Burnt

Cookies & Tea & Lemonade

Marc blinked down at the lump of white fur on his lap. It wore a sweater.

The pattern was tartan, which was horribly cliché for the Scottish terrier. What made it worse was that the old lady introduced the dog as Scottie. For some reason, the dog took a liking to him and immediately claimed his lap for a nap. Scottie snored, but that was ignored easily enough. The involuntary flatulence? That proved to be a more difficult distraction.

Sam Winchester was next to Marc and the dog on the couch, but he leaned as far away as he could without tipping over. Sam was eyeing the six month old celebrity gossip magazine on the coffee table in front of their knees, wanting to pick it up and use the pages as a fan to waft the horrible canine stench away, but that would have been outright rude. They needed Eunice to open up and answer questions with as much detail as she could recall. Marc and Sam could not afford to offend her or her dog and earn themselves a boot to the curb.

So Marc played with a plastic quarter machine bracelet he usually wore. He slipped them off and stashed them into his khaki pockets before arriving at the elderly woman's house, but he fished one out to fidget with while the lady fumbled around her kitchen to prepare tea and cookies. Marc was proud of himself for managing to get one out without jostling and waking the pup.

Much to their dismay, Scottie let another one loose. "Oh my god!" Marc hissed under his breath. "What does the woman feed you?"

Sam waved his hand in front of his face to try and dissipate the noxious fumes. "I was actually looking forward to those cookies," he said. "I think the oatmeal packets at the motel were expired. The aftertaste is still tingling in my teeth, but I don't think I'll have enough of an appetite left for when she finds them." His complexion twinged green for a moment.

The pair of men were dressed slightly more professionally than either one usually did; Mac is pressed khakis, a nice button up and a tie. Sam had on the suit he wore the day before without the jacket. They had both agreed that morning to pose as private investigators, which if they tilted their heads in just the right way was the truth. So they dressed for the part.

"There you go, dearies," Eunice cooed when she came back in. The muumuu she wore was offensive to the eyes, even if it was floral patterned. She balance a china plate piled with cookies on her hands gnarled with arthritis. She shuffled along the threadbare carpet until she could tip the plate onto the coffee table. A few of the cookies slid off.

Sam lunged forward to pick up the baked goods and place them back on the plate before she could fumble more.

"Ooh. How sweet is that?" Mr. Scottie has taken a liking to you. My Poopsie usually ignores everyone except for his Momma." She held a definite drawl characteristic of south of the Mason-Dixon line.

The dog's rear end whistled once more. Poopsie was a very apt nickname.

"And now for lemonade and sweet tea. I hope you lovely boys don't mind Country Time. I can't squeeze fresh lemons like I use to."

She started to turn back toward the kitchen when Sam shot up to his feet, nearly knocking his head off on the ceiling fan. "Let me go get it, ma'am," he offered. "You can sit and get comfortable while my partner here," he indicated Marc with a wave of his hand, "can get started with the questions."

"How kind of you, dearie!" As Sam stepped around the coffee table, Eunice patted him on the arm a few times and smiled up at his face. "You'll find the Country Time in the pantry by the icebox. The pitchers are already set up on the counter."

Marc couldn't help but feel betrayed at being left to fend for himself against the little old lady and her poisonous dog still on his lap. Maybe it was a twinge of envy that Sam managed to smoothly come up with such a gentlemanly excuse as an escape before he himself could. As Eunice settled herself down into a wingback armchair accessorized with crochet-edged covers at the head and armrests, Marc could see Sam in the kitchen clearly ignoring the tea on the stove or any lemonade making. Instead, the tall Winchester was doing a security sweep. He was thorough enough to check even the window sills and behind the refrigerator after poking through every single drawer and cabinet door.