Ermagerd, you are so generous with the reviews! Gooooooooooooo bunny!
Chapter Five
The surgeon and doctor who'd attended Sam pronounced themselves amazed at the speed with which he healed up, giving him an excellent prognosis and anticipating a full recovery.
"Well young man, I wish I knew your secret," joked one of the doctors, "Whatever you're taking, I want some for me, let alone my other patients."
"We've always recovered from injuries quickly," Dean told him. "It's just good genes. And bacon cheeseburgers," he added under his breath as Sam elbowed him viciously.
After a week, Sam was pronounced fit to be discharged.
"Your chariot awaits, sir," Dean indicated the wheelchair, "You ready to blow this joint?"
"Totally," complained Sam, as he waved goodbye to the nursing staff, "The food in this place sucks."
"I'm surprised you even noticed it," Dean told him, pushing the wheelchair towards the elevators, "Considering the amount of time I spent on catering runs. I guess the average patient-sized serving doesn't take into account that they might get a Sasquatch admitted sometime."
"Jerk."
Jimi had accompanied Dean for a ride in the car, and gave Sam an enthusiastic greeting, whining and wagging his tail so hard his whole back end wiggled.
"Hey, fella!" Sam smiled and patted the big happy face, "It's good to see you too!"
"He was worried about ya," Dean said, helping Sam into shotgun then putting Jimi in the back, where the happy wiggle-dancing continued.
"Did Ronnie tell you that?" asked Sam, carefully reaching back to pat the dog again. Jimi once more went into paroxysms of delight. "Wow, he is glad to see me!"
"He's just relieved," Dean remarked nonchalantly. "He'll be back to tryin' to eat your lunch for you in no time at all."
"Well, it's good to be out," Sam sighed, letting his head rest against the window as Dean eased the Impala out of the hospital parking lot.
They weren't thirty seconds down the road when Sam suddenly opened his eyes and chirped "Oh, hey, drive through! Let's get wings!"
"Wings?" repeated Dean.
"Yeah," Sam enthused, "I'm kinda hungry."
"You only had breakfast an hour ago!" Dean reminded him. "With onion rings."
"Deeeeeean," Sam whined, "I'm hungryyyyyyy."
"What is this, are you pregnant or something?" Dean rolled his eyes.
"It must be from healing up," Sam shrugged. "Jimi likes wings too! Don't you, boy? You want wings, huh, wings?"
In the back seat, Jimi began to bark happily at the mention of the w-word.
"Great, now the dog and the bitch are double-teaming me," sighed Dean, pulling into the drive through.
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Back at Schloss Jaeger, they went through the ritual of one brother anxiously shepherding the wounded other one out of the car, with Jimi hovering close on the other side. Ronnie and Joni were at the door to meet them.
"Gday Sam," she smiled, "Good to see you..."
He paused, smiled, and leaned in to sniff at her hair.
"...Up and about," she went on as if nothing unusual had happened.
He suddenly jumped back, as if he'd been stung, and his face turned red.
"Uh, I, er," he stuttered. "I... don't know why I did that..."
"It's that bacon-scented shampoo she uses," said Dean, chivvying his brother inside.
"And cocoa bean conditioner," Ronnie added, "Er, Sam, on your face," she waved at her own face vaguely. "Has Dean been rubbing your face in something? Only, you look like a kindergartener who's been eating the paint."
"Huh?" Sam wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Oh, we had wings on the way," he explained. "It's just sauce. I must've missed some." He let his hand fall back to his side, where Jimi and Joni sniffed eagerly at it, and competed to lick his fingers.
"Given the way he ate 'em, I think some of 'em are currently in his stomach without even teethmarks in 'em," commented Dean.
"Well, if the convalescent would care to come inside, he can set himself up in the living room," she bowed elaborately and held the door open. "And if he asks nicely, there may be some triple-choc bikkies come out of the oven quite recently."
"Yeah?" Sam's face lit up. "Awesome!" HIs expression became more serious. "Oh, hey, I owe you guys a thank-you. Dean told me what you did."
Ronnie's face was as carefully blank as Dean's. "Oh?"
"Yeah," Sam gave her a smile of gratitude. "If you and Andrew hadn't come to get us back to the car, I probably wouldn't have made it."
"Well, you'd be amazed at how quickly he can think if his baby brother is in peril," she smiled back. "You'll get the bill later. Taxi fees, plus beer; Andrew got stuck again."
"Put it on our tab," trilled Dean in his best For-Fuck's-Sake-Change-The-Subject tone.
"Yes, bwana. Now, you," she bent a stern eye on Sam, "You're still recuperating. Living room. Sit. Stay."
"Come on, Sam," Dean wheedled as he herded his brother into the living room. "Do what she says – she's the woman who has the cookies, and the password for the wifi."
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Sam spent the day dozing on the couch, with Jimi and Joni hovering protectively, or pecking at his laptop, while Ronnie and Dean kept the snacks coming.
"I can't believe how hungry I am," he commented with a mouthful of steak sandwich.
"Well, you've got a lot of healing to do," Ronnie told him, "That's a hell of a carcass to repair you're driving around there. What are you doing?"
"Just checking," he said, looking at the laptop screen, "Dean, are you sure that we got both those Black Dogs?"
"Andrew and I went back and did a sweep of the area," Ronnie told him. "The two you ganked were the only ones there. Not a whiff for miles."
"Good." Sam leaned back, and closed his eyes.
"You okay, bro?" asked Dean immediately.
"Yeah," sighed Sam, "Just tired. And a bit sore." He flexed his arm, looking at the fading bite mark. "Damn, that thing was huge. One of the docs wanted to know what the hell kind of dog could leave a bite like that."
"An angry one," Ronnie said firmly, "A Black Dog can tear a bloke apart in under a minute; you're lucky you had your brother, and Jimi, with you."
"Yeah," Sam smiled at Dean, then reached to pat Jimi. "What can go wrong when you guys have my back? Anyway, if we're sure they're dealt with, I think I might've found us a case..."
"Whoa there, big fella," Ronnie interrupted, "You are not going anywhere yet, not until you've had some time to finish healing up."
"She's right, Sam," Dean added his voice, "You gotta be properly back in the game before we get back on the road."
"Yeah, well, I can do research while I heal up," Sam protested.
"Provided you get adequate rest while you're doing it," Ronnie said. "You should probably put the laptop away."
"Gee whiz, Mom," Sam rolled his eyes, "Aren't I allowed to read at the table?"
"No," she sniffed. "It would probably do you good to go and lie down. Maybe have a nap before dinner."
"A... did you just say a nap?" demanded Sam incredulously. "Look, Ronnie, I know you mean well, but..."
She turned back to him, her top lip curled, and growled.
Sam's mouth shut with a snap.
Ronnie smiled at him. "Good. Now, should I put some tater tots in the oven for afterwards?"
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After lunch, Sam did go and lie down; Jimi climbed onto the bed beside him, doing furry hot water bottle duty, and Joni took up a position on the floor, relaxed but watchful.
"That was... amazing," said Dean vaguely, as they cleaned up in the kitchen later. "I've never seen anything like it."
"Well, they are quite moreish," Ronnie shrugged. "I could eat 'em by the bucketload as a kid, well before I was bitten."
"I don't think he bothered to chew most of 'em," Dean went on. "I wonder if there's any world record been set for number of tater tots consumed in ten minutes?"
"Probably," Ronnie shrugged. "I think you should tell him."
"What?" Dean gave her a panicked look. "I can't!"
"He's smart, Dean," she reminded him, "He will eventually figure it out."
"Well, you gotta stop growling at him," humphed Dean, drying a plate. "Or that'll tip him off. What's with that, anyway?"
"I am alpha female of this pack," she said smugly. "He is junior in rank to me. He'll do what he's told."
Dean gave her a calculating look. "Could you teach me to do that?"
"Only if I bite you next full moon. Seriously, you gotta tell him."
"Tell him what?" said a sleepy voice behind them.
"That we're out of tater tots," Ronnie answered smoothly. "I thought we had another packet, but I was wrong."
"Damn," sighed Sam, heading for the refrigerator. "Can I have some of that schnitzel?"
"Knock yourself out," Ronnie told him. "Here, I'll get you a plate."
"It's okay, I don't need a plate, I'll just..."
grrrrrrrrrrrrr
"Uh... thanks."
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Andrew returned in the evening, accompanied by two large buckets of take-out chicken.
"Aha, the walking wounded is here!" he greeted Sam.
"Not doin' a lot of walking," Sam replied, "I'm basically confined to the sofa."
"Well, you still got healing up to do," Andrew nodded judiciously. "But dinner will help with that. Food makes everything seem better."
"Especially if there's pie afterwards," Dean gave Ronnie his most winning smile.
She rolled her eyes. "I'm on it, I'm on it," she grumbled, "I've got some cherry filling in the fridge, will that do?"
"Will you do the lattice thing on top?" Dean fluttered his eyelashes.
"Will there be anything else, Your Lordship?" she bobbed a quick curtsey.
"Make me a special one with my name on it," he beamed.
"Cheeky bastard," she growled, heading for the kitchen.
"It's really good of you to let us stay here," Sam told Andrew.
"Mein Haus ist dein Haus", shrugged Andrew. "Jimi is Joni's brother, which makes you practically family by canine understanding. Hey, Dean, you okay?"
"I'm fine," wheezed Dean around the mouthful of beer he'd choked on.
They ate in the living room, and Dean couldn't help but notice that Sam didn't even remark upon the absence of even some coleslaw to go with the chicken.
"So, once all the stitches come out, I can pretty much get back on the road," Sam related, gesturing with a wing before biting into it.
"Well, there's no need to rush," cautioned Ronnie, reaching for another piece, "You don't wanna go off half-cocked, and find yourself up shit creek and not firing on both banks." She peered down at Jimi, who was giving her the Big Brown Eyes treatment. "Bugger off, you," she growled.
"You're so mean," Andrew griped, dropping half a wing on the floor for Joni. Jimi immediately switched his focus, lifting a paw and dialling up the pathos-ometer.
"And they've worked out who the soft touch is," she rolled her eyes.
"Those in my den eat at my sufferance, because I am Alpha," sniffed Andrew with wounded dignity. "Oh, hey, Dean, something go down the wrong way?"
"I'm good," gasped Dean.
"He's probably just feeling faint for lack of pie," suggested Ronnie, getting up. "You want cream with yours, Dean?"
"You know just how to turn me on," he simpered at her. She thwacked him on the arm, and headed for the kitchen.
Dean turned back to the table. "Wow, I can't believe we got through all that…" his voice trailed off.
They had gotten through almost all the chicken. Except one piece, a large juicy, succulent piece of breast meat, sitting in the middle of the plate.
Andrew and Sam reached for it at the same time.
They both froze. Their eyes met across the table. And then, Andrew did The Stare.
Dean has seen The Stare before. He was familiar with The Stare. He'd seen it plenty of times: his father had used it, Bobby still used it, and he'd seen Jimi use it. Hell, he'd used it himself on numerous occasions, whether it was on a fugly, across a pool table, on some punk getting too close to his Baby or, on one memorable occasion, a swan that was getting too close to his little brother's picnic lunch (in the end, Dean was technically the winner, via two falls and a submission)
The Stare was not an angry face. It did not bare its teeth, it did not curl its lip. It did not frown, it did not snarl. It did not say a thing. It did not make a sound. It was a bland and unblinking assertion, an expression that explained in a single look that the starer was, simply, the better man (or dog. Or swan) in every possible way, and that the staree should not even bother to try to make anything of it, because the result was already a foregone conclusion, and the staree would come off second best.
For a moment, Sam's face registered surprise.
But he didn't break eye contact.
Dean felt his own eyes start to water in sympathy, and wondered whether a paper napkin tossed between them would burst into flames.
Moving carefully and deliberately, Andrew took hold of the piece of chicken. He tore it in half, and offered one of the pieces to Sam.
Moving just as slowly, Sam accepted it.
They both leaned back at the same time, then sat watching each other eat. The Staring ratcheted down a couple of notches.
Dean let out his breath and reached for his beer as Ronnie came back from the kitchen. "What are you two doing?" she asked, "Auditioning for some sort of food porn film?"
Both Andrew and Sam jumped slightly, as if they'd been startled out of deep concentration.
"Hmm? What?" Andrew finished the last of his chicken.
"We were just finishing the chicken," supplied Sam, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Is dessert ready?"
"If you two have finished having eye-sex," she replied, as both Andrew and Sam made noises of disgust. "Give me a hand, Andrew, and we'll dish up pie."
"All right! Pie!" chirped Dean, in relief as much as to change the subject, "Did I get one specially for me?"
"As a matter of fact, you did," Ronnie replied pleasantly.
She'd made individual pies, latticed as requested, with Martha Stewart-esque little pastry decals on each one. Sam's had a book, Andrew's had a wrench, Her own had a little dog, and Dean's was not just decorated, but the graphics were enhanced with a well-deployed splodge of cream...
"Jesus Christ, how am I supposed to eat that?!"
"With a spoon, like everybody else... or with your hands, like Sam, that works too..."
"I can't eat this, you asshole!"
"Well, it was your idea to decorate them..."
"I said I wanted one with my name on it! And I was kidding, Ronnie! It was a joke!"
"Well, take this as a joke, too. It certainly made me want to laugh out loud."
"Ronnie, I cannot eat a pie with a pastry dick baked on it!"
"See how it puffed up in the oven? I thought you'd be flattered."
"Well, I'm not! I'm not eating dick, Ronnie, not even if it's pastry."
"Here, cover it up, then – more cream, dear?"
"I hate you so much."
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