Prompt from Muffins and Pie:
But ai digress I have a challang for u, one I believe you could do magic with. Combine Rj's first sleep over, Mermaids, and a character that I wish was really on the show The world crankest werewolf who's name I can not spell :(
Sleepovers, Mermaids and Werewolves, Oh My...
Bobby wasn't sure exactly how much pizza five nine-year-olds would eat, so he decided to over-cater, and put any leftovers in the fridge, because the adult Winchesters were expected back – Dean always made sure he was back for RJ's birthday – and they were to pizza as an insinkerator was to potato peelings. Besides, given how busy they'd been for the day, they had to be hungry.
They'd had a go at shooting cans off the fence with an elderly .22, under Bobby's stern tuition. They'd played with the six-week old puppies that were the last litter Lemmy had sired off Rosie, whilst venerable Rumsfeld kept watch over them as well. (Ronnie had narrowed her eyes, and later suggested that Bobby keep a careful eye on the pups, because she had a sneaking suspicion that one of them was on the brink of Choosing RJ). Then, they'd headed down to the stream at the bottom of his place, and spent some time re-engineering the earth dam that Dean and Sam had made nearly forty years earlier, getting thoroughly wet and not caring at all. After that, they'd found an ancient pogo stick, and had boinged around on it until like demented kangaroos until the rain had started, then they'd retired to one of Bobby's sheds, where Ronnie had taught them the basics of soldering, and they'd spent some time making things for their mothers out of bits of wire and pieces of broken tail light lenses.
He'd left them to their own devices in the living room to enjoy their dinner without adult interference, and retired to the kitchen, where Ronnie was eating a leftover piece of the lunchtime birthday cake.
"What I wanna know," sighed Bobby, sinking into a chair, "Is where the hell they get the energy from."
"Apparently, they're powered by chocolate cake," answered Ronnie. "That thing was the size of a truck battery, and they ate most of it."
"I did notice that you helped," he reminded her.
"I don't help with a sleep-over for free, Singer," she sniffed disdainfully, "Even if one of the kids is mine. I demand payment. And since you didn't have any TimTams lying around, chocolate cake is it."
"I do appreciate it," Bobby told her, "And if I ever meet your grandmother in The Great Hereafter, I will make a point of thankin' her for making sure you knew how to bake a mean chocolate cake. And it makes their mothers happier if they think another mother will be here to do the supervisin', so they don't have to leave their precious little darlings with that old drunk, Singer."
"Will Dean make it back?" she asked quietly.
"He always has," Bobby reminded her, "Makes a point of bein' here for his boy's birthday. He wanted to be here today, but, well, the kid's got a sense of responsibility a mile wide, and this thing, whatever it is, it's targeting kids…"
"Yeah, 'Saving people, Hunting things, the family business'," she murmured. A roar of laughter suggested that somebody had told a joke that their parents would not approve of. "How are we not dead, Bobby?" she asked, "How the hell are we here, almost like normal people, with our kids running around like hamsters on speed, cleaning up after a frigging birthday party, not dead?"
"Just lucky, I guess," he replied smugly. "Me, I'm just doin' it to piss God off, and He knows, I'm just returning the favour. Mind you, Himself might have the last laugh, on this occasion." He winced and stretched his arms out. "I'm gettin' too old for this sort o' thing."
Ronnie cut him a piece of cake, and pushed it towards him. Bobby wasn't fooling anybody. Wild werewolves wouldn't drag it out of him, but she was pretty sure that he'd had just as much fun supervising as the guests of RJ's birthday sleepover had enjoyed just being nine year old boys.
"Maybe, having worn themselves out, they'll sleep well tonight," she suggested.
"Huh, shows how much you know," griped Bobby, "They'll be up until zero dark hundred, playin' hide and seek in the house, and then tryin' to scare each other with horror stories, then they'll be down here raidin' the refrigerator in the middle of the night, and generally raisin' the sort of hell that only boys can do."
"Well, hopefully, Dean will be back by then, and we can turn them over to him," she smiled a little nastily, contemplating the satisfaction to be had by giving responsibility for a tornado of kids to someone else. The laughter roared again. "What the hell are they doing in there?"
"Probably best we don't know," Bobby cautioned, "Trust me. I was a nine-year-old boy once."
"Sometime last century," she snorted.
"Like you're gettin' any younger," he chuckled back. "You know you're goin' grey, right?"
"At least I've still got my hair to go grey."
"Asshat."
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"Your grandpa is seriously cool, RJ," stated his school friend Karl. "My grandpa won't let me shoot at his place. Did he teach you?"
"My Dad taught me," RJ answered, "That rifle was the first one I learned on."
"Aha!" exclaimed Paul, "That's why you're such a good shot with it!"
"Did Mr Winchester teach you too, Connor?" asked Takumi.
"My Mom taught me," shrugged Connor. "And my little sister."
"She's a better shot than you," sniggered RJ, but not too unkindly.
"My Mom wouldn't let me do stuff like today for my birthday," complained Paul, "She wouldn't let me do stuff like this at all, at home." Despite being the bookworm of the group, Paul had produced an intricate piece of soldered work with a floral motif, inlaid with pieces of amber plastic, for his mother. "Hey, Connor, where did your mom learn about soldering and stuff? My mom does quilts." He grimaced, possibly at the thought of how mortifying it would be like if he had some friends over and it started to rain and his mother herded them into a shed to teach them quilting.
"She's a welder," Connor said, a hint of pride in his voice, "And Dad says she's real good. Uncle Dean says she's real good, too, only he won't say it to her."
"He calls her 'That Shepherd Woman'," RJ revealed, "And they're seriously rude to each other. He says, 'That Shepherd Woman has her head so far up her own ass she can't see daylight!"
The boys all laughed.
"And my Mom says," Connor grinned hugely, and dropped his voice into a perfect north Australian accent, "My Mom says, 'Dean Winchester is such a pretty boy, his face is prettier than mine, his ass is prettier than mine, but, but, but, at least my dick is bigger than his!"
They roared with hilarity at that.
"How come he doesn't punch her for that?" wondered Takumi.
"Because you don't hit girls," declared Karl loftily. "Not even if they hit you."
"They're really friends," RJ informed them.
"They just try to make everybody believe that they're not," Connor nodded. "They're so not convincing."
"You're real lucky to live here, with your grandpa," sighed Paul. "Although your Dad's car is cooler than your grandpa's."
"RJ's Dad's car is cooler than everybody's," declared Connor, and they all hummed in agreement.
"My Mom wouldn't let me have a sleepover," Takumi humphed. "She says I'm not old enough. I'm nine years old! I had to get my Dad on my side to convince her to let me come to yours, RJ."
"My Mom wanted me to have a theme party," Karl admitted glumly. "Which would be okay if you had a cowboy party, or something, but she wanted it to be a… a…."
"A what?" enquired RJ.
"A Peter Pan party," Karl breathed in shamefaced horror. "So she could dress up as Tinkerbell."
The other boys paused. Karl's mother was a woman who obviously enjoyed her food and loathed exercise. In order to produce enough fake satin and tutu netting for her to make a Tinkerbell costume, a large synthetics manufacturer would have to drop all other contracts for at least six weeks.
"She'd need… really big wings," was all Paul could say. "My Mom wanted me to have a clown party," he offered by way of commiseration. "With a clown. And making clown hats. And face-painting."
They all shuddered in sympathy. Sometimes, grown-ups seriously had no idea.
By the time they'd finished their pizza, and then eaten more chocolate cake, it was dark outside, so outdoor activities were not an option.
"So, what'll we do now?" wondered Takumi.
"We could watch a movie," suggested RJ, "Although Grandpa Bobby won't let us watch Evil Dead – I had to steal it and watch it under the covers one night."
"We could look at some of Mr Singer's books," suggested Paul, adjusting his glasses and gazing longingly at the untidy shelves with the same hungry expression Sam had worn thirty years earlier.
"We don't wanna look at books," declared Karl, who was even at this early age clearly destined to spend more time on the football field than in the library once he hit college, "You don't go to a sleepover to look at books!"
"But these books look really different," Paul persisted, tilting his head to read a spine.
"Grandpa Bobby collects rare and unusual and antique and es-o-te-ric books," RJ lied smoothly, pronouncing the last adjective carefully. "Lots of 'em are really old, or really valuable, so you can't touch 'em without asking."
"Can we ask, then?" Paul looked hopeful.
"I guess," shrugged Connor. "Uncle Bobby!" he bellowed.
"Lower your voice to a dull roar, ya idjit," growled Bobby, coming into the living room, "We're all on the same planet. What is it?"
"Are there some books we could look at?" asked RJ, tilting his head at Paul, who was watching Bobby with the sort of expression the old man usually saw on his dogs when they were trying to cadge bacon from him.
"Hmmmm, well, some of the ones out here might be okay," he hemmed to himself, "But a lot o' my books, they're old, and delicate, so let me pick some out for you…"
He selected a number of tomes that he thought might keep a group of nine-year-olds interested for a short time, and put them on the table.
"Okay, these ones, you can look at," he stipulated, "They're about where monster stories come from, which means they're about stuff that's pretty damned imaginitive, but not real. Now, don't mark 'em, and don't get your drinks or your snacks on 'em, are we clear?"
"Yes, Mr Singer," they chorused dutifully. With a gruff nod, he left them to it.
Karl's grumbling about books soon stopped as he opened one, and immediately found a garish picture. "Hey, guys, look at that!" he turned the book around, "How cool is that?"
"It's a Tengu demon," read Paul, "It's Japanese."
"It's cutting that guy's head off," Karl grinned.
"That's Sojobo-sama, Lord of the Tengu," Takumi, "He taught swordsmanship, and ate little boys who got lost in the forest, but that's just a story people told to scare kids into behaving."
"Look at this one!" Paul turned a book around, "Vampires!"
"Vampires don't look like that!" tutted Connor in disbelief. "I mean," he went on hurriedly, "That's Dracula. He's the only one who looks like that. Because he's, like, the boss vampire."
"That outfit doesn't look very practical," decided Paul, "Wouldn't it be awkward to get around all dressed up like that?"
"He's a bad guy," Karl reminded him, "Bad guys wear cloaks. To swirl around dramatically." He pulled a blanket from the sofa, and wrapped it around himself. "Good efening," he intoned, "I vant to bite your neck."
"Oh, gross!" Takumi screwed up his face. "How do I kill a vampire?"
"Says here, you hammer a stake through its heart," read Paul.
Takumi perused the table, and selected the longest cheese stick from the snacks. "Die, you undead monster!" he declared, waving the cheese stick and making stabbing motions in Karl's direction.
"Eeerrrrgh! Aaaaaaargh!" warbled Karl in horror.
"Kill the vampire!" declared RJ, grabbing another cheese stick.
The noise of the rassling heap brought Bobby to investigate.
"What are you idjits doin' in here, killin' each other?" he roared over the noise.
"It's okay Mr Singer," Takumi assured him, "We're just killing a vampire."
"Aaaaaargh! Ooooooooogh!" went Karl the Undead Fiend by way of demonstration. Then he leaned forward, and bit the end off a cheese stick.
"This could take a while," RJ warned him, "He keeps eating our stakes."
"Well, just don't get any blood on the rug," Bobby instructed, trying to stifle his grin, "Very difficult to get out of carpet, vampire blood is."
"Hey, look at this one!" piped Paul, holding up the book, "A zombie! They eat people's brains! They stagger around, and go, 'Braaaaains, braaaaaains'." He demonstrated with a suitable zombie-like shuffle. "Braaaaaains…"
"I don't like brains," Karl grimaced, "My grandma tried to make me eat 'em, crumbed, but they're seriously disgusting."
"Well, zombies are undead monsters, too," Bobby pointed out, "So they like 'em."
"How do you kill zombies, then?" asked Takumi.
"I do hear tell," Bobby intoned seriously, "That they are allergic to… pickles…"
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"What the hell are they doing in there?" asked Ronnie.
"Killin' the walkin' undead," grinned Bobby, glancing in the door at where the shrieking, laughing pile of boys were dealing with their monster, "It appears that savoury pastries work on bloodsuckers. And pickles work on zombies. Who knew?"
"I'll remember that next time I have to deal with either of 'em," nodded Ronnie, "Should make a Hunt a lot more tasty, if nothing else."
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The sleepover contingent found some more monsters that were garishly illustrated by people who had active imaginations but no experience with Hunting; it was all RJ and Connor could do to keep their faces straight at some of the outlandish pictures.
The group found, acted out, and 'killed off' a mummy (Takumi wrapped in the sofa throw), a werewolf (Connor with a fringed cushion cover on his head), a yeti (Karl with the throw and the cushion cover) and then zombies again (because if a zombie steals your pickle, that turns you into a zombie too).
"My Mom would never let me stand on the sofa," grinned Karl. "What else is there?"
"Hey, look, here's a mermaid," Paul pointed out. The others groaned.
"A mermaid's no good," Karl complained, "They just sit around, and brush their hair."
"Besides, mermaids are girls," pronounced Connor, implying that they were therefore not so much monsters as complete aliens.
"Boy mermaids are called mermen," Paul informed them, reading, "Mermaids cause shipwrecks, and lure sailors, and eat them."
"What? Her?" scoffed RJ, gesturing derisively at a picture that was more Ariel the Little Mermaid than cold calculating predator of the deep. "She couldn't wreck a ship! The worst she could do would be break a nail, or something."
"It's probably the mermen who wreck the ships," suggested Takumi, "While the mermaids brush their hair."
"Typical," humphed Kar. "So what do mermen look like?"
"There's no picture here," Paul said, flipping through the pages. "I guess they're like a man on top, and a fish tail instead of legs."
"They can't look like that," Karl wasn't convinced, "That'd be seriously sissy. She looks like half a goldfish!"
"Maybe they have, like, shark tails, instead," suggested Connor. "That'd be seriously cool."
"They could go faster, too," RJ added, "With a shark tail."
"You don't know that," countered Paul. "Anyway, a shark's tail goes from side to side. This tail," he pointed to the picture, "Goes up and down. Like a dolphin."
"Sharks are bigger," Takumi pointed out.
"We need to look this up," Paul said firmly.
"We need to work this out," RJ said.
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When Bobby next returned to the living room, three boys were clustered on the sofa while Karl was prone on the floor, waggling both his legs from side to side together, while Connor did a dolphin-kick. They were in animated discussion as they watched the two on the floor.
"Is this some sort of dance that sad old out-of-date men like me haven't heard of yet?" he asked, intrigued.
"We're trying to find out what goes faster, a dolphin or a shark," Paul replied, not looking up.
"So we can work out what sort of tails mermen have," explained Karl.
"So they can wreck ships," added Takumi.
"While the mermaids brush their hair, and sing," Connor's lip curled in distaste.
Bobby frowned thoughtfully. "That's a very interestin' question," he nodded seriously.
"I think we should look up sharks and dolphins and their swimming," Paul reiterated.
"My laptop's upstairs," RJ said, getting off the sofa, "Come on."
"Do you know anything about sharks and dolphins and mermen, Mr Singer?" asked Takumi.
" 'Fraid not," Bobby replied regretfully, "But it's an interestin' question. I'd be very interested to hear your conclusions," he told them, handing over the snacks plate. "Keep me informed as to what results your research turns up. And don't grind that stuff into the carpet."
"Yes, Mr Singer," they chorused as they headed upstairs.
"Now what?" asked Ronnie, mystified, as Bobby bit his lip in the effort not to laugh out loud.
"They're doin' research on how mermen would swim," he wheezed, "Like a dolphin or like a shark."
She snorted with suppressed laughter. "Where the hell do they get these ideas from?"
"Only a kid's brain," Bobby chuckled.
"Well, it's gotta be healthier than sitting in front of a computer game," Ronnie sighed philosophically.
"Definitely," Bobby agreed, "So I told 'em to get on with it. It's keeping 'em occupied, and, well, you can't get into much mischief swimmin' on the carpet."
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Progress on Project Merman was slow. The general answer on the web pages they consulted as to which could swim faster was: It Depends.
"If you were a merman, you could use your arms too," Takumi pointed out.
"No, hold on," frowned Paul, with a rudimentary insight into aquadynamics that he couldn't clearly articulate, "Waving your arms around underwater will slow you down." He lay across RJ's bed to demonstrate. "Your arms will have to push through the water forwards, for you to bring them backwards."
"You could do, like, a swimming thing," Karl demonstrated a breaststroke movement.
"While the rest of you is going side to side?" Connor didn't sound convinced. "Or up and down."
They tried several permutations and combinations of tail-swimming and arm strokes, but made no more progress.
"This is no good," Paul sighed, "We can't figure this out just waggling our legs around."
"That's exactly what I was thinking," agreed RJ, with a thoughtful look on his face. His eyes strayed to the hallway beyond his room's door, and the other doors out there. "But I have an idea."
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More than ten years previously, there had been an unfortunate incident in which Castiel, Angel of the Lord and Warrior of Heaven, had tried to take over his Father's job. He had done this by breaking into Purgatory, and 'swallowing' a lot of souls, amongst them, the Leviathans imprisoned there. However, godhood had not been as straightforward as he had hoped – his efforts to write a simple list of Ten Commandments had ended up with more clauses, sub-clauses, footnotes and qualifications than the most detailed legal document – and the episode ended when he suffered a truly spectacular bout of diabolo-celestial gastrointestinal distress, which culminated in the rehabilitation of Godstiel back to plain old Castiel, at the expense of blowing up Bobby's house, from the toilet outwards.
It had given Bobby a chance to rebuild Casa Singer, a bit bigger, a bit better, and with a few additional features (although Dean did not get his fireman's pole down to a garage underneath the room he shared with Sam, and Sam did not get his solar powered greenhouse for growing organic salad greens). For a start, the Winchesters got an en suite, so he didn't have to yell at them to hurry up in the bathroom or leave some hot water for him. He'd also treated himself to the installation of a large spa bath in the main bathroom, which he found he really appreciated in his seventies after the arthritis fairy visited. It was a marvel of modern plumbing, it really was, with adjustable jets, and variable pump speeds. Sometimes Sam liked to read in there. And Dean, well, he didn't like to think too hard about what Dean liked doing in there…
The muted hum of the pump starting up was just audible downstairs, where Bobby and Ronnie were clearing up the last of the party's detritus. Bobby looked up and chuckled.
"Heh heh," he grinned, "I mighta guessed they'd find the bath."
Ronnie checked her watch. "Probably figured that they should get ready for bed before they're told," she guessed. "I bet Paul was the one who said they should do that."
"We'll end up shovelin' bubbles off the floor," Bobby warned her, "There was this time, once, when RJ was about two years old, and he wanted bubble bath, so Dean poured Sam's shower wash in there, and started it up, and when I finally went to investigate, there they are, with RJ sittin' on the vanity, laughin' his head off, while Dean is sculptin' a castle in foam about three feet high…"
"Well, a sleepover is supposed to be fun," she smiled at him. "Maybe we can take their sleeping bags upstairs for them."
"And do tooth brushin' inspection," Bobby added, "Although they'll be snackin' all night, so I don't know why we'd bother."
"So I can look their mothers in the eye tomorrow, and tell them we did," Ronnie reminded him.
She headed out to the back room where RJ's three school friends had dumped their overnight bags and sleeping gear, while Bobby went to fetch the pump for the air mattresses.
"That's weird," she commented when they met at the bottom of the stairs, "Their bags are still there."
"If I find out that somebody has organized some sort o' streakin' contest, I will not be amused," frowned Bobby. "We'd better check on 'em."
A sudden cheer sounded from upstairs.
"Right now," he added.
They headed up the stairs.
About half way up, the carpet squelched.
"Oh, balls."
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"Go Connor!" cheered Karl, as Connor thrashed determinedly up and down, eyes squinted against the spray from the jets running at full power and the taps going full blast.
"That's really getting up some splash!" declared Takumi.
"He is splashing the most so far," agreed Paul, eyeing the height of the waves in the tub critically, "But he's going up and down. I think you might have actually displaced more water, RJ…"
Reluctantly, Connor clambered out of the tub, and RJ got back in. He began to thrash from side to side determinedly.
"Swim, RJ, swim!" they cheered, as the youngest Winchester did his best merman impression.
"Now try with your arms!" instructed Paul, as RJ obliged.
Which is how Ronnie found them when she burst in through the door ahead of Bobby.
Some time later she would remind Dean of the scene, five boys in their shorts, dripping wet, four cheering madly while his son splashed around like a man possessed. "The way he was thrashing about, I thought there must be a hairdryer in there with him," she laughed, "I wish I'd at least had the presence of mind to throw a load of laundry in with him."
As it was , she let out a roar, and bellowed in an accent so broad that they could barely understand her:
"ROBERT JOHN WINCHESTER WHAT THE BLOODY HELL D'YA THINK YER PLAYIN' AT?"
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"Your Mom is seriously scary," murmured Karl, wringing out his towel into the bucket.
"You don't know the half of it," Connor grumbled, doing likewise.
"Her teeth looked real big in the bathroom light," commented Takumi.
"I don't think she's very happy with us," sighed Paul. "You know, I could've sworn that she growled at us…"
"Dad says that Auntie Ronnie is the world's crankiest… person," RJ informed them.
"So does my Dad," confirmed Connor.
"Why did they get married, then?" asked Paul.
Connor considered the question. "Mom says, the pretty ones fainted at the sight of her, and the smart ones saw her coming," he answered, "And Dad says she's a really good cook, and he couldn't let that go."
"They probably just wanted to do sex," grinned RJ.
"You don't have to get married to do sex," scoffed Karl, "My big brother does it, and he's not married."
"And Uncle Sammy says that Uncle Dean does it all the time," Connor added, "But he also says, he's seriously going to Hell."
"What, for doing sex?" asked Takumi.
"For doing everything, I think," replied Connor.
A low growl travelled to them through the stairs, but when they whipped around, there was just Ms Shepherd standing there, with the sort of expression that RJ was more used to seeing on his Uncle Sammy's face.
"How are we doing here?" she asked.
"Uh, I think it's about as dry as it's going to get, Ms Shepherd," Paul ventured. They all nodded.
She relented. "Okay, then, well, maybe you should all go and get ready for bed. You probably don't need to shower, given that you've all thrashed around in enough water to wash a bloody hippopotamus. Go on."
They dropped their towels in the buckets, and headed up the stairs, but as they did so, the rumble of a large engine pulling into the yard sounded in the darkness outside.
"Dad!" yelled RJ, dropping his towel and running for the door, "Dad's home!"
He tore outside, and barely waited for his father to get out of the car before he was upon him. "Dad!"
"Hey there, Tiger!" Dean smiled, and grabbed his son up, "Happy Birthday, dude!"
"You get the job done?" asked RJ. "Uncle Sammy, are you okay?"
"I sure am," confirmed Sam, getting out of shotgun and heading for the trunk.
"So, how's your sleepover going?" Dean asked, "You guys been having fun today?"
"Uh, yeah," RJ replied, "But we've had a bit of a hitch tonight."
"A hitch?" Dean quirked an eyebrow. "What sort of a hitch?"
RJ sighed heavily. "I think I oughta warn you," he began ominously, "That Auntie Ronnie is really, really seriously cranky."
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"Mermen!" Bobby shook his head and chuckled, pouring Dean another drink. "They were tryin' to work out what sort of tail would be better for a merman, a dolphin tail or a shark tail."
"And they decided to use the tub upstairs for their test tank," Ronnie rolled her eyes.
"That would explain why the stairs were damp," nodded Sam. "What the hell prompted them to wonder about merpeople? They don't even exist!"
"I gave 'em some harmless monster books to look at," shrugged Bobby, "And I guess nine year old imaginations took over."
"Oh, God, Bobby, I'm sorry," moaned Dean.
"Stairs'll dry," the old Hunter shrugged, "And they've finally managed to tire themselves out." Their eyes all rolled upwards – it was blissfully quiet upstairs, where the researchers had finally fallen asleep.
"They've managed to tire me out, too," Ronnie yawned. "How come I got to be the mean parent, and you got to be the nice one, Bobby?"
"Because I'm dear, dodderin' old Grandpa Bobby," he beamed, "And spoilin' kids rotten is what grandparents do."
"You didn't spoil us," humphed Dean.
"You weren't grandchildren," Bobby stated, "And grandchildren, they're your revenge on your kids."
"I'll check on 'em before I turn in," Ronnie said, standing up and yawning again, "If they decide to investigate the possibility of improvising explosive devices from household cleaning products during the night, you're on your own."
"You two should turn in as well," Bobby gruffed, "You look dead on your feet. Go on, I just gotta go check round the place."
"Thanks, Bobby," Dean said before following his brother, "This meant a lot to RJ."
"Don't thank me yet," Bobby sniffed, "You can oversee the horde tomorrow before pick-up time."
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He headed out once he was certain that the rest of the house was asleep.
With a torch and a certain amount of swearing, Bobby carefully picked his way through the dark to the stream at the bottom of the yard, with old Rumsfeld trotting stiffly but loyally at his side. He made his way to the swimming hole, and picked his way carefully to the water's edge.
"Ethyl!" he called as loudly as he dared, "Ethyl, you there?"
A small bow wave glided across the still water. When it was a stone's throw from the land, a head broke the surface.
"Singer Bobby!" smiled the pale female face, "It has been many tides since you came to speak to me, Singer Bobby."
"Yeah, well, it's gettin' harder," he apologized, "On account of more people bein' around. We gotta keep you safe."
She nodded at his concern.
"The thing is, Ethyl," he went on, "You know I've had a bunch of youngsters here today…"
"I saw the young," she smiled, "They played. They were happy. You were happy."
"Yeah, well, they've been amusin' themselves at the expense of my floors…"
He explained what had happened, and she laughed, shaking her head at the fancies of the young.
"It was not me, Singer Bobby," she assured him, "I would never show myself to walkers. You know that."
"I didn't think you would," he told her, "But I had to ask. I don't mind you vacationing down here, but, well, you know it's just better for everybody if nobody knows you're here. Or that you exist."
"Yes," she agreed, the single word carrying the import of what he said.
"Well, you enjoy yourself," he told her, "The kid goes back to school in a couple of days, and the idjits will be off on another Hunt, so maybe I can sneak down here again to chew the fat."
"I would enjoy that," she smiled. "Goodnight, Singer Bobby. Rest well."
"Night, Ethyl. Oh," he turned back, "There was one thing, maybe you could clear up for me…"
She laughed at his question, then flipped her own tail out of the water by way of demonstration. He thanked her, then headed back to the house.
Maybe he couldn't tell they boys – one day, he might tell RJ, he mused – but at least he wouldn't be awake all night wondering about merman anatomy.
So, whaddyareckon? Is this little exercise a goer?
Review and then prompt
'Til the bunnies are stompt!
