Chapter 2: The Appeal

Subtle, he promised. Just one all-expense paid jaunt to sunnyside San Diego and back to ass-sicling in Vancouver. Not like he had a choice in the matter. Dean was only a season into Ghostfacers; his character was easily replaceable. Spengler and Zeddmore were the real stars; he was just "the appeal", as Michael had so generously put it. Still, there were sacrifices he had to make in order to get a generous check—one of them including a campaign run at SDCC. So as long as he was getting compensation for sitting, breathing, and occasional fan interaction, he would slap on a smile and ride the carnival until closing hours.

Subtlety in show business was a joke. Asking for confidentiality in a dog-eat-dog industry was about as easy as pulling down the lever of a jackpot machine and lighting up the VDT with bright red sevens. None of it was subtle. The lights, the cameras—the only thing missing from the setup was a director to call action. The hotel did no justice either. He repressed the overwhelming urge to scream the minute his luggage hit the reused linoleum floor, dragging languidly across the dimly lit foyer. Even the sheets in his lodging were explicitly loud—red satin embellished with gold embroidery around the flattened-out ends.

And what would you know; underneath the pillow was a note, the ink still warm on the page:

Mr. and Mr. Winchester,

It is an honor to have you with us. Please accept the truffles on your nightstand as a token of our gratitude.

—The Lobby

"They address us like we're joined at the hip," he groused, crumbling the letter.

Propped on his respective bed with a laptop resting contently on his thighs was none other than Sam Winchester. He wore a smile that reminded him of their mother's—placating, always patient. He adopted her fair-skinned face and shallow dimples that came out on rare occasions like this, when the hustle-bustle of big cities and little women weren't thwarting their impending happiness. Sam didn't mind the extras that came with fame, though; he was always better at handling things.

"We're not too far from it." Dean glared at him. Sam threw up his defenses: "What? At the rate we're going, I'm pretty sure our picture's under Webster's definition of conjoined twins."

He thought that term over with what little education he had acquired from a three-year-old GED. "Isn't it Siamese twins?"

"Hmm, I'm ninety-nine percent positive it's conjoined."

Typing arose from his keyboard, but the sound was silenced by Dean's six-foot stature hitting his memory-foam. One would think a thousand dollar deposit would cover all the clicks and rattling that absconded from the noisy mattress, but that's what happened when fame prioritized your life. Sales and flattery always came before liberty and comfort. "Whatever, I'm too tired to argue," he grumbled, rolling onto his back to face the ceiling. "Who agreed to put us on a four-day panel?"

"Don't get too excited, you'll bust a nut."

Dean sighed, already exhausted. "I'm serious. I mean, we're not even confirmed regulars and we get shipped around more than FedEx. I don't see Spengler or Zeddmore busting their chops to get the full Comic Con experience."

"And you aren't?" Sam rejoined. He didn't sound at all sarcastic, just curious. "Says here that 'Dean Winchester, Star of Ghostfacers, Gets Personal with Mystery Fan'."

That comment had Dean scrambling to the neighboring bed, scratching and clawing the computer out of his brother's hands. He gaped at the screen over and over until he made some coherent sense of the poorly-reported sensationalistic crap staring back at him. He read the piece aloud, dissecting every last word with his tongue:

"'Double, double toil and trouble, opening day at SDCC boils down to mayhem in a caldron bubble for Dean Winchester, star of the hit-series Ghostfacers. When approached by a fan before his panel, the twenty-year-old retaliated with a challenge to a one-on-one fist fight, which was adjourned by an anonymous man in a poorly constructed paper hat (pictured above). Winchester fled the scene with his costar before there was any bloodshed and the inevitable crushing of fanboy dreams."

Sam narrowed his head and made way for a crooked grin. "I look pretty good in that shot." Dean growled.

"This is bullshit!" he exclaimed lividly. "That little punk came at me! And he sure wasn't any fan of mine…" but he was gutsy, you know, for a kid his size… nope, no, back it up, Winchester. Put it in reverse and blow off the rails on this crazy train—

"True, but he did have some pretty wicked comebacks. What was that crack about him having bigger balls than you? You should've seen your face—"

"Not helping, Sam," he said, deliberately overturning his laptop. He didn't need the thing anyway, not when the article was photocopied in his mind. This was not good. Michael warned him about this going into the business. Bad press wasn't good press, despite the cliché. No matter how much you sugarcoat or wrap a blanket around it, bad exposure was like living with terminal cancer—you can treat the issue with every last fiber in your body, but it'll still come back to bite you in the ass.

Before he could properly freak, the bathroom door swung open. Behind it was a man wearing a light blouse underneath loose suspenders and a black overcoat. He was busy shrugging on the latter when he spoke, southern drawl laced with his rough tone, "Maybe I can be of assistance."

Dean forged a small smile. "Oh babe, you've assisted me in ways I didn't even know were possible."

"Up for round two?" he asked, tossing him a wink while he messed with the hem of his left sleeve.

Sam coughed in attempt to jostle the giant elephant from the room, "Hey, Benny."

"Maybe later," replied the eldest half-heartedly. With that, Benny cast a glance between the two of them and left with the same buoyant smile he came in with (Sam didn't need to know that part, though…).

The second-born raised his virgin eyes before blinking away unnecessary images settling there. "Well, you and Benny seem... okay. You know, considering—"

"We were at each other's throats? Yeah, that much hasn't changed. You should've seen the way he—"

Sam raced to build a blockade between his ears and Dean's words with his pillow. "Alright, alright, you win. Just spare me the 'where he put what' details before this place reeks of last night's dinner."

"Oh yeah, speaking of which, I take it you're the petty thief hoarding all the truffles." Sam responded by carefully heaving his PC onto his lap, clicking and typing away like a mad scientist. "I thought so."

~O~

Later that night, while his brother was far surpassing the forty winks rule of thumb, Dean stood in front of the bathroom mirror. There wasn't much emulation considering he was just as bad if not worse than the equivocator staring back at him. In one hand he possessed two pink pills and a single blue one in the other. He would laugh had he the vitality. He was seven, sitting on an exam table and one big pickle. They can't be pink, he claimed, pink is for girls, everyone'll think I'm a girl! To think that that was once his biggest cleft stick. Every life decision he made since has rested precariously on the tip of a double-edged sword. Take the antidepressants, don't take the antidepressants. Sign your name and soul to the Wizard or wind up povertized just south of Emerald City.

He turned up to meet his dull reflection again and saw his adolescence screaming at him, begging to spare him from consciousness. It was a one-way road from here, and for years, the decision was never easy to make. Today he skipped the internal lecture and downed the pink tablets. Sleep would take him prisoner eventually. Whether or not it was tonight or a month from tonight was in the inept hands of fate. His job was to get through the rest of the week without tearing out his hair.