Chapter Notes:
And here it comes -- a hearty dose of schmoop! This is just the beginning. There are all kinds of good things on the horizon for the next little while, interspersed with some more angst because I'm me and I can't write a chapter without angst. I'm sorry, I guess I'm just hardwired that way!
I hope ya'll like Grammy Tilny. I worry that she comes on a little too strong, but she's the only character in the series that has a RL person inspiring her, so if you think she's over the top then I imagine you'd think the same thing about the person who I've borrowed particular traits from.
Sorry if there are glaring errors. I've been exhausted all week and I wrote this in stops and starts, so it might read as scattered as I felt writing it. I just wanted to get the chapter out to you soon, since you're all so good to me.
Chapter 25
Today was about surprises. It had been a while – too long, in fact – since she'd spoiled her grandkids, and the lack of contact and subsequent spoiling left her with an itch that desperately needed scratching. It would mean trouble, of course. Rosemary Tilny was nothing if not observant, and she knew that her daughter and son-in-law were rather strict about what they saw as excesses, unnecessary indulgences. They would frown upon her fawning. They would think she was mollycoddling and spoiling their kids.
And to that she thought, 'Well duh!'
Grandkids were meant to be spoiled by their grandmothers. It was a rule, a widely-known and oft-followed rule. Grandparents got to be the sweet-giving, cookie-baking, stuff-a-twenty-in-your-pocket sneaks who over-indulged the wee ones while Mom and Dad were the bad guys. It was the way things worked.
Granted, there were a few surprises that she knew Peter would flat out refuse. They'd been through this before, had had the same arguments before, and his answer had always been a flat, resounding 'No.' But things were different now, and drastic times called for drastic measures. There was Dean to consider now: Dean who she hadn't met, Dean who had landed like a whirlwind into her daughter's life and turned everything upside down, Dean who'd just been mugged and beaten senseless and who'd almost died before Rosemary even got a chance to meet him.
So she decided that Peter could say whatever he liked; Rosemary was going to do what she wanted anyway.
Getting into the house was no difficulty. She still had her key from the time she'd spent with them two summers ago when she broke her ankle and camped out with her daughter's family for a little TLC while she healed. She took a cab from the airport, not wanting to have them fuss over her at the airport, especially with Dean in the hospital and all, and let herself into the empty house to settle her aging bones and just rest a while.
They had a nice house. It was large but comfortable, rich without being garish or ostentatious. It felt lived in and homey, which was more than she could say about the gothic monstrosity that was Abraham and Margaret Wesley's mansion (and it was a mansion, no matter how much Peter tried to deny it). She liked her daughter's simple taste, the soft, understated decor and clean upkeep. Jane knew how to keep house – had learned well from her mother before her.
"All right then," she muttered to herself as she shuffled her ample body off the couch and made her way up the stairs with her luggage dragging heavily behind her. "With all the money these two have, you'd think they could afford a bell hop," she groused jokingly to herself. "Too bad the strapping young man of the house went and got brained in the park," she added ruefully. "What else are teenaged boys good for, if not carrying their grandmothers' luggage?"
It took a moment to catch her breath after the monumental effort of climbing the stairs with her suitcase and handbag, so she allowed herself a few minutes of loud, huffed breathing while her pulse settled to something like a normal rhythm. Old age was excuse enough for allowing oneself to grow flabby and out-of-shape, wasn't it? Best not to dwell on it, she figured.
Everything upstairs was as she remembered it, she noted as she made her way down the hall towards the spare room. A cursory glance into Sam's room revealed that his tastes hadn't changed much. There were more books lining the shelves along the wall than there'd been the last time she was here, and his Ninja Turtles bedspread had been retired in favour of a slightly more mature soccer themed blanket. Suzie's room twinkled with girlish things: Barbies, porcelain dolls, dress-up sparkly shoes and a tiara and wand leaning against the night stand next to her bed. It reflected the daydreams of a little girl in perfect pink hues.
Further down the hall revealed the biggest change, and that being the spare bedroom that was usually hers and Fred's. She'd forgotten that it was Dean's room now, but peeking inside there was no mistaking that it was anyone's room but the fourteen year-old boy's. Bed unmade, socks strewn in bundles on the floor, car magazines spread out on the desk in place of school books, and posters of various rock bands whose lyrics would make Peter Wesley's head positively explode if he took the time to listen to them: Metallica, ACDC, Led Zeppelin, Def Leppard, Alice in Chains (and Rosemary was shocked that they'd allowed him to mount that one).
This was Dean's room. The Dean. The grandson she'd never met but had always wondered about, ever since her daughter and son-in-law took in Sam all those years ago. It felt like a hallowed kind of moment, peering into his living space and getting a sense of his presence without him actually being present. This was where he laid his head down at night and drifted off to dreams of things she could only imagine. In this space he watched movies on the big TV – also a new addition – and did his homework and talked on the phone with his friends. And whatever he'd done in the years before that, when Jane and Peter had foolishly decided not to take him in, was a horror show she could only guess at.
It didn't take much to set her off, and true to form, the water works started up with the mere thought of what that poor, lonely boy had been through after being torn apart from his brother. It must have been awful, to be young and afraid and alone like that. Father in prison, brother taken in by a family that didn't want Dean as part of the package. Rejected and terrified and oh so small. She had always wondered about it, and for years had punished her daughter for it by reminding her, constantly, of the little boy she'd left to fate. She'd been against separating the boys from the very start, and had let her disappointment in her daughter's final decision to split them up, keeping only Sam, be clearly known. Kids weren't supposed to be separated like that.
She eased her heavy frame into Dean's room and sat on his bed and allowed herself to cry. Her husband would tease her and call her an old softie, and he was probably right, all things considered. She was crying for a boy she'd never met, who had no real ties to her and would probably think she was a crazy old bat the minute he met her. But none of that changed the fact that that boy was Sam's brother – Sam who she loved as if he'd been born into their family, instead of adopted into it. She loved Sam easily as much as she loved Suzie, her real flesh and blood, and the lack of familial relations did nothing to separate those children from her in her heart. They were her grandkids, plain and simple.
But Dean... Dean was something lost. Jane hadn't had the heart to fill her mother in on much of what had happened to Dean in the years that the boys had been apart, but there were vague allusions to it having been very, very bad. Her daughter's heartbroken sobs through the phone as she blubbered incoherently about infections and rectal tearing were enough to paint a grotesque picture in Rosemary's mind.
Dean had been hurt, recently, and there'd been no one to protect him from it.
So Rosemary cried as she sat on his bed and absorbed the essence of his space and just allowed herself to wallow in pain and regret. It was never her decision to make, she knew. Jane and Peter did what they thought was best for Suzie and Sam, and though Rosemary didn't agree with it, she could at least acknowledge that they'd done it for the best. But that little boy... The little boy who'd lost everything and been sent away to face the unknown all by himself with no one to love him.
She'd thought about Dean a lot over the last five and a half years, and now that the time had finally come to meet him, she found herself feeling a little overwhelmed. In a few short hours she was finally going to meet him. She'd actually get to see his face, shake his hand, or even (she hoped) give him a hug. She'd get to see with her own eyes how much he did or didn't look like Sam. She'd get to hear his voice, make him cookies, and hopefully get to know him, with time, as she knew Sam and Suzie. It sent a thrill through her at the same time as a spike of fear lanced straight through her heart.
What if he didn't like her?
That was how, an hour and a half later, Rosemary Tilny found herself busy in the kitchen with a pie cooling on the stove and a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies browning in the oven. It was painfully transparent, but she wasn't particularly good at subtlety, and if the old adage that the best way to a man's heart was his stomach was true, then she fully intended to make her new foster-grandson, Dean Winchester, fall into a puddle at her feet. He had a healthy appetite, Jane was always saying. Could eat a horse, she'd been told time and again. Shovelled food into his mouth as though each meal was going to be his last, she'd been made to understand.
So perhaps her culinary skills would make them fast friends. She wasn't above bribery to win affection, as the surprise in the backyard would attest to. And besides, the whole family had had a rough weekend, living off of hospital food and fear for over forty-eight hours. They needed some comfort food to make the aches go away.
She was just finishing washing the last of the dishes when the doorbell rang.
"Oh, shoot!" she huffed as she struggled her way out of the rubber gloves that had suctioned onto her hands with the head and moisture from the sink water.
"Just a minute!" she cried, plunking the gloves into the sink and darting out of the kitchen at a hearty trot. She was too old to run, got winded easily and ended up looking like a beached whale struggling for breath. Not the kind of impression she liked making to people she greeted at her daughter's door.
When she made it to the door at last and pulled it open, it was to come face to face with a spindly, over-grown insect.
"Oh... umm..." The insect shuffled awkwardly on her feet – Rosemary was sure by the long, frizzy brown hair swirling in a violent haze around her head that it was a female of the species – and bit her lip nervously. "Is... is Dean here?"
Hugely magnified eyes peered pathetically at her beneath the thickest bottle glasses she'd ever seen. The poor girl's mouth was a mess of metal, the braces on her teeth making her lips looks oddly placed on her face. She looked puzzled, her eyes darting over Rosemary's shoulder to steal quick glances in that general direction as she no doubt wondered why this strange woman was suddenly answering the door at her friend's house.
'Such a homely child,' Rosemary thought, then chided herself immediately for thinking so uncharitably towards someone she'd just met. But really, the kid wasn't much of a looker. Her presence at her daughter's doorstep sat at odds with what Rosemary had been told about Dean, who she understood to be quite a handsome lad. Probably someone from school dropping off the homework he'd missed on Friday. Unless she was his girlfriend... But again, that seemed unlikely. Maybe Jane had exaggerated her new foster-son's good looks; maybe his was the kind of handsomeness only a mother could appreciate.
"I'm sorry dear," Rosemary said at length. "Dean's not back from the hospital yet, but they should be arriving this afternoon. Did you want me to let him know you stopped by?"
The insect girl's eyes grew impossibly wider, and then welled up with tears. The colour leeched from her face as she processed this news, and Rosemary realized belatedly that insect-girl was clearly out of the loop regarding recent Wesley events.
"Hospital?" the girl croaked, lip trembling precariously. "Dean's in the hospital?"
"But he's getting out today," Rosemary offered up with a placating smile. "I can let him know you were here...?" She waited for the girl to offer up her name.
"Angela," the kid said, her voice hushed. "I... Can you tell Dean...? Oh God, is he okay?"
"Hi Angela," Rosemary smiled. "I'm Rosemary. I'm Jane's mother."
That clearly answered an unasked question, if the weak but thankful smile Angela gave her was any indication. But the more pressing question – the one she had asked – was of yet unanswered.
"He's just fine," Rosemary stated simply. "Had a bit of a bump on the head." Best not to divulge more than that. She hadn't been authorized to spread the word around town about what had happened to Dean, after all, and considering she hadn't even met the boy yet, it would feel wrong to say more.
For her part, Angela didn't look all that convinced. She eyed Rosemary warily, those giant, magnified eyes of hers gauging her, weighing out her words and tasting them on her tongue to try to cipher out the truth. She was clearly agitated, worry etched on her face like lines on a roadmap, easy to read and navigate if you had a sense of direction. Years working as a nurse had taught Rosemary how to traverse those roads with practiced ease, so she rested a weathered hand on the girl's shoulder and gave her a gentle pat.
"There there," she soothed calmly. "Settle down now, dear. Dean is just fine. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea?"
888
Angela Platt, Dean's "bug girl," was a bosom friend from the word "go." There was something very eager and open about her, something honest and vulnerable and sweet. Rosemary took a liking to her immediately as she worked to soothe the poor girl's frazzled nerves with tea and cookies. She would have thought that it would be awkward at first, but Dean's little insect-girlfriend seemed to have very few inhibitions when it came to talking to strangers, especially if she was talking about Dean. And good Lord, that poor girl was head over heels in love.
"He works really hard," the girl was saying as she nodded her head for added emphasis before taking a hearty gulp of cooling tea. "He was behind in school, but he got caught up in one summer."
Rosemary had heard as much from her daughter, but she raised her eyebrows in surprise anyway, exclaiming, "Did he now?" for the sake of watching the girl bob her head again in the affirmative.
"Yeah, people don't always see it, because he plays dumb most of the time, but Dean's really smart. He's like a whiz at Math and Science."
"And then he has you to help him with his English," Rosemary prompted with a genial smile. Bless her, the child burned red like a beet with the blush rising in her cheeks.
They talked about school and the neighbourhood and the Beatles and everything under the sun that came to mind. Angela was a real talker, liked to discuss books and music and what little bit of politics her fourteen year-old mind could reasonably, objectively grasp. Rosemary had to try not to giggle at the girl's fervour and enthusiasm, at the way her eyes would bulge out with the intensity of her feelings on a particular subject, with the way her lips set in a hard line when she discussed a hot button issue or anything that she found generally upsetting. But she had to be especially careful not to giggle at the way Angela Platt positively lit up when she talked about Dean Winchester. The boy was a hero who risked life and limb to save drowning toddlers. He was a veritable god at martial arts, could swim circles around Olympic athletes, and had the best body any almost-fifteen year-old boy had ever had. The words worship and idolatry perfectly described Angela's adoration of Dean. Granted, he annoyed her a lot of the time. He was tactless, often rude, and had a sense of humour that matched her kid brother Adam's. He was entirely too fond of pulling pranks, listened to crappy metal rock way too loud, and was so arrogant about his looks she wanted to pluck his eyes out. But even with all of that, he was just about perfect in the eyes of Angela Platt.
It is not to be assumed, however, that Angela went straight out and confessed all of these things in so many words. She didn't openly admit that Dean Winchester was the Earth and moon and sun around which her entire world revolved. She didn't say aloud that she thought he was the prettiest boy Angela had ever seen. But her earnest ramblings, the wistful smiles and longing sighs, were evidence enough of how she felt. And wherever there were gaps, Rosemary was pretty good at reading between the lines.
The old matriarch appreciated the rare moment of insight into her new grandson's life. It gave her a better idea of what to expect when he finally did arrive. Not that Jane hadn't filled her in, with regular updates, on how things were going with Dean, what kind of kid he'd turned out to be, and what he was like to live with from day to day. But a mother and a lover are going to see two very different things when they look at the same young man, so Rosemary saw the value in getting a different perspective. It helped to paint the picture more clearly, she thought. Gave her a few new angles with which to admire the image she'd conjured up in her mind. She wondered how it would compare to the real thing when he finally arrived.
She didn't have to wait long to get that chance.
They both froze when they heard the car pull up into the driveway. Angela made a move to stand and knocked her cup of tea over and then scrambled madly in her attempt to clean it up while Rosemary urged her many times in a soothing voice to just let it be. It helped, maybe, to have the distraction of a mess that needed cleaning while the elder and younger woman both worked through feelings of anxiety and anticipation. Angela had made vague references to a fight she'd recently had with Dean, and Rosemary was pretty sure that the two teens hadn't spoken since that fight – so it made perfect sense that Angela was a bundle of nerves. And Rosemary... Well, Rosemary had been waiting a long time to meet Dean Winchester, and now the time had finally arrived and she suddenly felt all of fourteen years old herself for how nervous she was.
Taking a deep breath and strengthening her resolve, Rosemary made her way through the kitchen, Angela trailing reluctantly, hesitantly behind her, and crossed through the family room toward the main entrance of the house. She could hear voices beyond the door, Sam talking animatedly while Suzie chimed in with exclamations supporting her brother's excited claims. She thought they might be talking about her pie. Then another voice broke through, an unfamiliar and highly anticipated voice.
"I swear to God, Sam, if you don't stop dancin' around you're gonna trip me," the voice that could only belong to Dean said.
"I'm not dancing," Sam's voice retorted even as it was cut off by his older brother's further reprimand.
"And if you trip me I promise you the mother of all wedgies."
The banter continued from there, light-hearted and playful between two brothers who were obviously well accustomed to it. Rosemary found herself smiling at the sound of it, so pleased within herself as warmth spread through her with the knowledge that Sam and Dean were together again – as they should be. She hadn't been there for the reunion four months ago, but she could imagine what it must have been like for them, to finally see each other again after being separated for so long. It must have just been so awful for Dean to have been taken away from his brother like that, to end up with strangers and go through God only knew what all on his own. She wiped the budding moisture from her eyes as a key turned in the lock and the front door swung open.
Peter appeared first, looking tired and care-worn as he swung the door open wide and held it open to make room for his family to pass through. Suzie came bounding on his heels, bopping on her toes, pig-tails flailing as she bounced into view. Sam was right behind her, bright-eyed and dimpled smiles and looking just as adorable as ever – and Rosemary really had to chide herself a bit for allowing so much time to lapse between visits because really, it had been too long. Then, before she had time to ponder on it further, Jane appeared, or half of her body did, at least, as she back-shuffled through the open doorway, her left arm eased carefully behind the shoulders of her young charge. They were leading Dean through the doorway with careful ease, as though he might collapse at any moment, and Rosemary stood on tip toes to try to get a look at him as he came through. But then Suzie was squealing, "Grammy!" and there was only enough time for her to blink before she was wrapped up in a blur of blonde pigtails and shaggy brown hair as her two grandkids threw themselves at her with clinging embraces.
"You're here!" Suzie beamed. "You came to see my new brother!"
Rosemary smiled down at her granddaughter and squeezed tightly. "I came to see all of you," she said genially.
"He's my brother," Sam snapped mulishly at his little sister before turning his dimples up toward his Grammy's smiling face. "You're here to see Dean, right? Did you make pie like I said?"
He was a cheeky little bugger, that Sam Wesley. Always with his eye on the prize, and apparently very possessive of his big brother. Rosemary chanced a glance towards the door and finally got her first look at the grandson she'd never met. She couldn't help the gasp that snuck up her throat at the sight before her.
She had been warned that the bruising on the left side of Dean's face was bad, but startling, shocking, skin-tinglingly painful to look at might have been more accurate. His left eye was swollen almost completely shut and purple-brown. It had to be excruciating to even attempt to open that eye, much less touch it, for all the swelling surrounding that delicate area. The boy's cheek was mottled with blackish bruising tinged with yellow at the edges, and his lip was split.
But God help her, it wasn't the severity of the bruising that caused Rosemary Tilny to gasp in shock. It wasn't the swelling, or the one working eye, or even the injury itself that had forced the startled noise from her lungs. Any one of those things might have been responsible for it, or all of them combined, but the fact was something else entirely had made Rosemary Tilny gasp.
Dean Winchester was a beautiful child. When Angela had joked that Dean was a pretty boy, she hadn't been joking at all. His features were too fine, too delicate, to be called anything but pretty. Full, sumptuous lips, high cheekbones, straight, fine nose and wide green eyes framed by long, dark lashes. Dean was beautiful – just beautiful – and no amount of bruising or swelling could mask that. But in spite of all that, there was something inherently masculine about him. The strong set of his young jaw, the manly cleft in his chin, and the sharp angle of his eyebrows were unmistakably boyish and masculine. He was too pale with the recent concussion, but even so his skin was flawless and smooth.
He was just stunning to look at. And he could clearly see that she was staring. And by the way he froze and swallowed as though he were gulping in a lungful of air, her staring was making him uncomfortable.
Rosemary ducked her head with embarrassment, sucked in another calming breath, and raised her eyes with a smile.
"Hi Dean," she offered.
Dean looked a bit like a deer in the headlights, his one eye wide, his lips slightly parted in some kind of dumb shock, or maybe he was just speechless because he'd been caught off guard, wasn't expecting her to be there. She couldn't be sure, though in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter much anyway. He'd gotten konked on the head and as such had earned the right to remain silent.
"Dean, this is my mother," Jane explained. Then she turned towards Rosemary and smiled. "Hi, Mom. Thanks so much for coming."
Mother and daughter shared a tight, long hug, and Rosemary could feel very fine tremors running through her daughter's entire frame.
"I'm so glad you came," Jane whispered reverently.
Yes, it had definitely been too long, Rosemary thought. Her poor daughter's nerves were vibrating through her skin and it felt good to just hold her grown baby girl, offering strength and support and love through the solidity and warmth of her own body. I've got you, my girl, her arms said. Mom's here now to help ease the load. And then Jane relaxed against her, message received.
When they finally let go, Rosemary straightened before her new grandson. He was tall for his age, and broad, towering over her at her pathetic height of 5'0". He would probably be taller than Peter when all was said and done – which wasn't saying much, considering that Peter wasn't exactly a giant. Now that she was close enough to touch him she could see the faint lines of pain in his eyes and forehead as the lingering pains from the concussion drew themselves out in living colour on the planes of his face. His right arm was strapped against his chest in some kind of sling, while his left hung tensely at his side, the hand fisting and unfisting in obvious discomfort. He looked so small, standing there, so nervous and young and fragile, for all the was taller and far more muscled than she was.
She couldn't control the impulse – she had to hug him.
Dean might have tensed up when her round arms drew him into her, though stiffening like a board might be a more accurate way to describe it. She heard the light catch in his breath when she squeezed him gently, lovingly, and promptly ignored it. If this boy wasn't used to being hugged he'd just have to darned well get over it because Grammy Tilny was a hugger and a cheek-pincher and a forehead kisser, too. And for five years she had thought of this boy – this lost, abandoned, rejected boy – and there were so many things that needed saying and doing that simply couldn't be done. She wanted to apologize for her daughter, for not being able to convince her to keep him. She wanted to reassure him that he wasn't to blame for the decisions that the adults responsible for him had made. She wanted to hug him and squeeze him and just give him every sweet thing he'd lived without for those lonely years without his brother.
But instead she settled for a brief hug, trying to pour into it everything she felt, trying to show him how much she welcomed him to her family, how glad she was that he was here, and how much she was not like Margaret and Abraham Wesley. And when she finally let go, she made sure to look him in the eyes, cupping his cheeks for good measure (and ignoring his full-bodied flinch when her hands touched his face) and holding him in place to just lock gazes with him for a moment. It was probably weird, and the poor boy was squirming under his skin to get away from her, but he needed to know where she stood.
"Welcome to the family," she said intently.
He gulped and nodded.
888
Okay. Grammy Tilny was officially a freakin' whackjob! Super touchy-feely-huggy-smiley chubby lady who looked on the verge of tears every time she looked at him, freaking him right the fuck out. Sam and Suzie liked her well enough, and the pie she'd left cooling on the kitchen counter did smell seriously, mouth-wateringly awesome. But what was with the face-touching? And the weepiness? And the whole looking-at-him-like-he-was-the-second-coming thing? It was unsettling, is what it was. Old people didn't like Dean. That fact was pretty much a universal truth. The sun rose in the East, Michael Jackson was a freaky perv, and adults didn't like Dean unless they wanted to fuck him. But man, Grammy Tilny was looking at Dean like he was her long lost grandson or something, and that was just... That just didn't compute.
Dean eased himself towards the couch and sank into it with a heavy sigh of relief. Sitting was good. Sitting relieved him somewhat of the floating, throbbing head feeling. Then he promptly jumped out of his skin when he saw familiar grey, googly eyes peering intently at him from a few inches away.
"Jesus!" he exclaimed through the exploding-heart sensation in his chest. Angela was sitting on the couch right next to him and in his haste to get away from Gropey Granny he'd completely neglected to notice.
Great hunter you'll be, Jackass! he thought wryly.
"Sorry!" Angela blurted nervously. "I didn't mean to – Oh God, your face! – I didn't mean to startle you!"
There were a number of things he wanted to say in reply to that, but his exploded heart was too busy barrelling against his chest (which defied physics but happened nonetheless) for him to speak coherently. He settled for scowling at her while he tried to catch his breath. Sweet Jesus the blood rushing to his brain felt like someone had cracked his skull open and set it on fire.
"I called," Angela explained. "I-I left messages but I guess no one was home, being at the hospital with you and all. And so I just – God, does that hurt? You really look awful."
Dean closed his eyes and breathed through his nose.
"Feels awesome," he snarked through clenched teeth.
"Dean, sweetie, would you like some tea?" Gropey Granny asked sweetly. "I'm sure Jane has some herbal mint tea that might help with your headache."
"M' good, thanks."
Mint tea was for chicks and old ladies and since Dean was neither of those things, and because it sounded just gross, Dean politely declined.
"Hot cocoa?" the woman pressed, sugared with honey. "Warm milk?"
'Bullet in the brainpan?' Dean thought bitterly.
"Naw, thanks," he said instead. "I'm good – really."
He drifted off to the sounds of Sam and Suzie chatting with their grandmother, trying very hard all the while not to notice the way Angela's ginormous eyes were boring into him. It was awkward as hell sitting there with her, not knowing what to say but feeling he should say something. And Angela, for her part, was so big-eyed scared, probably freaked out about how trashed his face looked, just sat there oozing nervousness all over him like a slobbery dog. Plus there was the giant elephant in the room named SheRatted MeOut still standing between them.
So Dean opted to brush aside all the awkward unpleasantness and just cut to the chase.
"We good?" he asked, squinting at her sleepily with his one good eye. "You know, with the whole..." Better to trail off than say aloud what she'd done, especially with the eager Grandma within hearing distance.
Angela nodded fervently, wilting with relief even as her eyes misted up and her damned lip started giggling. She looked about a nanosecond away from bursting into big girlie tears and Dean so didn't have the patience for this right now. Plus – awkward! What the hell would she be crying about, anyway?
"Just so we're clear, though," he said pointedly to head her off from starting up any water works. "Pull any shit like that again and I'll pin you down and tickle you until you piss yourself. Got it?"
She sniffled a bit and then huffed a laugh.
"What? No threats to kick my ass?"
Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I thought about it," he admitted. "But I got principles. I don't hit girls."
"No, you just hit on them."
They both chuckled lightly at her muttered retort and things slipped back to normal after that. Angela babbled about school, filling him in on all the best gossip – including some particularly juicy rumours about why Dean had been absent on Friday. According to one classmate, Dean had dropped out of school because he couldn't hack it in the preppy environment. Another had him committing suicide for reasons unknown. Dean's personal favourite involved a police interrogation gone wrong, for which the arresting offence was undisclosed. Long as they thought he was bad-ass, Dean didn't much care what kind of rumours circulated about him. And anyway, getting arrested was way cooler than being mugged.
It was nice being home. Dean felt weird even thinking that – home – but he figured wherever Sam was would be home for him. But it was an added bonus having Suzie here, and Jane and Peter, and even Angela. He'd grown sort of comfortable here, had gotten used to the shape and size and fit of things, as though it had all moulded to fit his body just perfectly. And it was probably a bad idea to think that way, considering how likely it was that everything would be yanked out from under him without a moment's notice, but right now Dean didn't care. It was probably the head injury talking, but he thought maybe it would be worth the hurt just to have had this, to have felt this way.
Yeah, definitely the head injury talking.
Eventually everyone else joined them in the living room. Dean zoned out for most of the conversation, dozing for brief periods, listening for others, and generally just enjoying how snugly he was fit into the couch cushions now that his head wasn't throbbing anymore. Suzie even curled up on his lap and nestled against his left shoulder and that was almost kinda nice. It reminded him of when Sam was little and the two of them would curl up together to watch Saturday morning cartoons when Dad was gone.
Grammy Tilny talked about the ranch back in Wisconsin, offering up apologies for her husband Fred, who couldn't make it because of horse-related business. Dean had never been on a horse but he'd always wanted to try it. Cowboys were cool and he bet he'd look pretty freakin' awesome in a cowboy hat and slingin' a gun. It was easy conversation and Angela held up her end well enough, having spent some one-on-one time with the old broad while they were waiting for the Wesleys to get home with Dean.
"Angela, sweetheart," Mrs. Tilny was saying. "Would you be a dear and run out to the back yard to bring Dean his surprise?"
Well okay, so Dean had to wake up for that. Bring in Dean's surprise? There was a surprise?
He sat up straight and blinked the sleep from his good eye. The little old lady was smiling sheepishly at him, her withered hands resting gently in her lap, her eyes crinkling and twinkling with something that looked a lot like mischief.
"I hope you don't mind, Dean," she said almost conspiratorially, "But I've brought you a little something from Wisconsin."
He wanted to protest. He really did. In his mind he was coming up with a number of very polite refusals that sounded like, 'You really shouldn't have,' and 'Thanks, but that wasn't necessary,' but when he opened his mouth to speak nothing came out. He was completely tongue tied and at an utter loss for words. His mouth was open, his lips were moving, but the words flew out his ears like fizzing bits of smoke.
She'd brought him something from Wisconsin. She'd brought him something – like a gift. She hadn't even met him and had already done something nice for him. It was just... It was alien.
Jane, on the other hand, seemed to have some kind of idea of what her mother's gift might entail, because she stood up slowly and frowned.
"Mom..." she warned.
The tiny, portly old lady shrugged and smile-frowned with closed eyes.
"I'm allowed to spoil my new grandson," she said smugly. "And I'd say he's in need of some serious spoiling, all things considered."
"Mom, we talked about this," Jane argued tightly.
"I'm an old lady," Grammy Tilny replied. "My memory's not what it used to be." Which was clearly bullshit. Dean bet she was sly as a fox.
"And anyway, I can't very well take it back, so..." And she left it hanging, as if her hands were completely tied.
God, he wished they would stop speaking in freaking code, or Angela would hurry the hell up, or something would happen to make his tongue feel not-glued to the roof of his mouth. He felt hot in the face, not knowing what was going on, not knowing what they were talking about, and more than a little uneasy that they were on the verge of breaking out into an argument about him. He fucking hated it when Jane and Peter fought over him, and now the little old lady was going to get in on the action too, it seemed.
Fuck, if they were just going to fight about it, Dean would rather that Mrs. Tilny just took the damned thing back. He didn't want whatever it was if it was going to cause this much trouble. But what the hell kind of gift could cause trouble, anyway? She wasn't giving him a switchblade or a bowie knife – those kinds of gifts would raise a few eyebrows. And he was damned certain she hadn't bought him a car. Those were the only kinds of gifts he could see anyone bothering to fight about.
But then Angela was emerging through the kitchen with a small bundle in her gangly hands and Dean understood exactly why Jane and her mother were arguing about Dean's gift. When Peter saw it he was going to hit the damned roof.
Grinning at him like Christmas had come early, Angela resumed her place next to him on the couch and deposited into his lap a very squiggly, very tubby-tummied, puppy.
888
The puppy wasn't cute. Nope. It wasn't. Not one bit. That little face with the big, dewy brown eyes with the white stripe from the tip of its nose, up between its eyes and between its ears, which hung like two perfect, floppy bows aside its face, was in no way cute. The little pot belly? Not cute at all. And the super saggy puppy skin that just sort of rolled off its tiny body in waves that were so soft to the touch that Dean found himself groping it just for the smooth feel of it gliding against his fingers? Not even a little bit cute.
She was a warm weight in his lap, a soft bundle of heat against the skin of his hands, and her little tongue softly lapping against his stroking fingers was like wet velvet. He was so fucking in love with the damned puppy that he could feel tears prickling behind his eyes and it was no fucking fair because he had a head injury and apparently head injuries made him weepy.
He wiped furiously at his eyes and cursed his traitorous, jiggling lip because he was about to start blubbering and crying over a goddamned puppy.
"A puppy!" Suzie squealed, or rather, shrieked, as she flew up from the comfortable crook of Dean's armpit and rammed her rock-hard head into the underside of his injured face in her attempt to sit up straight.
"You got us a puppy you got us a puppy you got us a puppy!" she wailed excitedly. Dean was sure his ears were bleeding.
Sam was struck completely speechless at first. He stared almost dumbly at the puppy for a full eight second count – and Dean counted – before vaulting onto his feet and doing a couple of elated jumps that Dean would later insist were pirouettes. His dimples were craters in his cheeks, his eyes so bright and shiny they looked golden brown, and his little arms swung back and forth in a kind of victory dance as he hopped around like a fucking idiot.
"A puppy!" he parroted his little sister. "Oh wow! Oh wow! This is –" he turned a megawatt grin on his grandmother. "Thank you so much!"
Dean was too dazed to do more than listen to Sam and Suzie spazz out about the puppy. They both wanted to hold her but neither dared attempt to prise her from Dean's lap. But they were bounding around and squealing and leaping out of their skins with excitement, and Dean figured their antics would probably freak the puppy out anyway, so he just held her closer and remained mute. It was safer to stay quiet, in case that Judas lip of his started trembling again.
"Mom, we've talked about this!" Jane hissed in a harsh whisper as she attempted to pull her mother aside for a 'private' conversation that all four kids in the room could hear loud and clear. "You know we don't want any pets in the house."
But the old lady just shrugged.
"Tough."
"I can't believe you went over our heads like this," Peter growled quietly. "We said no dogs and we mean no dogs!"
Another shrug.
"The children need a pet," she said simply, though there was a hint of challenge to it. "She'll be a nice companion for them to help them through the rough times they've been having. Dean's had a rough month – a dog will do him good."
"No," Peter denied. "Absolutely not. You'll have to take it back."
"It is a she," Mrs. Tilny said blandly. "And I'm not taking her back."
"Then we'll take her to the pound!" Peter threatened.
All four kids gasped in stereo at that, including Dean. He reflexively snuggled the puppy closer, trying not to melt when she rolled onto her back and exposed her pink, spotted belly to him. Jesus Christ the naked skin there was soft and tender and her little fat belly was so fucking cute that the very idea of her going to the pound made his eyes water again.
"It-it's okay," Dean croaked, clearing his throat to find his voice at last. "I... You can take her back. It's okay. I don't need a dog."
He didn't. He'd gotten by the last fourteen years just fine without having a dog. He'd get by just fine for another fourteen without one. Granted, he'd always wanted a dog. There was something sort of heart-warming in the image of dog as man's best friend. Like a loyal family member who would love you no matter what you did, who'd stay with you until they died, who'd never leave you because where you were was home.
Huh... Kind of like Dean.
But wanting and needing were two very different things. And he didn't need a dog, not if it meant that Peter and Jane were going to be fighting with Mrs. Tilny. He'd rather the puppy went back to the ranch than have them fight over it. He wasn't worth that much trouble.
However, as soon as the words had left his lips, both Sam and Suzie were up in arms with twin, plaintive protests of "Mo-om!"
"You can't take it back!" Suzie whined, or maybe she was begging. "Mom, don't let her take it back!"
"Dean needs a dog!" Sam pleaded. "And we'll all help take care of her, promise!"
Dean suspected that his brother had had this conversation with his parents before. Different verse, same as the first.
"Your brother's right, Dean," Mrs. Tilny agreed quietly. She moved away from Jane and Peter and seated herself in the empty loveseat near the couch. "Do you know what kind of a dog that is?"
Dean shook his head no.
"That," she said proudly, "Is a beagle. They're pack dogs – hunting dogs, actually."
He tried not to feel anything at that news. It didn't mean anything, a hunter like him getting a hunting dog. Besides, she didn't mean ghost hunting. Still... It felt a little bit like fate, if Dean believed in something as lame as fate. Which he didn't.
"Beagles are generally raised in packs, you see," she went on. "So they're very social dogs. Very loyal dogs. You get a beagle when it's a puppy, like she is now, and she'll bond with your family so tightly that the family becomes her pack."
Dean wished she wouldn't tell him anymore, because he was going to have to give the damned dog away anyway. Hearing about how awesome this particular breed of dog was was only going to make losing her harder.
"I don't need a dog," he forced himself to say as he pulled what was left of his calm mask. It was pretty tattered and full of gaping holes, but it was the best he could muster under fire.
But Mrs. Tilny was shaking her head.
"I think you do," she said. "You all do. A dog can be your best friend, as well as a great protector. When she's bigger, you could take her on your walks with you. That way you wouldn't have to worry about any other attackers sneaking up on you unawares."
Dean wanted to say that that wasn't likely to happen again, now that he'd learned his lesson the hard way, but there was something in her eyes that killed that thought before it had a chance to make it to his lips. There was something earnest in her expression, something urgent, urging. She opened her eyes wide and tilted her head ever so slightly, and there was a message there that he clearly wasn't getting.
But Sam, apparently, had cottoned on.
"Right!" he agreed. "She can be Dean's guard dog!" he announced proudly. "He'll need her to go on his walks with him. So that he never gets hurt again."
And Suzie, right on cue, added her own pathetic wail. "I don't want Dean to get hurt again!"
It was an awesome example of tag-teaming and Dean found himself daring to hope as he raised his eyes hesitantly to look over at Jane and Peter's matching defeated expressions.
"Fine," Peter said at length.
Sam and Suzie renewed their victory dances, Sam exclaiming a series of hissed "Yes-yes-yesses!" as he hopped around like a jumped up Energizer Bunny.
"But she's your responsibility," Peter warned. "You'll have to walk her every day, feed her, clean up after her. And when she grows up and isn't a cute little puppy anymore, you don't get to dump her on someone else. She's your responsibility for life."
"That's right," Jane added. "Once you take her there's no giving her back."
"We won't!" Dean gulped, then, more calmly, "We won't."
Beagles weren't really big dogs, Dean learned, though they weren't exactly small, either. They were somewhere in between. Smallish, but part of the hound family, deep-voiced with intimidating barks. They were vocal dogs, which meant he'd have to train her not to bark at people when they came to the door. Dean could totally do that. And they were prone to obesity, Mrs. Tilny explained, so Dean would have to walk her every day. No problem.
This beagle wasn't entirely purebred. She had an odd mix of part Corgi somewhere in her history and it left her with a lighter coat than was normal for the breed. The black patches on her coat weren't so much patches as they were mottled stray hairs colouring the rusted gold of her fur. Like beagles, her underside, legs, and chin were white, and she had the classic white strip running from her nose to the base of her skull. Her ears were a bit shorter than a purebred beagle's too, though they were still long. And her tail – God, her tail curled around in a perfect loop, white at the tip.
"Let's call her Lucy!" Suzie urged.
"I think we should call her Molly!" Sam argued.
Dean didn't know what to call her. He wanted it to be something cool, like Zeppelin or... Well, actually, he didn't really have many cool names for a female dog.
"We should call her Lucy!" Suzie repeated, tugging at his arm. "Let's call her Lucy, Dean!"
Dean supposed Lucy was as good a name as any, and it wouldn't be so bad letting Suzie name the dog. Even though it was supposed to be his, all three of them would be living with her.
"Why Lucy?" he asked.
"You know," she replied, grinning up at him. "In the sky... with diamonds...?"
Aw crap! After that little nudge, Angela was practically clawing at his wrist in her enthusiasm.
"Lucy!" she said. "Lucy! Lucy! You have to name her Lucy!"
"Please? Pleeeeease?" Suzie wheedled. "She looks like a Lucy."
Dean was so screwed. And the dog, apparently, was now a Lucy.
TBC
End Notes:
For those of you who think that Grammy Tilny has taken to Dean too quickly, or is too emotionally involved, all I can offer up as an excuse is that there are a great many people like that in this world. Separating kids is a horrible thing, and someone from that older generation might consider it a cardinal sin. Rosemary is someone who is led by her heart, and she tried very hard to convince her daughter to keep both boys. This chance to see Dean after all these years is a really big deal for her, and I've written her reactions accordingly.
Is she a sap? Absolutely. Was she hard on Jane? You'd better believe it. Has she opened her arms and accepted Dean as her family without any strings attached because to her he basically is family? 100% yes. It might seem far-fetched (though I hope not), but it's what I would do if my grown daughter got a chance to rescue a kid she'd rejected after taking his brother.
So there you have it. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. ;)