Title: An Honest Mistake
Characters: Dean, Sam, Artemis
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters I just have fun with them.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dean likes to flirt, what's wrong with that?
Warnings: Language, innuendo
AN: Written for the spnland community challenge prompt: "Write a ficlet involving a physical transformation of some kind. Werewolves, vamps, deaging, genderswap—anything goes, so be creative!" It won First Place! Happy dance!
"I told you not to flirt with her," Sam growled through stiff lips. "I told you she'd be insulted."
"All she had to do was say 'no'," Dean griped back. "How was I supposed to know she'd do this?"
"Well, gee, Dean. Maybe because she's Artemis, who's freaking known for being a man hater."
Dean just slouched on his uncomfortable couch-type thing. Not that he had much choice after all being a statue didn't allow for much movement. "I just wish she'd turned us into a deer or something."
Sam refused to sigh—it would blow over the reed flute and make too much noise—and responded with all the patience he could muster. "She hunts deer, Dean. And kills them."
Dean could acknowledge that that would be awkward, or would've been, if she'd done it. "I didn't piss her off that much."
"Only because she turned us into freaking counter tchotkes for her shop," he snapped. "I swear, when we turn back, I am so going to kill you." He would've said more but the bell above the door rang announcing another customer.
It made sense that an occult shop run by an ancient Greek goddess-in-hiding would have a large clientele. It also made sense that ninety percent of her clients were women but, damn it, they'd needed to get some stuff that only she had available. At least, it was the only place Bobby'd been able to find that didn't have to special order it from Europe and they didn't have the weeks that would take. When the old hunter gave them the address he'd warned them not to get 'cute' with the proprietor and he'd told them why...which made Dean's lust filled drooling so much more aggravating.
Of course, being a goddess, she was stunning... in a mind-blowing, 'touch me and die' kind of way. He couldn't actually blame his brother for standing there like he'd been hit by lightning when they'd spotted her. He could, however, blame him for plastering on his best 'you really want to take me to bed' smile and sauntering over to where Artemis was counting inventory. He could also blame him—big time—for using some of his lamest lines on a female who was, oh, five thousand years old!
Like there was any line she hadn't heard a thousand times before.
"Shit, she's buying something," Dean announced. He could see more of the store from his position on the checkout counter. Plus it helped that his pose didn't have him pointing his chin at the frigging ceiling. "Crap," he muttered and Sam could tell he was gearing up for the inevitable comments.
"At least you have some clothes on," Sam muttered back.
"Yeah, I know, I know," Dean sighed. "I'm sorry okay? I am really frigging sorry." Dean sounded like he truly meant it. "I couldn't help myself; she was just... magnetic."
Huh, thought Sam, maybe this was getting to Dean too. It was hard to imagine because Dean did like the ladies to notice him. Still, he was usually a willing participant instead of an unwilling statue. Sam snorted, that had to have changed the dynamics somewhat. He'd also come to realize, sometime during hour ten of their twenty-four hour ordeal, that Dean being helplessly attracted to Artemis made perfect sense: she was the Goddess of Wild Things and Dean was definitely an untamed creature.
This seemed like a perfect time to point that out.
"Eat me, bitch," was Dean's unimaginative reply.
"You first, jerk." Yeah, so his wasn't all that much better. Then Dean said 'show time' and that killed the conversation dead.
"Oh..." This was a new voice meaning it was probably the customer. "My goodness, Arte, these statues are exquisite." Artemis murmured something in response; probably her standard retailer's 'thank you'.
The customer bent closer where Dean lounged on his couch-like thing. "Look at the detail on Bacchus. It is Bacchus, isn't it?"
"Dionysus, actually," the goddess corrected her. Yes, Dean was Dionysus, patron god of wine and drama, inspirer of joyful worship and ecstasy, known for his celebrations and drunken revelry. He was also known for one more thing...
"Dionysus, of course. I can see the delicateness of his features now," the customer pontificated, "the feminine overtones of the face and hands, yet the toga's drape makes it, hmm, easy to see that he's male. It's a wonderful interpretation."
"Damn, her breath's bad," his brother whispered. They were never sure how much the customers could here of their stiff-jawed conversations and Artemis never said. She just suggested—strongly—that they keep quiet and they mostly obeyed. After all, she'd changed them into statues to demonstrate how humiliating it was to be ogled as sex objects.
"I'll tell the artist," the goddess said as she rang up the sale.
"And this is Pan, right?" He could tell when Artemis nodded confirmation because the customer leaned closer, blocking out Dean's light. "Look at his hair; you can practically see each strand."
Sam gritted his teeth; now came part two.
"The artist made him quite large," Artemis commented, "so that she could include many of the...finer, details."
Damn her, damn her, damn her. He really wished he knew how to kick her ass.
Right on cue, the customer lowered her gaze. He knew when she noticed that he had no pants on; he always knew because the comments were all basically the same.
"Oh," the customer said on a breath, "anatomically correct and proportional,"
Oh yeah, Dean was sooo dead.