"So, ah, here." Maggie set the ice packs on the dresser. "I'll leave you two….uh…..well, yell if you need anything." oh, how sad was it she knew how good those two were at doctoring one another?

She took herself off to the kitchen, knowing without asking that Sam would not be loading his brother into the passenger seat of the car and driving off anytime soon. Nope, not with both a bum foot and hand. Sam's boast of two good hands? Pfft!

So, okay then, where would Sam sleep? There was the den, set aside for when the grandkids came to visit, but it was more of a playroom then a bedroom. Still, it did have a day bed. Course, Sam would not exactly fit on it, but…oh hell, why was she even bothering to think about it?

"Oh sure Maggie, go ahead, waste your time fretting." she muttered. "God forbid a wall separate the two of them." the first time she'd met them had been at Jody's house and they'd had separate rooms…..wait. Oh, no. No. That had been after they'd returned from wherever the hell Dean had retrieved Sam from, both injured. No, when they'd first arrived, her grandson's bed had previously been evicted and bunk beds had been installed in what had been her grandson's room and that was where they normally slept. "Jody, Jody, Jody, how on earth did you get yourself mixed up with these two?"

She could hear muted voiced coming from her spare room and set out three mugs for her-everything-is-all-better-when-there's-tea-to-drink tea, considered the humidity and replaced the mugs with glasses for iced lemonade.

"And why do you let them stay in your life?" she opened the fridge, caressed its door with a chuckle as she recalled once seeking refuge behind one just like it, and removed a pitcher of lemonade. "Better question is; why do I?" she swung the door shut, and with a shake of her head, began to make toast.

Sam got up to inspect the room, peeked out the window and searched for the source that was the reason for the lack of cool air.

"Why's it so warm in here?" Sam asked. Better yet, why are you so contented to stay where it's so warm? But he didn't voice that question out loud. "It's pretty stuffy in here."

"Window a/c units." Dean replied tiredly. "Electric kept going off last night. No ceiling fan in here. Got to leave the door open." he sniffed. "Am I having a stroke? Heat stroke, you think?"

"Say what?" Sam resumed his seat on the mattress next to his brother. Yes, the room had both an overstuffed rocker and a feminine desk chair that appeared sturdy enough to bear his weight but he needed closer contact with his brother than simply being in the same room.

Being laid up hours away, unable to drive or hitch on the road and hearing Dean had been in an accident and taken to the hospital had not done Sam's mental health any good. In fact, Maggie's assurances that Dean was fine, his injuries had been minor and he was home with her had not stopped more of his sanity from fleeing.

Nope, he'd been on a mission. One goal. Driven by determination. Begged help where he could. Executed extreme restraint by not holding a gun on Bear and forcing her to drive through the night. Or knocking him – not even Sam had figured out if Bear had been male or female – over the head with a fucking crowbar and stealing the rig.

Oh right, yeah, he couldn't drive. Yup, nope, his mind didn't function rationally when separated from Dean and panicked over his well-being. Never had, never would.

"I smell toast." Dean said with a limp wave of his hand. "Toast, you know? As in having-a-stroke-because-I-smell-toast, toast."

"Mmmm?" Sam took hold of his brother's wrist and tugged gently. "Smelling toast before having a stroke is a myth." he tugged a mite harder and Dean automatically sat up, unconsciously obeying the silent command of a brother to whom he was accustomed to allowing unlimited access to administer first aid. "And even if it wasn't, it wouldn't be heat stroke."

"I smell toast!" Dean repeated impatiently. "T-O-A-S-T." he spelled it out. "Toast."

"Yes." Sam agreed. "Arms out."

Too busy complaining about toast, Dean's arms went out.

"Smells good too." Dean continued around a wince, sucking his breath in. "Ow."

"Duck your head." Sam ordered and Dean, still on a mission to convince Sam why he was so concerned over smelling toast, ducked his head. "How'd you even get this shirt on?" he paused, the hem of the shirt rucked up to Dean's arm pits. "This isn't yours. Whose is this?" he gave up the fight he was bound to lose and used his teeth to start a rend in the hem.

"HEY!" Dean protested, swatting at Sam's hands. "Not my shirt, you twit. Mind your manners regarding other people's belongings."

"Twit?" Sam repeated, a fond grin playing about his lips as he fought to control it. "Wow, a lecture from-he-who-trods-all-over-everyone's-shit."

"Now hey." Dean instantly pulled a pout. "I do not."

"Why the sudden concern over a t-shirt? Duck." Sam tossed the torn garment aside. "Sit up." and when the hell had Dean slumped back anyway? "Arms up."

And Dean sat up, raising his arms over his head. He paled, biting his lip, but didn't think to refuse the order.

"Cause I broke her antique table and destroyed her rosebushes and made her a spectacle and the topic of gossip and oh, she had to wear borrowed shoes and lost her teeth and….." and he droned on, obeying Sam's commands while filling him in on all that had happened – what he could remember anyway – since he and Sam had split. "….overcoat…."

Maggie lingered outside the open door, listening to Sam patiently order his brother around, get his own way and handle Dean in a way she would never have thought possible.

Wow.

Dean, despite his reluctance to be 'taped up', was calm and relaxed and totally trusting in whatever Sam wanted to do. Oh, she had no doubt, if Dean wanted to 'put his foot down', he'd win any battle he fought, but nope, Sam got his way and Dean just let him have it: No whining, no complaining, no bitching.

"…and her neighbors. I dunno whether to run and hide, flee town or welcome….."

Maggie leaned against the wall. Sam chattered about when they could leave, where they would be going and how long they'd be staying there before he'd be willing to let Dean resume 'normal activities'. Whatever the hell that meant.

"….oh, and Sammy, dude, she had a metal bedpan…."

Now Sam was asking what medications Dean had been described and how many had he taken. Did ice help? Did he want more?

"…..yeah, but…..that suit? Did you see it?"

"Lean to your left." Sam said, tickling along Dean's belly to achieve the action he wanted. "Your other left."

"Not so tight." Dean hissed. "Jesus Sammy, don't hafta use every bandage you got."

"So, you met Maggie's neighbors?" Sam asked, once again distracting Dean from being bandaged.

Dean rattled on. Maggie hadn't realized he'd retained so much of what had happened in the last 24 hours. Boy, the details he knew. Wow. And he kept talking. Oh, and not once, did he ask how Sam was. Huh.

"…and oh, my nurse Sammy. Shudda seen her. She….."

"Dean, why are you here?" Sam asked, tearing white adhesive tape from a roll with his teeth. "Why Maggie's? I mean, really?"

"No danger to her." Dean insisted. "Hey, not so much tape!"

"No." Sam agreed. "But…."

"Toast and lemonade." Maggie barged in with a tray. "Better hurry up Sam, Myrtle will be back any second."

"I'm done." Sam ordered Dean once again to raise his arms and when, after the glare of death, Dean did so, Sam tried to capture Dean's waving hands – they fluttered all about as he told Maggie not to let Myrtle try and bathe him – and work them through the sleeves of a black t-shirt. Dean's head popped through the neck opening, already eyeing the food.

"Did you spring for the cost of some butter this time?" he asked, unable to withhold his sarcasm.

"Hey!" Sam reprimanded mildly, offering a half-hearted swat upside his brother's head as he gathered up his various supplies and returned them to that mysterious green duffel. "Watch your tone."

"But I'm hungry." Dean whined, but his heart wasn't in it. All of a sudden, it hurt to breathe and if he started gasping, he'd never get breakfast because Sam would set him to breathing exercises. "Where are the pancakes?"

"Here, munch on some toast." Sam stuck a slice in Dean's mouth, his own slice between his teeth and being eaten without benefit of hands. "Come on…up you go." he extended his hands to his brother and waggled his fingers. "Dean?"

First piece of buttered toast consumed, second between his teeth and disappearing the exact same way Sam's had, Dean accepted the offer of support from his brother and heaved off the bed. He was on his feet before it occurred to him to ask where he was going.

"You're going to brush your teeth, shave, wash your face and hands and comb your hair."

"Whoa." Dean protested. "My face hurts."

"Would you rather Myrtle get ahold of you?"

Dean paused, mind whirling…..somehow, enticing as that sounded, Myrtle was scary. He had visions of being smothered in the folds of that vibrantly colored Mumu and shuddered.

"Thought so." Sam slid an arm around Dean's waist and took a moment to savor the contact. "Try and walk upright. No bending over."

"Easy for you to say." Dean muttered, holding to the back of the rocker for support. "Ow! Wrapped a bit tight, I think."

"You're gonna live. Now, come on. Not a lot of time and when we're done, ice cold lemonade and more toast." Sam bribed his pale, shaky brother who was obviously struggling not to give in and gasp. "Ice. Lots and lots of ice."

"And eggs." Maggie added. Dean perked up a bit, stomach rumbling in anticipation of actual food. "With bacon." she added grudgingly.

That did it.

Dean pushed off from the rocker and walked with Sam into the bathroom. Maggie expected the door to be shut in her face but nope.

She made a fast exit to the safety of the kitchen.

***000***

Sam paid no mind to Dean's crankiness and moodiness and refused to be shaken off, shoved out or otherwise removed from his brother's side. He did not step aside, step back or step out.

He brushed aside Dean's insistence that he could; both stand and walk on his own, turn on a faucet, locate both toothpaste and toothbrush, apply toothpaste to toothbrush, open bottle of mouthwash, find his mouth, spit accurately in the sink; find comb, know what comb was for; find soap, know what to use soap on; find washcloth, know where soap was to wash off; find Q-tips and razor. Oh, and not shave off a lip or an eyelid, because, you know, all men, according to Sam, apparently shaved their eyebrows.

He ignored Dean's attempts and, likely success, to reach and stretch and bend to accomplish his goals to wash up and shave without his help. No, instead, he kept an arm around Dean's waist or shoulders, at times settling for a hand on Dean's elbow. At all times, anticipating Dean's thoughts and next move, but at no time did he relinquish physical contact with his brother.

He ignored the ache in his ankle and the throb in his hand, only allowing Dean to have his way when, with a grunt from bending down and the bandages halting his action, he raised the lid and seat on the toilet and pointed to the door. Then, and only then did Sam leave.

Dean sighed, flushing and rewashing his hands. Habit, he guessed, because he didn't usually piss on his hands. His face – cheeks, chin, forehead, nose, upper lip, lips – stung. Attempting to shave had only irritated his already irritated skin and he sat down on the now closed toilet lid with the tube of ointment Sam had left on the vanity.

But as much as he wanted the soothing cream applied, he was suddenly too tired and in too much pain to raise a hand to his face to accomplish the task. Why again, had he allowed Sam to tape him up? He popped the lid open and squeezed a generous amount onto his forefinger but the act of raising his arm towards his head was a great a feat as an attempt to climb Mt Everest without the proper gear. So, he sat…just sat.

"We're gonna stay for a few days." Sam was kneeling in front of him, wiping the goop from Dean's lax finger onto his own. "Chin up." he gently dabbed and rubbed, touch light despite the callouses on his finger and thumb. "You just get some rest, okay? I'm here. You need anything…..I'm here."

Dean nodded. His head bobbed and Sam halted the motion with a fingertip under his chin.

"I've left Cas messages. Don't know where he is, but since you're not in danger of dying or serious injury, we'll meet up with him at the bunker in a week or so."

Dean nodded, letting his head bob forward again and this time, Sam let him rest against his shoulder. If Dean wordlessly sought what Sam was always willing to give yet Dean never willingly accepted, Sam sure as hell wasn't going to deny him what he wanted.

Dean clean, medicated, fed and back in bed with ice, Myrtle successfully deterred, Sam retrieved the book from the trunk of the car and took up residence in the den with his own towels of ice.

***000***

Barry gaped.

Mrs. Prim and Proper, advocate of healthy eating, reserved, conscientious, image aware, Margaret Mills sat on her sofa; her feet clad in fuzzy pink bear claw - compete with claws - slippers, (unsafe sole) were propped up on what should have been her coffee table (not for feet) but was now two wood crates supporting a...a...plank of rough strewn wood, one ankle crossed over the other (bad for circulation), bowl of salty potato chips in her lap, eating ice cream from the carton (wrong, for no one else could share the treat, though she did live alone, so…), a package of cookies by her hip, watching a...a... soap opera!

At 10:30 in the morning!

"Oh, hello Barry." she waved the spoon. "Cheerio! Jolly good day to you!" she beamed up at him, then offered him the carton of ice cream. "Care to share?" she licked the spoon and popped a chip into her mouth. "Ben and Jerry's, Hazed & Confused." yup, that sure summed up her life all right!

"Maggie? Are you quite alright?"

"Shsshhhhh." she hissed, finger to her lips. "You wake him up and so help me Barry, I will…..I…..I will…..well, I'll think of something dire and diabolical to do to you!"

The him in question, of course, was Dean. She'd found him head and shoulders deep, ass up, outside under what was left of her rosebushes looking at her gas meter. She'd had to take her broom to him to get him to come out from the foliage and come back inside! And then, AND THEN, she'd turned her back for one second and he'd disappeared out the back door, muttering about the foundation of her house!

Sam, the rat, had fallen asleep on her bed and without him to keep his brother in line, Dean had gone and gotten up to no good!

Barry frowned. "I say Maggie, I don't think housing your guest, erhm – guests, is good for you."

She raised an eyebrow, waggled the other, crushed a cookie in her hand, dumped the pieces and crumbs into the carton of ice cream and dug in with her spoon.

"Maggie." Barry said gently, patiently, hands held out in supplication. "Here now, give me the ice cream." he coaxed. "That's a good girl. Give it to Barry."

His outstretched hand was smacked with a licked clean spoon and he recoiled from the snarl emitted from the petite senior sprawled on her sofa, hugging his abused hand to his chest.

"Margaret!" he gasped. "Are you well? You're ill. It's this heat."

"Do YOU have any idea what I have been through?" she railed at him, spoon waving about over her head madly. "DO YOU? DO YOU?"

Barry gaped.

"Five sons Barry. FIVE! I raised five boys!" she held her hand up, palm out, fingers spread. "And a husband! I didn't need medication or therapy, a mother's support group or girls nights out! I didn't send my kids to sitters or pre-school or day care. I raised them! ME!" her thumb thumped her chest. "Me Barry! And not once did I scrub their skin raw with a brush or stitch them up in my kitchen! Do you know what it feels like to sew skin? I think not!" she crumbled another cookie and added it to the carton. "Not once did any of my boys hold a gun on me or shoot at me or cause me to flee from the police! Not once did they bring illegal drugs into my home!" she stirred and mashed and added a whole cookie that she attacked with her spoon. She was making a mess she wouldn't eat but who cared? "No one ever came home with knife wounds or rope burns or bleeding brains and swollen skulls or puked in my sink!"

"Maggie." Sam swooped in and with the reach of one extended arm, swept the ice cream carton right out of her hands. "Can I get you a cold glass of ice tea?" he offered. "Or maybe some juice? I saw a pitcher of orange juice."

Maggie had had enough. She shot to her feet and with both hands free, swiped her palms to together to rid them of cookie crumb residue.

"Now you see here!" she whispered furiously. "Do you see my house? Do you? Doors all open. I'll have the highest electric bill ever!"

"I'll leave some cash to help you pay it off." Sam offered.

"And did you see my coffee table?" I know you didn't because you didn't look in the trash.

"I made you a temporary one." Sam countered easily.

"Did you see my rosebushes?" no one could possibly identify that mangled mess as rosebushes.

"I've read up on saving and replanting roses and will plant you new ones before we leave." Sam promised.

"I used to bake cakes." Maggie said suddenly. "Babysit a grandchild or two. Make cookies. Now…..now…." she sniffed, arms waving in circles. "Now…there's blood and guns and injuries and hospitals and police and….."

"Hey, come on." Sam said gently, producing a tissue and handing it to her. "Don't quit on me now."

"I love Jody you know." she said solemnly. "I have five daughters-in-law and Jody is my favorite. I would do anything for her."

"I know." Sam steered her towards the sofa and helped her sit down. "And we appreciate it. We do." he patted her knee and moved the bag of chips out of reach. "We don't have much, Dean and me. We travel a lot, work and all, and though home is in Kansas, we're hardly ever there. So this, a little touch of domestic life means more than you know."

"Normal." she said forlornly. "I used to be normal. My life was normal."

"Maggie, I'm sorry." Sam said sincerely. "We….never meant to disrupt your life. But Dean. He….well…..he, uh, it's complicated. We'll leave tomorrow and you'll never see us again."

Maggie blinked. "Bah." quick as a flash, she grabbed his ear and tweaked, twisting until he yelped. "When did I say, 'get out and never come back'?" she released him and pushed him away.

"At least let us, um, say thank you. We'll…..uh…..hum….send a gift." he perked up, pleased with his generous thought. "What would you like? Coffee maker?"

Great, just great! "For what?" yup, she needed another fruit basket or knick-knack. How many figurines and mugs and photo frames were she expected to find room for?

"As a thank you." Sam repeated patiently. "For all the times you took care of Dean."

"Mmmmm." you mean, I had a choice?

"…that time you stitched him up….." Sam was saying.

"Mmmmm." twice! I did it twice!

"….didn't have to, but you did…."

"Yuh-huh." oh, so I should have let him bleed all over the kitchen? The bedroom?

"…with his concussion…..and he was disoriented and a little out-of-sorts….."

"Mmmmmm." out-of-sorts? He held a gun on me! Holy Moly, he shot at me!

"….taking him a hotel until Cas and I could get there…"

"Mmmmmmm." uh, 'cause we had to flee the police!

"…taking care of him with a head injury that he really should have been in the hospital with and….."

Dammit! They did owe her a gift!

"A new coffee table will do." she conceded. "So, Barry, what brings you over?"

***000***

"I'll take him for a walk." Maggie told Sam. "You rest that foot."

"You sure?" Sam asked, clicking away on his laptop, large ancient 'tome' open on the table beside it. "He could use some exercise but if it's too hot outside for you, call Myrtle over and let him tire himself out trying to avoid her."

"HEY! I'm not a dog who needs to be taken for a walk!" Dean growled grumpily. "And I don't run away from old ladies."

"He can't go by himself." Maggie scolded. "Let me get some water. He tends to get thirsty easily."

"The fuck?" Dean scowled. "Sam!"

"Don't use that language in my home." Maggie chided. "Did you put suntan lotion on? The sun will bring your freckles out."

"SAM!" Dean turned in protest. "No one is taking me for a walk! I…..." his eyes narrowed suspiciously at the phone Sam held in his hand. "What is that?"

"This? Maggie's home phone." Sam said simply. "Myrtle is…" he made a show of peering closely. "Speed dial 2."

"The fuck is wrong with you….? OW!" he rubbed his abused ear. "Stop doing that!" he snapped at Maggie.

"Stop cursing in my house." Maggie shot back. "Now come. Leave your poor brother in peace to finish his work."

So despite his protests, Dean went for a walk.

"Ooh look. Free Lemonade!" Dean chortled, stepping off the sidewalk and crossing the street with no regard to oncoming traffic. "Now we're talking!"

"What are you…..?!" Maggie trotted after him. "Come back here!" she waved sheepishly at the car that had been forced to a stop when Dean had crossed in front of it. "I live in this town you know. Now behave!"

"What'd I do?" he asked, baffled. "I crossed the street! How is that misbehaving?"

"You didn't want lemonade at my house." she accused, mildly miffed. Hers was squeezed from fresh lemons!

"Uh, it's free! Everybody loves free shit!"

"It is not free." she said, exasperated. Oh, he made her exhausted. "What ails you?"

"Thirst." Dean replied, perplexed over Maggie's attitude. "What's got your panties all twisted now?"

That should shock her. Really, it should. But it didn't. Oh, coming from anyone else it would, but not Dean. Nope.

"It's a lemonade stand." Maggie's teeth were gritted, causing her jaw to ache. "It is not free."

"Yeah-huh." Dean pointed to a childish drawn sign. "Says so right there. Free lemonade."

She whacked him upside the head.

"OW!" he complained. "Stop doing that!"

"It says 'donations welcome'." she ignored his whine of discontent. "Donations." really, she think she preferred him concussed and drugged. Upright and walking, not so much.

"But…..but…..that's just stupid. Who wants to donate for free lemonade?"

"And you're how old? Someone raise you in a cave? Kids can't sell lemonade without proper town permits. But they can give it away and ask for donations. Now give the jar a dollar."

"A buck? For a 3 ounce cup of watery, warm lemonade?" he protested, aghast. "It doesn't even have ice." her hands went to her hips, her toe began to tap and wanting to protect his ears from further abuse, Dean dug several coins from the front pocket of his jeans. "Robbery." he muttered, dropping the handful of coins into the glass jar. "Won't even wet the whistle." he griped. "Might wet my tongue, doubt it though."

"Thank you sir." the 8 year-old in pigtails chirped. "Would you like a flower?"

"Sure! It'll cheer Samantha up." Dean took his tot-sized cup with one hand and reached for the flower with the other.

Maggie smacked his hand down. "Don't you dare!"

"Now what?" Dean asked affronted. "It's a fu…" another smack over his ear silenced his tongue. "A stupid flower!" he rubbed his ear, giving her a hurt look.

"It's a rose! And by golly, if you prick your thumb and cry about it, pack my bags and take me home with you, because I'm moving in and will make it my goal to make your life a living hell!"

Dean blinked, finally closing his mouth. "Aah, ears." he motioned to the two little girls. "Language."

Maggie grabbed an ear and began tugging him along the sidewalk towards home, ignoring his ow's and ouch's, going out of her way to avoid any rosebush that was close to the sidewalk.

"Wow. He was cute." Pig-tails said, watching them walk away."

"He's old!" her friend argued. "Older than your dad."

"My dad doesn't look anything like that!"

"And he's a wimp!" the other continued. "Who's scared of a little thorn on a rose?"

***000***

Maggie plunked her mug of tea onto the counter with a thud. It was 7 o'clock in the bloody morning. Who would be knocking on her door this early? The boys were gone, having loaded up the big black car and pulling out, Dean driving, with a smile and wave. They still owed her new rosebushes and a decent coffee table but she didn't doubt that some day in the near future, they'd deliver on their promise.

"What?" she opened the door, using a lace-edged hankie to mop her brow. "Oh hello, good morning."

"Morning ma'am."

Maggie stared at the utility worker standing on her front porch, then at the large utility work truck parked on her driveway with an additional three men opening doors and unhooking ladders.

"Oh, good heavens." she sputtered. "Don't tell me you're here to tell me about another outage. Not today. Not again. Not in this heat. We just had another one last night."

"We're here to install…." he was reading from a clipboard. "…. a whole house, natural gas fed generator."

"I beg your pardon? A what?" she gazed longingly at the unit being unloaded. My, what a nice-sized generator. Not that she knew a darn thing about them. "You must have the wrong house"

"Is this 323 Meryleville street? Mrs. Margaret Mills' residence?"

"Yes."

"Then we're at the right house." he handed her an envelope. "Right here are our instructions."

She accepted the envelope and turned it over but didn't recognize the handwriting other than to identify it as male.

"I did not order or authorize a generator." she argued, pulling a folded note from among the work order papers and receipts and warranties. "I cannot afford…" she paused. "Oh, my!" she sniffed, a tear threatening as she read the hastily scribbled note. 'Thanks for not boarding me with Mad Myrtle'.

"...paid for ma'am." the man had turned to walk back to his truck. "We're just here to install and get her running."

She smiled, hugging the note and receipts and whatnot to her bosom. Oh, those rascally boys! Now, this was a gift for a senior residing in South Dakota where harsh winters with ice storms that caused loss of electricity for several days weren't unheard of! Not to mention, freak heat waves!

And to think she would have been happy with a 'mere' new coffee table.

*** END ***