peggy agrees. "The FBI really doesn't like you."

"And it's making me paranoid. You know Dean nearly put his head through the shower door this morning when he heard sirens?"

"Holy shit…"

"Turned out someone in the next room was watching Police Academy really loudly."

Peggy tries unsuccessfully to hide a giggle. "I shouldn't laugh…"

"Why not? I did."

"Fiend," she scolds, still fighting laughter. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, Peg?"

"You guys'll be okay, right?"

He sighs, closing his eyes as he slumps back on his bed, the journal resting closed on his chest.

"It's not something we can promise, Peggy," he says softly.

"I know…I know, but…you'll be careful? Try not to do anything too stupid?"

He smiles. "Me, I can promise for…"

"Dean, not so much."

Sam snickers. "How did you know?"

She chortles back, silly and smug, "I'm psychic."

Despite himself, stupidly, he starts before he keeps talking. It is stupid, he tells himself, Peggy may have been born the same year as him, but she's never mentioned a nursery fire, or a dead parent, or anything odd about her six-month birthday.

The paranoia is making me twitchy…

There's nothing sinisterly special about Peggy Patcher.

She's just a farm girl in a big city, a fish out of water, and for the record, his friend.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay? You kinda zoned out for a second there."

He makes himself smile, even though she isn't there to see it.

"Yeah. Yeah, Peggy, I'm fine."

He runs his fingers over the journal's cover, finding the dragon, the owl and the two wolves.

Or I will be…

AN2: Be kind, rewind...no, wait, that's not right. Review! I meant review!