As suggested by aeicha, bunnies it is...

Chapter 3

"What the hell…?" Sam gaped in confusion as Dean let out a little shriek.

"I don't know!" his older brother said, wild-eyed, "I was just drying myself off, and trying to decide whether I need to shave, and it started to…aaaaagh!" He clutched at the front of his towel; the rest of it billowed up around him.

"Oh, God," Sam averted his eyes and looked down at the floor. "Er, I don't see any vents in the floor, and it doesn't feel like there's a draft here…"

"That's easy for you to say!" wailed Dean as his towel waved gracefully about him in some undetectable air current.

"You look kind of like Marilyn Monroe, in 'The Seven-Year Itch," Sam noted offhandedly.

"That's very flattering, Sam," Dean ground out between clenched teeth. "I was thinking Kelly LeBrock in 'The Woman In Red', but I'll take what I can get. At least I'm not Gene Wilder."

"No, your legs are much nicer than his would've been, I'm sure," chortled Sam. He quickly swallowed the laugh when Dean scowled at him.

"This is not funny in the least, Sam," he rumbled dangerously. The menacing effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact he had a pale apricot towel wafting up around his ears, as though a pet jellyfish had been waiting patiently all day and was now enthusiastically welcoming its merman home from his hard day at the shipwreck. "My damned towel keeps trying to escape!"

"Okay, well, set it free – if it comes back to you, it's yours forever, if it doesn't, it was never yours to start with," suggested Sam, provoking an even more impressive scowl.

"I'd wipe that grin off your face, if I could spare a hand for just a second…"

"No, really, you're not having any luck with the towel," explained Sam, "Why don't you just leave it, and get dressed. Don't look at me like that, I have no interest on perving at you!"

"Glad to hear it," muttered Dean. "All right, I'll come out and get dressed. You will wait by your bed. Looking at the wall."

"This from the man who has worn his shorts on his head whilst singing praises to the Gods Of Whisky and demanding that I join in," tutted Sam. He dodged out of the bathroom, narrowly avoiding the end of a flicked towel.

He heard Dean stomp across the room to his own bed, muttering deadly imprecations against the Fates, who clearly had nothing to do with their lives except sit around and devise ever more annoying ways to piss him off. "When I find out what's causing this," Dean told him, "I am going to find out whose fault it is, because I won't feel better until I've killed somethiiEEEEEEK!"

"Dean!" Sam whipped around the moment he heard his brother start to shriek. Dean was in the process of falling heavily to the carpet, where he landed flat on his back, feet in the air, gasping for breath. His jeans whipped themselves off his legs, and fluttered gently down onto the bed. Sam rushed to his side, helping him sit up.

"Just breathe, bro, you're just winded," he reassured, as Dean gasped and wheezed, as much from moral and sartorial outrage as from having all the air knocked out of his lungs.

"Fu… fu… fu… " he gasped, "Fu… fucking… pants… possessed!"

"I don't know if they are," argued Sam, but Dean was insistent. They tried throwing salt, holy water and a handful of iron shot onto the jumping jeans, to no effect. The EMF meter didn't pick anything up. "I think it must be you."

"Crap," said Dean, staggering to his feet and deploying Dean Winchester Coping Mechanism Number One: If I Don't Like It I'll Pretend It Isn't Happening. "They probably just need washing. Like yours. I'll just get dressed, and we can get gooooOOOOOOH!" The pair of sweatpants Dean had tried to don did the same thing, yanking his feet out from under him and sailing up off his legs while he fell to the floor again.

"I… really… hate… that," he panted, glaring at the truculent trousers.

"I don't think it's possession," reiterated Sam, "I think we should get to Bobby's, see what he thinks."

"Right." Dean looked around, then headed for Sam's bag. "I'll just have to wear one of your oversized capable-of-covering-a-moose shirts, and pretend it's a tunic, but I suppose nobody will seeEEEEEEEP!" The shirt flung itself vigorously off him before he even had a chance to pull it down.

"I don't think it's going to work, bro," Sam told him.

"I can't drive without a shirt and pants!" complained Dean, "What if we get pulled over? What if someone calls the cops? People get arrested for driving around without enough clothes on!"

"Well, we'll just have to head for Bobby's, avoiding doing anything that might attract attention, and not stop until we get there," Sam shrugged.

"Sam, I cannot drive like this!" Dean was adamant.

"Okay, okay," Sam told him, "We'll just have to improvise… I have an idea."

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

"I hate your idea," grumbled Dean, sounding petulant. "Your idea totally sucks."

"Well, you were right," Sam pointed out, "People don't think to donate blankets when it's not very cold, and that was all they had that was big enough."

"I don't like it," insisted Dean. Nonetheless, he huddled deeper into his cherry pink blanket. It had a motif of happy bunnies having tea parties. "Even The Hoff groping a tiger would be better than this."

They drove in silence for a while until Sam frowned at the dash. "Gas is getting low," he observed, "We'd better pull over, fill up."

Dean groaned. "Nooooo," he pleaded to an uncaring universe, "No, I am not getting out of the car!"

"That's what I said yesterday, and look how much attention you paid to me," Sam told him, just a small amount of smugness creeping into his tone.

"Well, you can pump the gas, I'm staying here," grumped Dean.

"Dude, is your bottom lip sticking out?" asked San.

"No, this is my expression of resolute, manly determination," Dean clarified.

"Oh, you mean a pout."

"Bitch."

They pulled into a gas station, Dean keeping up a running monologue of complaint while issuing demands for coffee and donuts. Sam started the gas pump, hooking the filler cap into the pump trigger, and headed off to deal with the catering.

"And see if they have pie!" Dean called after him. "And M&Ms!" He retreated into his bunny tea-party blanket, listening to the gas pump tick over…

A minute or so later, a gushing noise alerted him that something was wrong. He opened the door, and peered out; the smell of gas was overwhelming.

"Aw, hell," he groused, grabbing his blanket and scrambling for the pump. A faulty cut-out switch was sending fuel spurting back out of the tank, to run down the Impala's paintwork and fender. He shut the pump off, replaced the cap, grabbed the water can to rinse the spilled gas away, then turned to the store.

"What are you staring at?" he barked at the matronly lady at the next pump, as he gathered his blanket about him like a determined Roman tribune girding himself with his toga in preparation before going to face down a hostile Senate.

Somebody's negligence had threatened his Baby's well-being. Dean was not happy. His eyes narrowed as he made a beeline for the store.

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

"Okay, that's two coffees, the donuts, the M&Ms, the Doritos, and pump number… er, is he with you?" Sam looked up, and followed the cashier's line of sight. Dean, his expression promising murder and his blanket flapping around his knees, was striding towards them.

"Yeah, yeah, he's with me," answered Sam, taking in the general ambiance of 'Somebody Will Die Today' that Dean was broadcasting in the megawatt range.

"Er, is he… okay?" asked the cashier. "He looks a bit… um…"

Sam waved a hand airily. "Oh, he's fine," he smiled, "He has… Doingo Syndrome. It's a condition that affect the, er, skin, and it means he can't always wear regular clothes. And it, it affects the brain, too. Mood swings. But he's okay, he's on medication for it."

"He looks kind of angry," ventured the cashier. Sam hoped it wasn't a panic alarm that the man's hand was straying to.

"No, no, he's not angry," Sam assured him, "He's just a bit… intense. He's a pussycat, really, I mean, he picked out his own blanket and everything. You can't make snap judgements about someone because they have an, um, illness. He's a lot better on the new meds. It's been more than a fortnight since he tried to chew through his restraints at night…"

The door banged open. Hurricane Dean (mechanical, petrochemical and financial outrage blowing at Force Eight with forecasts of gusts up to Force Nine in the immediate future) whirled in.

"Just how long have you been running a faulty pump with no cut-out on it?" he demanded, hitching his blanket more firmly into place. "My Baby got covered in gas!"

"Your… baby?" asked the cashier, looking bewildered.

"Yes! It went all over her! I washed off what I could, but where do you get off, letting people use faulty equipment?" Dean began to wave his arms around, then stopped, and grabbed at his blanket. Behind him, Sam semaphored 'Just humour him' to the cashier.

"Er, I'm sorry," the man stumbled, "I'll, er, put an out of order notice on it..."

"You better," growled Dean. "That could really have done some damage to her. AND to my wallet. You usually go around, charging people for gas that your stupid broken pumps spills? Huh? That your standard business practice? What else do you do, water down the coffee? Or put coffee in the water – because I'm pretty sure that whatever was in that water can was closer to coffee than what your damned machines squirt out. What next? I'll bet this chain is a major share holder in the company that makes the machines that puts more air than snack food in bags of corn chips! You got a nerve, pal." Dean was starting to sound a bit shrill; clearly, the whole self-removing clothes thing, and the morning's episode of rebellious raiment, was taking a toll on his nerves.

"Er, look, why don't we just, um, get going," suggested Sam as calmly as he could.

"Yeah, yeah," the cashier nodded vigorously, "Why don't you just, just go with him, and, and, and drive away. No charge for the gas or stuff, just, um, leave." He looked back to Sam. "Should he maybe take some pills or something?"

"That's an excellent idea," trilled Sam, "Come on, big bro, time for your medication, we don't want a relapse."

"What? What? I'm not taking any damned medication!" stormed Dean.

"It's one of the symptoms of Doingo Syndrome," Sam explained wistfully to the bemused cashier as Dean squawked in inarticulate ire. "An inability to recognise his own illness, or that anything is even wrong. Come on," Sam seized his brother's arm, cheerfully telling him, "We'd better get you back, or Matron won't sign you a day pass again for weeks."

"Jesus, Sam, what the fuck have you been smoking?" demanded Dean as his brother shepherded him back out the door, giving the cashier a quick thumbs up.

"Just get in the car, Dean," sighed Sam, shoving their provisions in after him.

"I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it," grumbled Dean, "Don't push me around!"

"Sorry, Dean."

"I am entirely capable of getting into the car by myself!"

"Yes, Dean."

"Just because my clothes won't stay on doesn't mean my brain has stopped working!"

"Yes, Dean."

"I'm still entitled to a minimum of autonomy and dignity, Sam, even if I'm being afflicted by some occult wardrobe malfunction."

"Yes, Dean."

"Good. And Sam?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Don't touch my blankie again."

Sam rolled his eyes, and started the engine. The trip to Bobby's suddenly seemed like it was going to take a lot longer.

Which would be the more intriguing mental picture/fan art, the Marilyn Monroe towel, or the bunny blankie? Share you thoughts, Denizens of the Jimiverse! We do seem to have a surfeit of Deangirls in here, compared to Samgirls. And definitely compared to Bobbywimmen. (Assorted Lurkers, Visitors and Casual Passers-Through are also welcome to vote).