The fluff! The fluff! Is there no escape from the fluff? *desperately treads fluff, trying to keep head above the surface* Haaaaaaaalp!
Chapter Twelve
RJ was in one of the sheds tinkering with an elderly lawnmower – the concept of the two-stroke engine, with fuel intake and exhaust each stroke, was intriguingly simple yet complex, and the more he poked at it, the more fascinating he found it – when he heard his Dad's car leave the yard. Later, he wandered back to the house for a snack.
"Where did Dad go?" he asked Bobby.
"Said he had something to do in town," shrugged his practically-grandfather, adjusting his glasses as he peered at one of his elderly books.
"Is he mad at me?" asked RJ.
Bobby sighed, shut the book, and took off his glasses. "I think he's more angry at himself than he is at you," he replied with a smile. "You know what he's like – got a bigger protective streak than a momma wolf with pups when it comes to his family."
"Uncle Andrew says he's even worse than Auntie Ronnie, that way," RJ mused.
"Yeah?" Bobby chuckled. "He say that in front of her?"
RJ gave him a look. "No. He makes everybody think he's this big goofy marshmallow on the outside, but he's not stupid," the boy replied.
Bobby laughed out loud. "You got that right. No, your father aint mad at you; he's mad at himself, for gettin' himself and Sam into a situation where they coulda gotten killed, and for puttin' you in a situation where you felt you had to come and do somethin'."
"But that's stupid!" protested RJ. "He's the best Hunter ever! Frankie only figured it out it was demons because we had extra intel! It was our decision to go after them!"
"Well, you know that, and I know that," sighed Bobby, "But your Dad don't see it that way. I gotta agree with the hairy marshmallow on that one."
RJ crossed his arms and pouted in a way that would in a few years be making his female classmates giggle and nudge each other. "I'm not a little kid any more. I'll be thirteen soon. Dad's dad used to take him on Hunts when he was my age."
"John Winchester was an obsessed asshole," growled Bobby, taking a guilty stab of satisfaction in the way the boy didn't refer to said asshole as 'grandpa', "So don't you dare go comparin' your father to him. But even he wouldn't have taken a twelve-year-old up against what coulda been a vampire or a werewolf."
"I can beat Connor, fifty-fifty," RJ reminded him, just a bit smugly, "When we spar, we're even."
"Enjoy it while it lasts," Bobby rumbled with amusement, "Give it a few more years, and he'll be able to bounce you like a basketball. Even Sabine will be able to do that."
"She wouldn't do that," mumbled RJ, His face pinking slightly. Bobby judiciously didn't mention it.
There was a honk from the yard, and Frankie came thundering down the stairs with Athena at her heels, recognising the sound of her mother's truck. "Mom!" she bellowed, "Daaaaad, Mom's back!"
Sam emerged from the study to follow his daughter. "I'm gonna put a silencer on you!" he protested.
"Guess I'd better put coffee on," sighed Bobby, shaking his head.
RJ waited to greet Kelly, then returned to the shed and to his exploration of two-stroke physiology. Not only was it a fascinating way to spend his time, but he had an excellent position from which to listen in on the conversation as Sam and Kelly sat on the porch seat, swapping details of their respective Hunts over coffee.
"Sounds like they were having fun," ventured Kelly, "It's a shame they trashed it."
"A shame?" Sam sounded incredulous. "A shame? Kel, it was a motorcycle! They were tearing around on a motorcycle!"
"Well, yeah, that's what motorcycles are for."
"He ran it into a tree!"
"How many times?"
"What?"
"How many times did he run it into a tree?"
"What does that matter?"
"It matters a lot. If he only runs it into a tree the one time, that means he's learned not to run it into a tree again. That's learning by experience. It's meant to be terribly developmentally important for kids, according to those annoying books apparently written by vapid idiots who've never actually had their own, if the spotless rooms behind them in the authors' photos are anything to judge by."
"Huh? Are you suggesting that crashing a bike is somehow educational?"
"If they learn not to do it again, yeah."
"And you're okay with this?"
"Sure, why wouldn't I be? Bikes are fun! You and Dean pulled one together as kids, didn't you?"
"I don't believe this. I thought you'd be really angry."
"Well, I'm a bit annoyed."
"Annoyed?"
"Disappointed. For Frankie. Since she didn't get a turn to ride it."
"Kelly, this is our daughter we're talking about, our child! She could get hurt!"
"Yeah, she could. So if I'm not here, I hope you spend some time with them, helping them learn that actions have consequences, and something that can hurt you if you screw up has to be approached with respect."
"Are you… are you suggesting you'll teach her to ride?"
"Well, you taught her to shoot."
"That's totally different!"
"How is it different?"
"Whaddya mean, how? It's…. because!"
"Because isn't a reason, Sam, it's a conjunction."
"Our daughter was on a motorcycle! How can you be okay with that?"
"Because, you dope, if she hadn't, you'd be dead. Don't pull that face at me, I'm not your brother."
"Will you… fuck, will you just stop being so calm and reasonable?"
"Sam, I'm a Hunter. Like you. I know more about the Grand Scheme Of Things than most people. I know that in the Grand Scheme Of Things, most of the things that most people worry about are small stuff. I know about the big stuff that's really worth worrying about. Demons escaping Hell to walk the Earth, and suck people into making deals for their souls? Big stuff. Unnatural, bloodthirsty monsters intent on devouring any human that crosses their path? Big stuff. Humans messing with occult power that could backfire on them and unleash unnatural forces on the unsuspecting human population? Big stuff. My kid on a trailbike? Not so big stuff."
"Oh, God, Kel, she's just a kid. She's my kid. Our kid. I don't want her to get hurt. I don't ever want anything to hurt her."
"Well, then, wrap her in alfoil and drop her into liquid nitrogen for cryogenic storage, because that's the only way that's gonna happen. Jesus, if you're this prissy about a trailbike, I better not tell you about the note."
"The note? What note?"
"The note from one of her classmates."
"Huh? Which one?"
"You know Karl, RJ's friend? It's his little brother, Andreas. He's got a crush on her."
"He's… what? On my little girl? Who is this kid? Why the hell don't I know this?"
"Well, she'd hardly tell you, would she? Listen to you!"
"Have I met this kid?"
"I doubt it – he's probably worried that you'd go 'Fee Fi Fo Fum' and eat him."
"I don't believe this. She's only eleven years old! She's too young for… that sort of thing!"
"I kissed my first 'boyfriend' when I was eleven…"
"What?"
"Well, when I say, 'kissed', he kind of slobbered on me and then I screamed and ran away."
"She is too young to even think about kissing anybody!"
"Now tell me again how worried you are about her getting on a motorcycle."
Shaking his head, RJ turned back to the carefully disassembled engine. Adults were just weird. The more he met, the more he wondered if he really wanted to join them.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
After lunch when he was back in the shed, he heard the Impala rumble back into the yard, and came out to meet his dad.
"Hey tiger," Dean greeted him with a smile, "What are you up to."
"I'm taking an engine apart, another two-stroke," RJ answered eagerly. "A lawnmower," he added, in a chastened tone.
"Hmmmm." Dean glanced at the truck beside his Baby. "Your Auntie Kel here?"
"Yeah," RJ grinned, unable to help himself. "She had an argument with Uncle Sammy."
Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," RJ's smile widened, "Well, not so much an argument, more like, she just talked, and he got all 'Oh My God!' on her, you know how he does." He relayed the gist of the conversation he'd overheard.
"Yup," Dean grinned too, "Sounds like Princess Francis. So, where's your cousin?"
"Inside," RJ jerked a thumb at the house, "With her mom. Doing girl stuff." He rolled his eyes to show exactly what he thought about girl stuff.
"Well, I got somethin' for ya," Dean headed for the trunk, and paused. "You wanna call Thor to practise his trick, or will I just use the key?"
RJ's jaw dropped open. "How did you know about that?" he asked.
"I'm your father," Dean grinned, "It's my job to know. Just like Sam knows about Athena's talent for lifting chocolate bars. Here." He opened the trunk, and pulled out two awkward square boxes. "This one's for you."
Puzzled, RJ carefully put the box down on the trunk lid, and opened it.
Inside were a motorcycle helmet and a pair of gloves. He looked up at his father, who smiled back.
"Next time you get on a bike, you're gonna do it more safely," Dean drawled.
RJ looked up at him, confused. "Next time? But we trashed it…"
Dean waved a hand to cut him off. "That one, yeah," he agreed, "But you know the workshop in Sioux Falls, with the parts counter? They got somethin' similar. It's structurally better, but still in really bad shape. You'll both have to put a lot of work into getting' it running."
Hope bloomed on RJ's face. "You mean…"
"Oh, I aint gonna fork out all the cash you'll need," Dean warned him, "I'll get you the wreck, think of it as an early birthday present, but any parts you can't salvage, you and Frankie will have to buy 'em yourselves, from what you earn doin' your chores for Bobby, and you'll have to buy your own oil and gas, and I warn you, buddy, if I catch you even thinkin' about tryin' to siphon a single drop out of my Baby I'll…"
RJ knocked the wind out of his father with the hug, and Dean smiled widely and a little ruefully; his son was getting to an age where the hugs were fewer and further between, and wild horses wouldn't drag it out of him, but he thought he missed them. "Thanks, Dad."
"Don't thank me yet," Dean said ominously, "You aint seen the state of this thing. We can go pick it up this afternoon, if we can take Bobby's truck."
Can we go tell Frankie?" enthused RJ.
"Sure." Dean grinned as he picked up the box holding Frankie's helmet and gloves, gleefully anticipating the look of horror that would surely grace Sam's face at the news. "Let's just make sure Kelly's there to back us up, huh?"
"Sounds like a plan," agreed RJ.
Both bubbling with anticipation, they headed for the house.
THE END
Aaaaaaaaaaand…
SQUELCH
Another wretched plot bunny stomped. And so we say goodbye to Imogen-Bubba, another gender-confused raconteurial rabbit who wandered in the Jimiverse to sink its teeth into the fickriter's ankle, as they are wont to do. This final chapter signifies the complete emptying of the plot bunny pen, a state of affairs that is at once something of a pity, yet something of a relief. Until the next one comes hopping along. Possibly dragging a sibling with it. They can be a bit like buses, that way: nothing, then a bunch of them all turn up at once. I blame The Denizens. For the plot bunnies, not the buses. bAt least I might have a bit of time in which to vacuum up the damned fluff.
(Speaking of buses, I really don't think it's appropriate for Das Bus to show up, because this story has children in it, and there are limits to the depravity of the beldames that I am prepared to indulge and entertain, and bringing the custard tub within cooee of children is NOT one of them.)
So, send your farewell reviews, and I'll put them all in a jam jar and put it on the grave of Imogen-Bubba. Not only does it look pretty, but I sometimes find new plot bunnies nibbling on the funerary offerings made to those who have journeyed before into The Great Big Fanfic Archive In The Sky.
