Summary: AU Latin Ballroom isn't meant to be dangerous. Dean just wants to meet girls. Girls who disappear. Until tough guy Sam arrives with a shotgun and a sneer, ready to kick ass. Whoa!
BadassLoner!Sam Dancers!Dean+Ruby2 mild slash
A/N: I thought I would post something for Hallowe'en, seeing as it's big is the US. They didn't have it here in Britain when I was a kiddie.
Dangerous Ballroom by frostygossamer
My name is Bobby Singer, and it's been my privilege to know and work with the great Sam Winchester. That guy is one tough, rough, macho hunter. He spits, growls, shoots, throws fists and generally causes mayhem to the supernatural, and then asks questions later.
Sam hunts alone. Some people would call him a lone wolf. He's been a holy terror to goddamn monsters all over the USA, since he was five years old. I may have been something of a hunter myself, but I know that in no way could I match up to the magnificent stature of the big man from Lawrence, Kansas.
I would do any and everything in my power to help Sam Winchester, if Sam ever needs my help, which he seldom does. Sam really never needs anyone. He's a one-man monster killing tidal wave.
His late dad, John, was my good friend. He raised his only kid in the life. When he finally fell to some nasty spawn of damnation, Sam hunted the damned thing down within the week and annihilated it remorselessly in twenty different ways.
Ever since John's passing, Sam Winchester has been a loner, hard, dark and scary. Sam Winchester is unstoppable, and I'm proud to call him my friend.
.oOo.
Right now Sam Winchester is between monster killings. He's feeling bored and sick of cracking his knuckles and hanging out in sleazy bars looking tough. So when his old compadre, Bobby, calls him with a heads-up about a little job that's come to him down the grapevine, he's damn glad.
In the little city of Strictly, stands the Old City Hall, a stately last century building of awesome architecture. Now superseded by the new City Hall, it's currently used as a venue for public entertainment. And they have a problem, a supernatural problem.
Old City Hall has ghosts like other buildings have mice. Shadowy shapes have been spotted. People have been scared. Objects, and at least one girl, have gone missing. Innocents are getting hurt.
That's what really makes Sam's blood boil. He loads up his artillery in his trusty black Chevrolet Impala, and burns rubber heading out to eradicate those supernatural scum.
.oOo.
It is supposed to be the highlight of the state Latin Ballroom calendar. Dean is fully expecting to nail the gold this year. He also expects to nail every gorgeous babe in the freaking championship.
He admires his reflection in the dressing room mirror. Slick in slim slacks and gold shirt slashed to the navel, a little body glitter on the pecs. Awesome! Chicks will be falling at his feet. At least they will be if they don't keep on disappearing.
Dean's reason for taking up ballroom in the first place was as a way of getting his hands on women, slim, fit, sexy, slightly orange women. And there isn't a whole lot of competition. Let's just say some of the guys in this thing are more ladylike than the chicks. But things aren't going exactly to plan.
Already several of the lovelies he had his eye on have vanished with a variety of lame excuses from the organizers. That sassy blond Jo dropped out when her mom got shot, would you believe? Classy but bitchy Bela's Visa has apparently run out. Lisa has run on home after problems with her kid's sitter. Jessica has just plain disappeared overnight. All reasonable excuses but, to Dean, something smells like a cover-up.
Then there's Ruby. Ruby is Dean's dance partner. Granted the little brunette looks pretty damn hot in a wisp of scarlet satin and golden sequins. And her moves, they're timed to perfection, controlled, precise.
They make a great team on the dance floor, oozing sex so hot you can practically toast buns on it. But, off the floor, Ruby oozes poison. She's the bane of Dean's life and one chick he would happily have disappear anytime.
Even Ruby isn't immune to the bleed of talent. She's seen something in the hallway, something dark, indistinct and fast as hell. She's beginning to talk about splitting. Something very strange is going on, and it's putting Dean off his cha-cha-cha.
.oOo.
When Sam draws up outside Old City Hall, and steps down from the Impala, he blows out a whistle of disgust. A statewide Ballroom Dancing championship? Seriously? Like he needs a crowd of crimped haired, sequin-clad mincesses impeding his investigations.
Sam snorts in derision. OK, so he'll do a recon of the place and then he'll come back later tonight, when the place is empty, to grab a proper look.
Inside the venue, the foyer teams with 'resting' dancers practicing figures and fiddling with their shoes and hairdos. Sam threads his way between, attracting little attention except a few admiring glances from pouty females in ghastly makeup.
A few of the sleek bitches in dental floss outfits can't help but catch his eye, but the girly men in Marcel waves and lycra catsuits turn his stomach. Guys like that, he thinks, should be ashamed to call themselves male.
Sam scopes the building without finding anything concrete to latch onto, except a faint EMF reading here and there in the dressing rooms. Before he leaves he stops in to watch the dancers from the back of the main hall.
.oOo.
The pairs of dancers take to the floor five or six couples at a time. It takes Sam a few seconds to register which girls and boys match up. But then he realises they are conveniently colour-coded.
It's quite impressive, he has to admit, the way the dancers weave in and out, never losing their partner's rhythm, never interfering with other couples. They twitch and writhe in sync with the music, perfectly timed movements perfectly executed.
Sam's novice eyes can't separate them. How the hell the judges choose between them, he can't guess. They all nail their moves, as far as he can tell. They could have been zombies or clockwork, except for one stand-out couple.
A petite, olive-skinned dark-haired chick, in a skimpy red and gold bikini with a bit of fringe, struts towards him, her dark eyes blank with concentration. She spins sharply on her dancing heals and shimmies back the way she came, wriggling her cute little ass, into the arms of a damn good-looking guy in gold lame.
"Now that guy", Sam thinks, "is built for dancesport not the usual limp-wristed prancer. He looks kinda outta place here."
But there's something about these two pressed together skin-close that makes Sam's battered heart miss a beat. He swallows and silently cusses. When you're as tough as Sam Winchester there's no place in your life for beauty.
"Pull yourself together, man", he chides himself inwardly. "There are some things a hunter can never have, some things he's better off without. Put your damn tongue away."
They're a beautiful couple, and Sam guesses that's worth a few extra points on an otherwise even field. And he's right. He watches the couple leave the hall and then returns his attention to the dance floor, where new couples replace the last batch and begin their own swaying and stalking.
But now he's bored. He decides he might as well leave, go get himself some food maybe, and then come back later, much later, when all this hullabaloo has packed up and gone home for the night. Then he can have the whole place to himself to hunt fuglies.
Sam is nearly out of the door when there's a sudden shriek from the direction of the dressing rooms.
TBC