I can only reiterate what I've said before: the Denizens of the Jimiverse are a strange and depraved bunch...
If anybody is having trouble seeing Chaonea's fanart depiction of Dean and his Marilyn Monroe towel, you may have to log in to DeviantArt to unset the Adult Content filter. (Getting an account is very easy, and you can chose the designation 'Lurker'.) COMPLETELY worth the couple of minutes it takes, to see his utterly shell-shocked expression. Go on, you know you want to...
'Krumping' is a style of dance in which the dancer looks like they have biting ants crawling up their trousers. It seemed the most likely interpretation for the movements a tall man would make whilst his pants tore themselves off him.
You know, I've never even seen an episode of 'Jersey Shore', and I want to hunt them down and kill them...
But now, we return you to your program of G.W.N.
Chapter 5
It was the happiest day of his life.
Brittanica looked breathtaking in her hardbinding – he could not take his eyes off her indices while Reverend Thesaurus droned his way through the service.
"Do you, Samuel Winchester, take Brittanica to be your lawful wedded encyclopaedia, to have and to hold, to get and to grasp, to catch and to clutch, to receive and retain, to find and to fondle, to corner and to cuddle, to possess and to press, to secure and to squeeze, to procure and to pat..."
It was, everybody would later agree, a lovely wedding. Sam was pleased to see Bobby and Dean enjoying the occasion: Bobby was deep in conversation with a first edition of Alighieri's 'The Divine Comedy' (which was flipping its bookmark at him in a decidedly come-hither gesture) and Dean was getting up close and personal with a reprint of the pop-up Kama Sutra...
They were just sitting down to the delicious-looking Wedding Salad when one of the page boys - his nephew now, he realised - giggling with glee, shot across the dance floor, flapping his dust jacket - *flap-flap-flap* - with an irate-looking dictionary (his sister-in-law) chasing after him.
"Hee hee hee!" *flap-flap-flap*
"Come back here! Get back here! Jesus Christ, get the fuck back here!"
*Flap-flap-flap...*
Sam woke to the sound of his brother swearing. That, of itself, wasn't unusual.
He also woke up to the sight of his brother just having had a shower. That wasn't completely unusual, either.
However, he didn't ever recall waking up to his naked brother running up and down the hall dripping wet and chasing a towel that flapped along just above head height - *flap-flap-flap* - like a playful terry-towelling pterodactyl.
Sam recoiled, groaning. He did not need to see this...
"Don't just stand there, Samantha," demanded Dean, "Grab the damned thing!"
With a small distressed keening noise, Sam snatched the towel out of the air on its next swoop past their bedroom door.
"Dean, what the fuck?" was all his sleep-fogged brain could manage.
Dean grabbed the towel back from him. "Damned thing made a break for it the minute I started trying to dry myself off," he growled, glaring at the towel, which cheerfully attempted lift-off again as he wrestled it around his waist.
Sam adjusted his blanket. "If there's any mindbleach left over from last night, I'd like some now."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean eventually managed to dry himself enough to don his blanket, opting for a late Roman Empire casual toga after a hard day repelling the barbarians look rather than the gloomy Russian grandmother styling of the day before. Sam was sticking with the tried and true bug-in-a-rug look, ever-vigilant for unwelcome drafts.
The research effort reconvened in Bobby's living room after breakfast. It was slow, laborious and at times traumatising going: 'Supernatural' fansites included discussion forums, fanfics, fanart and some role-playing threads that bordered on disturbing. Somehow, the Winchesters managed to avoid having Bobby find any fanfics pairing him up with Crowley, because if this was a fan thing, they'd need the internet to find it; having Bobby drop the occult equivalent of a nuke on half the servers in North America would not help matters.
"I gotta tell ya," he confided as he trawled through a discussion that had run for six months, debating the significance of his hats without reaching any conclusions, "Some of these people are a bit, well, loopy seems a good word for it."
"I suppose it's keeping them off the streets, if nothing else," Dean sighed. "Imagine what sort of havoc people like that could cause if they actually banded together with a common purpose. It could be the end of life as we know it."
"I think I've found some who have banded together," mused Sam. "I'm sending you the link."
"L.E.W.D.: Loving Explicit Winchester Descriptions," read Bobby. "An action group dedicated to the G.W.N. movement."
"G.W.N.?" asked Dean.
"Gratuitous Winchester Nudity," Bobby elaborated, reading further. "Apparently, this is an online community that campaigns for more explicity written adult content to be included in Carver Edlund's writing."
"Yeah," confirmed Sam, "As far as I can make it out, they're a group who are unhappy about the way that Chuck writes about, er, intimate situations, or, um, states of undress, in his 'Supernatural' stories."
"Hey, I didn't know they were going to online content," Dean followed a link. "You can subscribe to get a live feed of his work as it's written, kind of real time." He frowned. "I should subscribe to that," he mused, "All the times I've wondered what the hell was happening with my life, and now I can find out on the internet..."
"Well, they want a more adult content style of writing," summarised Sam, scanning the screen. "More graphic exposition and descriptions of, um, us. It's the basis of their manifesto. 'Dean has screwed his way back and forth across the country for nearly two decades. RoboSam spend his days hunting, heaving and humping – it's time we had some real descriptions! If Great Aunt Muriel doesn't like it, she doesn't have to read it. We demand an end to all strategically positioned towels, bedclothes, and boxers!'."
"There's an online petition, and a form letter you can send to the 'Supernatural' publishing website," noted Dean.
"What's this?" muttered Sam, clicking yet another link, " 'Campaign Of The Month. Join our Singing Strategy!'."
"A what?" chorused Dean and Bobby.
"It says 'Singing Strategy'. Hold on... oh, okay, apparently, somebody has written a song. Members of L.E.W.D. have been videoing themselves singing it, and, er, sending it to Chuck's online publisher." He scanned the details. "The campaign kicked off just a few days ago... and they've had... holy crap, they've had thousands of people join in!" He followed another link. "Wow, they actually managed to crash a server with their submissions. 'Today we crashed the server; we're aiming to crash the stories! Keep up the good work, fellow L.E.W.D.-ers!'.". He looked up. "If it started a few days ago, then given a lag time to get it going, might there actually be something to this?"
"It might be," mused Bobby. "They're hoping to influence Chuck's writing, so they're bombarding him with requests to see more skin. They don't know that Chuck only writes what he sees, so to speak – if they are inadvertently managing some sort of Winchester nudity charm, it could be backfirin', and giving Chuck something to, er, look at, in accordance with their requests." He looked back at the page. "They do seem to be pretty... demanding."
"So, how the hell did a group of people manage to do this over the internet?" asked Dean.
"There's only one way to find out," Sam told him. "There's instructions for how to participate in the Singing Strategy: 'Follow this link to learn... The G.W.N. Song!'."
Dean gulped. "Oh God," he moaned, "I really don't think I want to hear this..."
Sam clicked the link.
It was a jaunty march tune, being played quite competently on the piano. The lyrics appeared on the screen to facilitate learning the song.
G.W.N.! G.W.N.!
Gratuitous Winchester Nudityyyyyyy!
Working on the car, or heading for a bar,
The Samgirls and the Deangirls all agreeeeeee,
While kicking demon butt, we'd like to see some smut,
O pay attention to our heartfelt pleeeeeeeea,
Chasing down a ghoul? Let's have a no-shirt rule!
Oh, give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyy!
We know they do the deed, you really must concede
That Dean, he does it very frequentlyyyyyyy,
While Sam does not, perhaps, as much as other chaps,
But when he does we really love to squeeeeee,
Yet every time they do hook up and follow through,
A sheet is always placed strategicallyyyyyyyy,
Okay, we've seen some chest; we want to see the rest!
Oh, give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyy!
We just don't give a damn if soulless RoboSam
Had no compassion for humanityyyyyyyyy.
When he was with the whore, we wanted to see more:
His jeans were barely fighting gravityyyyyyyyyy.
Now we will pout and scowl, until he drops the towel,
We know just what we really want to seeeeeeeeee -
We'll campaign and we'll push, to see that gorgeous tush,
Oh give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyyyy!
Now Dean's a ladies' man, and any time he can,
He likes to find some female companyyyyyyyyy,
He does the deed with feeling, dangling from the ceiling,
In a car, or spa, or up a treeeeeee,
But every time he does, the stories hedge and fuzz,
And hint about it euphemisticallyyyyyyyyy,
We want what Dean has got – we want to see the lot!
Oh give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyyyy!
Yes, giiiive – uuuuus –soooome – Wiiiiin – cheeeee – steeeer – nuuuu – diiiiiiit – yyyyyyyyyyy!
They sat in stunned silence as the last 'Ta-dah!' chord died away.
"That," Dean said finally, "That, is just... it's just...just..."
"Yeah," agreed Sam. It is."
Bobby clicked and followed links. "We need to see exactly what happened with this," he said.
"No, we don't," said Sam quickly, huddling into his blanket, "We really, really totally don't..."
L.E.W.D. had members and sympathisers all over the world.
Three twenty-somethings giggled their way through the song. "G.W.N.! G.W.N.!"
A matronly lady at an expensive desk. "Gratuitous Winchester Nudityyyyyyy!"
A group of office girls, obviously out for drinks, recording on a mobile phone. "Working on the car, or heading for a bar..."
A woman in surgical scrubs. "The Samgirls and the Deangirls all agree..."
Two grandmotherly types in cardigans. "While kicking demon butt, we'd like to see some smut..."
A woman in a formal gown and wearing a horned helmet, who was operatically trained. "O pay attention to our heartfelt pleeeeeeeea, la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaa!"
A girl in a wheelchair, clutching a bunch of balloons. "Chasing down a ghoul? Let's have a no-shirt rule!"
Half a dozen men in football uniforms, holding a sign saying 'Our Girlfriends Are Making Us Do This'. "Oh give us some Winchester nudityyyyyyy!"
Sam clutched his hands to his head. "Make it stop!" he moaned, rocking back and forth, "Make it stop!"
It got worse.
"G.W.N.! G.W.N.!
Donnez-nous Winchester nudityyyyyy!
Dans leur voiture grande, ou quand ils devient ronds,
Les Samfilles et les Deanfilles toutes disent 'Ouiiiiiii…"
"G.W.N.! G.W.N.!
Watashi-tachi kore wa hoshiiiiiiiiiiiii!..."
"Well, I guess that means I can't roll my eyes and say 'Only in America'," observed Bobby philosophically.
Dean just stared uncomprehending at the laptop in front of him. "How?" he finally asked in a distant voice, "Just... how? How the hell have a bunch of crazed fangirls..."
"And their footballer boyfriends," noted Sam.
"Yeah, and their footballer boyfriends, and their fucking grandmothers, from the look of it... how the fuck did they manage to cast any sort of spell?"
"Well, spell-casting is a funny thing," Bobby theorised, "It started off with women. Women are the socialisers, the networkers, the organisers. Why do you think witches so often work in covens? It's the origins of the concept of the power of Sisterhood. Witches were doin' it a long time before nuns, Simone de Beauvoir, or Germaine Greer. The internet gives these people a sort of networking and connectivity unheard of before. The wording is important, the scansion, the tone… think of the wording of truly great speeches and liturgies. The Rite or Exorcism, for example. Sonorous, dignified, imposing. This is pretty assertive, musical, confidently expressed, and, well, to be honest, a bit humourous. I'm thinking it's entirely possible that they've managed to work a spell."
"Don't fuck with the Sisterhood," sighed Sam gloomily, slouching deeper into his blanket.
"Oh, God." Dean's face drained of colour. "So, what the hell do we do?"
"We gotta find the original one, the first one that was released into the wild, so to speak," Bobby said. "It could be important. Give us some clues as to how it got rolling, and how to undo it." He cast a sympathetic glance at the horrified Winchesters, snuggling into their blankets. "If you don't want to sit in front of a screen trawling YouTube for wimmen demanding that you down trou, I'll handle this. If someone will go make me some coffee."
"I'm on it," trilled Dean, practically bolting for the kitchen.
"Sam, you can help by goin' through my study, pull out all the books on herb lore, and the use of personal items in the occult," Bobby went on. "If somebody has set something off without realising it, they've probably done it with nothing but ordinary household items."
"I'm on it," Sam rose, clutching his blanket. "You know, I'm starting to see why children find these so reassuring." He paused. "Bobby, if there is some sort of spell making our clothes tear themselves off, why are we able to wear our, er, blankies?"
Bobby rolled his eyes. "It's so unlikely, the unwitting spell-casters probably never even imagined it, so the spell doesn't recognise blankies as 'clothes'. Let's face it, anybody who would write or read about two grown men getting' nekkid, and walkin' around in fluffy blankets, would probably live where the doors lock from the outside, and Nurse brings the meds every morning."
"Yeah, you're probably right," mused Sam. He headed for Bobby's study, grateful that some things were too weird for even fangirls to imagine.
He was not amused when he returned twenty minutes later, and caught Bobby quietly singing the Japanese version of The G.W.N. Song under his breath.
The really disturbing thing is that once I started writing the song, I could hear the tune playing as I wrote...
Reviews are the Horned Helmets on the Opera Singers of Life!