Author's Note: This is in no way meant to be canonical. It was a bit of fun from a conversation a fellow SPN fan and I were having about shirtless Winchesters, alcohol, the trouble Dean gets into and this is what came tumbling outta my head - a behind-the-camera type thing with absolutely no chance of taking itself seriously. Characters are not mine whatsoever (but how many of us wish we owned at least ONE of those menfolk, huh). Hope you like!

It was that dark and silent time in the dead of night where stars hid behind thick cloud and the moon had chosen to turn her face from the world. The chain link fence surrounding the empty lot stood tall and straight against the palely foreboding bulk of the main stage building. As a tentative breeze attempted the dash across the tarmac to snag an unwary candy wrapper the clouds parted, allowing the moon to seize her chance at lighting the way. Following the silvery spark of light a door could be seen, no more than a dark line against the wall, but a door nonetheless and, apparently, one without a lock.

Beyond the open door stretched a labyrinth of corridors and each of them held more doors leading to more corridors. Deeper and deeper, as the way became more and more confused and twisted and any mind who sought escape grew aching under the strain of understanding the evasive pathways, the faintest notes of humour could be heard echoing from afar. For the brave, perhaps the unwary (and certainly the usual suspects of foolhardy, idiotic and downright stupid), such a sound is sure to entice. Perhaps the chords of danger cannot be heard at this great distance. Perhaps they have been muffled by the many doors, the great stretches of corridors. Or perhaps, if one is very careful, it may be discerned that there is no danger to those who are simply passing through...at least, not so long as those subject to such amusements cannot escape their fate.

Further in. Corridors give way to staircases. Staircases lead to open spaces. In one such open space stand three sides of much smaller room. Walls covered in dastardly ochre paisley print (with delicately picked out foliage in a rather splendid shade of khaki green, of all things) and decorated with an exceptionally large (and in poor taste) Warhol-style version of the Mona Lisa, the image of a motel room most definitely on the 'wrong side of the tracks' is almost complete. Two beds, both single, seem to loiter by the window as if just waiting for someone to come, take pity and carry them to a better place. Yet the hope is gone from this place as there is no such saviour (especially as the bed bugs keep getting fumigated before they grow big enough) and deep within the walls of the studio lie the ultimate defence in wandering property – the ever-seeing eyes of Security One. On this night, however, those eyes seem closed to the events happening before them even as the moon has shunned this building. Something born of darkness and evil has taken refuge within these three walls; from beyond the night and deep into the core of the genetic memory of humanity, this presence has come forth. Drawn out by the bitter tang of desperation, enticed from hiding by the sweet scent of fear and emboldened by the foolish nature of a challenge, this great abiding creature of ages has chosen tonight as its revelation and this single stage building as its hunting ground.

Reflected in the glass, albeit barely as the dirt and grime has grown so thick as to obscure any outside view beyond all comprehension, are three vague yet identical shapes. Beyond those four others, taller, slimmer, strike a chord of hesitancy. Perhaps now even the brave would consider rethinking their plans and choose this point to make a swift – and silent – exit. Certainly the unwary would not be faulted for having left this deadly dangerous trail much sooner. Only the foolhardy, the stupid and the downright idiotic would consider the other option – to hang around and watch as one of the most terrifying things upon the planet takes shape before their eyes. Of course, none would dare to provoke the wrath of this ancient and awesome presence...or would they...?

Laughter, cool and collected, trickles about the walls. A voice speaks with such precision that the words could cut glass into diamonds.

"Congratulations. You have succeeded where many would have failed."

"Did we really expect any different from this lot?" A second speaker tosses curls the colour of the night sky outside, fastening a piercing gaze upon their prey.

"I don't know." A softer voice, matched by only by the softness of face, muses quietly, "I wouldn't say they succeeded that much."

The three shapes do not move, frozen as they are under the gaze of the four. One does, however and inevitably, need to swallow back a lump in their throat. The ensuing gulp draws the attention of the fourth standing, as yet unheard.

"Well," The voice drawls. "I got one thing I still want to check – now that we can all clearly see who's is bigger."

Three throats clear in a ripple of unease and acute (or should that be simply adorable) embarrassment. Noticing the squirming, the first speaker crouches down to catch at her captive's chin.

"I never did decide, darling, after that night – you do make an excellent subject for objectification, you know. Sorry I couldn't provide a tux this time although, I do say, you don't exactly need it."

"Anybody have a nickel? No? Guess we'll be leaving that experiment for next time."

"And now you have undisputed proof that certain beings are complete and whole. Puts that myth to rest, wouldn't you say."

Four voices agree. Three grunts of mixed dismay and concern echo in concert. The walls reverberate with the rhythmic clicking of heels upon wooden floors. Away and away, those tell tale sounds of mood drift into the labyrinth beyond this sorry state of a motel room. Time passes. The three remaining bodies wriggle, stir, twist. Eventually a cough or two announces the release of voices.

"I regret that I am unable to free any of us – Anna has restricted this body to mortal means."

"Cas, be thankful that's all she did."

A pause.

"Uh...Ruby? Pamela? We got work tomorrow – can't stay here all night! We're supposed to be on location!"

"I believe we have been left behind. This is not what I was expecting when you invited me to an evening of amusement."

"It's been known to happen...to me, anyways."

"Uh...either of you two have a knife for the rope?"

"How did we come to this?"

"We were dealt a bad hand. Should've expected it from Bela but the others? That's new."

"Guys...knife?"

"Sammy, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm butt naked here. We all are. But if you give me a minute I might be able to pop one out for ya from the six I swallowed this morning."

The male stuck in the middle of the bickering pair gives the world at large a patient stare, prepared to wait forever if need be. Bless.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

With that the fools-gamer known as Dean Winchester sighs. Leaning forward he looks first to his saviour Castiel then to his beloved brother Sam, a dry smile twitching at his lips.

"So...guess saying that girls can't out-bluff guys at poker was a bad plan..."

The brave would choose now to drift away, perhaps with the intent to place a telephone call – whether to friends, help or the local press, their choice. Amusement has been had. The wrath of womankind has been appeased. Three fools have been suitably chastised. The building will be welcome again come morning when the sun brings the warmth of creation to its walls and brings the eager workers to clear the stage for the next day of toil...albeit with unexpected extras. Some screaming is bound to ensue and towels brought to make sights easier for the weak at heart. A lesson has been learnt here today. Alas, not by me.

Now, where did I put that camera...