It's taking on a life of its own - why do these damned stories do this? Why? WHY? *shakes fist up at sky, then down at plot bunnies*
I've fixed the spelling on the n-word in Chapter 1 (thanks to PaulatheCat for pointing out my gaffe; if nobody tells me, I'll never learn) - Down Here, it doesn't have the sort of cultural baggage that I think it must (for sound reason) carry in the YouSay, athough it would be considered offensive if used. (We have our own unacceptable words for the native population that are similarly obscene, and use of them instantly tags the user as a pig-ignorant bigot.) I hope nobody was offended, and if you were, I can only plead ignorance, and promise to do better next time. Perhaps we can blame Merkin Cultural Imperialism: I frequently hear the phrase 'Sup m'nigga?" used in the street. By boys. Twelve year old boys. Twelve year old white boys. Twelve year old white boys with their underwear clearly visible above the sagging waistband of their trousers. Grud, I HATE that. I want to shout at them, "I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR!" I think this bloke, 'General' Larry Platt, put it best: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=tMwhl4IrPNc
Chapter 2
"You did this on purpose," Sam accused his brother. He sat in shotgun, wrapped in a blanket that Dean had picked up from a Goodwill store. It was fluffy. It was sky blue. It had duckies on it. Some of the duckies held balloons.
"It was all they had, bro," Dean defended his choice, "I asked. People don't think to donate blankets when the weather isn't cold." The whole 'being annoying by being reasonable' thing had much to recommend it.
"Anything would be better than this!" hissed Sam.
"Well, your other option was a velour throw, with The Hoff on it," Dean told him. "In his shorts. Cuddling a tiger."
Sam blanched. "I think I just threw up in my mouth a little," he squeaked, huddling into his duckies.
He refused to get out of the car for breakfast. By mid-afternoon, the tank was getting low, and Dean's stomach was rumbling.
"We have to stop," Dean insisted. "My Baby is hungry, I'm hungry, and that gigantic Sasquatch body has to be hungry too."
"So, find us a drive-through," replied Sam tersely.
"There isn't one," Dean pointed out, nodding at a sign, "But there's a roadhouse up ahead."
"I'm not getting out of the car!" Sam reiterated.
"Fine, you can sit here and go hungry, it's up to you. Ducky." Dean pulled off the road, parked, and stepped out of the car. "It's practically empty," he reported, scanning the place through the large windows. "Come on, Hiawatha."
"I so hate you," mumbled Sam, clutching his blanket.
The waitress gave them a sidelong look as she took their order. "Don't mind him," Dean told her, Killer Smile blinding, "He has Doingo Syndrome."
"Um, I've never heard of that," she said doubtfully.
"It means he has an anxiety disorder," Dean went on, warming to his theme, ignoring Sam's furious Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep) burning into him. "He thinks he looks repulsive, but he's getting therapy for it, and part of the treatment involves going out without a shirt on, but he has the blanket so he doesn't get too overwhelmed. He's good, he's on medication."
The waitress smiled at Sam, and he gave her a sheepish little smile back. "Well, for what it's worth," she told him, grinning, "I don't think you have anything to worry about. And I'm happy to have you shirtless on my shift!" She winked as she left.
"My revenge will be terrible," muttered Sam, "You will not see it coming, and you will curse the day you ever heard of Doingo Syndrome…"
Their waitress must've blabbed, because the waitresses took it upon themselves to assist with Sam's 'therapy' – a different giggling girl came to their table each time, making reassuring comments about how he had nothing to worry about, and that, clothed or shirtless, he was just fine by them. He gave them tortured smiles, and thanked them for their concern.
"That's so sweet," sighed Dean, "They just want you to feel better about yourself…"
"If you don't shut up and stop laughing at me, I will gut you with a spoon," grumped Sam.
Dean looked at him seriously. "I'm not laughing," he said, straight-faced, "This is actually no laughing matter…."
"Damn right it isn't."
"…Because it's not funny for the thousands of men who suffer the tragic effects of Doingo Syndrome, it cripples them, undermines their confidence, destroys their lives – I blame women's magazines, giving people unrealistic expectations about what they should look like…"
"Shut up, Dean."
"You gotta learn to love the skin you're in, bro, it's what's inside that counts, no matter how repulsive you are on the outside – you know I love you just as you are."
"Jerk."
Sam was finishing his coffee when he felt a small tug on his blanket. He looked down to see two earnest eyes look up at him from under a mass of curly blonde hair. "I like your blankie," the small girl told him.
"Er, thanks," he stuttered. "I, um, like it too," he added, as she seemed to expect something more.
"I had a blankie," she told him, as if offering information of great import, "It had ducks on it. But it was green."
"Really? Wow. That sounds like a cool blankie," he said, smiling a little desperately.
"Mommy put my blankie away," she continued a little wistfully, "She said I'm too big for a blankie now." She looked him up and down critically, in a way that would probably be detrimental to a patient with Doingo Syndrome. "You're big."
"Er, yeah, I guess so." agreed Sam, scowling at Dean, who was openly giggling.
"You're probably too big for a blankie too, you know," she said accusingly.
"Um… well…" Sam had no idea why he felt compelled to defend himself to a four-year-old. "When you get to be as big as me, you can decide for yourself whether you want a blankie or not."
"Really?" Her eyes grew wide, then narrowed in suspicion. "Why do you need a blankie anyway?"
"It's okay, sweetie," Dean cut in smoothly, "He has a… condition. He's sick. In his head. And, the blankie will make him better!"
She didn't look completely convinced, but nodded. "I hope you get better soon," she said.
"Yeah, me too," Sam grinned a little desperately, as a mortified woman's voice rang across the diner.
"Emily! Emily! You come away from there, and stop pestering that man!" The woman's eyes shot them a look of apology mixed with confusion.
"It's okay, Mommy," called the child brightly, in that loud voice that small children use to convey inappropriate information in public places, "He's big, but he's sick in the head, so he's allowed to have a blankie."
Dean dropped his head to the table, and wheezed with stifled laughter.
"Kill me now," sighed Sam. He finished his coffee, and rose. "I'll meet you out at the car," he announced, "And I'm not getting out again until we stop." He drew his blanket around himself, and headed for the restroom, with as much dignity as a man in a fluffy blue ducky blankie can manage.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam didn't want to stop, but in the end they didn't really have a choice: the weather was deteriorating, and they were both tired – the Hunt for the Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine had been a tough one, so in the end they pulled into a motel of their preferred cruddy standard.
"At least we have confirmation that it wasn't just the towels in the other place," Sam called gloomily from the bathroom as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror; the towel he'd wrapped around himself barely clung to his hips, threatening to go south no matter how high or tightly he wrapped it.
"So, you're not imagining it," Dean agreed, "Which is helpful to know, seeing as many doctors won't even acknowledge that Doingo Disease is a real illness, and…"
"Dean! Shut! Up!" An angry, shaggy head appeared around the door, glaring daggers.
Dean held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay," he placated, "Calm down. Tomorrow, we'll hit Bobby's and pick his brain. You know," he went on, "I always hoped that one day we'd get a job that involved strippers. I just never thought it would be my own baby brother."
Sam reappeared, clutching the waistband of his sweatpants, which seemed seemed as equally determined to escape as his jeans. "It's really annoying," he complained, "I can't even brush my teeth without worrying that I'm about to flash myself."
"I'm wondering if it's some bizarre manifestation of an unconscious desire to take your pants off," Dean ruminated. "You know, that freaky brain of yours, it's been capable of some freaky stuff before. Maybe this is another aspect of that."
Sam cocked an eyebrow doubtfully. "So, I was fed demon blood as a baby, and now, instead of visions, or freaky powers, I've got… spontaneously self-removing trousers?" He frowned. "Call me unimaginative, but I'm having trouble seeing how that was supposed to help me be the ruthless leader of the Armies Of Hell."
"Well, who knows how demons' minds really work?" shrugged Dean. "It might be an inspirational thing. You were supposed to do it during your speeches, rallying your troops. 'We will take our rage, we will take our hatred, we will storm the Gates of Heaven and lay waste to all Creation, and the Firmament itself will tremble beneath our feet, and now here's a quick look at my junk, okay let's go'."
Sam sat down heavily on his bed. "I can only be grateful you were never called in to choreograph the Apocalypse."
"It's a plausible explanation, little bro. You need to get laid, Sam."
Sam dropped his head into his hands. "Why is it that every time something freaky happens, you interpret it as a sign that I need to get laid?"
"It's a God-granted talent," Dean said airily. "Big brother knows best."
"Right now, the only thing I'm interested in sleeping with is my pillow." Sam climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up.
The promptly slid themselves down.
"What the…?" he grabbed a handful of blanket, yanking the covers up to his chin. The minute he let go, they slithered to the end of the bed.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he groaned. He glared at Dean. "Don't you say a fucking word," he growled.
"Not a peep, bro, not a peep," sniggered Dean, crawling into his own bed.
Sam wrapped himself in his ducky blanket, and eventually fell asleep. After a trying day, the warm fluffiness was strangely comforting.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Nearly ready to go, bro," Sam called to his brother early the next morning. He was packing his bag with one hand, and holding his jeans up with the other. "I'm just gonna call Bobby, tell him we're just a few hours away…"
He was interrupted by a scream from the bathroom.
Sagging pants forgotten, he had his gun in his hand and burst through the bathroom door before the scream ended.
"Dean!" he looked around for the threat, but all he saw was Dean, wearing a towel and a startled expression…
"Sam," his big brother rasped, clutching at his towel, "The most awful thing just happened…"
As he spoke the Awful Thing happened again.
Sam wasn't sure where to look.
The only explanation that suggested itself was that Dean – or at least his towel – was being possessed by Marilyn Monroe...
Reviews are the Soft Fluffy Ducky Blankets on the Bed Of Life!