Chapter Eleven
Sam finally pulled the Impala off the road, and into a drive beside a pick-up that had a kiddy seat in the back and a small pet crate beside it. RJ was apparently going to set a personal best for staying asleep, so he opened the car door as quietly as possible, then made his way to the house with Lars at his heels.
The knock on the door sounded far too loud, and he turned briefly to see whether the noise had woken Dean or RJ. He turned back when he heard the door open.
And let out a small shriek as he began to reach for a weapon, then stopped himself.
"Oh, er," he stammered, "Sorry. Hi. Um."
Ronnie cocked an eyebrow at him.
"It's just that, for a moment, you kind of looked, you know," he began, taking in the bags under her eyes and waving a hand vaguely at the wild tangle of her hair that was usually tidied away in a businesslike braid.
"I look like shit," she stated bluntly.
"Well," Sam continued, trying for tact then giving up, "The immediate word that jumped into my head was, uh, 'Gorgon'…"
"I've had worse," sighed Ronnie, "If the worst thing I have to deal with in a day is not having time to do my hair, that's a good day." She peered past him, looking towards the Impala. "So, where's the brat? And where's his kid?"
"Asleep," he replied, his tone conveying just what a relief that was.
"Fine," she grunted, "Come on in, then."
"I'll just go get Dean," he began, turning as spoke, but she grabbed his arm.
"No," she said levelly, "Come on in."
"But Dean and RJ…"
"Are asleep," she said firmly, "Lesson Number One: Let sleeping babies lie, Sam. There's no need to tiptoe around 'em, but once the sprog is out cold, leave 'em that way, unless there's imminent threat of a direct nuclear strike, and only then if it's likely to be more than a megaton in yield. They're perfectly safe."
Sam looked back to the Impala. Dean and RJ snoozed on, while Lemmy sat silent but watchful as sentinel.
"I guess so," he smiled.
"So, come on in," she repeated, "I'll put on coffee, and you can fill me in on what the fuck."
"Are you breastfeeding Connor?" asked Sam anxiously, "Because if you are, it's probably not a good idea to drink coffee, I was reading this site when I was trying to find out about formula and stuff, and…"
A nearly subsonic rumble of a growl that travelled to him through the floor brought him up short. Ronnie was either smiling unpleasantly, or snarling politely.
"Sam," she said in a carefully even voice, "Rule Number Two: do not presume to instruct a mother on how to raise her pup unless you are her consulting paediatrician, or you find her assaulting it with a blunt instrument."
"But…" he protested.
"Sam," she went on, "How many pregnancies have you carried to parturition?"
"Er, none," he answered.
"Do you know what it's like to feel as if somebody is tearing part of your guts out through a teeny tiny little orifice down south?" she pressed.
"No, uh, no, I don't," he shook his head.
She did The Smile again. "Would you LIKE to?"
"Um," he smiled back sheepishly, almost completely sure that she was not serious.
"Good," she grunted, satisfied, "Now, coffee. Not just for my benefit; I can't help but notice that you are not, frankly, looking your usual energetic and charmingly boyish dimpled self. In fact, if I'm going to be Medusa, you are definitely Stheno or Eurale."
"I did my hair this morning," he complained half-heartedly.
"Stand a little closer to the brush next time," she instructed. :"It's something of a pity you're not an actual Gorgon; I have a distinct feeling that right now I'd enjoy getting stoned. Come on."
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"Hell's bells," was all Ronnie could say, bug-eyed, as the coffee brewed and Sam explained in more detail how RJ had come to be, then arrived suddenly in their lives just a few days ago. "Or, as Bobby would say, God's tits."
"And Satan's toilet tissue," agreed Sam. "The thing is, I'm worried that Dean's being a bit, well, slack about stuff with RJ. Like hygiene."
"He washes him daily?" she asked, handing him a steaming mug. "Feeds him when he's hungry? Changes him when he's wet? Cuddles him when he's upset? Cuddles him just because?"
"Yeah, of course," Sam acknowledged as he followed her to the living room, "But the other day, when he was putting the crib together, and then when he was getting a bottle ready, he put RJ on the floor, on the blanket, with the dogs, and you can't tell me that's…"
As he spoke, his eyes slid sideways to the floor where Lita, Lars and Lemmy's litter-sister, was curled protectively around Connor as he napped. The dog raised her head as Sam entered, then, satisfied that he was not a threat, wagged her tail a few times.
Ronnie followed Sam's gaze, and grinned. "Dean is being practical," she told him. "Anyway, it's quite normal for members of a pack to co-operate in raising pups. They seem to enjoy it. I know Lita does. And Connor certainly likes it."
"Yeah, but, uh, how do I put this?" Sam replied, "Connor is a werewolf. RJ is a human. Well, Aphrodite says he is, so if you don't count the whole Living Sex God thing, he's human."
"Try telling Lars and Lemmy that," she stifled a snort of laughter. "As far as they'll be concerned, he's the youngest pup of their pack. Hey," she chided, "Dean did a pretty good job raising you, yeah?"
"Yeah," Sam agreed with a smile, "He did an awesome job of raising me. But he was a kid raising a kid, and now…"
"Now he's a dad raising a kid," she said firmly, "And I'm betting that, for all his infuriating smug arrogant cockiness, he's intent on doing the best he possibly can for his son."
"Well, yeah," Sam nodded, "But he knows better – we know better – now. I've been trying to do some research, when I can keep my eyes open, anyway, and there are a lot of sites that say…"
"Lesson Number Three," sighed Ronnie, taking a long swig of coffee. "The internet is a great place to find pictures of pissed off cats, long-lost royal family members from Nigeria and, incidentally, some pretty imaginative fanart by people who are addicted to Carver Edlund's 'Supernatural' books." She paused while he let out a small squeak of horror. "I was bored, all right? Seriously, if Bobby EVER finds out about the ones who draw him and Crowley – what has been seen cannot be unseen – but I suggest you don't use it to instruct your brother in kid wrangling. It'll end in tears, Sam. Yours, most likely."
"Uh, okay," he said, not sounding completely convinced.
"Look, I've had six months to figure it out this far," she smiled. "I have figured out from personal experience that if the kid is wearing odd socks because I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to find two socks, let alone make sure they're the same colour, the world doesn't end. If the dishes sit in the sink overnight, and I have chocolate cake for breakfast, the sun still comes up. I let him suck on the dog's toys because it keeps him quiet. I put him in the bath with the dog, if necessary – and I'm not too fussy about whether I use baby wash, or dog shampoo. I stick him and Lita in front of the TV to watch 'Evil Dead II' if I really need to shower, or eat, or just go stand in the backyard for ten minutes, because apparently he loves it. So call CPS. There's theoretical best practice, then there's reality." She peered at him. "You know you got a bit of spit-up on your shirt?"
"Eugh! Where?" Sam looked down and began to paw at the small splodge he hadn't noticed.
"Toughen up, princess," she laughed, "Unless you want to spend your entire life in the laundry, you'll learn to live with the occasional spot."
"Oh, God," Sam dropped his head into his hands, "And I thought we really needed somewhere to stop so that Dean and RJ could adjust…"
From outside, they heard two voices being raised: RJ let out a wail, and Dean yelled 'Saaaaaaaaam!"
"Time to go 'fess up," Ronnie told Sam. "Sounds like they're both hungry. Look on the bright side, if he does kill you, you won't have to wash any more baby clothes."
"Do you have a dog toy I could give to Dean to chew on?" Sam asked plaintively.
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Dean offered the minimum resistance to Sam's Plan B required to preserve his manly, fatherly, and big brotherly dignity as Sam hefted bags to bring into the house, and Ronnie steered Dean inside with Lars and Lemmy trotting protectively on either side of him. The sounds of awakened squalling from the living room suggested that Connor was stirring too. Lita remained protectively curled around Connor as her brothers approached submissively, ears and tails down, to sniff at her charge.
"For the record, this was not my idea," growled Dean. jiggling a grizzling RJ.
"For the record, it wasn't mine either," she told him, gruffing briefly to the dogs. "Just try to concentrate on the fact that the fridge here is always full of red meat. Come and get his feed ready."
When Sam returned on the next trip, he saw the three dogs and the two babies lying in a heap together. The dogs whuffed and licked soothingly at the fussing boys, who were clearly ready for a feed. He sighed, winced, and turned away.
"He's definitely yours," commented Ronnie as Dean shook up a bottle of formula. "Those lips and those eyes are the dead giveaway."
"Yeah, he's cute," Dean agreed, smiling, "But he's been pretty hard to settle."
"I wonder if he's teething?" she pondered out loud. "Has he been chewing on much?"
"Only on everything," Dean rolled his eyes as he tested the bottle temperature, "Including Sam. Who doesn't cope with it very well."
"We can have a look then," she announced, not making it a question, as they headed for the living room. "May I?" Dean wasn't certain if the question was addressed to him, or to Lars and Lemmy, but with his nod, she picked up RJ, who stared at her and pulled a face. She let her features change, and her fangs descend, and pulled a face back.
"If you freak my kid out, I will end you," growled Dean, tensing.
RJ squealed with laughter, batting at her face to make her do it again.
"Some days, watching Daddy do the face-thing is all that will get Connor to stop screaming," she shrugged, rubbing a finger over his lower gum, "Ohhh yeah, you got at least one bad boy on the way here. No wonder he's unsettled. Here," she handed RJ to Dean, and the youngster waved his hands and babbled for his bottle, "Fill the tank." She began to unbutton her shirt. I'd better do the same with Connor, if we want peace for a little bit."
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"Okay, that's the last of our stuff in the guest room," said Sam, heading into the living room, "So, despite what Dean may say, we're both reall-HOLY SHIT!"
Dean looked up from where RJ was gurgling away with happy little noises. He gave his brother a long look.
"Sam," he began sternly, "Please tell me you are not one of these people who's squeamish about breast-feeding. That's totally 20th century, dude."
"Uh, no, no," gulped Sam.
"Because it's just natural," Dean went on, "And I'm sure that you'd be the first to tell Ronnie that, if it's possible for Mom to do it, it gives Baby the best possible start."
"Uh, yeah, sure, sure," stuttered Sam.
"There's absolutely nothing confrontational about a baby being breast-fed," stated Dean firmly. "Surely you've seen it before?"
"I agree with you," Sam nodded hurriedly, "I've seen women feeding their kids before. The point is, they usually stay, uh, humanoid while they do it..."
The female werewolf, stretched out on the larger sofa with her fluffy pup curled against her and feeding noisily, winked at him."
"She said that Connor usually prefers to shift to feed," Dean explained.
"That could be awkward if you were out in public somewhere," Sam replied dubiously.
"She said it made one of his check-ups decidedly interesting," Dean relayed. "It's all about timing, apparently." He regarded his brother thoughtfully. "You know, I think it might be a good idea for us to be here after all. You clearly need some time to adjust to the situation, Francis."
"Wha-? I need…?" Sam drooped and sighed, deciding that the path of least resistance would be… the least resistant. "Yeah," he agreed, "You're right. Totally."
"Of course I am," Dean beamed with infuriating smugness, "Now, come over here, and sit down."
"Dean," Sam began warily, "The last time you said that, you made me practise holding him. Please tell me you're not going to make me practise holding him."
"I'm not going to make you practise holding him," replied Dean.
"Uh-huh," Sam said dubiously as he sat.
Dean deftly handed RJ to him before his brother could protest. "I'm going to make you practise feeding him," he smiled.
"Huh? Dean!" Sam's protest was even more strident than RJ's, who let out a displeased squall when his bottle was taken away. "No! No! No no no nonono… er, hi again," he smiled weakly at RJ.
Ronnie somehow contrived to snigger in a way that should've been impossible for a canoid.
The boy stared at his uncle, made a demanding noise, and whacked him in the ribs. "Ow! Pushy when he wants a drink, he is so your kid…"
"So, here's your spit-up cloth," Dean wrapped it over Sam's shoulder, "And here's his bottle, now, hold his head up with this arm, and hold the bottle like this… see? He's doin' all the work."
Sam was concentrating so hard on not dropping RJ or the bottle that it took him a couple of minutes to notice…
"Dean, you jerk, this spit-up cloth is one of my shirts again!"
Every time you leave a review, Nathaniel the plot bunny digs a tunnel into the mountain of fluff under which this story is burying me so that he can dictate some more. *coff coff*
