Chapter Eleven
Sam considered his options: as far as he could see, they were:
a) Take Jimi, track Dean, lock him in the trunk and drag him back
b) Take Jimi, track Dean, watch his brother's back to make sure he didn't get the crap beaten out of him
c) Take Jimi, track Dean, watch his brother's back until it looked like he was going to get the crap beaten out of him then lock him in the trunk and drag him back
or
d) Let nature take its course, and deal with the aftermath afterwards.
He sat back, stretched and sighed. "So, what do we do, Jimi?" he asked the dog.
"Hrrrrrrmph." Jimi half-opened his eyes to see if there were any more pizza crusts being offered, yawned extravagantly, and rolled over with a drawn out sigh.
"Yeah, you're probably right," he agreed. His big brother would not thank him for any perceived interfering, mother-henning or cock-blocking. Trying to save Dean from himself was like trying to help a cat stuck up a tree: you'd get scratched to pieces, bitten repeatedly, possibly lose an eye, and then the angry rescuee would run up to a higher branch. And piss on you from up there. And it would never, ever, ever concede that running up the tree had been a bad idea in the first place.
He worked for a while longer until he decided his brain had had enough, then when he found a really interesting Attenborough documentary on TV, he decided he'd made the right choice. After that he checked a couple of local news sites just to make sure that Dean hadn't happened anywhere, then headed for the bathroom, where he was amazed to find that his timing was just right and he had a hot shower with pretty good water pressure, given the quality of the accommodation.
He was in bed when Jimi headed for the door and let out a couple of happy whuffs of anticipation. Sam roused and checked his watch; it was a bit early for Dean to be returning after an evening of seeking out frisky women for beautiful natural acts, but Jimi was never wrong, he could always detect the approach of the Impala before human ears could.
A minute later, the car's familiar gurgling rumble pulled into the lot, and Dean made his way quietly into the room.
"You're home early," Sam said.
"And you're up late," his brother replied. "Go back to sleep, Francis, you need your beauty rest."
Sam frowned. Usually, when his brother returned from an evening of pornoriffic desportment, the annoying cheerfulness, the leer, the gleeful anticipation of horrifying his baby brother the next day with the details positively bubbled in his voice. But right then, it wasn't there.
Sam sat up, and watched his brother in the darkness. Realisation hit him: Dean was not doing the Strut Of Smug Self-Satisfaction that he always did upon return (as Dean Winchester had never done a Walk Of Shame in his entire life). "Dean?"
"The one and only, Sam."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dean insisted, "Apart from the fact that you're awake, and at risk of turning back into a lettuce after midnight, so go back to sleep, bitch."
Rolling his eyes at his brother's ridiculous stoicism, Sam reached for the light switch. "No, seriously, bro, what's wrong, did so- HOLY SHIT!"
As the light snapped on, Dean froze, momentarily caught like a rabbit in a spotlight.
Well, if there was such a thing as a rabbit with a bright red face.
"What happened to you?" Sam burst out.
"Nothing," Dean mumbled, sitting down to pull off his boots.
"What do you mean, nothing? Your face is bright red, bro!"
"It's fine," Dean snapped, "It's probably just emerging sunburn from bein' thrown out and told to go for a whiskey-word. Go back to sleep."
Sam fixed his brother with a Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child). "I saw the search you were doing before you left."
Dean froze.
"And the browser history."
Dean didn't move.
"Interesting sites. 'How To Pick Up Women?' 'Hints From The Pick-Up Guru?' 'The Pick-Up Artist Channel'? And now you've come home looking like a tomato."
Dean stared at his boots.
"What happened, Dean?"
"Igtslpd," Dean mumbled.
"What?"
"Igtslpd," Dean repeated, kicking off a boot.
"Once more, bro, in English, maybe, or at least with a couple of vowels thrown in."
"I got slapped, okay?" Dean snapped, kicking off the other boot irritably. "I went out, I went to a bar, I met up with a woman, and I got slapped."
"You went to a bar, you met up with a woman, and she slapped you?" echoed Sam.
"Yeah."
"How many?"
"Three."
"She slapped you three times?"
"No, I went to three bars."
"No, I meant, how many times did she slap you?"
"Just once."
"Once? Dean, your face is bright red! What the hell was she, an octopus?"
"Well, it happened with the second one, too."
"The second bar or the second woman?"
"The second woman."
"You got slapped by a second woman?"
"Yeah. Actually, it happened in the second bar as well."
"The second woman, in the second bar?"
"No, by the second bar, I was up to the sixth woman."
"A sixth woman?'
"Yeah."
"How many, Dean?"
"I told you, I went to three bars!'
"No, how many times did you get slapped?"
"Just once each, I know how to take a hint."
"No, no, no, how many women did you approach, Dean?"
"Uh, it was quite a few."
"Quite a few?"
"I lost count, okay?"
"And they all slapped you."
"No! No! Not all of them!"
"They didn't all slap you?"
"No, they did not!"
"It looks like they did."
"Well, they didn't. The last one didn't."
"The last woman you approached didn't slap you?"
"No, she didn't."
"You used some of the crap you found on those sites of dubious content, and she didn't slap you?"
"That's correct, she did not slap me."
"Hell, she must've been drunk, because..."
"She kneed me in the balls."
"Oh, God," Sam sat down heavily next to his despondent brother. "Look, the sorts of things those sites were suggesting, they're crap! Not just demeaning to women, but bordering on downright offensive, if not actually abusive, they're crap! I mean, that guy who says that approaching a beautiful woman and making some negative comment about her appearance will somehow motivate her to have sex with you, did you seriously think that would work? No wonder you got slapped!"
"I didn't just go around insulting women," Dean seemed shocked at the suggestion.
"Oh, really?" Sam scowled, "And the 'Get in touch with your Inner Caveman', how did that work out?"
"Uh, not so good," his big brother shrugged, "But I don't think I'll sing soprano indefinitely."
"Look, Dean," Sam tried to keep his tone non-judgemental, and almost succeeded, "You're just going to have to live with the fact that women you classify as 'hot' don't generally want to hook up for casual sex with a guy who looks like you."
"I guess," sighed Dean, sounding forlorn. "So, what do I do?"
"Well, if you could concentrate on what you've been doing, I know that trawling through social media is tedious, but you are actually making progress, and..."
"No, Sam, what I mean is, how do I get laid?"
"What?"
"You heard me! How do I get laid? How do I find a woman to have sex with?"
"Gaaaaaaah!" Sam let out an exasperated yelp. "I don't know! All I do know is, you can't carry on as if you're the Living Sex God, when for now, you're not!" He paused. "Have you considered, uh, kind of, lowering the bar a little?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"Making your selection criteria less stringent," Sam continued. "Being more open-minded about your interpretation of the concept of 'hotness'. Considering the broadening of the pool of potential partners."
Dean gave him a dubious look. "You mean... have sex with a woman who isn't hot?"
Praying for patience, Sam tried again. "Look, Dean, you are a man who wants to have sex with a woman. For that, you have to find a woman who is willing to have sex with you, without getting her drunk first..."
"Well, yeah," Dean cut in, "Of course, there is no way, no way, I would ever force myself on a chick, you know that, no real man would ever do that, and no drunk chicks is one of my rules, I taught you that when you were a teenager..."
"Yeah, that's a given," Sam assured him, "What I'm getting at, is, if you are temporarily not your normal devastatingly attractive and hot self, then you might just have to approach a woman who is, herself, not exactly what you would usually define as devastating attractive and hot."
"You mean..." Dean looked mystified. "Hook up with an ugly chick?"
Sam gave Dean a level stare. "Okay, let's set aside any outrage about the shallowness you display about this sort of thing, and be brutally practical. Right now, you are no oil painting. You are a very ordinary, completely average looking guy. You're telling me that you don't want to have a one night stand with a woman who isn't hot. Well, news flash, Dean, hot women don't want to have one night stands with a guy who isn't hot! Hot people can pick and choose each other, Dean, but if you just want casual sex, right now, you can't!"
"But..." Dean looked bewildered. "How do, you know, guys who look like me hook up? How do average guys get laid?"
Sam rolled his eyes, grasping desperately at his rapidly waning patience. "I suspect that they go out looking for a like-minded woman who's as average-looking as they are. I'm pretty sure that frisky is a state of mind, Dean, and frisky women come in all shapes and sizes. Look at it this way, your population of available partners is expanded." Exasperation made him twist the knife a little. "It's okay if you have a few drinks first, though, maybe beer goggles will help."
"Beer goggles?" repeated Dean.
"Yep," Sam beamed at him, "A team at Edinburgh University did a study, and quantified the degree to which a member of the opposite sex appears more attractive the drunker the observer is. Don't remember which lab it was, but it was clearly in the School Of Studies Of The Fucking Obvious."
Dean's face was that of a child who has been at the fairground asking for a helium balloon all day, only to lose his grip and watch it float rapidly, effortlessly, uncaringly away from him. "I... don't know if I can do that," he said finally.
Sam's patience snapped. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he shouted, "What is wrong with you? Your health is so compromised that you could die before we fix this, and all you can think about is sex? You're so desperate to get laid, you don't care about your own wellbeing enough to concentrate on this job? You are impossible! You are unreasonable! You are INSUFFERABLE! YOU ARE AN UNREPENTANT NARCISSIST AND TOTALLY PATHOLOGICALLY OBSESSED WITH SEX! And you'll just have to learn to be less fucking choosy, or GO WITHOUT! Why the hell does it matter what she looks like if all you are interested in is the sex? Turn the lights off! Shut your eyes! Fantasise about somebody else! If you are so damned desperate, just stop being so picky and go out and do it and stop whining! Just go out and get laid, Dean! Go out and have sex, Dean! Go out and fornicate! Go out and screw! Go out and find a willing woman and put your penis in her vagina! Just go out and fuck and STOP BITCHING TO ME ABOUT IT BECAUSE I CAN'T HELP YOU AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT!"
In the sudden silence when he finished, both Dean and Jimi were staring at him.
"Wow," breathed Dean, "Stress much? This job is getting to you. You need to get laid, Sam."
Sam let out a groan and fell face-first into his pillow. "What I need," his muffled voice said, "Is to beat you around the head with a blunt object until you see sense, or shut up, whatever happens first. Or even if you don't, that doesn't matter, it will make me feel better."
"Maybe things will look better for both of us in the morning," Dean surmised philosophically. "Or at least, later in the morning." Heading for the bathroom, he paused, and waggled his wrist. "Hey, sex would count as a cardio workout, right? Does this thing track sex? RPM, or something?
"Dean..."
"Because if it does, there's a distinct change that at some point I might make it explode."
"I hate you."
Poor Dean. Poor Sam. I'm not sure who's going to end up being more traumatised by this job. But it's fun to watch.
Send Beau-Ponty delicious reviews to snack on, because Reviews Are The Delicious Chocolate-Hazelnut Clusters Plucked From The Broccoli Patch Of Life!
