Greetings once more, Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In to the Jimiverse!
The plot bunny pen here has been empty for quite some time – I was thinking that somebody must finally have engineered a strain of myxomatosis that kills the damned things off, but this morning as I was contemplating yet another thrilling and rewarding few hours resurrecting an expensive piece of equipment after somebody else stuffed it up and walked away without saying anything, out of the reading chamber popped a little plot bunny!
(That might've been the problem in the first place, if it's been sitting in there, nice and warm, waiting to mature a bit, it could've left fur in the works and gummed up the tip rack tray belts. Or it could be that one of my colleagues is just a jerk.)
However, it does mean that, for the first time in a long time, we have a plot bunny, and therefore… A Possible Story!
So far the little… darling has only dictated an opening chapter and outlined the barest possibility for a plot, but as usual, when this happens, we'll give it an airing, and see if we can work out the plot bunny's name, and encourage it to dictate further chapters.
For now, this one has the running title (subject to change without notice depending on where it goes) of…
Title: Mean
Rating: T. Because Dean. And words. And Dean words.
Blame: Lies with whomever left that plot bunny where I could find it.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. I couldn't possibly afford the feed bills.
MEAN
Chapter One
If Dean's talent for pattern recognition hadn't spotted the job in Berkley, California, then Sam would've, eventually. He would've shuddered as he did so, but he'd have done it.
(In fact, when they finally figured out what was happening to the diffuse and apparently unremarkable or unconnected group of young men who were turning up unexpectedly dead, suicidal or completely mentally deranged, not only did he shudder, but his eye twitched, and he began to gibber.)
"It's could be a cluster," Dean declared, sorting through a pile of newspaper clippings then frowning at the scuffed map and making some more marks, "Make with the laptop dancing, Samantha, what can you find about these ones?" He flapped a hand theatrically, and got up to get another beer. "And put that thing on a low heat setting, the aircon in this dump is struggling as it is – it sounds like a couple of mechanical weasels are having hate-filled break-up sex in there after a game of naked Twister turned nasty."
"I'm on it," Sam muttered, rolling his eyes at the way his brother could even manage to work some reference to sex into a description of a poorly maintained air conditioner. Without even looking he putting out a hand to catch the beer his brother threw to him, as he cross-checked, searched and stacked windows on the screen.
"We'll need more beer, soon," Dean declared, standing in front of the struggling cooler and flapping his shirt up and down. "For personal cooling purposes. Or more beach. Or, more beer and beach."
"Since when did you decide you liked the beach so much?" asked Sam.
"Since the bikinis began their annual migration, bro!" Dean grinned cheerfully. "Hey, maybe while we're here, I could enrol, you know, do an AP post-grad degree or something."
"Huh? In what?" Sam demanded.
"Well, in the behaviour of the bikini in the wild, obviously," Dean went on. "You know, like, how do all the bikinis suddenly decide all at once that it's time to throw off their winter coats and migrate to the beaches?"
"It's probably got something to do with the climate," Sam observed sourly.
"Yeah, but, has anybody ever done any systematic survey?" Dean queried earnestly. "I mean, exactly what temperature does it have to be? What do we really know about 'em? I could study stuff about their life cycle, their behaviours, their dietary behaviours, their mating behaviours, oh yeah, I could do a whole research project on mating behaviours of the wild bikini, or more specifically, the women they ride around on…"
"Much as I hate to bust the bubble of your budding academic career, Mr GED," Sam cut in, "I feel compelled to point out that you can't do a post-grad until you've done an undergrad."
"Hey, I got a whole lifetime of experience in fieldwork for bikini research!" Dean protested, "I should get recognition for prior learning! It's a thing," he added a little defensively.
"Fine, fine," Sam muttered, giving his big brother a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "Once we've worked out if this is a job and taken care of it if need be, we'll go enrol you in the School of Unashamedly Lewd Anthropology. I can't wait to attend your confirmation of candidature symposium, should be a real hoot."
"Might inspire some dusty old academics to get out of the library and into the sunshine," Dean's eyebrows did one of their Olympic standard lewd insinuation routines (complete with two-and-a-half waggles and cocked finish in the provocative position, degree of difficulty 2.7).
"Well, if I can tear your mind away from bikinis for just a minute, here are three of the guys who turned up dead." He turned the laptop around to show Dean, who hummed thoughtfully as he contemplated the photos. "Two connected to Cal, one by study, one by employment, the other one a qualified carpenter. Ages from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, one's a local, two originally from interstate, different states, one had a record, misdemeanour as a minor, one had a sprained wrist in a cast, one was an orphan, they've got no obvious connection with each other…"
"Sure they do, Sammy," Dean corrected, "They're all hot."
Sam's eyes bugged. "They're WHAT?"
"Not to me, bitch," Dean scowled, "But these guys, something they have in common, to women, they would all count as hot." He drew himself up with considerable dignity. "Not as hot as me, obviously, it's not possible for any ordinary man to be as hot as the Living Sex God, but I am secure enough in my masculinity to recognise and acknowledge that these guys, they'd all pick up with no trouble on a Saturday night. Look." He indicated the photos as Sam eyed him dubiously. "They've all got at least a decent build, somewhere from better-than-average to decidedly buff, handsome face, buff plus handsome equals hot." He smiled winningly. "I been doin' fieldwork in that equation for years, Sammy, trust me on this one."
"Okaaaaay," Sam didn't sound completely convinced, "So, if this is a case for us, it could be some fugly, roaming around, targeting attractive men. Why?"
"Jealousy?" suggested Dean. "I see that often enough. It never fails to amaze me, I go to a bar, I meet a lady of a frisky nature, I have a drink with a lady of a frisky nature, said lady of a frisky nature agrees to some informed and consenting beautiful natural acts with me, and the next thing you know, there's some sore loser who was not chosen by the lady of a frisky nature for beautiful natural acts who decides he wants to punch my face in."
Sam gazed levelly at his brother, giving him a full metal jacketed Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "I beg to correct you, Dean – I can tell you for a fact that sometimes it's not just the sore losers missing out on the frisky women who want to punch you in the face."
"Don't hate me because I'm a chick magnet, Sammy," Dean sighed wistfully.
"I don't – I hate you because you're a relentlessly lecherous asshole who won't shut up about being a lecherous asshole," Sam grumbled, turning the laptop back towards himself. "Also your dietary habits are appalling, you chew with your mouth open and you use my shower stuff all the time, jerk."
"You'd complain more if I didn't wash," Dean shrugged, turning his attention back to the map. "See if you can find pictures of more of the guys who could be involved – this one, this one, and this one, for starters."
They worked under the noisy aircon until Sam had gotten as far as he could online without waiting for some requested documents. "Well, I think that's it for today," he sighed, sitting back and stretching.
"Definitely," Dean agreed, "We've run out of beer."
"Well, I did mean that I can't do much more online," Sam yawned, then he stood up and stretched again, twisting his back and shoulders.
"We should go find food, and a bar," Dean decided, "After we spend some time at the beach."
"What? Why do we have to go to the beach?"
"Well, you need some UV radiation, obviously."
"What?"
"Look at you, standin' there, tryin' to turn towards the sun. It's not good for a guy like you to be cooped up inside, Sam."
"A guy like… Dean, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Well, obviously, it's all that plant matter you eat – we gotta get you outside so you can, you know, photosynthesize."
"Dean, human beings do NOT photosynthesize! They don't have chloroplasts!"
"Yeah, but you aint a human being, you're a Long-Haired Bitchfaced Vegiesaurus."
"Jerk."
Reviews encourage the plot bunny to dictate further chapters! (Any ideas on its name yet?)