Chapter Twenty

When Dean woke up in the morning, he was dead.

A moment later he realised that he wasn't actually dead; he just felt like he was dead.

In fact, given the way he felt, he thought he might not mind so much if he was dead.

Because if he was dead, his stomach wouldn't be making a spirited attempt to turn itself inside out, his tongue wouldn't have turned into a large chunk of dessicated dog crap and his head wouldn't be thumping like the double kick bass of the most demented metal drummer in the world.

Yup, he decided, right about now, dead doesn't sound so bad. Especially since some asshole had apparently glued his eyes shut.

He felt a weight shift on the bed beside him, then Jimi whuffed companionably, and like an adult tending tending and reassuring an unwell pup, began to wash Dean's ears.

"Yeurghlfrmmmg," protested Dean, hearing his own voice rasp, "Don't breathe so loud..."

He managed to prise one eye open: Jimi was on the bed with him, washing him tenderly, but otherwise he was alone.

Sam wasn't there.

The realisation cut through him like a gallon of coffee down the throat and a bucket of ice down the shorts. His brother was missing, on his watch.

He staggered upright, grabbing at the bed head to avoid falling over, and looked around wildly. On the bedside table there was a bottle of water, and a note scrawled in his baby brother's hand.

DRINK THIS

I'll be back

Dean prised his other eye open, and glanced out the window, wincing at the light. His Baby was not in her spot outside their room, and a further look around ascertained that her keys, and Sam's wallet and jacket, were gone.

So, Sam wasn't missing, Sam was just... gone.

Leaving him to suffer horribly from what was apparently a rapid-onset, severe acute case of a particularly virulent strain of some hideous viral disease. Leaving him to die slowly and painfully in a cruddy motel room, oblivious to his suffering. Leaving him all alone, while he went off to screw the bartender. Or maybe the waitress from their breakfast diner. Hell, why not both?

The ungrateful little bitch.

Dean dropped heavily back to his bed, and curled up unhappily. He'd been abandoned by his baby brother. His only consolation was that he would die with clean ears.

He lay there, conflicted; his bladder insisted that he at least try to get up again, whereas his head absolutely forbade him to move from horizontal. I'll make you a deal, he told his brain, I'll stay horizontal for as long as possible, if you fill me in on what the fuck has happened.

In the end, he managed to unglue the other eye, then roll off the bed and leopard crawl as far as the bathroom. The tiles were so nice and cool, he thought he might just lie there for a little while. Then he thought about the standard of the places they usually stayed in, and stumbled back to his bed, collapsing with a groan.

"What the fuck?" he asked the empty room, putting all his questions into that one query: What had happened between last night at the bar, and now? What was wrong with him? Where was Sam? Why had his brother abandoned him? How could you leave me like this, little bro?

He let out a small unhappy whine. Jimi whuffed dotingly, and began to wash the back of his neck. It felt oddly soothing.

Curled into a ball of misery, he almost didn't notice the rumble that heralded his Baby's return. However, the click of the key as Sam let himself back into the room sounded much too loud to his aching head.

" 'M awake," he slurred, as Sam moved silently, "Make 's much noise 's y' want."

"Well, that's a relief," Sam replied, "I was kinda worried."

"How very kind of you," muttered Dean. "So, was she any good?"

"Huh?" Sam turned to her in confusion.

"Was – she – any – good," Dean repeated, slowly, as much for his own head's benefit as for sarcastic effect.

"Was who any good?" his brother asked.

"Whoever," Dean flapped a hand listlessly, "The bartender. Or the waitress. Whatever. Was she any good?"

"Any good at what?" Sam sounded utterly bemused. "Here, I got Gatorade," he put down two bottles on the bedside table, "And coffee, which you probably shouldn't have, but we know that your body doesn't work according to the usual laws of pharmacology when it comes to caffeine, so..."

At the mention of the word 'coffee', Dean's brain rallied magnificently, allowing his body to sit up, grab the cup, and take a test sip of the steaming brew. It was like water in the desert, like sunshine after a long cold winter, like a new M-rated deviantART posting to a Destiel fan. "Ohhhhh," he sighed, "I think I may live after all."

"You really oughta drink some more water, and Gatorade, as well," Sam commented.

"I'll get to it," Dean mumbled, cuddling his coffee as if it was his favourite teddy bear, "So, answer the question, bitch, was she any good?"

"Was who any good?" repeated Sam, bewildered. "I got some OTC meds for you, I think you might really need 'em, because your brain is clearly malfunctioning..."

"Whoever you went home with," clarified Dean, swigging more coffee, "After I came down with some terrible strain of flu last night."

"Went home with...? Flu...?" Understanding, and then exasperation, blossomed on Sam's face. "Dean, I didn't go home with anybody!"

Dean blinked blearily at his brother. "You didn't?"

"No!" Sam insisted.

"Where were you, then?" pressed Dean suspiciously. "When I woke up, you weren't here..."

"I wasn't here, because I went to get you coffee and stuff!" Sam threw his hands in the air. "When you started to mumble, I knew you'd want coffee. I was gone less than fifteen minutes!"

"You were here all night?" Dean said wistfully.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded, "I couldn't leave you alone, not after the amount you drank. I was worried that you'd puke, or something, and choke on it. You don't have the flu, Dean. You're hungover." He took something out of the bag he'd been carrying. "Which is why I got you a bacon cheeseburger for breakfast. But I don't think you should try to eat it unless you're sure it'll stay down."

"Uh, yeah, okay," agreed Dean. "So, uh, last night. After the bar. We just came back here."

"You fell into bed, I pulled your boots off," Sam filled in the details, "I insisted that you take your jeans off, which resulted in you calling me a perv, and shouting at me not to 'touch the merchandise', around zero three hundred I don't know what you were dreamin' about but you were tryin' to make out with Jimi – don't worry, he didn't seem to mind, in fact I think he enjoyed the attention - and you snored like a chainsaw all night," Sam confirmed, peering at his big brother. "How much do you remember?"

Dean's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "Well, all of it," he replied nonchalantly, "I remember the bartender, she had great, well, everything really. And she asked me your name," he added sullenly. "While you were playin' pool." He thought hard. "You bought another bottle after that," he went on.

"Yeah," Sam said, "Which you insisted on 'helping' me with, because I'm such a lightweight."

"Well, you are," Dean protested, "You know what you're like, a few drinks and you giggle like a girl, a few more drinks and you pass out like a girl..."

Dean might've been capable of attempting to destroy the last few bewildered clusters of neurons running his brain with alcohol, but he was a Hunter – no matter how bull-buggeringly drunk he might get, the Hunter Within was always watching, alert for threat, possibly dog-paddling in little circles in the pool of alcohol in which it was floating, but taking notes nonetheless.

It decided to share some flashes of recollection with him, as if brandishing a series of hideous flash cards before his mind's eye.

There was the second bottle of booze, for which he insisted on matching his brother drink for drink, because hey, he was the big brother

– flash –

There was the third bottle, for which he insisted on matching his brother drink for drink, because hey, he was the big brother

– flash –

The bartender cut him off, no matter how hard he pouted

– flash –

His baby brother cut him off, no matter how hard he pouted

– flash –

A batchelorette's night group very kindly offered to buy him another drink if he'd do a table dance for them; he got two beers and nearly a broken ankle out of that, before they spotted Sam

– flash –

Impromptu karaoke when 'Kashmir' came on, and the bartender warning him to behave himself

– flash –

A slow dance with the generously upholstered and magnificently moustachioed mother-of-the-bride from the hen's night group; it was like hugging a linebacker, but she bought him a drink

– flash –

The cranky drunk biker had shown up again, in the lot, with a friend, and tried to pick a fight with Sam. Sam had sighed, banged their heads together, then poured Dean into shotgun.

– flash –

"Dean, you'll be horribly uncomfortable, dude, can we just get your jeans off..."

"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty Sasquatch!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Charlton."

"Your phreo... pheroro... fairyhomo... furrymoaning... your wolf smell won't work on me, bitch."

"I find that strangely reassuring. Come on, bro, bed..."

– flash –

ERROR 404 – FURTHER RECOLLECTION OF LAST NIGHT NOT FOUND

"Yeah, I remember last night," stated Dean with more conviction than he felt.

Sam's didn't look convinced. "So," he remarked casually, "You don't need me to fill you in on anything?"

"Course not," scoffed Dean, reaching carefully for one of the bottles of Gatorade (lest his head fall right off).

"I was worried about you," Sam said in the concerned and faintly accusatory tone that Dean recognised as a prelude to a Demand To Talk About Our Feelings. "You really did a number on yourself last night. What's wrong, Dean?"

"What's wrong," Dean replied, "Is that my head feels like some asshole is using it for bass kick drill practice, and some moisture vampire has sucked every molecule of water out of my body, I swear, if I move, I can hear myself rustling..."

"That's not what I mean," Sam huffed in a very Samesque fashion, "When something's bothering you, your preferred strategy is to destroy a few more gazillion brain dendrites with booze. So, spill, bro."

"I'm fine," replied Dean automatically, "The only thing I'm likely to spill is this Gatorade. Seriously," he looked into his little brother's puppy dog eyes, "I'm fine," he repeated. "There's nothing wrong. Well, apart from your newfound enthusiasm for nudism..."

Or the way my little brother is turning into a chick magnet

Or the fact that if something goes wrong, he may need his... his pack more than he needs me

"Really." He took a swig of the Gatorade, and washed down some of the pills.

"You sure?" pressed Sam.

"Absotively posilute," replied Dean firmly. "Relax, Sammy – sometimes, even the Living Sex God needs time off from the duty of sharing his awesomeness with the women of the world."

"Oh, I'm not at all worried about the Living Sex God," Sam cut in hurriedly, "He was alive and workin' his mojo last night, from what I could see."

"You think so?" Dean queried, racking his brain for some recollection.

"Definitely," Sam told him, "And don't make some comment about my 'rejects', bro, she went straight past me like I wasn't even there – every guy in the place was watchin' her, and she only had eyes for the Living Sex God. She was all over you like a rash, dude. I thought you'd already have plans to hook up tonight. She put her number in your phone." He blew out a breath. "Whoa, that cleavage, those leopard skin print leggings, and no VPL, I think she might've been goin' commando..."

"I'll think about it," Dean decided loftily. "Depends on what's happenin' with this case, of course, but the Living Sex God might decide to give his awesomeness an airing."

"Well, you'd better concentrate on gettin' yourself unhammered," Sam commented, "Why don't you eat your breakfast, and if you need anything else, I can go get it. Otherwise, I'll be over there, and before you say anything, I'll type and breathe as quietly as I can."

"Attaboy," Dean managed a grin, and drank more Gatorade, suddenly feeling much better.

My brother worries about me.

My brother stood up that bartender for me.

And there aint nothing wrong with the Living Sex God.

With a small smile, he curled up again, and slid peacefully into a much-needed nap.

When Sam went out later to get them lunch, he quickly checked his phone for the number his brother said had been put there. Sam wasn't kidding: there was a phone number, and a selfie, including a view of the magnificent cleavage to which his brother had alluded.

Sam had been right about one thing; every eye in the place would've been on her.

For her daughter's sake, he hoped that the mother-of-the-bride outfit she chose for the big day was more appropriate for her age, and that she chose a more fitting foundation garment. And that she shaved for the wedding.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

By the afternoon, Dean had rallied enough to glare at his brother when Sam innocently asked, "So, you plannin' on hooking up tonight?"

"The Living Sex God does not hook up with cougars dressed as leopards, who grow more substantial facial hair than he does," Dean growled. "And who should probably consult an engineering firm for structural reinforcement before goin' out in public in a neckline that low. Jesus, she could kill a man with those things..."

"You know, talking about yourself in the third person has to be some sort of personality defect," Sam opined with a sunny smile.

"If you don't shut up, I will buy you a collar and leash for the full moon," griped Dean, "Or maybe I could take you to a 24-hour vet, and say hey, it's an emergency, my South African Hippohound keeps humping people's cars so he needs a little operation..."

He was interrupted by his cell. It was Butch from Real People, saying he thought he had a job for Dean.

"Yeah, I can come right over," Dean told him. "Butch thinks he has a job for me," he told Sam. "This will be a good opportunity to see how the place works."

Sam looked worried. "Leave your phone on," he stipulated, "If I don't hear from you within an hour, me and Jimi will come looking. Maybe we should come with you, wait in the car..."

"No," Dean shook his head, "It's important that you stay out of sight. I'll call in. This could be a vital piece of research, Sam – plus, I'll get paid for it. It's important for me to do this."

Sam looked at his brother shrewdly. "And of course," he began, "It has absolutely nothing to do with the possibility of spending more time in the company of Lois the photographer, does it?"

"Perks of the job, Sammy," Dean grinned broadly, "I gotta take what I can get, because in our line of work, the pay sucks."

"Just be careful," Sam sighed, knowing when he was beaten.

"Always," Dean grinned cockily as he picked up his jacket and keys.

The job Butch had in mind, the older man explained, was for a local department store. "They're looking for a new face," he explained, "And they picked you out. If you're interested." He handed over a sheaf of paper. "Not everybody is comfortable with the idea of doing beachwear and underwear, but it pays well. And Lois is very professional. She's very good at what she does."

"I bet she is," Dean murmured to himself, scanning the paperwork, his eyebrows going up at the amount of money on offer. "Yeah, I think I'd like to take this job."

"Wonderful!" enthused Butch, "You'll be able to negotiate to put some of the shots in your folio, too – this is a great first step for a guy like you, I think that once you've got this job under your belt, you'll be able to earn more next time around."

"So, what do I have to do?" asked Dean.

"Show up on time, and our stylist will be able to walk you through what's needed," Butch assured him. "Don't worry, we've had plenty of first-timers before, and we've never had one run screaming!" He examined Dean's face expertly. "You might need a little bit of foundation, but your bone structure and your eyes will do the rest." He ratted around in a desk drawer and picked out a card, scribbling some details on it. "Here," he handed it over, "They're very good, and a lot of our people use them, they know what to do – you get a discount when I send somebody to them. I'm really excited for you, Dean!"

"Yeah, me too," smiled Dean.

Back outside in the car, he examined the card. In a fussy font, it read:

Wax Lyrical

On the back was the note from Butch.

Sally, please help Dean – be gentle, he's a virgin! Leg wax, spray tan, kthx.

So, will Dean go to the salon by himself, far too mortified to tell Sam, or will he need his little brother to hold his hand? Send reviews to prompt the bunny, because Reviews are the Perfectly Timed Hangover Treatments Brought To You By The Winchester Of Your Choice When You've Been Hit Over The Head By The Depressingly Solid Parsnip Of Real Life! Darn you, Real Life! Darn you to heck!