So this was written a while ago for a challenge...hope everyone gets a little smile out of it!! Bambers;
Note I own nothing...the creators of both Rocky Horror Picture Show and Supernatural Own everything, I am justplaying in their sandbox.
Sweet Rocky Dreams
"Wanna stop an' get a drink, Sammy?" Dean asked, not really ready to return to the motel for the evening. But hearing a heavy sigh coming from his little brother, he knew what the answer would be without Sam having to say a word.
"Dean, we drove cross country all day, an' hunted that dumb-ass vampire half the night, I'm exhausted," Sam complained, his voice taking on a slightly whiny tone as he rested his head against the passenger's side window. "An' that's not to mention the run-in we had with Gordon."
"Awww . . . Sam, he was just pissed cause we got the sonuvabitch before he did." Dean smirked as he recalled Gordon's face when they had showed up and killed the vampire he had been tracking for the past few weeks.
"No, I think he was more pissed by the fact that you accidentally on purpose dumped a bucket of red paint on his head in that warehouse."
"Hey, I was just using him as bait, an' how was I supposed to know the vamp wouldn't actually think it was blood?" Dean chuckled as he pictured Gordon covered in red, sticky paint, swearing at the top of his lungs at him. "At least we won't have to worry about him for the night cause by the time we left the paint was starting to dry, an' I'm thinkin' he'll be spendin' the whole night in the shower."
"All the more reason to get some rest cause he'll be lookin' for us in the morning."
Although Dean was still on an adrenaline high from the hunt, he realized there was no sense arguing with Sam. The youngest Winchester would give him the 'we're gonna do things my way or I'll pout the rest of the night' look and Dean would argue but eventually give in. So he decided it was just better to skip on past that, and for once do what Sam wanted without arguing.
"Alright, we'll head back to the motel."
"You're serious?" Sam cast a doubtful look in Dean's direction, not quite believing what he was hearing. "No, come on, just one drink, Sammy." He narrowed his eyes on Dean, suspicious of why his older brother would give in so easily. "Or how about, we could really use the money so I'll hustle us up some pool in the worst roughneck section of town?"
"No, I'm good," Dean said with a feigned yawn, "that is unless you really wanna hustle up a little pool. Although, I am kinda tired," he yawned a little louder, "but if you think we need the money then maybe we should go play some pool."
"Look, jus' drop me off at the motel, an' go get a drink if that's what you wanna do."
"I was just kidding, dude, I'm ready to go back to the motel for the night."
XxXxXxXxXxXxX
A moment after the Winchesters' walked into their motel room, Sam tugged off his shirt, unzipped his pants and slipped them off, and headed straight to his bed. Dropping down onto the mattress, Sam stretched out onto his stomach, and within a few minutes, Dean could hear him snoring.
"Damn, you were tired, Sammy." He softly chuckled as he settled into his own bed and grabbed the remote for the television. Flipping mindlessly through the channels, his eyes widened with excitement as he found one of his favorite movies flash across the screen. He quickly flipped back until he found the right channel and turned up the sound a bit louder so he could hear it better.
"Dean," Sam mumbled, lifting his head off the pillow to look at the televison screen, and then his gaze strayed to Dean. "I'm tryin' to sleep an' you got that crappy movie blarin' so damn loud, it's probably gonna wake up the people in the room next door."
"Naww . . .Sammy they're doin' the nasty in the next room over." Dean hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward the wall as he began to chuckle. "They were moanin' so loud I needed to turn up the TV to drowned them out."
"Jus' turn it down a bit, I'm sure they're not that loud," Sam grumbled, but the moment Dean complied he heard the sounds of bedsprings creaking, the wall rattling and very loud moaning. "Okay, turn it back up."
"Thought you might say that." Dean grinned as he turned the sound back up.
Sam finally drifted off after tossing and turning for several minutes. A deep sigh escaped him as he fell into a deeper sleep, the sounds of the televison show mingling with his dreams.
XxXxXxXxXxXxX
"Oh, just freakin' great." Dean slammed his hand down on the steering wheel as a slew of curse words issued past his lips. "Sam, wake up," he roughly nudged Sam and then hitched a thumb over his shoulder, "I must've ran over something back there, an' now we've got a flat tire."
"Whada ya need me for?" Sam yawned tiredly, stretching his arms wide to work out the kinks in his back and shoulders. "You know how to fix a tire without my help."
"Course, I know how to fix a damn tire, but seein' as the spare also has a hole in it, we're gonna have to call for a tow."
"Sooo . . . you need me to show you how to dial the number?" Sam uttered, and couldn't help the laugh that slipped past his lips as he saw his brother's scowl deepen.
"In case you've forgotten, Mr. McSmarty," Dean hissed through clenched teeth, "the cell phones are out of service cause of the storm, so we need to find a phone." Just as he said this, a motorcycle sped on past the Impala, rain water trailing behind the driver as it kicked up from the ground. "Gosh. That's the third motorcyclist that's past us. They certainly take their lives in their hands. What with the weather and all."
"Oh yeah, Dean, he's a real Evel Knievel." Sam rolled his eyes as he leaned forward in his seat to look out the front windshield, and saw a light coming from what looked like a castle in the distance. As he continued to look out the rain drenched window, he mulled over what Dean had just said, and a puzzled frown worked its way across his features. "Am I wrong or did you just say, gosh?"
"Dude, why the hell would I ever say gosh about anything?"
"I dunno, but I could've sworn you just said it." Sam looked back over his shoulder at the road behind them, and scratched his head, feeling as if they had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. "I think we took a wrong fork a few miles back."
"Oh dear! But then where did the motorcyclists come from?" Dean uttered as he leaned over the steering wheel, brushed off the steam on the windshield and glanced out the window into the darkness.
Quirking a brow, Sam swung back to stare at his brother. "Dude, is there something wrong with you? You just said the words, oh dear. Certainly not your usual choice of phrases."
"Sam, you must be hearin' things cause I never said that." Dean gestured out the window toward the castle. "There's a light . . . Burning in the fireplace . . . There's a light," he uttered in a sing-songy voice.
"Umm . . . sure, Dean, an' I can really see why that would cause you to break out into song." Concern for Dean now overriding any humor he found in his brother's strange behavior, Sam narrowed his eyes on him, trying to detect any injuries he might not have notice earlier. "You sure you didn't hit your head when we were hunting that vamp tonight?" he asked when he couldn't find a single mark on Dean.
"Funny, I was just thinkin' the same thing about you, dude." Dean opened the car door and slid out his seat, and Sam reluctantly followed. Almost as if an afterthought, Dean reached back inside the vehicle and grabbed a newspaper and handed it to Sam. "Here, it's raining out, an' I thought you could use this to cover your head."
"Right, cause I've never gotten soaking wet in the rain before, an' this magical piece of paper will keep me all safe and dry." Sam glanced down and for the first time noticed that he was wearing a button-down, baby blue sweater with a pink t-shirt beneath it. Then he looked over to Dean and saw that he was wearing a geeky looking tan jacket with an extra wide collar and gray slacks. "Dude, can you tell me why the hell we're wearing these clothes?"
Dean looked down at himself and then over to Sam and shrugged. "Cause it's better than walking around in our boxers?"
Sam yanked on his shirt, pulling it away from his chest, and huffed in irritation. "You don't see anything wrong with me wearing pink? Cause this is pink, Dean . . . really pink."
With brows furrowing, Dean studied Sam for a moment, and then shook his head. "Naw . . . I think it goes really well with your sweater. An' ya know, I was thinkin' earlier how that particular shade of blue just brings out the little bluish-green flecks in your eyes."
"Alrighty then . . . ." Sam rolled his eyes, at a loss for why his brother was behaving so strangely. "So you've completely lost touch with reality, an' by wearin' this," he tugged on his shirt again, "I must be right there with ya."
"Sammy," Dean gestured toward Sam's head, "Cover your head, your hair's gonna get all wet."
"Yeah, definitely wouldn't want that to happen." Sam lifted the newspaper to cover his head.
As they walked through the pouring rain with lightning splaying all around them, they came to a gate with a sign that read, enter at your own risk, and proceeded into the castle yard anyway. Dean strode a little further ahead of Sam, and if Sam wasn't mistaken, he could've sworn he heard his brother singing, but couldn't quite make out the words.
"Damn it." Dean paused in his steps, reached into his jacket pocket and yanked out a pair of glasses with thick black frames. "Can't see a freakin' thing out here," he uttered as he put on the ridiculous looking glasses.
"Wow, Dean, those are . . . . umm . . . they're really," he gestured toward the eyeglasses, and pursed his lips, "an' you're wearin' 'em. It's a . . . well, it's definitely a different look for you."
Ignoring Sam's comment, Dean hurried on ahead, bobbing and weaving through the trees as he headed toward the castle. Sam picked up his pace to keep up with his brother, and after several minutes they came to the entrance of the caste.
"Dean, don't you think it's at all strange that's there's a castle out here in the middle of nowhere?" Sam asked as he rang the door bell, and raised a brow when he heard it make a strange sound.
"Nope, seems just about the perfect place to build a creepy looking castle."
The door suddenly creaked open and the thrum of music filtered out into the night. A thin man, who was balding in the front, but had long stringy blond hair flowing down past his shoulders, stood at the entrance with his arm casually resting on the edge of the door. His skin was stretched so tight over his narrow, gaunt face that he looked almost skeletal. Deep smudges rimmed his eyes, making him appear almost ghostly.
"Hello," he muttered, in a nasally tone.
"Uh – oh – hi," Dean said, "my name is Dean Winchester," he gestured toward Sam, "and this is my brother, Sam. Our car got a flat about a mile or two up the road, an' we were wonderin' if you had a phone we could use."
"Dean," Sam grabbed hold of his brother's shirt, and pulled him back away from the door. Lowering his tone, he hissed, "Think it's really a smart thing to do, givin' Mr. McFreakinstien our names?"
"Well, he seems pleasant enough, an' they're havin' a party."
"Yeah, that whole hello thing he just did, I can see where that would take away from the fact that he's creepy as all hell."
"You're wet," came the butler's voice, drawing their attention back to him.
"Yes, the rain's been very heavy," Sam replied, brows furrowing in confusion. Something about the man and the castle seemed oddly familiar to him, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why it should.
"Yes," Dean stated simply.
"Yes," the butler mimicked in the same nasally tone as earlier. "I think you had better both come inside."
"You're too kind." Dean walked in out of the rain with Sam following close behind, and trailed behind the butler as he led them down a winding staircase, and they entered a hallway at the bottom of the stairs.
Sam took a quick look around, noticed how the place was filled with cobwebs, strange paintings and a clock that was in the shape of a coffin, and tugged on Dean's jacket. "Dean, maybe we should jus' go. They're having a party an' we're intruding. An' what kind of place is this anyway?"
"Oh, it's probably some kind of hunting lodge for rich weirdos," Dean muttered in a hushed tone so that the butler wouldn't hear him. "Are you — giving a party?" he asked as the sound of music coming from somewhere inside the castle grew louder.
"No. You arrived on a rather special night," the butler uttered as he eyed both Sam and Dean. "It's one of the master's affairs."
"Oh, lucky him," Dean nodded, approvingly, "didn't really know having an affair was a cause for a party, but I say why the hell not."
"You're lucky," came the sound of a woman's voice on the staircase, "I'm lucky, we're all lucky." She cackled as she lifted her leg over the banister and slid down the railing, tossing her duster to the butler in the process.
"Okay then . . . ." Sam uttered dumbfoundedly, looking to Dean, and not quite believing that his brother didn't find the butler or the maid's behavior at all strange. "Think we really should be going, Dean." He hitched a thumb over his shoulder, and when Dean failed to take the hint, he made an exaggerated jerking motion with his head, bobbing it toward the stairs several times.
"Sam, we can't leave now, they're havin' a party . . . which means free food. Pizza, wings . . . those awesome little hot dogs cooked in BBQ sauce. An' I'd love me some of those hot dogs, Sam . . . so we're stayin'."
"No, we're goin', Dean." Sam folded his arms, not about to stay a moment longer than he had to in this strange castle surrounded by even stranger people. "It's gettin' late, an' we need to find a phone. They obviously don't have one an' — "
"It's astounding," the hunched back butler cut in on whatever Sam had intended to say, "time is fleeting . . . madness takes its toll . . . ."
"See, Dean, even he admits he's out of his freakin' mind, so can we go now?"
"But listen closely . . . not for very much longer . . . I've got to keep control . . . ." The butler shuffled passed Sam, in what he would almost consider a dance-like move.
"I'm serious, Dean, let's get the hell out of here now." Sam's voice rose in frustration as the maid, with wild, frizzy magenta hair, hooked her arms around both Sam and Dean's waists and ushered them forward toward a ballroom. Shuttering as she turned and batted her spider-like lashes at him, he shrugged free of her hold on him.
The butler flung open the double doors and step inside the ballroom, decorated all in silver and black. A long blood red carpet trailed through the center of the room, and led up a staircase to a stage. A lone chair that looked a bit like a throne sat center stage, and above it there was a sign that read, Annual Transylvanian Convention. Off to the right sat a table filled with various types of foods and cakes, and Sam noticed how Dean's gaze was immediately drawn to it.
Sam, however, couldn't take his eyes off the so-called 'guests' at the party. All dressed in similar attire, black tuxedos with tails, various colored shirts, weird sunglasses, white socks and high heels, they were certainly like no party-goers Sam had ever seen in his entire life. Oddly, young and old alike, they all wore festive party hats, and were singing at the top of their lungs as they did some kind of strange dance that seemed to go along with the music. Standing in a straight line, they hopped back and forth, and then began thrusting their hips forward and back.
Sam's gaze strayed to a girl who was sitting atop a jukebox, and his mouth dropped open in utter amazement as he stared at her. Dressed in a gold sequined tuxedo jacket with matching top hat, shimmering striped shorts, halter top with matching shiny shoes and baby blue socks, she really set herself apart in a room full of weirdos and freaks. With a squeal of delight, she hopped down from the jukebox, and began singing and tap dancing in front of the other guests. As she took off her hat and waved it in the air, Sam couldn't help but notice that she had the reddest hair that he'd ever seen, and it nearly matched the over-sized bow she wore around her neck. She twirled around, lost her balance and fell onto the steps of the stage, then with dramatic flare, she flung back her head, popped her top hat back on, smacked the top of it with her hand, and then rejoined the dance.
"Think I've seen just about enough." Sam grasped hold of Dean's arm, and dragged him backward toward the door. "An' I think I might just have some nightmares about this."
"What, Sammy?" Dean looked to Sam, completely dumbfounded as to what he might find wrong about the gathering of people. "It's a costume party . . . albeit, a strange, dressed in drag with high heels kinda thing, but it still looks like fun." As the music faded away, and the singing ended, the group of drag misfits, dropped to the floor as if thoroughly exhausted. "Huh," Dean's face now mirrored what Sam imagined his own looked like. "That was . . . ummm . . . a bit different."
"Just a bit different, Dean," Sam looked to his brother with utter amazement, "old ladies with beehive hairdos and old men dressed in drag is just a bit different to you? What the hell did you do while I was away at college that this isn't even freaking you out in the slightest?"
"I may have gone to a few wild parties while you were gone," Dean replied with a smirking grin, but didn't elaborate on what kind of parties he had gone to while Sam was away.
As the party-goers lay in various heaps on the ground, Sam nudged Dean in the stomach. "Say something."
With his hands stuffed into the pocket of his slacks, Dean gave a nod and smiled at the other guests. "Say! Do any of you know any Metallica?"
Sam heaved a irritated groan as the group all sat bolt upright in their spots, and took another backward step. "Dean, please let's get out of here."
"For God's sake keep a grip of yourself, Sammy."
"But it seems so unhealthy here," Sam uttered, and then scrunched up his face, wondering why he would say such a stupid thing.
"It's just a . . . a party, Sam."
"Well, I want to leave."
"We can't go anywhere until I get to a phone."
"Then ask the butler," Sam clenched his teeth, smiling awkwardly at the other guests as he took several more back steps. "Or maybe the freaky maid, wearing blood-red lipstick an' sporting spider lashes, might respond better to your type of charm."
"Let's wait a while, Sam," Dean's voice was now rising in growing aggravation. He adjusted the thick rimmed glasses on his face, and cleared his throat, before further adding, "We don't want to interfere with their celebrations."
"This isn't the Junior Chamber of Commerce, Dean."
Scrubbing a hand across his face, Dean looked once more to the group of party guests, and then to Sam, and heaved a sigh. "Well, that's a good thing, seein' as I don't know what the hell the Junior Chamber of Commerce is, an' even if I did," he gestured toward all the freaks who were now staring back at them as if awestruck, "I'm thinkin' these guys would be a helluva lot more fun to party with."
As Sam made to retreat toward the staircase that led out of the house, Dean grabbed hold of his wrist. "Relax, would ya, Sammy. They're probably just foreigners with ways different than our own. Let's stay, they may do some more folk dancing."
"Folk dancing?" Sam's eyes rounded in pure disbelief at what his brother was saying and how he was behaving. "You've been drinking, haven't you? You've been drinking," he reiterated, throwing his hands up in utter exasperation, "an' you're stone cold shit-faced out of your mind. Either that or there's a straightjacket just waitin' with your name on it . . . . Folk dancing," he rolled his eyes, "God, you must be outta your freakin' mind."
From behind them, Sam heard the sound of an elevator descending behind him. Tilting his head slightly to the side, he noticed a figure wearing a flowing black cloak. The darkly cloaked figure, tapped the heel of his rhinestone studded stiletto against the floor of the gated lift. As the elevator reached the ground, the doors flung open, and a man with wild curly dark hair stood grinning at Sam. With dark eyeshadow and coal black eyeliner rimming his eyes, along with deep red lipstick painted around his lips, he made the girl in the sparkling golden hat look absolutely normal.
With a cocky tilt of his head, his grin widened. "How do you do." He shifted his gaze toward his butler, and then looked back to Sam. "I see you've met my – faithful handyman." He moved to lean against the entranceway of the elevator, shifting closer to Dean as he eyed him almost hungrily, the smirking grin never leaving his face. "He's a little brought down." he shrugged, raising his sights to the ceiling for a moment in a flamboyant gesture before returning his gaze to Dean. "Because when you knocked, he thought you were the candyman."
Brushing past Sam and Dean, the man strode out of the elevator, and headed down the red carpet, flanked on either side by his guests, leaving the boys to follow. "Don't get strung out by the way I look." As he made his way up the staircase, he called back over his shoulder, "Don't judge a book by it's cover. I'm not much of a man by the light of day . . . ."
Dean looked to Sam, quirked a brow and shrugged, both brothers' not knowing what to think of the strange man. "Well, at least he's willing to admit it, Sam, that's more than I can say for a lot of guys."
"Huh, true enough."
As he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he swung around and flung off his cape to reveal what he was wearing beneath the garment.
Both brothers stood slack-jawed, struck dumb as they stared at the man wearing black lace panties with matching corset, with white pearls around his neck and thigh-high fishnet black stockings and garters. Yet, they seemed to be the only ones who thought the man's behavior peculiar as the rest of the guests cheered loudly with exuberant fervor.
The man sashayed forward, took one step down the stairs, placed his hands on his hips, and then rolled his hips in a very suggestive manner. "I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania."
"Alrighty then," Dean uttered as he gripped hold of Sam's sweater and began to drag him backward. "I'm thinkin' we should probably go now."
"What's the rush, Dean?" Sam chuckled, now finding the humor in the whole situation along with his brother's sudden discomfort. "It's a party after all, an' it would be kinda rude jus' to leave." Shrugging free of Dean's grip, he took a few steps forward further into the ballroom, knowing that Dean would follow. "I really think we should stay . . . who knows, maybe they'll do some more folk dancing before the night's through."
Their host bound down the stairs and strut toward the two Winchesters. "Let me show you around . . . maybe play you a sound. You look like you're both pretty groovy." His upper lip rose as he rolled his eyes as if he didn't quite believe that Sam or Dean were in fact groovy. Wedging himself in between the Winchesters, he brushed passed them and whirled around just as both brothers swung to face him. With his hands pressed against both brothers' chests, he forced them further into the ballroom, toward the other guests.
"Or if you want something visual that's not to abysmal . . . ." With his hands still on their chests, he cast a seductive look in both of their directions. "We could take in an' old Steve Reeves movie."
"Oh, that sounds cool, I like superman," Dean uttered as he looked to Sam.
"That was Christopher Reeves, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes.
Once they were in the center of the room, the flamboyant man turned his back on them and headed toward the water cooler.
"I'm glad we caught you at home," Dean said as he followed the drag queen with Sam trailing behind him. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he further added, "Ah . . . could we use your phone. "We're both in a bit of a hurry."
"Yep," Sam nodded in agreement, "cause we want to get out of drag queen hell as quickly as possible," he muttered under his breath.
As the man poured himself some water and took a drink, Dean continued onward with what he was saying. "We'll just say where we are, then go back to the car. We don't want to be any worry."
"We don't want to be any worry, Dean?" Sam repeated, shaking his head in disbelief, "who the hell says that . . . guhh . . . we don't want to be any worry. You have to be on some kind of drugs."
Dean shrugged, apparently finding nothing wrong with how he had just spoken. "Just seemed like the right thing to say, Sammy. An' he's talkin' in rhyme, so figured I'd just go along with it."
"Seriously, dude, you need some professional help."
While Sam and Dean were arguing, the curly-haired man greeted his guests, shaking hands with a few of them, before he threw his cup of water at them. He then turned back to Sam and Dean.
"You got caught with a flat," he raised a brow, "well, how about that." Shaking his index finger at them, he went on to say, "Well, babies don't you worry."
"Did he just call us babies, Sam?"
"Yep . . . I think he did."
"Okay, little brother, anytime you're ready to leave, I'm right behind you."
Their freaky host strode away from them, swaying his hips as he headed back toward the stage. "By the light of the night, it'll all be alright. I'll get you a satanic mechanic."
"Huh, think maybe he knows we're hunters?" Sam said, then bit pensively at his lower lip, wondering just exactly how a satanic mechanic differed from an ordinary mechanic.
"Umm . . . don't really care, Sam, as nobody touches my car but me."
The man walked up the steps with the girl dressed in shimmering gold by his side, they turned, placed their hand on their hips, and both shook their hips. "I'm just a sweet transvestite from Transsexual Transylvania."
"Sam, jus' back slowly out of the room," Dean ordered in a tone meant to brook no argument, not that Sam would have even considered it in this instance. "I'll be right behind you . . . cause from the way that guy's eyeing you, I'm thinkin' he's got the hots for ya."
"Oh, no way, dude, he was so totally eyeing you." Sam smirked as he gestured toward Dean's thick framed glasses. "He probably can't resist a guy in glasses."
Hearing this, Dean hastily whipped off his glasses and pocketed them. "Damn, I'm even irresistible to freakishly weird men in drag."
"Yeah, it's a real curse, Dean. I'm not even sure how you've manage not to fall in love with yourself."
"It has been difficult, little bro."
Sinking down into his throne, the man lifted his legs, causally crossed them and hung them over the armrest. His handyman, the girl in glimmering gold, and the maid gathered around him. "Why don't you stay for the night?"
"Night," the handyman reiterated as if the Winchesters hadn't heard their host the first time.
"Or maybe a bite."
"Bite." The girl with the glittering top hat, licked her lips provocatively.
"Sam, I'm so not stayin' here for the night." Dean pushed Sam backward, and slowly edged himself toward the doorway.
"You're sayin' this as if I'm slipping out of my clothes, all ready to join their little slumber party."
"I could show you my favorite obsession," the drag freak went on to say, the frizzy-haired maid lifting her brows at his insinuation. "I've been making a man." He eyed the creepy handyman as he twined his fingers through the older man's stringy hair, and then let it fall away to rest once again on the hunched-backed man's shoulders. "With blond hair and a tan . . . he's good for relieving my . . . tension," he hesitated just long enough so that his meaning was perfectly clear.
"Ummm... Frankencreepy is making a man, Dean."
"I heard that, Sam. An' apparently he has blond hair an' a tan."
"I'm just a sweet transvestite," their host slowly slid off his chair in a very sexual manner, "from Transsexual Transylvania." Smacking his own backside, he then rolled his arms in a dance-like motion, then splaying his arms out to the sides, he stormed down the steps once more, pushing past Sam and Dean as he headed back toward the elevator.
"So come up to the lab," he uttered in a sing-songy voice as he stepped inside the lift and dramatically swung around to face them, resting his hands on either side of the elevator walls.
Sam rolled his gaze toward his brother, and noticed as his brother did the same back toward him. The transvestite's eyes widened with pleasure as he further added, "And see what's on the slab."
"I really don't want to see what's on the slab," Sam muttered under his breath to his brother, and saw Dean nod in total agreement with him.
"Think I could go the rest of my life without ever knowing what's on the slab."
"I see you shiver with antic . . . ." as the drag queen stressed out the word, Sam unconsciously leaned forward, waiting with bated breath for him to finish. Their host's eyes widened again, sparkling with mischievous delight. "Pation . . . ."
"Gotta hand it to him, dude," Dean nudged his head toward their host, "he really does have a flare for the dramatic . . . I saw you holding your breath, jus' waitin' for him to spit that word out."
"Oh, like you weren't, ya jerk."
"Damn, that's unfair, Sammy, I'd call ya a bitch, but it might give Frankencreepy ideas." Dean chuckled as he good naturedly clapped Sam on the shoulder. "You could end up on a slab somewhere in the castle."
"But maybe the rain . . . isn't really to blame."
Dean trailed his fingers through his damp scruffy hair at Frankencreepy's reminder of the weather outside. "No, a freakin' flat tire's to blame along with piss-poor cell phone reception."
"Dean we scammed our phone contracted, so I'd have to say we've actually gotten what we've paid for," Sam said, knowing that somehow Dean was blaming him for the situation they had gotten themselves into, and wanted to make it clear it wasn't his fault.
"So I'll remove the cause." Frankencreepy chuckled mirthlessly as if he had something to do with the rain or their flat tire. "But not the symptom." With that said, the elevator door slammed shut, and the lift disappeared as the crowd of guests began cheering very loudly.
"Dean, I've seen enough. Let's get the hell out of here . . . I don't wanna see his slab . . . or his golden tanned man," Sam uttered as everything began to blur out of focus. As he shook his head, trying to clear his vision, Dean began to shake his arm. "An' I think I could do pretty damn well without ever havin' to see old men dressed in drag . . . gaunt-faced butlers . . . an' especially foreigners folk dancing, ever again," he mumbled as his eyes drifted closed and everything began to take on a surreal-like quality. "Guhh . . . folk dancing . . . . never wanna see it ag — "
"Well then, Sammy, you should probably wake up," Dean muttered as he firmly shook Sam. "Come on, little brother," he called out to Sam again as he nudged him a little harder. "Wake up, you're just having a nightmare."
Sam bolted upward in his bed and hastily looked around the room, searching for the transvestite and his assortment of strange guests. "He was makin' a man, Dean," he uttered before he could stop himself, and heard his brother chuckle in response.
"Huh, that must've been some interesting dream, dude." Dean laughed even harder as he moved over to let Sam get up out of bed. "You were actually singing there at one point, so I waited till the song was over before I woke you." Yanking out his cell phone, Dean gestured toward it, and then added, "I actually recorded it if you wanna take a listen . . . you without a doubt are the worst singer ever."
"You really suck, Dean." Sam hung his feet over the side of the bed, slowly stood and stretched before grabbing his jeans to slip on. When he was finished zipping up his pants, he grabbed his shirt and tugged it on then headed for the door.
"Hey, where ya goin'? It's only 1:30 in the morning." Dean followed, now concerned about his brother's odd behavior.
"I'm goin' out to get shit-faced, Dean," he called back over his shoulder as he stormed out the door.
"Hey, wait up, I'll come with you," Dean called out to him, and hesitated a moment before finally flipping off the television. "Damn, an' I really wanted to see the end of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, too," he said to himself as he walked out the door to join his brother.