Disclaimer: I own nothing but this absurd plot.

Prologue

Dean was going to axe murder whoever invented eyeliner.

It got in your eyes, no matter what you did. It smeared beneath them like pseudo clown makeup and detracted from his rugged…manliness. He shifted his weight and looked away from the stage, turning away from the screaming fans only to come face to face with the bartender salivating over the red fuck-me heels Dean was currently wearing.

Fucking Sam.

Axe murder was too good for that son of a bitch. Strangulation, perhaps, so he could see the light slowly fade from his little brother's eyes up close and personal. He would accept nothing less for the misery he'd suffered. He'd considered shock therapy to induce memory loss, but disregarded the action as useless-the mental anguish of his brother forcing him into feathered sequined pants would be forever imprinted on his soul.

"Dean, we've got one leg in, just suck it in and I'll force the rest up!"

There was a special place in hell for whatever bitch invented assless chaps.

He could feel the music overhead vibrating in his throat, and he refocused in on the lyrics in order to distract himself from the brain-stabbing image of two men air humping the stage like they were drilling for gold with their flamboyant belt buckles.

"I kissed a girl, and I liked it…"

That's right, he liked kissing women, thank you very much. Loved it, in fact-he was a man. A smooth talking, charismatic lady-killer with more notches on his belt than Tom Cruise pre couch-jumping, creepy Scientology days. Women loved him. They lined up around the block for just a glimpse of Dean Winchester's panty-sizzling smirk.

Speaking of-how did women wear this cotton masquerading as dental floss? He hadn't had anything so far up his ass since that waitress in Tampa had-

No. He was not going there.

"Dean! You're coming up next, you need to get ready! We need to fix your headdress, man, the feathers aren't holding."

Sam was excited. No-Sam was ecstatic. Sam…was going to pay. Of the two of them, who was more of a woman, anyway? His brother was a giant girl with questionable parts-he was the touchy feely, sharing and caring type. The fact that it was Sam that did the makeup currently waging war against his pores was proof enough-Sam did everything but bleed once a month. Was it Dean's fault that his pretty face lent itself more to this particular case? Why was he the one forced to suffer through this indignity? It was completely unfair of whatever was killing these people to discriminate-if it didn't have a problem with these people, Dean wouldn't be here sneezing his ass off from the glitter's slow migration from his eyes down to his nasal passage. And good God, if another guy stroked his bare ass, he was making Sam burn a clip in him.

There was only so much a heterosexual man could take.

"DEAN! They need you, NOW!"

Once this job was over, Dean was killing an entire nest of vampires. By himself. After which he would proceed to dance a jig over their dismembered corpses-maybe even roll around in their blood. He was uncapping beer bottles with his teeth, taking up chewing tobacco, and scratching even when there wasn't a need. Because his masculinity had taken a massive blow, and restoring it was going to be a very time consuming effort on his part. As the faint strains of "Dancing Queen" started to infiltrate the club, Dean damned whatever was killing people in this town, damned his father for making it his job to find it, and damned Sam for the smug, self-righteous laughter he was currently partaking in. He swore to God, he was knocking Sam's teeth out when this song was over-see how Sam enjoyed his rabbit food when he was gumming it.

Not until the performance was over, though. He had a job to do, and by God, it was going to be spectacular. Besides, a lady never left the stage unattended. It just wasn't classy.