AN: I totally borrowed (stole) a line from sfaulkenberry in this chapter, because I loved it. Stay tuned for blood and scotch and golf clubs!

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Sam rubbed a finger and thumb over his eyes. He rarely minded research, not even translation. Italian wasn't a language he knew, but he was good enough with Romance languages that with the excellent translation app he had, it went fairly fast. But he'd had enough with learning about what supplies were required to sustain a household to the family's expectations. It was boring with a capital b.

Worse still was reading the castellana's opinions of everyone around her. She found the maids lazy and promiscuous, the footmen lazy and stupid, and pretty much everyone outside of the household completely useless at best, and outright criminals at worst. By the third time he read about the provincial and plebeian storekeepers and their failure to provide foodstuffs worthy of the noble family (who were the only ones not subject to the poison pen), Sam kind of hated the long-dead servant. And he wasn't learning anything even close to useful.

Sam cracked his neck from side to side carefully. Dean was still sleeping – heavily – with his feet across Sam's knees and he didn't want to disturb him. His brother had lost the pinched look and slightly sunken eyes of utter exhaustion, but he was definitely still feeling the aftereffects of the blood spell.

One of the biggest blessings of the bunker was how hard Dean slept there. For him to sleep like this in a strange place with people who weren't named Sam Winchester around was a clear indicator that he was still depleted. Well, that and the fact that Sam was on watch. Sam had long since passed the point where he was embarrassed to note that just his presence, or better yet, contact with him, made his brother relax even while sleeping or unconscious. Sam was still humbled by it, though. It was a fact of life that he relied on Dean, but it was still a wonder that Dean leaned on him too.

Sam glanced around the condo. Myra was reading in her room, stating she "needed a break from the insanity that is Judy Mae," and Judy was knitting in hers, satisfied with having frustrated the oldest sister into conceding the Scrabble match. Carolyn was still in the kitchen – seriously, it was no wonder she was so skinny despite her cooking prowess because she didn't seem to ever sit down.

And Barb was...Sam frowned. He had seen Barb leave but had been focused on his work and hadn't done anything more than simply note it. But now it was full dark.

"Carolyn?" he called softly, hoping (probably in vain) that Dean wouldn't wake up. "Do you know where Barb was going?"

Carolyn took two steps toward Sam, a slight frown creasing her forehead. She was kind of cute, wearing an old-fashioned full-length ruffled apron with actual pockets on the front.

"To take a walk, I guess?" she said hesitantly. "She shouldn't be out alone after dark."

"No, she shouldn't." Dean's voice was heavy with sleep but aware and Sam covered a sigh. He hadn't really expected Dean to stay asleep, but he'd still hoped. Dean pulled his feet off Sam and sat up, frowning down at the blanket that pooled onto his lap. "What the ffffffffffffreak is this?" he asked, catching sight of Carolyn in the middle of the sentence and hastily censoring himself.

"Judy," said Carolyn as if that explained everything, and maybe it did. Sam pulled out his phone and called Barb. It rang four times and Barb's voice came on the line telling him to leave a message if he expected a callback. He shook his head at Dean's questioning look, too worried about their friend to be as amused as usual at Dean's hedgehog hair. "I, uh...can track her phone," he admitted, a little sheepishly. He had obtained some sort of illegal software not long before and had taken the time to put all of the Firth sisters' phone numbers into it just in case.

While Dean hit the bathroom and Carolyn updated the other sisters, Sam pulled up Barb's phone information. She was maybe half a mile away – they could be there in minutes.

"We can all fit in your big car, I'm sure," said Myra from his elbow.

"We're walking," said Sam, partly because it was easier than arguing, partly because it was true. He glanced down from double-checking the rock-salt-loaded shotgun that he'd taken from the Impala's trunk. His mouth twitched involuntarily as he caught sight of the abandoned Scrabble board. In one corner was the word SUCK with SHIT going down off the S. Mostly to change the subject, Sam looked at the holder he knew held what had been Myra's letters and tapped the triple word score square above the U. "Queso," he suggested. Not only would the word also be worth 45 points, it would also make HE, IS, and TO to add another 10.

Myra lifted an eyebrow appraisingly, as if Sam had passed some test.

"We'll go a lot faster with just the two of us," Dean said, emerging and picking up the second shotgun. "Stay here. With the salt lines down, no ghosties can get inside."

Myra's mouth pinched, but Judy beat her to the punch. "We can be backup!"

"We can handle this on our own. This is what we do...all the time. And we work best with just the two of us. We'll call you as soon as we find her," Sam promised.

"Stay put," Dean reiterated. Sam followed him out, closing the door firmly on the protests behind them. He had a feeling that they'd pay for that later, but now he was too worried about Barb to care much about repercussions from her sisters for their rudeness.

Sam took the lead, heading in the direction that his phone indicated Barb's phone was. It was quiet – almost abnormally so. People must either be leaving the resort area entirely or staying inside after dark. Between that and the fact that they quickly left the lighted areas behind made it feel like they were in their more typical Hunting grounds – some place isolated and remote. Sam's senses heightened and focused automatically, filtering out the sounds of Dean behind him and to his left, watching his back in a way nobody else really could.

Someone's TV was on, perhaps heard through an open window, but too far away for him to tell more. A bug zapper buzzed, an engine ran, but all of it was far behind them. Sam signaled to Dean that they were close, then he heard a voice. It was soft and female, but not Barb. And something about it set off Sam's spooky-meter. He sped up and rounded the corner of a skeletal scaffolding to see the ghost of a young woman knock Barb over. He fired, even knowing other people would hear it, even knowing he'd probably be too late (which he was). It was instinct. They had so few people who truly cared for them without any kind of agenda, and Sam wasn't losing one of them today.

Dean was a step and a half behind. "What is it?" he asked, moving to cover Sam so he could go right to Barb.

"Casper." Sam dropped to a knee. "Barb, are you hurt?"

Before she could even answer, there was a flash of white and a flurry of motion at Sam's face. It was faster than any human could move, faster than he could really see, but his reflexes were honed by a lifetime of Hunting. He turned a shoulder just enough to put Barb slightly behind him and threw the gun up between himself and the whirling dervish of motion. It was all confusion from there. He was knocked back and somehow didn't land on Barb (which was good, because he'd have squashed her like a mosquito) and there was shouting and the boom of a shotgun.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice demanded from right over Sam's head. It was that particular tone that meant Dean wanted – needed – a health update now, because he had to watch for the threat to come back and couldn't check Sam himself.

"I'm fine. Barb?" Sam pushed himself up, adrenaline meaning he didn't even really feel the effects of the impact with the ground. He looked back at Barb, who was climbing to her knees, eyes wide.

"Sam, you're bleeding!"

Sam followed her eyes to see what she was talking about. "It's just my hand. It's fine."

"We need to get out of here," snapped Dean, pissed off now. He took Barb's arm to help her the rest of the way up even as he kept scanning the area.

"Yeah, I'm fine, really. She nicked me is all." Sam was on his feet now too, shotgun back at the ready and facing toward the ruins the opposite direction as Dean, with Barb between them. There was nothing to see.

"Not she. It wasn't Camilla," said Barb. "Sam – ?"

"We'll look at it back at your condo," Sam said, just shy of snapping. Whoever the ghost was, it was fast, and he wasn't sure how well they could protect the older woman. And there was blood dripping down Sam's hand from some cut he hadn't even noticed getting. And of course, they wanted to be out of there before security showed up. Just because they probably could talk their way out of trouble (despite their weapons) using their FBI covers didn't mean they wanted to have to.

Dean led them at a good pace, which Barb luckily kept up with easily and silently. Twice more, Sam thought he caught a glimpse of white, but it was gone before he could even get the shotgun to bear on it, leaving nothing more than a vague sense of malice.

Dean had brought them around the back of the building that housed Janna the archivist's office, which was a good decision, because it kept them out of sight of the security personnel that had driven in like the golf cart cavalry. Barb was carrying the bag she'd had with her, Dean had scooped up the spent shells, and Sam was holding his left hand against his shirt to absor any and all blood, so they shouldn't have left much if any evidence behind.

By the time they were back at the Firth women's condo, Sam had to press his hand tightly against his side to stem the blood, and the hand was throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Whatever had cut him had been so sharp that he hadn't felt the pain right away, nor realized that it was an injury worth even thinking about. He was grateful that Barb was able to move as quickly as she had so the trip hadn't taken even longer, because the side of Sam's shirt was already sodden.

In front of him, Dean opened the door to the condo. And ducked back as something flashed toward his head. There was a crash like broken glass, but Dean hadn't brought his gun up so Sam stayed back. "Damn it, Judy," snapped Barb. "This is why we can't have nice things."

She and Dean stepped through the door, and Sam barely resisted snickering at the sight of Judy wielding a golf club – which Dean adroitly plucked from her grasp. The lamp that had stood next to the door was in pieces on the floor.

"What are you doing, Judy?" asked Dean, somewhere between amused and annoyed. "We told you no ghosts could get in, not that this would have stopped one anyway."

"I thought you were...I don't know," Judy sounded a little sulky. "I so rarely get to hit things!"

"Well, don't take anybody's head off, okay?" Dean turned and Sam knew the second he saw all the blood. The whole condo, and possibly the whole block knew a second later. "Fuck!" he bellowed. "Sam? You said were fine!"

"It's still a small cut on my hand, Dean. Just deeper than I thought. Nothing else is bleeding."

Sam might as well have not said anything. Dean had burst into motion. He set his own shotgun against the wall and grabbed Sam's away to prop next to it. He pulled Sam's hand away from his side and pressed the bandanna he was magically holding against it – hard. He tugged Sam toward the kitchen, barking orders as he went. "Myra, make sure Barb's okay. Carolyn, I need some water and some towels, and a first aid kit if you have one. Then double-check the salt lines. Judy, just...don't hit anybody with anything."

Sam went along willingly enough. He could tell by feel alone that he'd need stitches, which meant he was about to get a very unique combination of care and bitching out. He was resigned to it.

"...thinking, going out by yourself when you know there's something dangerous out there?" Myra was berating Barb, who was sitting in the single armchair in the living room, sending Sam a look of longsuffering and commiseration. "Drink this tea right now before you get a chill."

Hmmm, maybe the combination wasn't quite as unique as Sam had thought. He was a bit impressed at the way everyone was obeying Dean...except Judy, who was cleaning up the busted lamp. Sam hoped she stayed away from the shotguns.

Dean shoved Sam into a kitchen chair and pulled his arm onto a towel, glaring at Sam like he'd insulted the Impala. But Dean's hands were careful as he unwrapped Sam's hand. Sam didn't wince at all the blood revealed, but he was a little surprised. The cut bisected the muscle at the base of his thumb and was deeper than Sam had thought. Okay, a lot deeper. If Sam hadn't gotten the shotgun – which had iron bands around the barrel for those pesky ghosts that got a little too close to shoot – up in front of his face, or if the claw or whatever had caught him across the neck, or even his wrist, he could have bled out in minutes.

"Damn," whispered Dean, coming to the same conclusion. He put pressure back on the wound and tipped Sam's fingers forward. The nail and first knuckle of Sam's middle finger were also cut, though shallowly. "You told me you were nicked," he said, anger in his voice. Yeah, this was probably one of the few things Dean would consider worse than insulting his beloved car: Sam getting hurt and not telling him.

"I didn't realize it was anything like this," Sam said earnestly, willing Dean to hear the truth in his words. "Must be damn sharp, because it didn't even hurt at first."

Dean relaxed a little. He could and would forgive a mistake in the heat of the moment far easier than he could forgive Sam deliberately downplaying an injury. "I need to get some stuff out of the car." He frowned. "Unless you want a real doc to handle that. I mean, it's your hand."

Sam couldn't help but smile. It was a big concession for Dean to even offer to let someone else take care of Sam, but if it would get Sam better care… "Nah. Your stitches are just as good as theirs anyway, and you'll let me drink whiskey to numb the pain."

"Don't bleed all over the floor. This place is expensive," said Dean, but his eyes had softened with pleasure at Sam's answer. "Hold pressure on that." He hesitated and Sam knew he was considering having one of the sisters do it for the entire thirty seconds he'd be away, since he wasn't about to send one of them outside.

"I got it." Sam rolled his eyes for good measure. "And don't forget the whiskey."

"You'll be okay, right?" Carolyn asked nervously, bringing even more towels. (Seriously, where was she finding so many?)

"Yes, I promise," Sam reassured her with his best smile. Carolyn was sweet, but she was definitely a worrier. "Dean's going to put a couple stitches in, but it's no big deal. There's not really as much blood as it looks like."

"You should take off your bloody shirt," suggested Judy loudly from the living room, where she was trying for at least the third time to put her blanket monstrosity around a recalcitrant Barb.

"I can't as long as I'm holding pressure on this," Sam hedged, relieved when Dean came back. He accepted the lidocaine, since there are an awful lot of nerves in the hand and he knew he'd need it to help him hold still enough for the little stitches that would help him maintain full range of motion after the cut was all healed. He still twitched heavily at the pour of antiseptic over the biggest wound.

"Easy, easy," Dean's voice was quiet, designed to soothe. As he stitched, he told a story about some water babies that had taken an intense liking to Caleb – heavily edited for the rest of his audience, of course.

"So, he thinks they're all dead, and he's all kinds of traumatized, so he gets shi – uh, he gets drunk and I dump him in his bed in his motel room, which is next to mine." Dean nudged the glass of whiskey toward Sam as he wiped away yet more blood. Sam knew it was because he was getting to the deepest part of the cut and was hoping to spare Sam as much pain as possible.

Sam didn't think it would help much, but obediently took another drink. It was depressingly cheap stuff. "And?" he asked, though he'd heard Caleb's take on the same story.

"So, at like 8am, I hear this scream and banging from his room. And I'm in there, in my boxers – "

"Damn, I'd have liked to have seen that," said Judy, sotto voce, from the living room.

Dean ignored her. "– and socks and my gun in my hand, busting down the door." He paused in his work and tightened his grip on Sam's forearm for a second when Sam couldn't hold back a flinch.

"And I see Caleb ripping at his face and dancing around like he's got a bee in his shorts. A couple of the babies survived, and somehow got in his room and he woke up to find it sleeping in his beard. And there was another that had curled up on his a – uh, butt. But when he woke up and freaked out, they dug their little claws in to hang on. I got the one off his face, but, well…"

Sam chuckled. Stitches and all, he was actually feeling a mild buzz. And it was nice to think of happy memories of an old friend. "That's why he always carried bear spray after that, right?" The powerful chemicals bothered the water babies a great deal.

Dean nodded and tied off another stitch. "There." He gently wiped everything off again, cleaned the smaller cut and covered everything. "Caleb shaved the beard off the same day and never had one again, as far as I know. And he's lucky he didn't need stitches, because he may have been my friend, but no way in he – heck was I doing that."

Dean washed his hands and Carolyn whisked away all of the bloody towels before Sam could even stand.

"Now," said Myra sternly, "I think we all need to hear what happened tonight." She waved a little imperiously at the sectional. Sam looked down at his bloody shirt with a sigh. He couldn't sit on the couch with it on, so it looked like Judy was going to get her wish.

"I need to go back to our condo to change a minute," he said, but Myra shook her head.

"I'm not waiting any longer to hear about what's threatening my family." She could have been a Winchester with the amount of iron in her voice.

"I agree," said Judy, sounding surprisingly serious.

"As do I," said Carolyn quietly, but no less insistent than her more forthright sisters.

Sam sighed again but pulled off the shirt, ignoring both Judy's wolf whistle and Dean's "give the people what they want, Sammy" under his breath. Since his dignity was gone anyway, Sam wrapped Judy's stupid blanket around his shoulders. Dean looked like he'd won the lottery.

Until Carolyn (Carolyn!) pointed out that there was blood on Dean's shirt too. Dean, naturally, pulled his shirt off with a flourish and spun it around one finger like some professional stripper.

"Get him a blanket, Judy," Myra ordered, over the latter's wolf whistle. "Or we'll never get anything discussed." At Dean's raised eyebrows, she added, "I'm old, but I'm not dead."

The blanket Judy (reluctantly) returned with was covered in knit cows that stared placidly ahead with knots for eyes. Sam covered a chuckle as Dean wrapped it around himself with a look of disgust.

"I think I need a drink," said Barb, and everyone else in the room seemed to realize at the same time just how quiet she'd been this entire time.

"I think we all do. Carolyn, get the bottle," said Myra with gravity.

"What's that?" asked Dean as Carolyn emerged from Myra's room with an expensive-looking bottle full of amber liquid.

"Glenlivet. Lulu's husband found it in the back of the pantry. They'd had it for years – were saving it for some special occasion. He said we should drink it, as a reminder to live for today." It was Barb who answered. "We agreed to drink at least some of it together."

Carolyn poured for everyone, even, to Sam's surprise, herself. He remembered hearing that she was a teetotaler. Apparently, this occasion called for even her to partake.

They all sipped quietly as they listened to Barb. Sam wanted to scold her for going out walking, but Myra and Carolyn had done plenty of that while he'd been getting stitched up. He barely noticed that Myra was refilling glasses as they became empty, but even with the riveting story, he did notice just how smooth the Glenlivet was.

It turns out Camilla had an even more tragic life story than they'd suspected.

"Sounds like the evil spirit is Dante," commented Myra. "Too bad he's a ghost, because he really should be stabbed in the face."

Sam snickered at that, noting that Myra was looking a tad tipsy. Actually, all of the sisters were, except Barb, who still looked sad. "Barb, take another drink," he directed. "You had quite a night."

"I'm not 100% sure it's Dante that attacked you," said Dean thoughtfully. He'd abandoned his blanket and sounded perfectly clear, but a lifetime of experience meant that Sam could recognize a certain looseness in his posture that said he was feeling the alcohol a little.

Barb threw back the rest of her drink like a practiced barfly, then ruined the impression by blinking hard a few times. "Who then?" she asked. "And how do we get rid of them for good?"

"And, for that matter, how do they travel? And pick their victims?" Sam mused aloud, dropping his own blanket. It was really ugly. "Maybe it is Camilla. Maybe she's attached to her roses because she bled on them." He looked around until he saw the little pack of seeds the young ghost had dropped. "We may have to burn that."

"I wish you wouldn't," sighed Carolyn. She was in the armchair, listing well to the side. "She'sh just trying to – to – you know, protect her flow-flowers."

"And if it doesn't work, we can't burn all of the roses in the whole place," Dean was scowling at his glass, which was empty again. He must like the scotch as much as Sam did.

"Besides, the landscaping company probably is still growing more in their greenhouses somewhere. And has seeds. And…" Sam trailed off. If burning the packet didn't work, he wasn't sure what would. He suddenly sat up straight. "I think it is the roses, though. The construction workers had just dug up a bush that had been planted the wrong place. Bulldozed it, actually. And the lady Barb found had a vase of cut roses near her." The wheels of his mind turned. Hating the question even as he said it, Sam asked, "Why would Dante care about the flowers?"

Barb looked even sadder, and Sam got it. None of them wanted it to be the young woman, but she had been dead for a long time, and as he and Dean knew from experience, even the best people were in danger of becoming vengeful ghosts if they lingered. The memory of sending Bobby on made Sam swallow hard – and refill his glass. At least his hand wasn't hurting any more. Either hand. He still had a bandage on his right palm from the burn and scraping off the blister.

"I h-hope her dick husband didn't live a long time." That was Judy. "Man, I've never had such a great scenery while drinking, and I'm ssssshtill getting depressed."

"He didn't," Sam confirmed, not embarrassed by the ogling anymore. "He died of some mystery illness." That was probably more evidence that Dante wasn't their killer; ghosts usually visited their own type of death on others.

"Too bad he wasn't poisoned," said Barb. She raised her glass. "To poison!"

They all toasted the rather drunken suggestion, except Carolyn, who was sleeping in her chair. Sam rescued her glass, which was about to fall from her hand. After a second's thought, he drained it. He was a lot more sober than the women, but he was feeling pretty good.

"Know what Lu'd do if she were here?" asked Judy unexpectedly.

"Drink us all under the table. Then dance on the table," suggested Myra with a very un-Myra giggle.

Judy stood and began to waltz around the room with an invisible partner. She would have been pretty good, if not for the fact that she had to avoid all the furniture and feet, and she wasn't exactly steady. To Sam's surprise, Dean stood and caught one of Judy's hands. He twirled her once and deposited her back in her spot on the couch. He didn't want her to hurt herself, Sam realized, feeling all ooey-gooey about his brother and his well-hidden heart of gold.

"Remember how we all danced at Lu's wedding?" asked Barb. "Too bad not a one of our husbands can dance. Judy, who did you bring? He could dance!"

The three women who were still awake reminisced for a while – a few of the stories rather ribald – until only Barb was awake. And she didn't look like she would be for long.

"Crap. We can't just leave them," Sam realized. They'd have to stay and make sure the old girls were okay.

"Yeah." Dean huffed out a sigh. He was even soberer than Sam.

Soberer? Was that even a word? Maybe Sam wasn't as sober as he'd thought.

"I'll go back to our place and get some of our crap. Like, you know, shirts."

"Judy will be sad," Sam answered, unable to keep a smile off his face. "She really likes our tattoos, remember?"

"So do I," said Barb unexpectedly. "Whish doesn't sheem right at all, shince you're almost like my shons. Sons." She sounded so disgusted Sam laughed again.

Shaking his head like he was ready to be done with all of them, like he wasn't just as bad as any of them, Dean left. Sam took the opportunity to put a glass of water, some painkillers, and an empty wastebasket next to each bed. He didn't know just how bad their hosts would feel in the morning.

Dean returned, and the two of them woke everybody up and bullied them all to bed. Barb went last. She stopped at the doorway to her room and beckoned them closer, then made them bend over one at a time so she could give each a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, again, boys," she said. "I'm sorry that my actions put you in danger." They both waved it off, and Barb studied them for a second, hands on her hips. "And put shome clothes on before you give one of ush girls a heart attack!" With a wicked grin, she went in and closed the door.

"I feel like we just chaperoned the world's oldest sorority party!" Dean groused, but there was a smile teasing at his lips.

"Man, can you imagine what they were like all together when they were young?" Sam asked, grinning back because yeah, he was drunk enough that he didn't need much encouragement.

By unspoken agreement, Sam and Dean split the rest of their rotgut before finally settling down to sleep on the sectional. They didn't talk about the case, but Sam had the feeling that Dean was turning things over in his brain, the same way Sam was. They had to figure out a way to definitively end the slashy ghost before he or she killed or hurt someone else. Maybe the freaked out construction worker had seen something more than the injured one had…? It would be worth questioning him, certainly.

And once they knew who they were Hunting, they'd have to figure out a way to end them permanently. There were some banishing rituals they could try, but none of them were fast or easy to do somewhere you had to worry about witnesses. Maybe they could lure the Casper somewhere? Somewhere safe, because it was hands down one of the fastest things they'd ever come up against.

Dean was asking Sam something about Judy...or maybe druids...but Sam was thinking too hard to answer. And besides, someone had glued his eyelids shut. He should answer, so he said something along the lines of, "I dunno" and went back to his thinking. Or trying to think. It was getting harder.

Ghosts and roses. Guns and roses? Maybe they could play some of Dean's tapes until they pissed off...um, whatever it was they were fighting again. But later. Sam was tired. He was covered up with his injured hand (more injured hand) laid carefully on top of the blanket.

"Cats or cows?" Sam asked, but fell asleep before he heard an answer.

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AN: There was some shameless pandering here. I fully admit it. And shirtlessness. Not sorry.

Janice: So, people have been showing up with food because my dad had surgery and it's a small community and it's what we do...and it just inspired me to write about food. Mmmmm. Barb is safe! I just felt like she needed to be the one to hear Camilla's story. Thanks for the shotgun help (twice)! You know what I mean.

Shazza: Aw, you're so sweet! It's fun to see the boys with some motherly influences. And my married name is so much worse than my maiden name...it's like that old Seinfeld episodes because it rhymes with a female body part. LOLOL

Christine: Barb is safe! I swear! hehe I'm glad you liked Camilla. I made her up, and I still felt super sorry for her.

Colby's girl: More ugly blankets! I'm glad that you liked Barb and Camilla together. Thanks for your comments!

Timelady66: Oh, yippee! You're so sweet! I'm just so happy that you enjoyed Sam getting to watch over Dean and Barb meeting Camilla. She's safe! I couldn't hurt my Barb. May I use the term pie wars? I love it! And I absolutely channeled the boys eating like crazy at Jody's.

muffinroo: Your Sammy came through! And he only got a little bloody in the process. I'm way too pleased that you like the nutty Firths. Yup, Barb got her sisters worked up with wandering around with a monster "all killy," which is a fabulous phrase, by the way.

sfaulkenberry: You know how much I love your comments! Or at least, you should by now. And, uh, Janice totally added the line about Sam's eyes being lethal...I can't take credit. I was always the kid that was reading at the table, and during math class, and *ahem* during church services.

Barb is a fun foil for the boys because she has seen them before, so she notices character development. And an observant character is always an easy, cheater way to talk more about the boys.

As for the BMoL, I never really forgave them, so I doubt Dean would. In fact, I'm sure I'll write more about them down the road because even though I liked Mick later, the whole "she just got a little enthusiastic" thing never sat well with me. But anyhoo...

Love love love Sophia Pedrillo, so that made me smile. I bet Barb would be flattered by the comparison!

stedan: Thank you! Observant outsiders are kind of a thing for me. Speaking of observant, good call on the footsteps! And yup, that wasn't so very bright of Barb, but at least she's safe now!