For the depraved individual who wanted to know the gory details of what happened when Ronnie read Dean's werewolf porn...
DISCLAIMER: I thank any deity listening in that they are not mine, because the power bill for running the electric fence to keep the fangirls out would be truly ruinous.
TITLE: Six
RATING: T. This story processed on the same line used to prepare items containing Dean.
SUMMARY: Dean likes pie, porn, and prying pruriently. Who knew werewolves were such prudes? And, under the circumstances, he thought his question was perfectly reasonable... what happened when, recovering after a Hunt, Dean introduced Ronnie to 'Supernatural' fan sites, and she stumbled onto fanfics.
SETTING: Takes place in the Jimiverse, sometime after 'The Thing'. With Ronnie and Andrew.
BLAME: Everything I write is officially the fault of the Denizens of the Jimiverse, and the casual visitors who drop in, who visit and review and critique and generally encourage me to further silliness - ESPECIALLY the DEPRAVED INDIVIDUALS who shoo plot bunnies in my direction. They are individuals who are depraved. In a depraved way. With depravity. Did I mention that they're depraved?
The Streaker's Defence, supplied his could've-been-a-lawyer brain: It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time.
There had been a lot of that in the past week, mused Sam, watching Dean carefully eat his soup, which just went to show that 'humans are extremely fallible', or maybe that 'hindsight is always 20/20', or possibly 'Dean likes to live dangerously' or even 'werewolves are quite protective of their private lives', or maybe even…
"I think I could manage some pie," said Dean hopefully, rubbing gingerly at his jaw, "If I crush the crust up, and the filling will be soft."
"I don't think that would be a good idea, Dean," Sam said quickly, "How about some ice cream instead?" But the sheer unhappiness on his brother's face made him relent. "Okay, you can try a piece of pie, but be careful, okay?"
"I will," said Dean, starting to smile, then wincing, and clutching his jaw. Maybe he was being punished for his sins, but there was something terribly sad about seeing his big brother struggling to manage eating pie.
Although in a way, it really was his own fault.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
When they'd picked up the scent of a hunt in Oregon, the details had been confusing. Deaths occurring around the full moon, but no other pattern with times or locations. Some details suggested 'werewolf', and some didn't. So when Dean suggested that they swing by Andrew and Ronnie's place, to get 'an informed opinion', as he put it, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
It was a congenial reunion, with Mr and Ms Big Bad Wolf suggesting that the Winchesters stay with them – after all, the hunt was only about an hour away, and it would be more comfortable than any crappy motel. This also had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Picking Ronnie's brains for ideas about the hunt had resulted in some discussion that ended with her suggestion that she go along with them: if there was a werewolf, she would be able to pick up on the scent immediately, and narrow it down right away. Andrew added that if he accompanied them also, they'd be able to cover twice as much ground, seeing as the killings (which they weren't sure were related) were spread over such a wide area. Ronnie had been trained up for the Hunt since she was seven, and Andrew knew how to take care of himself, so these seemed like good ideas at the time. Two related Hunters' dogs, who could work as a pack, would be a definite asset against a werewolf. Yep, definitely a good idea at the time.
Tooled up and gassed up for the trip, they'd headed out in two vehicles. Pairing off a Winchester and a werewolf, they'd split up, and gone searching for clues.
Andrew and Jimi had taken one whiff, and pronounced "Werewolf". Dean had looked at the site of the latest kill, and confirmed it.
Over the phone, Ronnie had scoffed, as she and Joni inhaled deeply and pronounced "Vampire". Sam had taken one look at the bite wounds, and concurred.
An argument had ensued, not entirely in human language. They met up again to compare notes, and were so busy disagreeing with each other than the vampires almost got the drop on them.
The vampires were reasonably straightforward, if tiring, to deal with – hack off their heads – but it was dark, and they were fast, and confident. They dished out a reasonable amount of damage before the last one was dealt with. The usual: cuts, scrapes, bruises, possibly cracked ribs, a bleeding nose, and a fairly impressive scalp wound.
Which wouldn't have been so bad, if the pack hadn't have arrived pretty much straight after that.
All credit to the nest of vampires; tailgating the werewolves at the full moon had clearly thrown several Hunts off their trail before, but now the Winchesters et al. found themselves dealing with them one after the other.
Some days, you're the pigeon; other days, you're the statue.
Werewolves tended in modern times to be solitary creatures, many of them unaware of what exactly they were, but this was an organised pack of several individuals. More difficult to deal with, and they found themselves running low on silver rounds. They headed into the house the vampires had been squatting in, intending to regroup and reload, but the damned things had followed them, and split them up again.
Dean was the one who found himself out of silver ammo first – no way had they expected so many of the damned things – so when the large male had narrowed its eyes and sprung at him, he had no where to go and nothing to use except his knife.
Fortunately for him, Ronnie cannoned into the male before it got to him.
Unfortunately for her, their momentum sent them crashing through the window, to land two storeys below. It was all Sam could do to stop Andrew following her through the frame outlined in jagged glass.
The male werewolf was dead with her knife buried in its chest to the hilt – its bulk had cushioned the impact somewhat, but not entirely. Ronnie was damaged. Broken bones and deep lacerations type of damage. Losing a lot of blood damage. "Hospital. Now. No arguments." type of damage. So, back towards home it had been, at much higher speed, to the local hospital, where Ronnie had been sutured, plastered and admitted, complaining that she didn't need to be in any damned hospital until a combination of painkiller and sedative won out, and she fell asleep, having implored the menfolk to break her out as soon as possible. Andrew and the Winchesters went back home to deal with their own wounds, and decided that a few days of recuperation would be in order, possibly with their friend Dr J. Daniels to provide medication.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Two days later, Ronnie was allowed to go home, with one ankle in a cast, several lacerations sutured, some impressive bruising, and strict instructions to take her drugs, rest, and not get any dressings wet. Nurse Andrew took charge, taking her straight upstairs to bed. The house was restfully quiet, and the down time strangely peaceful. Reading, Playstationing, napping, eating pie – Ronnie did make damned good pie - it was all good.
Ronnie on painkillers reminded Sam a bit of Dean on painkillers: strangely and amusingly docile and compliant. On her second day home, Andrew brought her downstairs – under any other circumstances, she'd have screamed blue murder about the indignity, but she just rested her head against his shoulder like an overtired child, and deposited her on the sofa, where she sat with her leg propped up and her not-quite-focused eyes sleepily nodding shut. She alternated between resting, making strange non-sequitur contributions to any conversation ("I can't find my boots. Because of the porridge. Turtles!" "It's okay Ronnie, we'll find them for you.") and doing what she was told by Nurse Andrew: "Drink this, Ronnie." "Take these, Ronnie." "You need to eat, Ronnie, here, eat this." "Let me check your dressings, Ronnie." "Give me your arm, Ronnie, it's okay, just a little sting," "Nap time, Ronnie." Neither Winchester could stifle their smiles as, instead of dissolving into a rage at being told to take a nap, Ronnie trustingly smiled, and mumbled " 'Kay," and even held her arms out to be picked up like a toddler.
This happy and frankly entertaining state of affairs lasted for three days. Then Ronnie decided she could stop taking the analgesics.
When that happened, she got CRANKY. And BORED.
When she got bored, she got LOUD. And ANNOYING. And even CRANKIER.
So Dean came up with a brilliant idea – or so it seemed at the time. When she fired up her laptop, he pointed her to a 'Supernatural' fan site.
"It's hilarious," he'd told her. She'd glowered at him – because she was cranky, they all agreed - then started clicking links. And it had kept her amused, and blissfully quiet, for hours. The three males breathed a collective sigh of relief, and returned to enjoying their downtime, as it seemed she had been given a diversion that would keep her amused for a long time.
And that definitely seemed like a good idea at the time.
She was impressed, if a little bit worried, by the obsessively detailed collation of facts about various fuglies that had been put together by the fans.
She went 'Awwwwww', when she read the biographies that had been culled from the series of books, and Chuck's online writings.
She giggled at the "Yellow Fever" ghost sickness incident.
She laughed at the description of her first meeting with the Winchesters at Bobby's.
Her eyes narrowed as she found her own biography, and the extent of the detail there.
And then… she followed another link.
"What's a fan fiction?" she asked at around lunchtime.
"Oh, God," said Sam, rolling his eyes, "That's where some of the more, er, 'creative' fans write their own stories."
"What about?" she continued.
"Us," said Dean, around a mouthful of sandwich.
"It's kind of creepy," observed Sam.
"But in an awesome kind of way," qualified Dean.
"What's a Weechester?" asked Andrew, hanging over Ronnie's shoulder.
"That's people making up stories about us when we were kids," said Sam. "Like I said, it's kind of creepy."
"Although they do get right about what an awesome big brother I am," put in Dean, "And how annoying a whiny little brat Sam was." Sam glared, as Dean smirked happily at him.
Ronnie was quiet again after that, pausing only to remark "An awful lot of people like to see you get hurt, Dean. If these people are 'fans', I would hate to run into a flock of 'critics'."
Later, she had another question. "What's a ship?" asked Ronnie, following another link. "Not the tugboat type."
"Ah," said Sam, grimacing, "That's where they write stories pairing people up. It can get a bit… disturbing."
"Yeah, I can see how that would be weird," Ronnie agreed, "Although given how many times Dean's paired himself up across the country, it can't be any worse than that…" she scrolled down the list, smiling to herself. "This is kind of funny," she continued, musing over what she was finding, "Dean/Jo, there are a lot of those… Dean/Bela, there are lots of those, too… Dean/Lisa… Dean/Anna, ooooh, you corrupted an angel!... ah, they haven't forgotten you entirely, Sam, here's some Sam/Madison… oh dear, Sam/Ruby… wow, Sam/Jo, do they expect you two to share? That's a bit… yeah, creepy." She continued down the list. "…Um, it says here Dean/Cas. Didn't you break up with Cassie before you went to find Sam at Stanford? Your fans want you to get back with her?"
Dean had gone bright red. Sam answered as tactfully as he could, "Er, nooooo, that Cas refers to 'Castiel'."
Ronnie did a double take. Andrew mirrored her. "Castiel?" she repeated, confused, "As in, Castiel, the Holy Tax Accountant Angel Of The Lord?" She looked bewildered for a moment more. "What, you go on a hunt with him, or something? That could be useful, having an angel cover your back." Sam let out a strangled snort that he turned into a cough.
"Er, not exactly," squeaked Dean, his ears positively glowing, "You might not want to read any of those…"
Too late. "What's a Destiel?" she asked, clicking a link.
Watching the expression of bewilderment, then disbelief, develop on her face was almost funny, except both Winchesters were horribly aware of what she was likely to be reading.
She looked up from her laptop, seemingly lost for words. "People write stories about… that?" she breathed. She looked helplessly at Dean. "Okay, the ones who enjoy torturing you, I get that, but… They do know that you're straight, right?"
"They don't seem to care," sighed Sam. "Just leave it alone, is my advice, it only gets worse."
She looked back at the screen. "Good grief, there are a lot of those." She scrolled down further, an expression of bewilderment on her features. "There's more here. There's Sam/…Gabriel? Sabriel? Sam/Lucifer. Sam/Cas. What? Holy crap. Bobby/Crowley? Crowley? The demon Crowley?" She turned a horrified look to Sam. "Does Bobby know that people are writing this stuff?"
"No, and we intend to keep it that way for as long as possible," sighed Sam gloomily, "You think that's bad, don't go near anything that's labelled..."
"What's a wincest?"
"Do. Not. Go. There." intoned Sam.
"Some of them were just desperate to see you get laid, you know," leered Dean, "You have a fan club, and they all want to see you happy. They think you deserve a love life. Your Hunt buddy Ian seemed the Male Most Likely for a while, until…"
"Until what?" asked Ronnie in a strangely quiet voice. Andrew let out a strangled snark of laughter, and pointed to the screen as Dean continued,
"Until you met up with Andrew! Very popular pairing, you two. The Pack were beside themselves with joy when you two met up."
"Look! Look! There we are!" laughed Andrew, "Ronnie/Andrew!" Sam thought he seemed to be a lot more amused by the idea than Ronnie was. She was definitely looking cranky. In fact, he mused, Dean and Andrew seemed to be happily oblivious to the dropping temperature when Ronnie spoke.
"Dean, what is 'The Pack'?" That quiet, reasonable tone set the hair on the back of Sam's neck standing up.
"They're your fans, Ronnie, your fans!" Dean continued breezily, as Andrew snagged the laptop. "Seriously, they went nuts when Andrew appeared."
"Awwwww, some of this is so sweet," cooed Andrew. "Look, there's a page called 'The Den', 'where The Pack hang out'. Wow, some of these threads are long… Hey, here's one called 'Can Ronnie Find Love?'." He grinned, and started clicking.
"A favourite author of mine once observed that multiple exclamation marks are a sure sign of a diseased mind," said Ronnie reasonably, folding her hand demurely in her lap. Uh Oh, thought Sam.
Andrew was as oblivious to impending danger as Dean. "Listen to this," he read, "Someone called Wolfbitch2…"
"She's the unofficial sort of organiser of The Den," put in Dean, then Andrew continued,
"Yeah, well she wrote, 'OMG I cried when Ronnie turned Andrew down and left!' Yeah, you and me both, lady. Then Justacub says, 'I could just see her expression – so confused! Poor Andrew! He's The One for her, even if she doesn't know it!' And wolfgirl says, 'It's so sad! She's lost so much in her life – she deserves this. She deserves to be happy, she deserves to be loved.' Hey, Wolfman says 'If I encountered Ronnie, I wouldn't have just let her go like that – he's an idiot! He should have grabbed her!' Oooh, he's keen, Ronnie, he's keen! But the ladies didn't agree: 'It wouldn't have worked – she'd have torn him to pieces, and stalked away.' 'He wouldn't. She's basically frightened, and I think he saw that. He knew he couldn't force her to do anything.' 'Sigh – silly girl, Ronnie, he's fallen for you! If you don't want him, I'll have him!' Hey, I have a fan, too!" Andrew looked up from the screen, smiling brightly.
Dean beamed back. "It gets better, they go absolutely apeshit when you kiss her for the first time. You two were meant to be together," he smirked at Ronnie, "The fans have spoken."
"He's right, you know," said Andrew offhandedly, scanning further down that particular thread, "They're all basically wetting themselves, they're so happy for you. 'Don't be scared, Ronnie, you go girl!' LupineLady says, 'Finally! Finally! Trust him, Ronnie, he's the one for you!' Oh, and this guy's a bit more direct: ImpalaDude says 'About time – seriously, Ronnie needs to get laid. Time to step up, Andrew, and go alpha male on her ass!' Ahem." Andrew swallowed a laugh as Ronnie gave him what Sam could only think of as A Look.
"I see. And you think that people discussing our personal lives is amusing, then?" she asked in a terrifyingly reasonable tone. Andrew looked a little chastened.
"Sorry, Ronnie, it's just, well, you can't take it seriously – like Dean said, they don't know we're real, they think we're just people in Storyland. Anyway," he continued, "As far as I can make out, there are no, er, gory details mentioned. They just know that we pair-bonded and… well, presumably at one point one thing led to another." He returned his attention to the laptop. "See? The next thread is called "How Do You Think It Happened?" Ronniegirl asks 'Am I the only one who's wondered how things, er, panned out between Andrew and Ronnie? Just how did they go from mated pair to mating pair? Details, damn it, I want to know the juicy details! That's it, I'm officially turning into a perv.' Then ImpalaDude says 'Yeah, I'd like to have been a fly on the wall. Or maybe watching through a hole in the wall. I'll bet there was howling involved. And lots of tongues.' Sounds like a guy who watches too much porn. And then…" his expression became less amused, and more bemused, "Er, it looks as though Wolfbitch2 called some sort of competition. 'All right, wolfboys and wolfgirls, we all know we want to know – how did it happen? What we need is a… story challenge!' …?" His face became a little confused, but he continued, as he scanned further down the page. "Um, apparently they had a competition to see who could write the best account of… er, the first time we… slept together." There was a thick silence as Andrew read further. "Oh, I get it, she gives them a line, and they have to include it in the story…"
"Give me that," said Ronnie, taking back her laptop, and reading aloud, " 'Your prompt is: "I will never hurt you, Ronnie, I promise you, I will never hurt you". ' …" Her face was unreadable, then she announced. "All right, I am now officially weirded out. There's a group of people out there, writing stories about how I lost my maidenly virtue?"
"You could have a read of them, and let us know if any of them are close to what happened," suggested Dean with a smirk, "Or maybe you could read them together, you know, one night when you want something to help you get in the mood…"
Ronnie was horrified yet intrigued. "Holy crap," she breathed, scanning through one story, "These people seriously have too much time on their hands… heaving? Heaving? I do not heave!"
"Well, actually, now that you mention it," began Andrew casually, until Ronnie silenced him with a curl of her lip.
"Bloody hell, these women are all labouring under the sad delusion that they are writing for Mills and Boon, or Harlequin or something. God, here's another one, with more heaving! What is this obsession with heaving?"
"Well, it can be a hell of a turn-on," stated Dean, as Sam watched on in horror, "When bits of a woman, er, well, heave, or writhe, yeah, writhing is good, too, same goes for squirming and moaning…"
"Dude, too much information," complained Sam.
"… Nails digging into his back, oh yeah, and that growling noise chicks make sometimes when you…"
"Dean!" Sam said sharply. "Too! Much! Information!"
"I don't believe it," Ronnie said, putting the laptop aside, and addressing the universe in general in a tone of utter bewilderment, "Do they seriously have nothing better to do?" Andrew had taken the laptop, and was scanning through some of the stories.
"Oh, just enjoy the joke, Ronnie," he said, "Don't take it seriously. These women are determined for you to have had an ecstatically marvellous earth-shattering experience. This one's actually quite sweet – I kiss your tears away, and promise you I'll never hurt you…" in spite of herself, Ronnie scrunched up beside Andrew to read, and had a little chortle along with him, "And ooooh, in this one, you take charge, you assertive alpha female you…" Ronnie had to laugh at that. "I've been a baaaaad boy, Ronnie, you'll have to smack me with a rolled-up newspaper…"
"In your dreams, mister," she rolled her eyes at him, and the air of approaching menace that she had been exuding dissipated, as they made their way through the stories, reading out choice pieces so that the Winchesters joined in the laughter.
"I don't believe it, more heaving!"
"This woman is obsessed with earlobes. What would Freud have said about that?"
"I'm sure I didn't cry that much. And your chest is not that hairy. Not when you're on two legs, anyway."
"Look, the intensity of the moment makes you wolf out on me in this one. Oh… My… God… no. No. No no no, as magnificent as you are on four legs, I would not let you anywhere near that with those fangs, no matter how long your tongue is…"
"Oh, hey, guys, isn't that veering dangerously close to bestiality?" asked Sam, wincing.
Dean didn't hear him. "Seriously, how long?" he asked.
Andrew ignored him, much to Sam's relief. "Oh, look, here we have one by ImpalaDude, so the menfolk are not completely unrepresented, you go, boy!" he said, clicking the link. "I wonder if there's any heaving in this one?"
Ronnie's face went impassively still.
There was heaving. There was definitely heaving. And that was just the start.
Where the women had written in hints, allusions and euphemism, indeed with a certain amount of old-fashioned romance, ImpalaDude got pretty much straight to the heaving. And everything else. In excruciating, gruesome, anatomical detail.
"Er, yes," said Andrew, "There certainly is… heaving."
Ronnie's expression was frozen. "That bit is a most… intriguing suggestion."
"Can you even do that?" asked Andrew tentatively.
"I don't think so. Not without doing permanent orthopaedic damage to you. I don't think the bedside table would take the weight of both of us, anyway." She read a bit further on. "And the bathroom towel rail certainly wouldn't."
"Light fittings? We don't have hanging light fittings," remarked Andrew, bemused.
"Quite an imagination on him, this guy," Ronnie remarked serenely. "Although I suppose that if a woman was a gymnast, or possibly did a lot of yoga…"
A horrible thought popped into Sam's head with appalling feasibility.
Ronnie kept her expression carefully neutral as she continued to read.
"Well, what do you know, more heaving. And some writhing. Quite a bit of writhing, in fact." Andrew's mouth opened and shut a couple of times, then he looked away from the laptop. Ronnie continued, "And it's not just writhing, from writhing we move on to squirming, yes, actual squirming, and then… aha, here it is, there's moaning. Whatever could be next? Can anybody guess? Dean, what do you think will happen next?" Without waiting for an answer she read on. "Surprise! After the moaning, comes the growling, of course, and finally, friends and neighbours, we have that all-time favourite, nails digging into his back…" she stopped, and glared at Dean.
"Hey," he said airily, "The guy obviously wanted to think that you had a good time."
"Dean," she said quietly, "A performance like that would've ended with one or both participants in hospital, or possibly jail. Maybe even both."
"Informed consenting adults, Ronnie, informed consenting adults. And there's nothing there I wouldn't do myself."
"Dean," she growled accusingly, "You are 'ImpalaDude'. You perverted, demented, perverted… man." Her face was calm, her voice quiet. Sam and Andrew exchanged a look of alarm as Dean seemed oblivious to her demeanour. Dean smiled winningly at her.
"Oh, come on, Ronnie, like everyone else said, we all just wanted you to have a good time."
"Um, Dean," commented Sam, "Everybody else was writing romantic fantasies about someone they think is fictitious. You wrote pure porn about someone you know is real."
"I really only have one question," continued Ronnie, "Because I know that if I ask 'why?' I won't get a sensible or comprehensible answer, so I'll just ask this: how many hands were you typing with while you composed this piece of depravity?" Her voice had descended to a dangerous hiss.
He's suicidal, thought Sam, that's what it is, years of Hunting have taken their toll on his sanity, and he's decided to end it all with Suicide By Werewolf… "Ah, don't ask a question if you really don't want to know the answer," smirked Dean, still oblivious. "I kind of wish I'd thought of the whole 'wolf out' angle, though. The possibilities are intriguing. There's always room for another chapter, I guess. Andrew, when she goes four-legged, how many nipples does she have?"
She shouldn't have been able to move that fast. Not with one ankle in a cast, the sutured lacerations and being covered in bruising, and having to use a crutch to lever herself up, but outrage lent her strength and speed.
Luckily for Dean, Andrew was almost, almost quick enough to intercept her. That's why his jaw only ended up horribly bruised, and not actually broken.
"What the fuck did you think you were fucking doing you fucking pervert fucking!" she raged at him, hopping up and down on her good foot, as Andrew hung on to her.
"Ronnie, calm down, you'll hurt yourself!" he barked at her. She glared at him, but subsided, as Sam rushed to his brother's side and helped Dean up. Andrew picked Ronnie up and deposited her on the sofa. "You. Sit. Stay." She squawked with indignation, but stayed put. He turned back to Sam and Dean. "I'll get you some ice, dude," he added, heading for the kitchen, and returning with a towel full of ice and some painkillers.
Sam handed the ice pack to Dean, who was holding his jaw and groaning, and shook out two tablets for him. "She's right, bro," he observed, "You really are a pervert at heart."
"Nnnnnnnnn," said Dean, "Sssshhe hit me, Sham. Ow."
After liberal administration of painkillers, some soothing of ruffled feathers (or should that have been ruffled fur?) and quite a lot of telling-off and dressing down by Sam and Andrew, two apologies were offered – one slurred, one through clenched teeth, both distinctly lacking in sincerity – and a certain amount of civility was restored. "You are tired and cranky, Ronnie, perhaps you should go upstairs for a nap," stated Andrew, clearly not asking a question. Ronnie silently complied, allowing herself to be picked up and carried upstairs with barely a grumble.
Andrew came back downstairs looking sheepish. "I gave her a shot of the good stuff," he confessed, "She won't be back to terrorise you for a while." He put his head in his hands. "God, I'm sorry, boys, I really didn't think she'd react that badly. Maybe it was just her injuries, and the crap in her system."
"She has been cranky since this morning," agreed Sam, "Dean gets the same coming off painkillers."
"Dude, you totally went alpha male on her ass!" Dean said, starting to grin then wincing and clutching the ice to his jaw.
"If you ask me, you deserved it," said Sam, throwing in a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't Believe You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!) for good measure. Did I really hear you ask how many nipples she has when she shapeshifts?"
"Well, enquiring minds want to know," replied his brother. "God, I need a drink. And the whole don't-mix-painkillers-with-booze' crap be damned."
"So do I," agreed Andrew, fetching a bottle and glasses from a cupboard. He poured doubles.
"So, guys," grinned Dean, "Do you think I have a future writing for Harlequin Romances?"
"I think you'd have more success writing for 'Hustler'," answered Sam.
"I think you probably shouldn't give up your day job," added Andrew.
"True talent is never appreciated within the artist's own lifetime," sighed Dean. "So," he continued, smirking at Andrew, "Did I get close?"
"What?" asked Andrew, confused.
"Did I get close to what happened?" pressed Dean. "Did I get any details right? I'm guessing four on the nipples thing. You sure she-werewolves don't actually do a Thing?"
"Dean!" yelped Sam in horror at his brother's prurience.
"Is he always this nosy?" asked Andrew.
"Worse, usually," replied Sam glumly.
"How has he not had his head torn off yet?"
"Ronnie just took a pretty good shot at it," Dean pointed out, wincing. "Most women are just content to slap, you know."
"Well, you deserved it," humphed Sam.
"So, how many?" Dean persisted. "Am I going to get an answer?"
"Not from me," grinned Andrew. "I'm not suicidal. And I would like to get laid again sometime in the next twelve months."
"Then you ask her, Sam," Dean said, "For documentary purposes. Tell her you're doing research. She'll tell you. She tells you stuff."
"What? I cannot think of any scenario in which it could possibly be essential that we know how many nipples a she-werewolf has in order to complete a job!" Sam told him, scandalised. "The reason she tells me stuff is because I don't ask impertinent, irrelevant questions that are none of my business," he continued primly. "Drop it, Dean. I don't want to hear you say the word 'nipples' for the rest of the week."
"How about just 'nips'?"
"No. Don't say that."
"What about 'headlights'?"
"No, don't say that either."
"Can I say 'foglamps' or 'high-beams'?"
"Only if you're talking about the car and we're driving at night on a back road."
"Titty toppers?"
"No."
"Chest berries?"
"No."
"Sweater bumps? Rack rivets? Smuggled peanuts?"
"NO!"
"Hooter handles?"
"Dean…"
"Puppy noses?"
Dean!"
"Rubber bullets?"
"DEAN!"
"Nibble nubbles?"
"DEAN! SHUT! UP! NO!"
"What bothers me," mused Andrew, "Is where he's picking this stuff up. Maybe you shouldn't let him read so many Harlequin books."
"It was all so much simpler when it was just Busty Asian Beauties," sighed Sam, putting his head in his hands.
"Itty bitty titty zitties?"
"NO!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Six weeks later, when they were on their way to a job, Sam's phone chirped with a message. He opened it, and started to laugh like a loon.
"What?" demanded Dean, as Sam howled with laughter, barely able to breathe.
"Si… si… si…" he gasped, unable to speak, before bursting out laughing again.
Dean pulled the car over, rolling his eyes. "Sam, give me the damn phone."
"Hee hee hee hee," wheezed Sam, passing it across.
Dean's eyes bugged at the message.
It was a photo, the likes of which he had never seen before. In fact he doubted that anybody had ever seen a photo like this before.
Because for an Old North she-werewolf, posing provocatively on a bed was not something they tended to do very often. Especially wearing… high heels?
Was she… how the hell did something with a muzzle full of fangs pout?
And was that… lipstick?
The thing that was really messing with his head, though, was the three strapless bikini tops she was wearing. The middle one had cheerful little daisies strategically positioned.
The text accompanying the photo was a single word:
Six.
Reviews are the Dirty-Minded Denizens Of The Jimiverse in the Fanfictionnet Of Life