If anybody ever wants to borrow a character from the Jimiverse for nefarious porpoises, all you have to do is ask (that's a yes, Georgia; your email didn't show up in your review). They're quite robust, and they don't bruise easily (especially Tiem and Zan the gargoyles). And if you do, I DEMAND a link!
Chapter Twenty-Five
The reception was an informal affair, with no bridal table, and only a short speech from Andrew's father, welcoming Ronnie into Tribe Jaeger, and toasting the happy couple. Becky seemed to have recovered remarkably well from being floored by Dean, who had a theory about that: "She's like a two-stroke engine, little bro; the top end doesn't get damaged easily, because there's no moving parts up there. Seriously, if you ever get another opportunity like that, go the pile driver tackle." After the ceremony, she made a beeline for Sam. When the gathering sat down to eat, Ian pointedly seated himself between them.
"Now, this," Dean declared, grabbing another chunk of dead animal, "This is what a wedding should be. A short, simple ceremony, a small gathering of friends and family, an informal dinner, good booze – and lots of food." He wiped a piece of bread across his plate. "And not too many hang-ups about cutlery."
"Although I am sustained by my Grace and do not need to eat," mused Castiel, picking up another cutlet, "I am finding that my vessel is experiencing feelings of great contentment and well-being engendered by ingestion of animal protein."
"Of course it is, Cas!" exclaimed Dean. "It's meat! Meat is meant to be eaten! Meat is natural, it's wholesome, and it's delicious!"
"You actually don't need that much meat to be perfectly healthy," Sam commented, "And processed meat, such as those sausages you keep eating without apparently bothering to chew, can be a health hazard, either chemically or microbiologically. Not to mention matters of animal welfare."
"Come on, Sam," Dean rolled his eyes, "If God didn't want us to eat animals, why did he make 'em out of meat?"
"Dean, would it kill you to eat some vegetables?"
"Vegetables are what my food eats," Dean said firmly, taking another German sausage. His eyes fell on the platter of potato pancakes. "But if it will make you happy, I'll eat some more of those!"
"Dean, kartoffelpuffers are heart attacks waiting to happen!" yapped Sam. "Loaded with cheese, and fried..."
"Potatoes are vegetables," Dean said.
"Botanically, yes," Sam conceded, "But nutritionally, a potato is a big lump of starch..."
"It grows on a plant," Dean insisted, "Which makes it a vegetable. Right, Cas?"
"Technically, it is a tuber," Castiel replied, "From the nightshade family, with an highly modified root structure..."
"Shut up, nobody asked you," Dean cut him off. "The point is, Sam, the point is, you want me to eat plant material. I'm eating plant material. Jesus, there's no pleasing you, is there?"
Sam opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. "There's no point in getting into a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent," he muttered philosophically. "Looks like Andrew is from a family of carnivores to start with," he noted, watching as Great Aunt Sadie reached for another helping of lamb, "How does an old woman that size fit that much food into herself without exploding?"
"Are you kidding? I think those two could eat truckers for breakfast," Dean said, grinning at the two elderly sisters, who had seated themselves on either side of Bobby. "They're certainly eyeing up Bobby. He could just toss a coin, you know..."
"Dean..."
"Don't knock older women, Sam, they've been alive longer to learn more tricks..."
"Dean..."
"We just gotta hope he practises safe senility..."
"Dean!"
"Are you gonna eat that?" Dean asked Ian, who had been watching the Winchesters bicker with the sort of amused curiosity of a scientist watching two particularly combative specimens of an interesting type of amoeba attempt to engulf each other.
"Knock yourself out," Ian chuckled, pushing his plate towards Dean, "Don't let me stand between a carnivore and his prey."
"Are you okay?" asked Sam, "You haven't eaten much, and you look a bit, well..."
"Tired," Ian finished for him ruefully, taking another pull on his beer. "The whole go-all-night-and-party-during-the-day thing? I got bad news, guys: it gets harder as you get older."
"You could go have a bit of a kip, you poor old pensioner," Ronnie butted in, as she wandered past, a sausage in bread in one hand, "If you're taking off tonight."
"You're headin' out tonight?" queried Dean.
"Yeah, 'fraid so," Ian answered. "I got places to be, people to save, cops to dodge, you know how it is. Although," he grinned at Ronnie, "I'm not going anywhere until I've seen the cutting of the cake. And the bridal waltz."
"Shut up!" Ronnie hissed.
"I beg your pardon?" asked Ian politely, "I didn't hear you over the sound of music in three-four time."
"I'm not doing any bloody waltz!" snapped Ronnie.
"What's this about a waltz?" asked Andrew, coming up behind her, munching on a sausage wrapped in a potato pancake.
"Nothing!" yipped Ronnie. "Nothing, tra la la!"
"One two three, one two three," prompted Dean helpfully.
Ian raised his voice. "Does anybody else wanna see the happy couple waltz?" He was answered by a chorus of cheers and applause, led by the Great Aunts."
"I hate you," grumbled Ronnie.
"I know just the music!" chirped Dean, "Sam, where's your damned laptop..."
A laptop was procured, and before Ronnie could complain, the twanging intro to Motorhead's 'Love Me Forever' started up.
"Well, don't just stand there," Dean positively beamed as he flapped a hand at them, "Go dance!"
"Tonight, you die in your sleep," she muttered, as her new husband laughingly led her to the clear area of the floor.
The amazing thing was that both of them actually knew how to waltz, including change steps, turns and pivots.
"Wow," Sam mused, watching them spin across the floor, "Who knew?"
"Her grandmother had some very definite ideas about the sorts of skills a young lady should have," Ian pointed out. "It's a pity she never met my grandfather."
Despite the music genre, after the first chorus Mr and Mrs Jaeger took the floor too, and Bobby led Great Aunt Sadie out. Andrew's brother Matt offered his arm to Great Aunt Dotsie.
Becky slid out of her chair and attempted to sidle up to Sam, but Ian put a warning hand on her arm. "No," he said. "If you want to dance, come with me." Before she could protest, he drew her away from the table.
"That guy is an original Samaritan," declared Sam.
"He's an original weirdo," muttered Dean, poking at Ian's plate. "He hardly ate anything. How could anybody resist this magnificent spread? You just like him because he's apparently another freako non-meatasaur."
Mr and Mrs Jaeger drifted past their table. "Don't be shy, boys," Mrs Jaeger smiled at Dean and Castiel, "This is the twenty-first century."
"What?" Dean did a double-take.
"I believe that Mrs Jaeger wants us to know that as a couple we are welcome to join in the dancing along with the other couples," interpreted Castiel, standing up.
Dean choked on a mouthful of delicious dead animal. "Huh?"
"Go on, bro," Sam waved at the others, "Don't wanna be left out of the fun, do ya?"
"For this, I will kill you," growled Dean, pushing back his chair.
"Oh, and try to smile like you're enjoying yourself," suggested Sam with a grin, "After all, he's the guy you share a profound bond with." He paused. "You should probably lead, Cas, because Dean's more familiar with the horizontal tango than the upright waltz…"
"Bitch."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
The bride and groom were not technically having a going away, as everybody except Ian would be staying and leaving the next morning, but the occasion kicked on into the evening.
Becky demanded that the bouquet be tossed, declaring herself the only truly eligible candidate. ("Can I throw it at her? If I give it a good heft, I could probably stab her in the eye with a stem or something." "Not in public, ya idjit.") However, it bounced off her hands, and landed in Castiel's lap, which provoked a round of applause from the guests and a squeak of horror from Dean.
The groom's friends demanded that the garter be retrieved and thrown, which was briefly delayed when Andrew, grinning like a loon, slid one hand under Ronnie's dress, and came up with a blue tie. Mark ran in the opposite direction, just in case. However, Andrew's throw was a bit over-enthusiastic: the garter hit a ceiling fan, whizzed around a couple of times, then flew through the air to thwack Dean in the ear.
"Looks like you two might be next," trilled Sam cheerfully, as Dean kicked him under the table.
The wedding cake was a modest Mississippi mud cake, with a small heart-shaped top tier.
"Why do people bother with a top bit, if they just have to take it off to cut the damned thing?" wondered Dean, watching as the small top slab was removed. "Why not just make a single bigger cake?"
"Well, traditionally, the top tier of the cake is kept, and stored, until the first child is born," Sam told him, "But that's usually a fruit cake, I don't know how you'd store a mud cake for any length of time, even frozen…"
It turned that storage wasn't going to be a problem; as the guests laughed in amusement, or groaned in disgust, the bride and groom plunged their hands into it, and ate it between them.
"That's kind of gross," complained Sam, pulling a face as Andrew and Ronnie grinned at the assembly with ganache-smeared faces. "I mean, would it kill them to use napkins?"
"I think it's really romantic!" enthused Becky, sidling up to Sam again until Ian pointedly cleared his throat.
"Yeah, but Becky, you think getting thrown head-first into the shubbery is romantic," Dean pointed out. "Because you're a freak."
"I've seen the mash-a-slice-of-cake-into-each-other's-faces thing," Sam went on in a tone of distaste, "But tearing a cake up and eating it with your bare hands?"
"Well, think about the context," theorised Bobby. "Technic'ly, to formalise a pair-bond, the male werewolf should run down a human, pull out the heart, and offer it to the female: if she accepts him, she eats it, and if she's really taken with him, offers to share with him."
"What about if she doesn't accept him?" wondered Dean.
"Oh, she takes the heart and eats it," Ian informed him cheerfully, "Then does her best to kill him."
"Like Klingons, really," Sam observed, "Only with less poetry, and more entrails."
Dean shook his head sadly. "Women," he grunted. "They can be so mercenary, string a guy along, keep him guessing, then he goes and gets a heart, then, whammo! Smackdown, and it's just him and his paw that night..."
"Giving her somebody else's heart as well as your own," sighed Becky, "It's romantic. In a gross and murderous and completely disgusting kind of way," she added, as Castiel glared at her.
Sam looked thoughtful. "Given the situation here," he said eventually, "Maybe tearing a helpless cake apart isn't such a bad compromise."
"Did you ever do that with Jess, Sam?" asked Dean. "Did you ever rip the still-beating heart out of a screaming artichoke, and offer it to her, still dripping fat-free dressing, as a token of your devotion?"
"Jerk."
The celebrations didn't start to wind down until Bobby stood up, and announced that he needed his beauty sleep, for which he received a number of hoots and cat-calls. Shortly after that, Andrew amused everybody enormously by throwing Ronnie over one shoulder and sauntering out.
"He's either incredibly brave, or suicidal," observed Ian.
"Or he's had a lot to drink, and figures he's not gonna get any tonight anyway," shrugged Dean.
"Dean!" snapped Sam. "That's gross!"
"Although, he could just go Alpha-male on her ass," proposed Dean, "Did you see her when he did the whole I Am Alpha thing on her Dad? She was smitten. She woulda done it, right there, if he'd pulled out Len's heart…"
"Dean…"
"It's the ones that come across hard as nails who really like it when a guy takes charge…"
"Dean…"
"Yeah, I bet as soon as they get upstairs, she runs at him backwards."
"Dean! Shut! Up!"
Ian headed off shortly after, shepherding Becky along like a Border Collie using eye on a recalcitrant duck.
"We should probably turn in too, bro," suggested Sam, "We got a long drive tomorrow, and I'll feel better with a locked door between me and Becky… are you still eating?"
"Well, it's chocolate mud cake," Dean said, tucking into another piece of wedding cake, "So you can't keep it, you know, let it mummify in a drawer somewhere, then eat it when somebody breeds, or something. Ronnie says she's gonna be eatin' it for breakfast for the next two days."
"That woman has about as much sense about her nutrition as Jimi," Sam griped. "Or you."
"Hey, I've never tried to eat a dead fox on the side of the road," Dean waved his fork, "And I'm pretty sure Ronnie hasn't either."
"Did you just defend Ronnie against an implication of eating road-kill?" asked Sam in disbelief.
"Totally," Dean nodded, shovelling in another mouthful. "I bet she prefers her vermin raw and still wriggling. Hey, you think we could get a doggy bag for some of this?"
"You're gross."
Dean finished his cake with barely a protest about its inferiority to pie ("Now, if somebody could bake cake into a pie, you'd have the perfect wedding dessert! Cakepie!" "Dean, how much have you had to drink?"), then they headed back to their room.
The foyer was dim, and quiet, but it was apparent that some more items, and photographs, had been added to the displays.
"I wonder if any of these guys were shootin' at us," mused Dean, peering at the faded sepia prints.
"You'll be able to see 'em better tomorrow," yawned Sam, "When it's lighter. Right now, I just wanna hit the hay."
"Yeah, be right behind ya, lightweight," Dean promised, scanning the faces of the young men, some of them just boys, really, who gazed back across a century. He wondered how many of them had died in battle, or of wounds, or of disease, and how many had made it back home, and how many lay in unmarked graves, hurriedly buried, or unidentifiable, and known only unto God. Not that it mattered; they were all dead now, Confederate and Union, and he found he agreed with Ian – they should be left in peace.
He moved on to another photo, and another, where the dimness of the room cast a particular shading over a group shot of some Union troops. It was blurred in places, the limitations of photography in the field being evident, but there was something about one of the shorter men, at the edge where the focus was clearer, that caught his attention.
Blinking, he peered at it, then slowly smiled. "Well, I'll be," he muttered to the photo, "You sneaky, sneaky, clever girl." He chuckled to himself; the woman – and she was a woman – might've fooled her fellow soldiers, but she couldn't put one over on the Living Sex God, who could identify the female form, no matter how androgynous, across a carpark. Or across more than a century, in this case. He'd have to ask Sam about that, he decided, he recalled his brother mentioning something about women who passed themselves off as men to join the Army on either side. I hope you were buried under your own name, he thought.
Shaking his head in amusement, he turned to follow his brother to bed, when another picture caught his eye.
He recognised one of the men immediately, the well-dressed figure and the stern, sad face of Doctor Michael Malloy was unmistakeable. He sat ramrod straight in a chair, posing somewhat unwillingly for a group picture surrounded by the medical staff that had assisted him. There was the obligatory battle-axe in a uniform that had to be a senior nurse, and some younger women, serious of face and dress, ranged behind the doctors, who sat in chairs in the front. Typical. The ladies stand, whilst the doctors get to sit down...
Then he saw the man to the right of Doctor Malloy. Being a formal photo, it had been staged carefully, so the focus and detail was very good compared to the others. He was just as formally dressed, and looked as stern and haunted, as his colleague in medicine.
Dean gasped in recognition. And then he scowled.
He would've been willing to put it down to an incredibly uncanny family likeness, even over several generations. Such things happened.
But the man in the photo was missing two joints from the little finger of his left hand.
Yeah, a self-insertion there: I ate chocolate wedding cake leftovers for breakfast for two days afterwards. I REGRET NOTHING. Except the fact that I didn't think to get a little heart-shaped top tier that I could eat with my bare hands on the day.
Bruce is in the home straight! If he gets enough reviews to eat, I'll put the next chapter up in a few hours, because Reviews are the Delicious Slices Of Chocolate Mud Cake At The Breakfast Of Life!