Who wouldn't extol the therapeutic attributes of Motorhead? I spent last Saturday night being soothed by them. All good fun. Especially since my hearing was so screwed up for two days afterwards that on Monday I sat through a three-hour 'group facilitation session' (read: You Are Not Allowed To Refer To Idiots As Idiots But Must Pretend To Respect Them) and couldn't hear a bloody thing. Talk about relaxing…
Chapter 4
"Footballer, anti-inflammatory gel."
Moira Kenneally looked up, and saw the man her younger colleague was referring to. She smiled.
"New father. Junior is griping, or teething," she corrected, taking in his tired face and harassed/bemused/bordering-on-homicidal expression at a glance. Jenny was only a few years out of graduation, and had been far more interested in the man's height and build, which was perfectly all right, as long as she ogled discreetly ("No drooling on the customers, Jen," Moira often teased her, "Or I'll take their dry-cleaning expenses out of your wages.") It was their private joke, just like the game of Who Are You And Why Are You Here that they sometimes played in quieter moments.
After more than thirty years as a pharmacist, Moira was much better at this game. She claimed victory when the tired-looking man trudged to the infant care section. "That's four jelly beans you owe me already this morning," she declared in triumph.
"You cheat, I don't know how, but you do," sighed Jenny melodramatically as Moira laughed and moved to help her latest customer. Interesting, she thought, how someone so tall managed to look like a lost and anxious five-year-old…
"Can I help you?" she asked kindly.
"Uh, I hope so," he answered, sounding a bit vague. "I need, um, something for teething pain. Not for me. For my, er…"
"First one, huh?" she sympathised.
He nodded ruefully. "We've tried giving him, you know, things to chew on, but that only helps for a few minutes at a time."
"Well, they're all different, you have to find what works for yours," she told him. "How's Mom holding up?"
The change in his expression spoke volumes. "Er, not happy," he said. "I mean, teething is a natural part of growing up, right? It's going to hurt, but it's not fatal. He's unhappy, and it's sore, but he'll grow through it, and getting hysterical about it isn't going to improve the situation…"
"You're right," she agreed, "But it's hard to be rational about it when it's your own. Especially the first one. Keeping you up nights, hmmmm?" she asked.
"Not him, exactly," the tall man replied, "He's a bit grizzly, lets out the odd yelp, but mostly it's my… wife who's keeping the house awake. …She insists on sitting with him, and doesn't trust me to take care of him properly." He let out a sigh. "Night before last, she kept throwing things at me to wake me, up to and including a lampshade. Last night, while I went to get dinner, she hid half a dozen mobile phones in the bedroom, so she could wake me up when she wanted something, including pie at 3 a.m. - each time I found one and turned it off, she rang another one. If I dare suggest that… she is in any way over-reacting or being overly demanding, it's taking my life in my hands." He sighed resignedly. "I don't suppose you have something for a bad case of… Momzilla?" he asked, giving the distinct impression he was actually peeking up at her through his shaggy hair. "Short of, um, cyanide?" He paused. "Did I just say that out loud?"
Moira laughed. Under the pretence of being helpful, Jenny had discreetly sidled up to her and handed over a tube of teething gel, taking the opportunity to ogle a little closer. "This helps a lot of kids," she told him, "Although when I had mine, a little bit of clove oil in some olive oil was the done thing. Have you tried him with cold food?"
"Chewing things didn't seem to help him much…"
"Try cold food," she suggested, "Encourage him to suck on them, hold them in his mouth, rather than chew. Frozen peas worked for one of mine. Frozen carrots, celery. And if it gets really bad," she leaned in conspiratorially, "I did on a few occasions dip the corner of a washcloth in brandy, and let the little one suck on that." She looked thoughtful. "By the time things had gotten that bad, a small nip for Mom was usually appreciated, too."
He looked at her dubiously. "Er, isn't alcohol bad for the developing brain?" he asked cautiously.
"Apparently, in this day and age, everything is bad for children," she replied. "Mine grew up to be a doctor, an engineer, and a lawyer, so the worst I could say was that it caused interesting arguments around the dinner table at family events. My own Mom swore she rubbed rum on our gums, and that did the trick."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I think that… Dee would like the idea of alcohol involvement."
He thanked her, and bought the teething gel. And a packet of jelly beans, because it's a scientifically proven fact that a majority of humans cannot go into a pharmacy and not pick up a packet of jelly beans when they're right there at the counter. She was handing over his change when his phone rang; she didn't mean to listen in, really she didn't, but the tone of the voice on the other end was clearly apparent, strident, and it became shriller with each pause …
"Hey, I… What? I answered on the second ring!... Yeah, I've just bought some… No I haven't, it's been less than half an hour!... I will, I will, but there's no point getting ice until I'm on my way back… Hang on, it's… 0.33 oz… that's the size it comes in! You can't buy this stuff in bulk! How much do you… okay, point taken… Okay, okay, sure, can you just try to calm down a little… I am not making light of this, I just think… " He jerked, and held the phone away from his ear. Their eyes met, and Moira gave him a sympathetic smile. "Look, why don't I just get back home as soon as I can, okay, maybe I could take over sofa duty for you for…"
The angry shrieking clearly audible through the phone indicated that Biggun's wife did not think he was capable of soothing their youngster. Moira grinned to herself, politely turning away – a mom watching over a distressed baby could be more ferocious than a wolf protecting a pup…
"Uh-huh… uh-huh… okay, I'll be quick as I can. Uh-huh… right, apple or cherry? Both? Okay. Back soon. Love you too, sweetheart," he said through clenched teeth, ending the call mid-shriek. He gave Moira a brief thumbs up, and left her shop.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Where the hell have you been?" demanded Dean angrily when Sam walked back into the sitting room. "Did you get it? Where's my coffee? Where's our pie? Did you get soup? How much ice did you bring back? What took you so long?"
Patience is a virtue, Sam chanted to himself, Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue, and if you cut his throat Bobby will be really annoyed at the bloodstains on the floor…
"I had to go to several drugstores to get this stuff," he answered, "Because I couldn't very well go in and say, 'Could you sell me a whole box of these at once, because I want to use it on a Hellhound, well, a half-Hellhound to be exact, and I need a lot, although it's mostly to try to shut my brother up because he's totally over-reacting…'." He handed over a bag of small tubes. "Here, there's swabs in there too, knock yourself out."
"Bitch," muttered Dean, starting on the task of smearing teething gel on Jimi's gums. "If you could remember what a little pain in the ass you were when you were teething, you'd be more sympathetic. Jesus, you kept us awake for a week at a time."
"So, now you're getting payback, huh?" griped Sam, handing over coffee and pie. "One of the pharmacists suggested trying some cold food things, so I've got those chilling down in the freezer. If this doesn't work we can try those."
"Let's just try this," said Dean, yanking his hand out of the way as a helltooth slid into view, eliciting a small whine from Jimi. "Hopefully, it will… hey!" Jimi sniffed at the gel-covered swab, then grabbed it and ate it. "Hey! Don't do that!"
"Maybe that's a good sign," suggested Sam, "Maybe that means he's hungry."
"Go fix him some soup," Dean instructed, picking up another swap, "If this helps his mouth, he might be more comfortable… Jimi!" Jimi grabbed the tube of teething gel out of Dean's hand, and ate it, swallowing, then letting out a small burp. "It goes on your gums, fella!"
Before Dean's fatigue-dulled reflexes could stop him, Jimi plunged his nose into the paper bag, taking out another tube, and chewing thoughtfully on it.
"That's interesting," mused Sam, "How he's self-medicating, I mean."
Jimi swallowed, burped, and turned on the Big Brown Eyes – he really didn't feel much like eating, but those little chewy treats were moorish. Dean just stared at him in resignation, so he helped himself to another one out of the bag.
Dean sighed. "Soup. Now, Samantha," he reiterated.
"Right away, honey," muttered Sam sotto voce as he headed for the kitchen.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Frozen carrot and celery," explained Sam later as Dean eyed him dubiously. Jimi lifted his head briefly to see what was being offered. Initially he seemed disappointed that he wasn't being given any more of those tasty little chewy treats that made his tongue go all tingly, but he took the frozen carrot, then dropped his head heavily back to Dean's lap with a sigh. "Try to get him to hold it in his mouth, suck on it, rather than chew it."
Jimi shut his mouth on the carrot, and made a few slurping noises, apparently content to let it rest against his gums.
"It seems to be working," observed Dean, a trace of hope on his face, "Give him another one for the other side." Sam handed over a celery stick.
They sat like that for a couple of minutes, then Jimi yawned, yelped, and sort of spat…
Two neat piles of perfectly julienned vegetables fell into Dean's lap.
"Okaaaaay, not exactly what I was expecting," admitted Sam, giving the dog another carrot.
A few minutes later, another pile of uniformly slivered carrot was deposited on Dean's lap.
"It takes chefs years to learn how to do that well," commented Bobby when wandered through, bringing more coffee. "The next time I'm entertaining and need help preparing the crudités, I know who to ask."
Dean let his head fall backwards onto the sofa with a defeated groan.
"Er, let's try the peas," suggested Sam, fetching the packet from the kitchen. "He can't shred these as such." He offered a handful to Jimi, who sniffed at them, then carefully licked them up, sucking them around in his mouth.
"Oh, he's just swallowed them," said Dean, disappointed, scratching the dog's ears. "You have to hold 'em in your mouth for longer than that, fella, the idea is to let the cold sit against your…"
Jimi suddenly sneezed.
A definite 'bang' noise accompanied the sneeze.
On the other side of the room, a small ceramic figurine exploded.
"What the hell was that?" asked Dean, peering out carefully from behind the sofa where both Winchesters had taken refuge.
"Er, Jimi sneezed," Sam told him in a bemused voice. "The, er, high-speed projectile, I have a nasty suspicion..."
Jimi twitched his nose. "Snrf!" he went.
bang
A picture frame on the mantel shattered.
Bobby suddenly burst into the room, gun at the ready. "Drop it!" he bellowed.
"Hang fire! Hang fire!" shouted Dean from behind the sofa.
Jimi gave him a tired doggy grin. Then sneezed.
bang
A chunk of plaster flew from the wall beside Bobby's elbow.
"What the hell are you idjits playing at in here?" he demanded, squeezed in uncomfortably beside Dean behind the sofa.
"Peas," Sam sighed tiredly, "We were trying the frozen peas. After he just kept julienning the carrots and celery…"
"Snrf!" bang
"… I thought we should try the frozen peas."
"Only he wouldn't hold them in his mouth," explained Dean, "He sucked on them for a bit, then swallowed them…"
"Snrf!" bang
"... And now, fuck knows how, but he appears to be…"
"Snrf!" bang
"... Firing frozen peas." Dean risked a peek over the back of the sofa.
"Snrf!" bang
"At extremely high velocity."
"Snrf!" bang
"Out his nose."
"Snrf-flflf!" bang bang
"Oh, hey, both barrels at once…"
"Snrf!" bang
CRASH!
Bobby chanced a look. "Oh well," he muttered, "I never did like that lamp much, anyway."
"At least Dean won't have a chance to throw it at me," added Sam, looking on the bright side. "I wonder if he has some allergy to peas, legumes perhaps, although he eats enough of Dean's peanut M&Ms without any ill effects – have you ever noticed him firing M&Ms, Dean? I'm pretty sure we'd have noticed if he started firing M&Ms."
"Snrf!" bang
"Er, no, no, I've never noticed him do that," answered Dean.
"Maybe the chocolate defuses them," wondered Sam. "We could do an experiment, feed him plain peanuts, and see if they work as, er, nasal ammunition…"
"Snrf!" bang
"… Then you'd have to get some chocolate-coated peas, and try those, see if the chocolate coating really has a defusing effect…"
"Snrf!" bang
"Much as I hate to interrupt your Mythbusters moment," growled Bobby, wincing as something else shattered, "How many peas did you give him?"
Sam looked non-plussed. "Um, a handful," he replied. "About a dozen, I guess, maybe twenty?"
"Fourteen shots fired so far," reported Dean gloomily.
"We'd best just stay put for the time being," suggested Bobby. "Either of you chuckleheads think to bring a deck of cards?"
Jimi fired off a few more peas, and when the sneezing seemed to have stopped, all three Hunters emerged from behind the sofa. A few items were broken, a dozen neat round holes decorated the walls, and one of the windows had a tiny, perfectly circular perforation barely half an inch across in a bottom corner.
"Wow, he was packing some firepower," mused Sam. "Memo, Dean. Do Not Feed Jimi Peas Again In A Hurry."
"HUA," agreed Dean, taking up position on the sofa with Jimi once more. The dog slumped back down, head in his lap, and looked up, tired and mournful. Both Jimi and Dean let out large, tired sighs.
"It could've been worse," humphed Dean glumly, "They could've gone all the way through to the other end before he started firing." He turned bleary eyes to Sam. "So, apart from boat-tailed hollow point peas, you got anything else in your bag of tricks?"
"Yeah," Sam told him, fishing a small bottle of liquor out of his bag, "One of the pharmacists said to use this if it got really bad." He picked up a clean washcloth, and dampened the end with brandy. "Try this."
Dean took the washcloth, and stuffed the corner into his own mouth. "Hmmmm," he sighed, eyelids drooping, "This is good stuff…" He glared at his brother. "Don't just stand there, Francis," he ordered, "Make one for the dog!"
The frozen peas idea came from Bartlebead - blame her. My Mum apparently dunked my dummy in sherry, so you can blame her for any brain damage it caused that gave rise to my tendency to write silly fanfics. See? Ultimately, none of this is my fault...
Every time you leave a review, somebody fires frozen peas into Celine Dion in an alternative universe and they go all the way through and all her blood oozes away and her lungs leak out and her head implodes and her arse falls off and she dies on E three octaves above middle C.