GROVELLING APOLOGY TO REGULAR VISITORS TO THE JIMIVERSE:
I know, I know, I'm in the middle of writing 'Can You Dig It?' but I'm having terrible trouble with AWOL Update Inspiration Fairies, and evaporating plot bunnies. "Please, ffn," I pleaded, "I need help. Send me a plot bunny, just this once." And lo and behold, a plot bunny appeared unto me. Just not the plot bunny I wanted. And it's an insistent little bastard, it came out of absolutely nowhere and it WILL NOT SHUT UP until I get this down. I'll get back right back to finishing 'Can You Dig It?', I will, but this one HAS to be expunged first. Bloody bunnies. *snivel snivel*
SETTING: Set in the Jimiverse, Jimi being the Winchesters' half-hellhound companion. This story takes place probably sometime after "Just Like You." It will make sense if you've read "Just Like You" and/or been reading "Can You Dig It?" so far. If you haven't, it won't.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. If they were, I'd sell them to rabid fangirls and retire on the proceeds. But I'd keep Jimi, he's all mine.
Prince Charming
Yes, he was a man-whore. Well, maybe man-slut; whores got paid for it, and Dean did it for the fun. Mind you, he was damned good at it, so he probably could get paid for it, if he wanted to, but that wasn't the point, the point was, the point was, that yes, he was a man-slut, BUT he was a polite man-slut. Beneath that roguish, devil-may-care exterior beat the heart of a gentleman. A gentleman with the morals of an alley cat, as Sam, Bobby and Castiel had pointed out to him on numerous occasions, but a gentleman nonetheless.
He was always, always, completely up-front about what he was after, and what he was offering: casual, no strings attached, informed consenting fun. He was a shameless womaniser, who sought out shameless manisers. He'd was very good at identifying them, telling them apart from the ones one the rebound, the ones on a biological clock countdown, the ones in search of something more and the ones who were confused, or desperate, or just too likely to get hurt.
Most of the time.
To err is human; to forgive is divine.
To really, really screw something up, it helps to be a Winchester.
Which is how he found himself curled up on the back seat of the Impala, watching the sky whizz past through the window. Jimi's big square head hung over the bench seat from shotgun, gazing sympathetically at his Alpha, as he whuffed gently in moral support.
"Can I sit up yet?" asked Dean in a small voice.
"No," replied Sam sternly, "There's too many people, and too much traffic. Hang tight, bro, it's only a few hours to Bobby's."
Dean sighed. "Just for a bit?"
"No!" barked Sam. "If this is what I think it is, we cannot risk you seeing a woman. Any woman."
"But Sam..."
"Don't make me come back there and put a bag on your head," growled Sam.
"Ooooh, you flirt!" smirked Dean. "Hey, what if you have to stop at lights, and some woman senses the presence of my awesomeness, and looks in the window?"
Sam's voice was laden with dread. "If that happens, then you, big brother, are totally screwed."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
It had seemed so straightforward. They were working a job that was probably a witch, cursing men and driving them to suicide, murder, or both, and they'd headed out to a bar after a frustrating day of chasing dead-ends. Dean had met an attractive young lady. She flirted. He flirted back. They chatted. He bought her a drink. He told Sam not to wait up, and went home with her. They had an evening of informed, consenting, mutually satisfying fun.
It wasn't until the sun came up and he was pulling on his jeans that he had the first inkling that something might be wrong. She asked in a bewildered tone where he was going; he gave her a cocky reply about it being time to hit the road. You can't leave me, she told him. I leave everybody, sweetheart, it's what I do, he told her. She clutched at his shirt. He disentangled her gently, and double-timed it out of there.
He shouldn't have paused on the way out, to gawp in horror, but he couldn't help it: now there was sunlight, he could see the bridal magazines and fabric swatches littering the living room, and holy crap, was that a wedding cake book on the table? That horrified hesitation gave her time to finish the incantation and fling something at him. He felt his skin prickle, there was a flash of white light…
He hurriedly found her spell book while making the scene look like a robbery gone bad, then ran back to their motel.
"I ganked our witch," he told Sam, handing over the grimoire.
"What?" Sam looked him up and down. "What happened to you?"
"She was a bunny-boiler, Sam," he shuddered, explaining the morning to his brother, "She wanted me to stay – she was planning our wedding – and she did… something."
Sam opened the book at the marker, and frowned. "Er, I think we might have a problem here," he said hesitantly, "If she's put this spell on you."
Dean felt his stomach drop. "What spell would that be, Sam?"
"Um…" Sam looked at Dean unhappily. "I'll have to check with Bobby, but I think it might be a, uh, Prince Charming spell."
"Hey, no problem," Dean relaxed, smiling, "I'm already so charming it won't have any effect on me."
"Er, it doesn't work like that," said Sam reluctantly.
"Well, you get onto it, I'll go get breakfast," Dean told him.
"NO!" Sam crash-tackled him to the floor before he could reach the door.
"Dude, I know I'm irresistible, maybe magically so now, but you're my brother, which is just wrong," Dean batted at him. "Unless you're Becky, I guess, but anyone who refers to herself as 'samlicker' has to be a bit touched in the head."
"Dean," Sam told him in a stern voice, "You cannot leave this room."
"What? I'm hungry, Sam!" Dean replied petulantly. "Why can't I leave the room?"
"Because if you do, you'll end up murdering the first woman you lay eyes on."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Whoever called them Prince Charming spells had a sick sense of humour.
Bobby confirmed Sam's suspicions, and filled in the details.
"This is one nasty piece of work," he scowled, reading through the witch's book, "Real nasty. Vindictive. You did good getting him here, Sam."
"Is somebody going to tell me what the hell that bitch did?" asked Dean a bit desperately.
"This is a Prince Charming spell," Bobby explained, "A form of binding spell. This one's a real hell-hath-no-fury job. Basically, she's cursed you to fall truly, madly, completely in love with the first woman you see, besides her, after the spell is cast."
"That's what I thought," Sam chimed in. "It could be any woman, anywhere. She could be somebody's grandmother, as ugly as sin, not speak English - you'll decide that she's the woman you've been waiting for."
"So, what happens then?" asked Dean hesitantly.
"Sometimes, all it takes is a kiss for your new beloved, and the curse lifts," Bobby elaborated. "And you're left there, feeling silly. This one, though, yowser. You'll want to spend the rest of your life with her. You'll pursue her, woo her, attempt to seduce her, and won't stop until you've married her."
"Er, what happens if she doesn't want to get married?" asked Dean tentatively.
"Then you'll stalk her, and become more desperate with each rejection. Eventually, you'll snap, and kill yourself, or her, or both."
"Okaaaaaay, not good." Dean said glumly. "Um, what about if she says yes?" he asked out of morbid curiosity.
"Ah, that's where this one gets really bitchy," replied Bobby, "Should your passionate attempts to woo the woman concerned be successful, well, from what I can figure out, you will be blissfully happy up until the moment you are pronounced husband and wife - when you kiss the bride, the curse lifts, and there you are, married, and wondering what the fuck happened and what the hell you ever saw in this person."
"Fuck," breathed Sam. "I thought it looked nasty, but… fuck."
Dean turned desperate eyes on them both. "Oh fuck," he moaned, "Oh fuck, marriage, that's a fate worse than death, right?" His eyes darted wildly around the room, like those of a cornered animal. "You have to fix this," he pleaded, "You have to fix this, if we don't find a way to fix this, I'm screwed! Figuratively only! I'll have to become a hermit monk! No more bars! No more visits to Hooters! No more watching strippers! No more lap dancers! No more watching outdoor aerobics classes! I'll never get laid again!" His voice had risen to a shrill shriek, and he looked just about ready to cry.
"Now, calm down, boy," Bobby reassured him, looking through the grimoire, "This won't last forever. Looks like she didn't give it much juice – usually, you wouldn't have to, 'cause a man would be bound to see a woman within an hour or so of casting it. You, luckily, had your brother to figure out what the hell happened. She wouldn't have expected that." He flipped through pages. "You can just wait this out. I can work up a small diagnostic spell to check, but I'm sure this won't last more than a week, tops." He looked at Dean. "All we have to do is keep you here, safe, for a few days, away from women, and the curse will dissipate by itself."
"There you go, bro," smiled Sam sympathetically, "Even you can go for a few days without sex."
"Yeah, yeah, I guess I can," sighed Dean. "It'll be tough, but I can do this." He turned a resolute face to Bobby. "I can handle this." Beside him, Jimi whuffed in support, nuzzling Dean's leg.
"Good man." Bobby headed for his study. "You stay here, indoors. Sam, you come with me, we got us some wards to work up, just in case."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Bobby and Sam warded the borders of the yard, so that nothing female besides his dogs Rumsfeld and Janis could approach without setting off a warning. There were a couple of false alarms that turned out to be cats or squirrels, but otherwise, it wasn't really a problem – The salvage yard never had many visitors to begin with. And a salvage yard was not really a place that women flocked to anyway.
It wasn't so bad, really, staying indoors for a week or so. Dean slept late, read car magazines, messed up Sam's laptop, cleaned weapons and watched TV, with Jimi to keep him company. Sam read in Bobby's study, assisting the old Hunter with the current translation he was working on, and found them a job to take up as soon as Dean's curse had dispelled. It was relaxed. Kind of peaceful. Convivial, even.
One evening, the three of them sat on the sofa, watching a rerun of Aliens, occasionally throwing corn chips or microwave popcorn at each other, while Jimi and Janis snoozed in front of the fire. It might've been the noise from the TV, as that distracted them. It could've been Dean's earsplitting cries of "Ripleeeeeeeeeeeee!" every time a small, shrill girl appeared on the screen. It could just have been that they'd fallen into a comfortable routine, and the week was just about up. Whatever the reason was, they didn't hear a vehicle pull into the yard.
They didn't notice anything, until another dog trotted into the living room, and they heard a voice behind them say,
"Hey, what are you fellas up to that's so engrossing? Watching porn?"
Bobby turned, his expression stricken, and groaned. "Balls."
Sam turned, and gaped in horror, his mind racing, insisting Oh God oh God oh God it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now it must've worn off by now…
Then Dean turned.
Sam's heart sank as his brother's face lit up with a 100 watt Killer Smile, and he stood up, saying,
"Ronnie! Hi! Have you done something different with your hair?"
I think this stands as a one-shot, although I stand to be corrected - strangeness would definitely ensue. There would be baking. And screaming. And a small amount of unexpected nudity, no doubt. What do the denizens of the Jimiverse think?
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