All was good. Life was good.
Firm mattress, clean sheets, soft pillow.
Room was cool, he wasn't dirty - well, at least his arm pits didn't stick from lack of deodorant.
No rank stench, no funky stink, his breath (hand-cup test) didn't smell too bad - nothing smelled.
He was kinda hungry, but not enough to get up and search out food.
Nothing groaned or growled, cackled or crowed.
Not a weapon in sight.
Nothing and no one was trying to stab, shoot, strangle, choke, kill or otherwise harm him.
There was nothing to fight or kill.
There was no need to flee.
Yup, life was good.
His toe twitched.
Or not!
Startled by the sudden pain, he yelped! Holy Hell! What the fuck? Awash in unsuspected pain and momentarily blinded, he struggled to sit up, using his palms to push up from the mattress. The damn, bloody soft mattress that just seconds ago was so firm and comfy now kept him captive. He pushed and heaved and flailed but he simply could not find his way up and out of it! What the hell?
"Do you require assistance?" asked a nasal-toned voice pleasantly. A strange voice and a strange voice meant…a stranger was in the house! "Allow me to lend a hand."
Confounded, pain forgotten and replaced with astonishment, Dean yelped again, this time in surprise. His eyes previously closed against pain popped open and he struggled to focus on the…the…..the short, round, bald…..ah, man?…yes, man with thick-lensed-black-framed glasses wearing a loud plaid, checkered brown suit (A suit? This early in the day? In this heat? Really?) made of….of some kind of material and print last seen somewhere in the early 70's, standing calmly in the doorway of his room. Seriously? Or was this, erhm – little man, simply a creation of his over-tired, pain-filled imagination? Oh God, please, let it be so.
Well damn, not again! He'd had his fill of….of short, little men! Especially those with the ability to land high kicks!
"I would be more than happy to assist you." continued who Dean hoped to high hell was only a mirage. "Myrtle feels perhaps you would be more comfortable with another man assisting you than you would a woman."
Nope, Dean blinked, mirages didn't normally speak. Did they? Uh, Myrtle? Who was Myrtle? He didn't know any Myrtle's. Did he? No he didn't. Unless Maggie was short for…..no…..OH! He started with a gasp! Not Mad Myrtle!? He glanced around wildly. Was he…..at Mad Myrtle's house? OH. NO! When the hell had that happened? He frowned, how did he know who or what a Mad Myrtle was and why did the thought of being…..uh, boarded…with her disturb him so? Wait, boarded? Where the hell had that expression come from?
"Maggie?" he croaked. Bewildered but feeling no immediate threat, he took a moment to grasp his wits that had promptly deserted him upon sight of good ole Boss Hogg. Dean frowned. Wait, Boss Hogg always wore a white suite, right? And a hat. And no glasses. And ow-wow, deep breaths hurt. Huh. No, it hurt to breathe. Why was that? Hey, why did his face and neck and shoulders feel like the skin had been ripped off? What the hell? What the fuck was going on?
"Mrs. Mills had an errand to run." came the patiently spoken reply. "Is there something I can get you to ease your discomfort?"
Yeah, Sam.
"You are to relax and stay calm." said the man clad in what could only have been material meant for sofas. Seriously dude, you're dressed in a suit last seen covering a settee in the parlor of a brownstone in Philly! "You are not to become excited or agitated."
Oh sure, no problem there, Dean thought sourly, says strange little man in strange house. No excitement or agitation expected. Pfft-right! Mmm…..okay, so, let's see. Ease my discomfort, huh? Well, yeah, there's some moderate discomfort, a bit of pain, limited mobility….wait, what? Oh, right. "Ah…..ice?" oh, and find my skin and come up with a way to, you know, glue it back on.
"Maggie is out retrieving more, but we have enough to wrap in a towel to begin."
Begin? Begin what?
Clinkclackclink. "Barry?" clinkclackclinkclunk. "What on earth is taking you so long?" boomed a boisterous voice and soon, in waddled who could only be Mad Myrtle waving an antique metal bedpan last seen in an episode of M.A.S.H in one hand and a more modern, yet still old urinal in the other. "You had one task! One! And you can't even manage to accomplish that correctly." she was a splotch of multi patterns in vibrant, no, fluorescent colors with hair dyed so black, her scalp was black as well. No woman that age had that natural hair color. No one.
Dean's eyes grew wide, his nose went pink, his ears turned red, then his neck, then he blushed…and he sank back against the pillows, shrunk down the mattress and pulled the light blanket up to his chin. Oh, if only he could sink into the mattress completely and go….poof!
"Which one does he need?" she tucked the urinal under the arm that held the bedpan and produced a roll of toilet paper from one of the many pockets in her brightly colored, billowing Mumu. Dean swallowed hard. "There now, no need to get embarrassed. I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable with Barry…" Dean squeaked. "…lending assistance but if prefer me, well I would be more than happy to….." Dean gulped. "…you can roll to one side and I can lift your cheek, though the bedpan might be a bit cold…." Dean paled. "….or I have these cleansing wipes. Cottonelle makes them, you know…" Dean squawked. "….or you can use your hands to raise your hips and I can….." Dean nearly 'swooned'. "I brought bed pads if you're worried about Maggie's mattress…"
Horrified, Dean threw a hand up to stop her then covered his ears with his palms, shaking his head to dispel the horrible image that attacked his mind…he – bedpan…Mad Myrtle – helping…..Barry – watching…..accepting toilet paper…
"AAAgghhhHHh!" he yelped. "Not bedridden!" he blurted out, mortified. "Really! I…" I'm appalled, I'm at a loss for words., I'm flabbergasted, I'm so out of my comfort zone!
But Mad Myrtle lumbered on, full steam ahead, no stops, tugging on the blanket, determined to wrest it from Dean's two-handed, fisted grip. "Come now, no need to be shy." she coaxed. "Nothing to fear. We'll get you right out of those jeans. They have to go. Can't believe Maggie put you to bed wearing clothes. Can't use either of these wearing pants. Here now, hold still and let get ahold of that slippery zipper…."
Must. Fee.
Must. Flee. Mad. Myrtle.
Must. Flee. Now.
Myrtle. Was. Mad.
Toe, I command you to cooperate or I will lob you right off your comfy perch on my foot and leave you behind.
"When you are done, I made you lasagna….." Dean perked up, prior embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Yup, forgotten. Just like that! After all, hello, she was talking about food! "…..homemade, rolled those noodles out myself, peeled and boiled home-grown, hand-picked tomatoes…" his mouth salivated. "…with basil and oregano and garlic….." his stomach grumbled in appreciation. "…some of those herbs were grown right in my own garden. Barry provided the onions…." was he drooling? He was drooling. "Ricotta cheese, beef and pork and oh, I even added mozzarella….." the bedpan plunked down onto the mattress next to his hip and just as quickly as his mind had been diverted to food, it was diverted right back to his predicament.
He swallowed hard. Cas? Sam? Anyone? Hellooo! Some help here! Please?
"Myrtle." Maggie barked. "You are not feeding that boy acidic sauce while he is confined to my spare room and no!" she raised a finger for emphasis before Myrtle could offer an argument or suggestion. "You will not be taking him home with you."
"Hello Maggie." Barry greeted her. "Was you errand successful?"
"You were only supposed to sit in the kitchen and listen for him." Maggie accused. "In case he got out of bed!"
"Maggie!" Dean chirped happily, reaching out for her hand and for no reason that she could fathom, Maggie entered the room and let him grab hold. "You're back!" he beamed at her. His face skewered with pain as the scratches and punctures pulled taut. "Don't leave me again." he added quickly. He squeezed her hand, fighting an absurd desire to kiss it in gratitude for returning to him.
"Everyone out!" Maggie turned and pointed to the door. "And take those….those….things…" she waved a hand at Myrtle's prior offerings. "…with you. For god's sake Myrtle, he's perfectly capable of getting out of bed and walking wherever he wants to go!"
Myrtle sniffed. "Just being neighborly Maggie. No need to twist your panties."
"I leave to go to the drugstore and find you hovering around my petunias trying to decide if you could see through the window to sneak a peek!" Maggie shooed the duo from Dean's room. "And you!" she pointed at Dean, who in turn, pointed at himself as if to question if it were indeed he to whom she referred. "Yes, you! No more of this nonsense! I will feed you in a bit, there's no need for you to go begging meals from the neighbors!"
Annoyed that she was mad at him, he opened his mouth to protest, but she was gone. He pulled a pout, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. Leave? Run? Drive to a motel? Call Jody? Where the hell was Sam anyway? Maggie returned while he remained in bed pondering his next move, with ice packs, asked if two were sufficient for his needs and turned to leave again.
"Say, aah, Maggie." Dean began bashfully, hesitant to test her mood and ask for anything more, but damn, he stung and itched just about all over. "Do you have anything like Neosporin?" he ventured hesitantly. "Generic's fine."
"They treated your numerous scratches at the hospital after they removed all the thorns with tweezers." she told him. Oh, she was not going to spend the next 30 minutes rubbing antibiotic cream on his cheeks, neck, arms and throat or anywhere else he'd been scratched, cut or scraped. Nope, no sirree, not gonna do it. Not now, not later, not at all. Nope, in honor of her rose bushes, he could sting and itch until Sam arrived to retrieve him.
Don't do it. Do Not Do It. Do not let him sway you. Do not get close to him. Do Not. He is not safe Margaret, he is a dangerous man, he is a criminal, he's been arrested, he shoots guns in roach infested motel rooms – she shuddered at the memory – rooms he is right at home in. He flees from the police. Stay away. Stay far away. Do not look at him. You don't care about those green eyes and pouting lips or that smattering of freckles and red nose or pink spotted cheeks and chin, all dotted and marred with red, swollen, angry abrasions and tiny holes no longer shiny with hospital applied ointment.
Uh, say what? Dean thought, confusion dusting his expression. Thorns?
"It's alright. You're ok. Everything will be just fine. I'm right here baby doll." Myrtle soothed, waddling in armed with jars, tubes, cotton balls, Q-tips and gauze. "Got what you need to make you feel all better." she puttered and toddled about the room, adjusting the direction of the fan, pulling the curtain, smoothing the blanket. "Don't you fuss none. Myrtle will make the pain go away."
"If he requires tending, I'll see to it." Maggie seethed. "But he doesn't because he's fine."
Dean eyed first one woman, than the other, weighing his choices. What was so wrong with Myrtle anyway? She seemed nice, wanted to see to his comfort, offered to feed him homemade lasagna. How could any of that make her Mad Myrtle? Mmmm…what to do, what to do. He reeaallyy-reeaallyy wanted that ointment but Maggie didn't seem agreeable to give him any. Heck, he wasn't asking her to apply it, just get it for him. He'd rub it on himself. He'd even get up and go get the tube if she would just confirm she had some in the bathroom or somewhere.
"Maggie, can't you see the poor boy is suffering?" Myrtle waved a hand at the bed. "Look at him!"
"I am!" Dean nodded vigorously. "Look at me!" he waved a finger all around and about his head to prove his point to Maggie who glared at him.
"I just brought him home from the hospital, he's fine." Maggie insisted. "Now go home Myrtle."
"I'm not." Dean shook his head. "Not really." was it worth pissing Maggie off further to obtain that much desired ointment? Maybe he should go home with Myrtle. "I don't feel good and…"
Maggie shot him such a look, he swallowed, feeling five years old again and being reprimanded for giving Sam his very first haircut.
Yeah, okay maybe not.
Another look, hands on hips, toe tapping.
Definitely not.
Nope, not even going to suggest going home with Myrtle.
Hell, had she read his mind?
"Go home Myrtle." Maggie ordered. "You are not feeding, bathing, tending or otherwise helping him. He won't be here that long, so don't go getting up to your usual antics. Now be gone with you! You heard me….shoo!"
"Don't think you're going to keep him all to yourself." Myrtle sniffed. "You think you're going to harbor him all to yourself." she went on to accuse. "But I won't stand for it. I'll be back in the morning and I will feed him breakfast." she announced. "After I give him a bath of course." she pinched his cheek. "And a shave." her thumb pried his lips apart and she loomed over him to inspect his teeth. "And brush his teeth." her finger was in his ear. "And clean those ears! My goodness!"
And just like that, Dean went from mourning the loss of Myrtle's medicated ointment to being appalled over being given a bath when he was perfectly – well, okay, maybe not perfectly but definitely able – capable of bathing himself. And hey, he could shave and brush his own damn teeth, thank you very much. He scowled, and there was nothing wrong with his ears either.
Swing! His emotions swung the other way - again - and Dean wistfully watched Myrtle tilt her nose upwards and march from his room, taking with her the much desired ointment that would soothe his irritated skin. And the promise of the much anticipated lasagna.
"Oh, stop looking like someone snatched the last cookie and left you with a celery stick!" Maggie scolded. "You are a grown man!" she flung her hands up and flounced from the room, following Myrtle.
Perplexed, Dean sighed unhappily, picking absently at the binding on the blanket he'd let fall from his shoulders. So, decisions, decisions. Get up and search for the ointment and hope Myrtle didn't take it home with her or lie back down and try and sleep. Or get in the Impala and leave. Find a motel and hole up until he felt better. Or someone, either Sam or Cas, came to get him.
"Alright." Maggie returned less than a minute later. "You produce a gun or snarl at me," she waved the tube of ointment about. "I will let Myrtle take you home, you hear me? I will drive you there myself!"
Dean nodded. "Yes, ma'am." he agreed and meekly submitted to her less-than-gentle dabbing and rubbing administrations. Good God, how much strength did one little ole lady possess in her finger and thumb anyway?
Finally, fed pain meds, packed in ice and thoroughly dabbed in soothing medicated cream, Dean went to sleep.
***000***
18 wheels on a big-rig.
Sam squirmed uneasily in the passenger seat of the dirtiest – and biggest – 18-wheeler cab he'd ever seen. Not that he'd been in all that many, but yeah, he'd been in several and this one was absolutely disgusting. Worse, it was a sleeper cab and the flimsy curtain that separated the sleeping area from the front two seats was not nearly sufficient and he was unable to suppress his shudders of horror.
Could this trip get any worse?
He'd thought they'd make the four hour drive non-stop in decent time. Ha! Not. Oh no. No, Bear had surpassed the allowed allotment of drivable time for big-rig drivers and had insisted on pulling over at a truck stop and getting some sleep. Sam had considered offering to drive, but he lacked a big-rig Class A CDL legal license and he was reluctant – no, scared – to suggest it to 'drive by the rule book', Bear.
So, here he was, attempting to cat-nap in the front passenger seat of an idling big-rig while its driver snored heartily behind the curtain; the flimsy curtain that blocked neither sound nor smell.
And just his luck, there wasn't another truck in sight from which he could hitch a ride! They were still over two hours away from Rapid City and though he'd made up his mind to start walking, a short trip to the rest stop bathroom had convinced him that wasn't such a good idea. He'd made it there and half way back and when Bear had come to get him, he'd accepted help getting back to and into the cab of the highest truck ever!
Oh, he could just picture it now; walking along a dark road, for he could hardly walk on the highway, where the police would certainly pick him up or passing out from pain, being found out cold on the side of the road and taken to a hospital. The police then contacted. Whatever scenario that played out in his mind, it ended with him in contact with the police and he didn't want that. So, here he squirmed, reluctantly accepting the fact he'd be at least another entire day getting to Dean and he wasn't at all sure Maggie had that much patience.
He really should call Maggie and notify her of the delay but…yeah, he was scared of the feisty senior citizen. He sighed and futilely tried again to find a comfortable position. Not Gonna Happen.
Healthy snorts made him jerk upright and he banged his sore foot against the floor board. Yow! He hissed as pain shot up to his hip, throbbed until he bit his tongue to keep from cursing, then settled there. His duffel sat on the floor between his feet and he retrieved a bottle of whiskey. Best pain reliever, mind-blocker Dean's money could buy.
Great. Another snort and snore. Yup, Big Ole Bear was appropriately named indeed! Between pain, discomfort, unfavorable housing and his roomie, he wouldn't be getting much, if any, sleep.
***000***
Maggie tiptoed around the rest of the afternoon and into evening, peeking into her guest room every time she passed the doorway. And no, she wasn't going to count or account for all the times and reasons and excuses she found or invented to get up and walk past that very door either. But all Dean did was sleep. In fact, he hadn't moved any time she looked in, changed the ice packs, adjusted the blanket she kept tossing over him or picked the pillow up from the floor and put it back underneath his head. Really, she should just stop doing that because it ended up right back on the floor. Then again, it gave her a valid reason to keep checking on him.
At first, she was pleased, then annoyed and now she fretted. How long was he going to sleep anyway, she fumed! Good Grief! He'd interrupted her morning, taken up her entire day, and now, he was messing up her evening! She was up and down every ten minutes and he had neither the common courtesy nor the decency to wink one of those sparkling green eyes at her! Well, she'd just see about that!
It was going on 9 o'clock and the boy hadn't stirred since falling into bed nearly four hours ago. Heck, he still wore his jeans and….oh. No, no wait a minute….he had managed to lift his head and swallow more pills after she'd finally chased Myrtle home. She'd had to put a straw in the glass of water, but….huh. She frowned, wondering just what those prescriptions were. Sam didn't like his brother taking anything with acetaminophen. She shrugged. Oh well. Sam could worry about it when – if – he ever arrived.
She had just picked up her remote when a yelp – alright, a high-pitched shriek – startled her so violently, the remote flew from her hand and skittered over the back of the sofa. Great, just great. She was one of the few people left in the country who didn't favor open-concept floor plans so her sofa was positioned against the wall, which meant she would have to stand on the sofa with her fanny in the air and swat her yardstick to move the 'bloody electronic device a person couldn't live without' along the floor until she could crawl around on her hands and knees with her head stuck between the wall and sofa and grab it. Why? Well, she had to retrieve it because only 3 year-olds knew how to change the channel on these new Smart TV's, the good Lord knew she didn't know how to do it.
A thud, followed by a crash from her guestroom recalled her memory. Oh, right, yeah, so the remote would have to be retrieved later, 'cause right now, apparently, someone was either attempting to murder or steal her houseguest. Oh, if Myrtle had snuck in with that bedpan and scared the boy witless, why, she would stand up in church next Sunday and label her nosy neighbor a house-breaker.
"Stop screaming the house down." she muttered, shuffling down the hallway. "I'm coming." not that she had any idea what she was going to do when she got to his room, but…..she stopped, oh dear, he didn't have that gun stuffed under his pillow did he? Not that she'd seen it any of the 100 times she'd picked the pillow up and put it back on the bed, but that didn't matter. She'd never seen him with it while stranded in a no-name motel with him, but every time she'd turned around, there it was, right there in his hand. "Here now, what's all the fuss about this time?"
Dean was standing in front of the mirror hanging over the dresser, staring in horror at his reflection. The crash had obviously had been his hands grasping for purchase amongst the various bottles and knickknacks across its surface. And oh, Maggie scowled, her thoughts still on her misplaced remote and ways to retrieve it, the shriek had been one of alarm when he'd seen his face and not pain. She was going to box his ears!
"What the hell happened to me?" he demanded, fingertips touching his cheeks. "Who attacked me with…..with…with whatever did this?" he frowned. "And why did you let them?"
She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, tapped a toe then turned and shuffled back down the hallway. "You did it to yourself and you owe me new rosebushes." she called over her shoulder. "One yellow, one purple."
Dean blinked, say what? Did she just walk away from him? Oh no she didn't!
"And one antique glass-top coffee table. Wood, mind you. None of those fancy veneers or faux marble. Oak….no, cherry or maybe maple." but she was out of sight and Dean could no longer hear her.
He shook his head but it did no good. He was still confused.
"Are you hungry?" she yelled. "You want something to eat?"
Dean blinked, now that he heard! His appearance was forgotten as his growling stomach demanded attention. Food! Yeah, yeah, feed me, it sang. Gimme some o-that tasty homemade lasagna. Oh, yeah, now we're talking. Dish it right up and serve it to me with some toasted garlic bread. He pivoted and made for the door. He saw a bathrobe – obviously a man's, thank God – tossed over a quilt rack and after shucking his jeans, put it on and belted it before heading for the bathroom.
He was rubbing his palms together and licking his lips in anticipation of delicious pasta as he headed towards the kitchen, detouring to peek out the front window and make sure his car was still in the driveway when Maggie bellowed from the kitchen.
"Chicken broth? Or beef?"
Gooey cheese, spicy sauce, tasty meat, homemade noodles…uh, wait what? Broth? He slowed and stopped. Broth was just flavored water. He knew that because Sam was fond of trying to feed it to him when he was restricted to bed after suffering an injury that landed him in the hospital that he checked out of AMA.
Those were his choices for dinner?
"But…I don't like….HEY! Broth is for babies!" he yelled loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. "Feed me broth, pfft, not an invalid." he muttered, turning to a mirror on the hallway wall to watch himself pout. "Slurp flavored water from a mug. Ha! Not gonna happen."
But it did.
He was served chicken broth with a side of toast.
That no amount of pouting, sulking or eyelash batting convinced Maggie to grudgingly spare a bit of butter for.
No, a pat of Parkay was only produced after he clumsily retrieved a remote control from behind the sofa.
Use a yardstick, indeed! No man ever used a yardstick! For any reason.
Not even if it would make it easier for a man with broken ribs courtesy of a 5' troll, who had fallen to the floor amid broken glass from a collapsed flimsy coffee table and finished off by measly rosebushes, to complete a simple chore a dog could have accomplished.|
With less fuss.
And no amount of panting and staggering, groaning and yowing elicited a lick of sympathy from her.
Nope, nadda. Not even a there-there or a thank you.
All it got him was a bit of butter.
He was back in bed, breathless, still hungry and in pain before it occurred to him to ask what her remote had been doing behind the sofa in the first place.