Title – Dancing Dean

Rating – R for language

Pairings, Characters – Dean/Castiel, Sam, implied Bobby/Crowley

Word Count – 2,109

Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.

Spoiler – There are angels… Also, my story "Laughing Dean"

Warnings – Unabashed CRACK. Also…Is a dance kink a warning?

Note: This is for gwennie3579 who asked for custom smut, but got this instead. Whoopsy.

Summary- There are new demons that need vanquishing in a very special way. It's Winchesters (and Cas!) to the rescue in this full-on cracktastic one-shot. Sequel to "Laughing Dean" which is here: .net/s/6188537/1/Laughing_Dean

"Okay, look," Sam hunched across the table, his hazel eyes lit with an Idea Just Crazy Enough to Work. Dean couldn't help it—he leaned forward, waiting. "These demons are not like anything else we've encountered before."

"Well, duh," Cas interjected from across the room, sounding way too human for anyone's liking. Both Winchesters shot him A Look. "Demons are like snowflakes."

"Dude," Dean said aloud and let the you-just-compared-demons-to-snowflakes-for-Christ-sake hang silently in the air.

"Just saying," Cas sighed and swiped a finger through the frost on the motel window.

"Anyway," Sam cleared his throat and turned back to his brother, trying vigilantly to not think of Lillith as a precious and unique snowflake. "These demons aren't responding in the usual way. They are refusing to engage."

"Which means what?"

"I think they are looking for a different kind of, uh, battle."

"Which means what?"

Sam huffed a laugh and scratched at his chin. "Well," he said. "You aren't going to like it."

"Suspense," Cas intoned absently. "Is a bitch."

"I think they are Corphyee demons," Sam ignored Cas with practiced ease.

Corphyee meant nothing to Dean, but Cas laughed. Dean looked back at the former angel and took a second to enjoy the sound of it. Damn but it was hard to make Cas laugh like that. And no, it didn't bother him that Sam had the honors that day. Hell, normally he was the only one who could accomplish that.

"Corphyee," Sam launched into an explanation as if Dean had asked for one—which he totally would have if Cas' rumbly laugh hadn't distracted him. "Are dance demons."

"…What?"

"They are nefarious little bastards," Sam expanded with a grimace that threatened to dislodge the beauty mark—Dean called it like he saw it, the damn thing was a Marilyn Monroe style beauty mark—by his nose. "They are responsible for dances that make humans go crazy. They make people lose themselves, along with all sense of decorum."

"So people dance themselves to death?" Dean was already pushing to his feet to check their weapon stock and holy water stash. He glanced at Cas who was struggling to reign his laughter in. "Demon of the Dance?"

"No, no," Sam raised his voice to be heard over Cas' wheezing. "The Corphyee aren't deadly… just mischievous. And evil. They have been the cause of hundreds of, um, dance crazes throughout history."

"Dance crazes?" Dean quirked an incredulous brow at his little brother. This had the stink of a prank on it. "Come on, Sammy, get serious."

"He's serious," Cas managed to get out. He wiped the tears of hilarity—really? Tears from laughing? Humans are nuts—from his eyes and made his way to Research Central. "I believe clogging was one of theirs, right Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam turned the laptop so Dean could read the lore—and see the awesome drawings of demons doing the Achy Breaky Heart. "They are credited with the Quadrille, the Waltz, the Hustle, the Chicken Dance… the list goes on and on."

"The Electric Slide?" Dean asked skeptically. Man, he loved a good Electric Slide.

"Yep."

"Cha-Cha Slide?"

"Oh yeah."

"Cupid Shuffle?"

"Definitely."

Dean groaned and fell back onto one of the rumpled beds.

"The Macarena, too," Cas said with a snort. "And the damn Stanky Legg."

Sam barked out a surprised and highly amused: "Ha!"

"You know, Bobby still owes me five hundred for that," Cas said, pulling out his cell phone and dialing the older hunter's number. It'd been a year since that stupid football game—and a year since his Father had punished his poor dance execution by grounding him on Earth without his grace. He'd earned that money and it was damn time for the persnickety old man to pay the effing quasi-angelic piper.

"Bad dancing aside," Dean tucked his arm behind his head. "These demons are not a problem, right?"

"I guess not," Sam closed the laptop and tried to ignore the colorful cursing from Cas' corner of the room. For some reason, Bobby and Cas liked to employ a form of communication—a derivative of English, he thought—that was not safe for public airplay. "But we have to end this."

"End what?" Dean wiggled deeper into the mattress, thinking a nap would be close to divine. He shot a look at the heavily cussing Cas and wondered if the angel would help him get to sleep.

"The dance crazes," Sam said seriously. Dean knew that if he bothered to check, his brother's face would be painted the color of earnestness and determination. "We have a chance to reclaim the dance floor!"

Dean replayed that last sentence and decided, yep, that was the craziest thing he'd ever heard.

"May a flock of ostriches swarm up your ass and pluck the cilia from your lower intestines, you pussing back of buttfunnels," Cas said conversationally. "Give my best to Crowley. See you next week."

Dean blinked and made an impressed face. He stood corrected.

"Bobby thinks you are on the right track," Cas reported to Sam. "He also agrees that we only have one shot at this. CMT is already reporting a resurgence of the Boot Scootin' Boogie."

"Good God, no," Sam pounded his fist on the table, making his laptop jump. "We have to stop this."

"Cool your jets," Dean said and reluctantly sat up. His brother and his boyfriend—a dangerous combination at the best of times—looked at him expectantly. Of course they were going to get their way. "What do we do to stop them?"

Sam grinned because he knew, the cocky dick (heh), that Dean was a Gold Star Codependent when it came to the two of them.

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas starting to twist at the waist and roll his neck from side to side. It was his Pre-Sexin' Warm Up Ritual. "Cas," he bit out, not because the sight of the punished angel revving up for a spin on the Wincockster 3000 didn't do it for him, but because Sam was still in the M.F.-ing room. Dean had limits. No, seriously, he did. "Now's not the time."

"It's a Dance Off," Sam blurted before he could be further traumatized by the passing of Significant Looks between his brother and the limber tax accountant of the Lord (currently in a Time Out). Hell, he'd seen Cas' Pre- and Post-Coital stretches enough to last him a life time, god dammit.

"A what?"

"A Dance Off," Cas said, bending at the waist to touch his toes. "If we win, the Corphyee are returned to Hell's petite discotheque."

"Dude," Dean cringed and slashed the air at his side. "What have I told you about speaking French?"

"That it makes me sound like a hoity-toity bisexual," Cas immediately responded. He stood upright and caught his foot in a quad stretch. "And a little douchey."

"He's right, but can we focus on our strategy?" Dean sighed and shook his head. It was tough to be the only straight in a gay chicken coop. "The Corphyee have at least five on their dance team. We are at a disadvantage."

"Not necessarily," Cas switched legs and held an arm out to balance himself, like a man-size Flamingo. "It's harder to work formations with five dancers. We, however, as a trio, have many options. A triangle, a diagonal, an inverted triangle…"

"Wait," Dean closed his eyes and stole a page out of his brother's book. He pinched the bridge of his nose until his freckles started to seep through his skin. "You are serious about the Dance Off?"

"I wouldn't joke about a Dance Off, Dean," Sam said, but he was grinning. The littlest Winchester got up and went to his duffel. "I wish I had some jazz shoes."

For a full minute and a half, Dean thought he was high.

**oo**

"Okay," Sam crouched low against the wall leading into the ominous looking alley. He gingerly placed a batter operated boom box (yes, a boom box—you got a problem with that?) beside him and slid a cassette tape in. The label peaked out: SaDestiel Dance Mix, Dance Off 2010. "Cas, keep your thumbs tucked on your floreos. Dean, remember it's one- two-three- attitude then jeté en tournant."

"I got it, Twyla," Dean grumbled and glared down at his stretchy jeans and sleeveless—and way too fucking glittery—shirt. "And while we're handing out notes, you better mind your fucking Jazz Box. That last run was a mess."

Sam had the grace to look abashed. His Jazz Boxes had been sloppy.

"Guys," Cas gestured down the alley where five Corphyees stood, arms crossed and toes tapping. The angel-cum-choreographer smeared two thick crescents under his eyes and set his jaw. "Let's do this."

Sam jammed the play button and the opening strains of "When You're a Jet" filled the alley. The Corphyee jerked toward them, their arms tensed and pulled back in perfect port de bras. Sam took his place at the tip of their first formation—a triangle. Classic, strong. You can't go wrong with a triangle.

A hop step with seriously menacing snaps and they were off. Hell yeah.

The Corphyee fell into a staggered line and jazz walked their way down the darkened alley. Effective; it made a statement and had a certain je ne sais quoi to it.

The two groups walked a wide circle around each other, snarling and gesturing grandly.

Cas struck first: Ronde de jambe, bitches!

The Corphyee retaliated with a blinding Cincinnati that sparked the taps on the soles of their shiny shoes.

Sam pushed through and let the Hell spawn have it: Jazz Box, Jazz Box—surprise Slip Jig attack! Ha! Nailed it!

Dean came next, laying down a murderous Suzy Q with improvised arm and hand Tutting. Behind him, Cas pirouetted like a fiend, his head whipping around quickly with each rotation to spot. Sam leapt from side to side, clapping in time to the music.

Three Corphyee demons advanced, their knees flying up to chest level in a classic clog step. Damn them.

Sam raised the stakes by Beyonce-walking through their demonic inverted triangle, pointer fingers jabbing rhythmically at the pavement. He ended with a deep knee bend, one leg extended to the side in a deadly crouch. Take that.

After that, it was on like Donkey Kong.

Shim Sham Shimmy. Quick-quick-slow-slide. Front flip. Rockette kick.

Cas threw himself into a tour en l'air that reminded him of flying. He touched down gracefully—which he refused to think of as ironic—just as Sam windmilled his long legs, slicing the air as he rotated wildly on his back.

And then it was time for Dean. Pulling his chest high to lengthen his spine, he went for it—balls to the wall. Attitude- pause- jeté en tournant- chassé- chassé- Turkish fucking Drop! With one fist held aloft in triumph and his back flat on the dirty pavement, the music ended. Above him, he spied Sam holding a truly awesome Vogue pose and Cas pointing to the sky like a Jesus Praisin' John Travolta. Booyah.

"Curse you!" The leader of the Corphyee troupe screeched as a ring of fire opened around them. "The Turkish Drop is an illegal move!"

Cas scoffed, but before he could debate the legality issues involved in a Demonic Dance Off, the Corphyees disappeared, leaving a hint of glitter in the air.

"Victory is ours," Sam noted drily. He pulled Dean to his feet. "Dude, a Turkish Drop? We didn't rehearse that. Ingenious."

"Yes," Cas sighed and slung his arm around Dean's waist proudly. "But I am disappointed it ended with just one dance."

Dean couldn't take his eyes off the thick line of glitter on Cas' face. He absolutely did not think it was adorable in a baby drag queen way. He so would make Cas wash it off before there was any celebratory sex.

"I really wanted to do our pas de deux," Cas lamented.

"We can still do the pas de deux tonight," Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

"Don't say it. Don't say it," Sam chanted although he knew it was a long shot. ".."

"The naked pas de deux," Dean said, blowing Sam's hopes to Hell.

"Ugh," Sam groaned. "You said it."

"Okay," Cas bounced on his heels and smiled happily. "But I need to stretch first."

~Fin~

A/N: Okay, so for those of you not familiar with belly dance terminology (really?), here's a link to a Turkish Drop. .com/watch?v=2sA1ujjtOv4 I'll let you imagine or look up the rest of the terminology.

I blame West Side Story for this.