Chapter Eleven
Ellen glared at Jo. "Stand down," she ordered, "He said no. When a man says no, he means no."
"He hasn't technically said no, yet," Jo grinned back.
"No!" squeaked Dean.
"Spoilsport," she sighed melodramatically, giving his ass a squeeze before backing off. "You weren't any better when we were kids," she smiled at Dean, "When we played kiss chase, you screamed whenever I caught you."
"I didn't like playing that game," muttered Dean, ears still red.
"You let Sam catch you and kiss you," Jo pointed out.
"He was a toddler, and he's my brother," Dean replied, edging behind Sam again, "It's perfectly normal to hug and kiss your baby brother, and let him hug and kiss you. And he never wanted to play 'Nurses and Patients'..."
"That was a cute little dress-up outfit I had, wasn't it?" Jo smiled happily at the recollection. "A little nurse's hat and cape, a little kiddie-sized doctor's bag, a little toy stethoscope..."
"You were a pervert even then!" declared Dean. "Even by kindergarten, everybody knows that the doctor listens to your heart at your chest – not by sticking the stethoscope down your pants..."
"It's perfectly normal for young children to be curious about each other's bodies," Jo waved a hand dismissively.
"It is not normal for grade school girls to threaten to tie their male friends to a tree and try to pants them!" Dean shot back.
"If you could just get your libido back on the leash for a moment, girl," rumbled Bobby in amusement, "Sam, I don't know if you remember Ellen, my business manager and financial wizard of a book-keeper, and of course Jo, Kiss Chase Champion for most of the 80s."
"Um, hi," stumbled Sam, as Ellen smiled maternally at him.
"It is so good to see you again, Sam," she told him, giving him a less boisterous hug than Jo had done. "And all grown up, too! We were all pretty much convinced that you were lost to us."
"Kiss Chase was so much harder once you were gone," Jo said, "Because I didn't have my wingman to grab Dean around the legs and help me hold him down."
"Oh. Er, I... don't expect me to help you with that anymore," Sam said eventually, as Dean shot him a grateful look, "Because Dean's kind of, er, paired off now."
"Oh, I know," sighed Jo, "But you can't blame a girl for trying. I mean, the worst that can happen is that he says no."
"Actually, the worst that could happen is that Ruby could tear your head right off and bleed you dry," Sam pointed out.
"Are you kidding?" humphed Dean. "Ruby thinks it's hilarious! She... she threatened to give me to Jo for Christmas, one year," he went on, blushing furiously again. "For two hours. Said she'd tie me to the bed with tinsel, and, and, tie a red ribbon in a bow around my... my..."
"That was a joke, Dean," Jo rolled her eyes. "She'd never do anything like that, and you know it."
"Well it wasn't the least bit funny," Dean scowled, blushing red again.
"Yes it was," Jo insisted.
"No, it wasn't," Dean griped.
"Actually, son, it was pretty damned funny," Bobby said.
"I hate you all," Dean mumbled. "The only person I like anymore is Meg, because her cupcakes are awesome. I don't care if she tortures old shirts."
Dean continued to mutter about the unacceptability of sexually objectifying anybody, because this was the 21st century, for fuck's sake, while Meg bustled around with hot drinks. John, Mary and Ruby arrived shortly afterwards. Ruby and Jo exchanged girl talk, and laughed when they got a squeal out of Dean by sneaking up on him and doing a bilateral ass grab.
"All you idjits are gonna hafta share rooms," Bobby observed, "Because we're gonna run outta space if everybody shows."
"The unwed ladies can bunk together," Ellen suggested.
"And we can sit up all night, and eat cookies, and do each other's hair, and giggle to keep you all awake and wondering what we're up to," added Ruby.
"Although you probably won't want to know," leered Jo.
"Oh, I don't know," mused John innocently. Mary gave him a dirty look.
"Anybody else expected?" Alistair asked.
"Andy said he'd be here," Bobby told him, "And," he went on, smiling broadly, "He's bringin' his lady friend."
Jo and Ruby gasped and beamed. "We finally get to meet her!" they enthused.
"Uh-huh," Bobby beamed, "But she's shy, so don't you bunch of idjits go scarin' the hell out of her. Oh, and our pet shark, of course, although he may be distracted, he smelled blood in the water in Ohio last week..."
Doc Crowley arrived shortly afterwards, greeting Alistair warmly, and taking Jo to task for harassing Dean. He insisted on examining his patient, declaring Sam well on the way to complete recovery. Alistair declared himself in intellectual nirvana as he now had two educated men to converse with.
Lunch seemed to consist of an indoor picnic of sandwiches, chicken, pastries and cupcakes, although Dean seemed to eat mainly cupcakes, for which Mary took him to task. His 'extended family' chattered and laughed around him in a very convivial atmosphere.
"So, Sam," Alistair asked, "Have you ever thought about going back to school?"
Mary clapped her hands. "Oh, that would be wonderful! We'd have another lawyer in the family!"
""How about it, son?" queried John, "Is it something you'd like to do? He could take his pick of colleges, you know," he told Alistair, beaming with pride, "He's scary smart. Knocked the LSAT out of the park."
Sam looked nonplussed. "Well, I, er, it's not, um..."
"There's no need to rush into it," John reassured him, "You have a lot of adjusting to do, coming back to your family. But think about it. We can send you anywhere you'd like to go!"
"I have many old friends at Cambridge," Alistair said, "I would be happy to get some admissions information for you."
"No, no, no," Doc Crowley gestured decisively with a chicken leg, "You need to check out Oxford. I'm still in touch with some of the faculty at St John's college – I'd love to head over there and show you around the place..."
"My boy will go to an American college," declared John, waving his own chicken leg just as assertively.
"John, just look at him!" Crowley said, "He was clearly designed to row. Those arms, those legs..."
"All that hair to flap in the breeze in a picturesque manner," added Dean.
"He can do that at Yale, or Harvard, or wherever he wants to go," John said firmly.
"If he wants to go," asserted Mary, smiling at Sam reassuringly. "He might not want to," she went on, "The decision is his."
"Are you kidding?" snorted John, "Of course he wants to go! A brain like that won't be content falling into line with his old man in the family business..."
"I could sure use him here, to take care of the other side of the business, books, artefacts, that sort of thing," Bobby nodded, "Half the stuff that comes in, I got no idea what it actually is, and I can't time to look at it, and experienced Hunter with an academic bent would be the ideal man..."
"Sam was on a Hunt when we found him," Dean mentioned, changing the subject, "Doing research. Weren't you, Sam?"
"Er, yeah," Sam finally managed to make his vocal cords work again, "Several disappearances, no apparent links, no suspicious circumstances, authorities not taking much of an interest..."
It was an extremely strange experience to have a brainstorming session with his family as to what might be causing people to go missing.
I might have something to add later on that topic, his brain piped up, Regarding Moira Parker. But right now it's time for my scuba diving lesson.
They were interrupted when a dog almost as large and ugly as Jimi came trotting into the room, made a beeline for where Dean's dog was snoozing in front of the fire, and snuffled affectionately at his ears.
"They're here!" beamed Bobby, "You mind what I said," he added sternly, greeting the new arrivals. "Andy, good to see you again, son," he clapped the middle-aged man on the shoulder. "You won't believe who's turned up!"
"Yes I will, because John called me three days ago," grinned the newcomer. "You must be Sam," he continued, holding out a hand.
"Andrew?" Sam blurted out in utter surprise.
"I never answered to that even as a kid, mate," he drawled in a broad northern Australian accent, with a smile that made the long scar running down his face pucker. "Makes me sound like me dad."
"Sam, this is Andy Jaeger, who does sterling work for me, and sometimes works with your dad if Team Winchester needs a bit of back-up," Bobby explained. "And this..." he prompted gently, smiling at the woman who appeared to be hiding behind Andy.
Andy cleared his throat. "Everybody," he said, "This is Veronica."
"Hi, everybody," she said in a shy voice, "I'm, um, I'm Veronica." Her accent had a slight Midwestern twang.
"Veronica, this is pretty much my family," Andy went on, "The old fart Singer you know, this is John and Mary, and their son Dean, that's his dog Jimi, he's Joni's brother, this is Ruby, and Ellen and Jo, and that guy sitting there looking like he'd rather be in a library is Alistair, and the Pommy bastard who's still sulking over the last Test Match is Doc Crowley..."
"Oh, great, the wild colonial boy is here," muttered Doc, "We'll just see how cocky you are next time I have to pull bullets out of your careless carcass, you Antipodean philistine."
"Way to go with completely overwhelming her, you big dope," Mary rolled her eyes and smacked Andy in the arm, "Hello, Veronica," she went on, smiling at the younger woman, "We're all so glad to meet you at last! We were so excited when we heard that you'd paired up with Andy. He needs somebody to keep him in line! Bobby said you were from Montana?..." Like a well-oiled machine, the womenfolk closed ranks to welcome the newcomer and moved to the sofas, as Meg magically appeared with a pot of coffee and more cupcakes.
"How the hell do they do that shit?" wondered Dean, "It's like they read minds, or something."
"Meg never magically appears with a tray of beers for us," Andy pointed out.
"It's a chick thing," shrugged Sam, "They network."
"Women tend to be the social organisers," Doc ventured, "It's probably an evolutionary thing, as modern humans evolved they were the social glue that held small hunting bands together, which was a survival trait."
"I've said it before, boys," John nodded sagely, "Do not fuck with The Sisterhood."
There was a general murmuring of agreement.
"So, gentlemen," Bobby said, "Poker?"
"Sounds good," smiled Doc, "Provided you open a new pack of cards in front of me."
"Are you accusing me of underhanded behaviour?" asked Bobby in an affronted voice.
"No," Doc kept smiling, "I'm accusing you of being a cunning old cheat. If I'm going to play poker with you, and not two but three Winchesters, and I'm betting that the youngest one is just as crooked at the other two..."
"Oh, you wound me, Doc," Dean said winsomely, "Questioning my manly honour..."
"You don't have any," Doc sniffed, "You've been a shameless card shark since you were ten years old."
"The boy just has a good head for odds and is good at reading people," Alistair defended Dean loyally, "It's not his fault that you're a terrible poker player. Look, we'll let you start with twice as many matches as everybody else."
"You need to buy some chips, Bobby," scowled Doc, "Because Dean can't split those down the middle under the table."
"We could play for peanuts instead?" suggested John.
"Oh, that's no good," said Andy sheepishly, "I'll just eat my stake before we'd played two hands."
"What about pasta shells?" suggested Dean.
"No," sighed Bobby, "The last time I tried to use pasta as currency, Meg gave me a real earful about wasting good food, then I got the lecture on The Evils Of Gambling. That woman has more lectures on Sin than a crooked televangelist."
"Is it technically a Deadly Sin?" asked John.
"I guess it would come in under Greed, if you're gambling for money," mused Sam.
"Or Gluttony, if you're gambling for peanuts," added Andy.
"What about if you gambled for something that doesn't taste good, like, like... brussels sprouts?" wondered Dean.
Alistair looked thoughtful. "Well, it might count as Pride, since you wouldn't be coveting the brussels sprouts per se, but you'd be playing to win, beat the other players," he suggested.
"There could be Wrath, too, if you lost too many brussels sprouts," said John. "Or Envy, if somebody had more brussels sprouts than you."
"I'm having a hard time imagining anybody getting envious of somebody else's brussels sprouts, under any circumstances," Andrew sounded doubtful. "Same goes for Lust, really."
"True," Bobby nodded, "I doubt if anybody ever made porn that had wimmen rollin' around in the raw on a bed of brussels sprouts."
"There are stranger markets than that for porn," John pointed out.
"Yeah, but it wouldn't be the brussels sprouts that guys were looking at," Sam felt compelled to say, "They'd be looking at the women. The brussels sprouts would be irrelevant."
"That's what I love about these gatherings," remarked Doc snidely, "Where else could I get such considered discussion on deeply philosophical matters, such as the interpretation of religious dogma and contemporary idioms in pornography via the medium of brassica vegetables?
They headed for a roomy yet cosy lounge that didn't exist in the Casa Singer that Sam knew, and had just agreed to play for matches (on the proviso that Dean would not stretch his currency by splitting any in half) when they heard the front door again.
"Ah! That'll be the shark now," grinned Bobby, heading out to meet another member of the 'tribe'.
"Oh, great," sighed Doc gloomily, "We might as well as just give him all the matches, he's got the most impenetrable poker face this side of Mt Rushmore."
"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," Alistair told him, "You need the practice. Live a little, Doc!"
"Who exactly is the shark?" asked Sam.
"Oh, you'll like him," Dean smiled, "He's Bobby's lawyer, and a really good friend..."
Bobby returned with another man in tow. "Gentlemen," he grinned, "Jaws is here. Prepare to lose your matches."
"Hello, everyone," the man in the trenchcoat said in a gravelly voice, before fixing Dean with a piercing stare. "Hello, Dean."
Yes, men really do talk that sort of drivel when they get together. That, and sport.
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