If anybody is wondering why they're not getting any updates, FFN alerts are still fritzy - young Fabian is whispering away at this story, so don't despair, he's still here. Meanwhile, my laptop has been infected with a nasty browser hijacker, so I'm trying to sort that out (not easy when you're as much of an e-tard as I am), and the Shepherd needed surgery to remove a growth on her face. Oh, and apparently most of New South Wales has burned down. It just gets better and better, doesn't it...
Chapter Nine
Dean was no stranger to waking up a bit seedy after finding a bar the night before; he woke up with hangovers the way other people woke up with bed hair. He grimaced as Sam moved around the room.
"Nrrrrrrg," he mumbled, burrowing into the covers, "What time is it?"
"We got plenty of time yet, bro," Sam told him, "I just wanna check some stuff before we go. How was your bar?"
"Crowded," replied Dean, "And I got hit on a number of times."
Sam scowled at the lump in his brother's bed. "I hope you didn't blow our cover," he warned.
"Not by women," Dean almost wailed. "The place was packed with BLT conventioneers."
"GLBT," Sam corrected. "You could swap your ring onto your left hand. That might give people pause."
The sad whining noise from under the bedclothes suggested that Dean couldn't decide what was worse, being hit on by gay men, or appearing to be married to Castiel.
"It's just a suggestion," Sam shrugged.
"Well, here's a better one," the lump under the blankets grumped, "Go get me coffee, bitch."
"Go get your own coffee," Sam replied serenely. "I'm your brother, not your wife. Oh, wait, aren't you Castiel's..."
"Shut up," Dean groaned. "Sam, I need coffee for medicinal purposes. I need it the way a diabetic needs insulin, or a rock star needs cocaine, or a Jersey Shore duckface needs fake tan."
"You remember what Dad used to say about self-inflicted incapacitation?" Sam reminded him. "In the Armed Forces, it's a chargeable offence."
"This is the thanks I get," came the muffled complaint from under the covers, "After all I've done for you, you won't get me the vital medication I need to survive. I saved you from fiery death as a baby, looked out for your skinny little bully-attracting ass at school, I stole your first scientific calculator for you, I hustle pool and scam credit cards to keep you in salad, pastel shirts and shampoo, and this is the thanks I get from my ungrateful baby bro. I get more gratitude from Lemmy." He curled up again, feeling the reassuring weight against his leg where Lemmy liked to snooze against his Alpha. "At least somebody cares about me," he griped resentfully, reaching out from his nest of bedding to pat his dog.
"Hello, Dean," said Castiel as Dean's hand made contact with his pants leg, "Of course I care about you."
In less than a second, Dean went from snug as a bug in a rug to upright uptight fight or flight shrieking in fright.
"YEEEEEEEE!" he howled, eyes bugging. "Jesus, Cas, you fucking creeper! Do I have to try another language? Personal! Fucking! Space!" He whirled on Sam. "Hey, Francis, what's Swahili for Personal Fucking Space?"
"I'll get right on it," Sam announced diligently. He turned an earnest expression of enquiry to his big brother. "By that, do you mean, 'Personal Space' as an emphatic expression of demand, or 'A space where one may fuck personally, without interruption'?"
"I hate you both so much," Dean grumbled. "What are you doin' letting Mr Creeper McCreeperson creep on my bed like that?" he demanded of Lemmy, who trotted over to give him a good morning kiss, "You're meant to protect me!"
"Perhaps he did not believe that you were under any threat," Castiel suggested.
Dean sighed, and sat down heavily on his bed. "What are you doin' here this early, Cas?" he asked with a wince.
"I have taken the liberty of preparing the items from the hangover kit for you," the angel replied, holding out the paracetamol and a cup of water in which the electrolyte tablet fizzed. "I was waiting for you to wake up."
"Thanks, I think," Dean drooped, accepting the pills and drink. "I don't suppose you got any coffee along with your freebies?" he asked wistfully.
"There is a voucher redeemable at one of the conference stands," Castiel told him, waving a hand and calling forth a cup of Dean's preferred brew, "But perhaps this will suffice for now."
Dean fell upon the cup with an inarticulate little noise of gratitude. "Ohhhhh," he sniffed deeply, "Cas, dude, if you were a hot chick right now I'd kiss you."
Sam looked up at the angel. "So, all we had to do to get him to be convincing as your partner was have you give him coffee," he marvelled. "Who knew?"
"Shut up, bitch," griped Dean, sipping the dark brew. "You're just jealous because you don't have a barista angel to have a profound bond with."
"I recognise that you need coffee to get your thought processes functioning after a night of drinking," Castiel's voice held just a hint of reproach, "And we have identified our first indication of demonic activity."
"Demonic condoms," confirmed Sam, handing over the packet for Dean to see the speck of sulphur. "The dogs went nuts at it."
"Whoa," intoned Dean, "That's seriously evil." He inspected the packet. "What are demons doing messing with rubbers?" he asked. "Are they, like, pokin' holes in them?"
"That would be more Catholic than demonic," Sam opined.
"That pope, Benedict, he totally looked like Emperor Palpatine," Dean said promptly, "That was kind of evil."
"There doesn't seem to be any overt physical tampering," Sam noted, pointedly ignoring Dean's insinuation about a Sith pope, "But occult tampering could be something else."
"We must remain alert for further clues," said Castiel.
When they returned to the convention venue, Dean had apparently decided to begin his search for demonic activity at the catering tables.
"It's a reasonable place to start," he asserted as Sam rolled his eyes, "Everybody's goin' for the food, so it'd make sense to tamper with it, if you wanted to get to as many people as possible."
"Yeah, Dean," Sam sighed in resignation, and looked at his program booklet.
"Speaking of the Angel Of The Lord," Dean looked around; Castiel had apparently wandered off again. "Where is he now? Off getting more ideas about askin' you inappropriate questions?"
He caught sight of a tan trenchcoat at a stall that appeared to be advertising a wide range of leather apparel. Letting out a small sound of horror, he hurried over.
"...And he is always saying 'I should put a bell on your collar'," Castiel was explaining, "Which is strange, since I do not have a collar, and I do not think he means the collar of my shirt, so..."
"Cas!" Dean yelped, "What are you doing?"
"Hello, Dean," the angel said, "This is Melody and this is Stuart. I was telling them about your constant assertion that you wish to put a bell on my collar." He turned back to the proprietors of the stall, who gave him smiling nods of greeting. "This is Dean," he said. "And he is not a bossy bottom," he added firmly.
"Um," went Dean.
"Well, we have a number of items that might be suitable," melody began in a businesslike tone, "If you want something plain, something for under everyday wear, I'd suggest..."
"ThankyoubutIneedtotalktohimaboutsomethingimportan trightnow!" squeaked Dean, grabbing Castiel's elbow and dragging him away from the stall.
"Dean, I believe that what you just did could be construed as bad mannners," Castiel frowned slightly.
"What the hell were you doing?" demanded Dean.
"Investigating the stall for any sign of demonic activity," Castiel replied.
"Can't you do that without getting measured up for a collar?" pleaded Dean. "Are you tryin' to give me a heart attack? Seriously, is that what you're aiming for? Because if you are, you're... what's that?"
There was a commotion of activity in the crowd, a swirl of movement and a flash of colour. A convention TV crew was trailing a wandering presenter, who was moving through the crowd, speaking to people, accompanied by a man and a woman who were carrying baskets and dressed in lifeguard outfits that made the cast of Baywatch look positively prudish.
"Well as you can see, Over The Rainbow is in full swing," the presenter spoke cheerfully to the camera as she walked, "Are you having a good time?" The crowd around her cheered and mugged for the camera. "Right now, I'm on patrol with the guys from the Lifesaver campaign!" The crowd cheered again. "They're spreading the love, and the word about safe sex. So, what's your message to everybody here, and beyond?"
"Stay safe," the female lifeguard addressed the camera, "If you're gay, or straight, or in between, it doesn't matter, always use protection, because it could save your life, and someone else's."
"And what have you got here for convention-goers?" the presenter asked.
"We're making sure that everybody has access to PFDs," explained the male lifeguard, "Which means, of course, Personal... Frolicking Devices!" The crowd hooted and laughed at the acronym as the female lifeguard began to hand out the condoms, dams, lube and leaflets in her basket. "Don't launch the loveboat without your PFD, people! Go down with someone you love, not an STI!" The crowd cheered again as he began to distribute the contents of his basket too.
"Oh, God," moaned Dean, "Come on, let's get out of here... Cas?... Cas! Come back here!"
There is a saying dating back to ancient times saying that whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.
It might also be inferred that whom the fates would point and laugh at, they first humiliate beyond description...
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Don't you dare lecture me about snoring with my eyes open," griped Dean as they left their last session for the morning, "How could you drag me into something like that?"
"It was one of the discussions attended by several of the couples who were targeted at other conventions," Castiel reminded him. "Possibly, there was a connection between how happy they were, and them being targeted. Only a couple wishing to commit to each other would seek information about finding a lender who would give offer them a mortgage as a couple."
"I'm inclined to think that maybe the demonic activity was right there in those slides," Dean grumped, "Didn't Crowley say that PowerPoint was invented by a demon who was working out of hours?"
"Nonetheless, it is part of this job to attend these talks," Castiel intoned, surveying the tables where lunch for the convention-goers had been laid out. "Now you may overeat to compensate for your boredom and discomfort at being here."
"Hey, guys," Sam caught up with them, "Anything so far?"
"If you want to set up house with your boyfriend, I can now give you more intel on the best deals around than I ever wanted to know," Dean complained, "But apart from that, nada. I'm gonna eat. Cas, do NOT go buy a collar, you understand me?"
"Yes, Dean," the angel replied.
"Wow," Sam watched his brother stomp off in the direction of food. "I told you he was bossy. And grumpy. I mean, grumpy even for him. Grumpier than I would've expected this job to make him."
"For some reason, I believe his is unhappy about my procuring samples from the stalls and booths here," Castiel indicated the growing collection of freebies he was accumulating, "And the condom giveaway."
"Condom giveaway?" Sam blinked. "You mean the safe sex initiative? The Lifesaver program? It is a major theme of the convention. Resurgence of STIs was one of the sessions I went to this morning. I thought he'd have liked the chance to have a surreptitious ogle of the, er, lady lifeguard. That outfit is a working definition of 'diaphanous'."
"Given that we have already found one that appears to have been diabolically affected, I thought it would be prudent to obtain more, to see if there are more similarly affected prophylactics being distributed," the angel explained.
"Sounds reasonable," Sam nodded, "We need the intel. You pick up anything freaky from these characters?"
"Not at the time," Castiel confirmed, "But a convention TV crew was with them, interviewing people. You could review the footage if there is anything suspicious about their giveaways."
"We'll get the dogs to check out the stuff later," Sam said, "I'm gonna be at the wifi hotspot."
While Castiel headed off to prowl the stalls again, Sam grabbed a salad roll, lined up for a coffee, and found somewhere to sit down near the IT hub that had been set up. He had some more files he wanted to scan through, but found his eye drawn to the large screen where footage from convention TV was playing to entertain attendees during the break. There was footage of the finance lecture that Dean and Castiel had attended, then a cut to a bubbly reporter, following the Lifesaver lifeguards through the crowd and doing vox pop interviews with conventioneers.
He had one ear listening to the footage as she cheerfully flitted from person to person like a butterfly, asking about names, partners and experiences of the convention so far, not paying it a lot of attention until he heard a distinctive voice answer her question...
"My name is Castiel. I am an A... attendee from interstate."
Sam's head shot up.
On the giant screen, Castiel was giving the reporter his most serious Eye Sex Stare Of Doom. Beside him, Dean looked like a rabbit caught in a shooter's spotlight.
"And what are your impressions so far, Castiel?" she asked.
"I have attended a number of sessions, and found them most interesting," replied the angel. "Also, I have been offered a number of useful gifts from the generous individuals attending this event to advertise services." He transferred his stare to one of the lifeguards. "I would like several of those contraceptives, please," he told her.
"So, are you here with someone, Castiel?" asked the reporter?
"Yes." Castiel turned briefly to Dean. "This is Dean. I share a profound bond with him."
Dean managed a small desperate smile, and a little wave to camera. "Hi," he squeaked.
"I wish to make it clear that he is not a bossy bottom," added the angel firmly.
"Well, it's great to see you guys setting an example for the youngsters in our community!" said the lifeguard, proffering her basket. Castiel took a handful as she spoke to camera, then tourned and took a handful from the other lifeguard's basket. "STIs are resurging in the whole of society – but here's a couple who I'm guessing know all about the importance of avoiding unprotected sex."
Castiel considered her remark. "We have never had unprotected sex," he confirmed. "And we never will." He turned to Dean. "As you can see, Dean is uncomfortable at the very thought of us having unprotected sex."
"Meeeeep," went Dean.
"Good advice from participants here at Over The Rainbow," burbled the reporter, moving on through the crowd.
Sam took a deep breath, closed his laptop, and made his way through the building until he found a stairwell that took him to the basement, where he found a janitor's storage room. He locked himself in, and laughed until he could barely breathe and was on the floor gasping for breath.
After that, he went back to his file searching.
And sent a link for the footage to Bobby.
When I was at uni, Condoman was the STI-fighting superhero at the centre of the safe sex campaigning. Later, he acquired a female accomplice called Lubalicious. His motto was 'Don't be shame, be game – use condoms'. Ah, the heady days of worrying about safe sex. These days, it means making sure that the dogs can't get in during the performance and neither of us does anything to aggravate ageing damaged joints...
Incidentally, did anybody else see the research on safe sex for hip replacement patients?
wwwDOT arthroplastyjournalDOT org/article/S0883-5403(13)00561-5/abstract
manuscript is available here
wwwDOT artanimDOT ch/publications/23DOT pdf
(replace DOT with a full stop, and remove spaces)
Seriously, the couple who agreed to do that should get some sort of award for contributions to science.
Reviews are the Angelic Being Bringing You A Hot Beverage When You Need It After You Have Been Kicked In The Head By The Hangover Of Life!