AN: Loves to all who reviewed and alerted and faved. On a side note...I'm evil. You'll see why. This one's kinda for Autumn who hearts the Dean and Peggy relationship (and I do too, they're so funny to write).
Eleven: Pause
She finds Dean first, blissed out on the grass near the hoard of classic cars, lying on his back and basking in the morning sunshine like he does on her rooftop garden. He's got his arms folded behind his head, shoes kicked off and a big silly grin on his face.
She adores seeing him like this, because she knows he gets so little time to be like this.
Peggy tosses her bag down beside him and lets her legs fold under her, coming to rest with the small of her back against his left hip. Dean doesn't stir. His smile becomes a bit more pronounced though, and he says, "You just missed him. He snuck off about ten minutes ago."
"No doubt to escape the incoherent motor-babble."
One green eye peels half-way open and regards her. Peggy grins unrepentantly over her shoulder at him.
"You just wait," he tells her. "You'll get yours."
She laughs, tipping her head back and enjoying the sun, safe in the knowledge that her all-day sun block will save her from uber-freckles and a red nose.
"Any idea where he snuck off too?"
"Is there somewhere selling books?"
"Three different stalls."
"Find the one hawking off the oldest stuff, and you'll find Sam."
"Or I could just text him."
"…or you could just text him."
Peggy snickers, twisting in place and reaching over him to dig in her back for her phone. She rests one hand on his chest for balance, earning a half-annoyed grunt from Dean.
"What am I to you, a piece of furniture?"
She smiles, pats his stomach. "Sure. I happen to think you'd make a great footstool."
Dean snorts and prods her ribs before dozing off while she texts Sam. Peggy leans back against his hip and stretches her legs out, arranging the skirt of her dress and crossing her ankles. In her minds eye, she pictures the elephant bead and turns it silently over and over. The sound of her phone going off startles her back to full awareness.
Msg from Sam: B back sn. Gettin sumthn. Wats Dean doin?
She texts back: Having a nap.
Msg from Sam: Ur kidding.
Nope. He's like a freakin cat.
She hits send and flicks her hair out of her face, gazing idly about, drinking in the market-day atmosphere that she's always loved. It's a far cry from the little Saturday morning affairs at Matakana and Waiheke at home, but every market everywhere is an echo of every market everywhere else, and the common elements make her happy. She loves the smell of food in the open air, the sunshine and the human chatter. Children laughing and running back and forth on the grass, stall-holders actually calling wares like she remembers from some of the larger European markets, young woman giving her the jealous, hairy eyeball…
Oh wait, that part's new.
And all your fault, she thinks, glancing over her shoulder at an oblivious Dean.
All the green looks she's getting…and it's all in vain. Peggy has never really set off Dean's shag-radar. Dean's never told her why, but she thinks he might when he's ready. Peggy knows why he doesn't set off hers; he's just too much like Tim.
Tim Patcher: leather jacket-wearing, motorbike-riding, sweetheart-breaking big brother number three. Tim, who bought her owl tat for her, taught her to ride his bike and dated no less than four of her friends in high school.
He's also part of the reason she gets along so well with Dean. The other part is that Dean's just easy to get along with if he wants to be. She knows he can be and ornery bastard when he wants to be, Sam has told her as much and there have been times over the past two months or so when she's talked him down from one of his more fraught moments. It was difficult, doing that over the phone, but she kept talking, and Dean kept listening, and things got calmer.
It's nice having someone she trusts and can be comfortable with.
Of course, that's not to say she doesn't want to strangle him sometimes.
Deano's not an idiot, and he and Sam have been practically living in each other's pockets for eons. The big man-slut's radar-o-lurve probably went off the charts with the way Peggy's been finding herself giggling and blushing with Sam. As if that's not bad enough…she's reasonably sure things on that score are mutual.
Reasonably sure.
Pretty sure.
It's not like he's made any moves or anything. Its mostly just the looks, and the little touches, and they fact that he'll grab her hand and lead her if he wants to show her something instead of shooing her like Dean does. And he always hangs on when she grabs his hand…and oh godly God, she's turned into a third-former navel-gazing over hand-holding.
Mental slap, she thinks. Mental. Slap.
It's at that point that the man of the hour arrives, striding towards them with his shades in place against the Californian sun, a bag of books in one hand and a small box of handmade chocolates in the other.
He smiles when he sees her, and it lights up his face.
Books. Chocolate. Unspeakable hotness.
Perfect man.
So very, very out of my league, thinks Peggy, perhaps a little miserably, but smiling sunnily the whole time.
Because really, when faced with that, what else is a girl to do?
AN2: Poor Peg. Ah well. I'm torturing Sam next, so all fair in thwarted love and war. Review sweet peas!
