Oh, I has had teh sick quite badly, as in, bronchitis-bordering-on-pneumonia badly. Blerg. Typing is just too tiring. But this little plot bunny - his name, according to LeeMarieJack, is Alfredo-Constanza, aka Alfie-Con - managed to convince me to write another chapter. Zoiks, sounds like I've got a Mob bunny on my case this time; maybe he'll just make me offers that I can't refuse...
Anyway, as you read this story, bear in mind that, in the Jimiverse, we encourage everybody to play together nicely, because really we're all just here for the lulz. Nobody gets sent to Hell for writing slash, if that's your thang. However, if your writing is appallingly ghastly, no matter what genre you prefer, you are headed Down South - the moment you die, the Spellhounds will come to drag you away. (See what I did there?)
Chapter Three
Usually, Sam derived a small stab of satisfaction from being right about something, especially pertaining to his brother. However, under the circumstances, knowing that he was right didn't make the aftermath any easier, or Dean's reaction any less melodramatic.
The Living Sex God's face went from Leer and Cheer and Cavalier to Sneer to Fear to Get Outta Here as Sam explained what he'd found out about a situation that required the attention of Hunters, and it became clear that it was not so much hot women writing stories needing saving from murder as stories needing saving from women murdering writing.
"Who cares?" humphed Dean, waving his arms around, "A bunch of women writin' those stories, and some of 'em end up dead, what's the big deal?"
"Dean, it is a big deal," Sam rolled his eyes, "What's happening isn't natural."
"You're tellin' me," snorted Dean, "The sort of things they write about, they aint at all natural, I mean, they do know that we're straight, right?"
"Dean, that's not what I meant…"
"And it's clear in the books that we're brothers, yeah?"
"That's not what I'm getting at…"
Although given that hair and the way you're so frightened of the opposite sex, I can see why they might get the idea that you bat for the other team, totally understandable mistake, but we're still brothers…"
"Dean!" Sam snapped, shooting his brother a stern Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "This is a job for Hunters."
"Why intervene?" whined Dean.
"Because," Sam answered through clenched teeth, "These women are not monsters, they are human beings."
"Says you," muttered Dean.
"Idjit," growled Bobby, slapping Dean upside the head, "Your brother's right. Just because they're doin' somethin' you don't understand and don't like, that don't mean they're monsters. Just because you don't like 'em, that don't mean they don't need saving."
"Saving people, Hunting things, the family business, ringing any bells?" prompted Sam. "These women are the victims here."
"Has anybody stopped to think that actually we might be the victims?" Dean said plaintively.
"Look, as far as they know, we're not even real," Sam pointed out, "All they're doing is writing stories, for their own amusement, about a couple of guys who aren't even real."
"All they're doing?" Dean sounded incredulous. "All they're doing? That's like saying, oh, don't mind that little tinpot fundamentalist dictator there, his regime's only developing nuclear capability, he's actually the victim you know, because everybody else keeps teasin' him about wearin' a dish cloth on his head…"
"Look," Sam clung to his temper, "You're over-reacting here. Some fugly is turning women to murdering each other. What those women are doing in their ordinary personal lives is irrelevant. If they were used car salesmen, we'd go help. If they were Wall Street traders, we'd go help. If they were TV evangelists, we'd go help. If they were in Congress, well, we'd probably still go help…"
Dean gave them a look that evoked a small child being told that they had to greet Great Aunt Agapanthus politely, indeed, fondly, when she came to visit, and would further be required to offer themselves up for kissing, no matter how impressive and bristly her moustache might be. "Is this… is it absolutely necessary for us to do this?"
Keeping his face as blank as possible, Sam played the trump card he'd been holding. "Well, I guess we don't have to," he conceded, giving Bobby a bland look.
"Good," humphed Dean in relief.
"I'll just pass the details on to somebody else," said Bobby nonchalantly, "Lemme make a few calls, see who's free, who's in the area, and…"
"Nyaaaaaaargh!" yodelled Dean in horror. "You can't tell anybody else about this!"
"Why not?" asked Sam.
"Because, if you tell somebody about this, they'll find out!" Dean yelped.
"Uh, yeah," Sam nodded, "That's generally the idea about givin' people intel, letting them know as much as possible about the situation before they walk into it."
"But, but, you can't!" Dean persisted, "They'll find out, they'll find out about the stories, and the women, and, and, the women, and the stories, and, and, and…"
"And?" prompted Sam.
"They'll… they'll laugh at us," Dean finished plaintively, "They'll laugh at us. And they'll tell other Hunters. You know how Hunters like to gossip, especially about each other, they're worse than football players' girlfriends. And everybody will know. And they'll laugh at us."
Bobby turned a naively confused expression on him. "Well, this has gotta be taken care of, son, so if you don't wanna do it…"
There was a brief pause.
"You assholes," Dean muttered, "You conniving, plotting, scheming, double-teaming assholes."
"Sometimes, boy, all the choices are complete shit," Bobby told him matter-of-factly, "And all you can do is find the one that sucks the least. In this case, you takin' care of it is the least worst option."
Dean let out a sad little moan. "Will there be any hot women there?" he asked sadly.
"There will be lots of women," Sam assured him, "So, chances are, some of 'em will be hot."
"Lookin' for the single daisy growin' on this heap of crap," Dean sighed. "All right, then, so, we gotta go save some crazy women, which will involve attending a gathering of crazy women, and having to read or hear some of the stuff read by crazy women. At least from here, my day can't get any worse."
"Well, uh," Sam scratched his head, "You're partly right there, at least."
Dean gave him a long, careful, resigned look. "So," he sighed, "You're determined to drag us off to this gathering of crazy women, which only leaves the bit about my day not getting worse… crap," he groaned, "What is it that you're not telling me?"
Sam and Bobby exchanged a look. "Well, uh, think about it," Sam said eventually, "We're heading off to a gathering of fanfic writers, who are all interested in the Supernatural books. Really interested. As in, obsessive about detail interested."
"What is this?" demanded Dean, "First, you tell me we gotta go do this job, now you're tryin' to scare me off?"
"No, no," Sam cut in hurriedly, "What I'm trying to say is, we'll be heading into a gathering of women who are kind of frighteningly well acquainted with the Edlund Carver books."
"And?" Dean prompted.
"Well, think about it," Sam went on, gradually assuming the air of somebody with an albumin allergy walking across trays of eggs barefoot, "A whole bunch of avid 'Supernatural' fans. What happens when we show up? A couple of guys, so tall, in a 1967 Chevy Impala, with a couple of Rottweilers in tow?"
Sam let the implications sink in for a moment.
"They'll think we're there LARPING, or," his tone turned ominous, "That we've been provided as some sort of… entertainment."
Various expressions chased each other across Dean's face, as he contemplated the various scenarios that might arise – on the one hand, he had no problem with the idea of 'entertaining' women. On the other hand, what a bunch of Beckys might demand of two 'Winchesters' as 'entertainment' made him shudder.
"So, what are you suggesting?" he asked finally.
"A Hunter relies on blending in," Bobby told him firmly, "Operatin' under the radar, not drawin' any attention. You know that – you stand out, you attract attention. Any sort of attention can make doin' your job more difficult. So, you gotta find a way to blend in."
"But, these people are mostly women, yeah?" Dean sounded confused. "You're sayin' we've gotta blend in, then you're sayin' we've gotta go join in a meet-up of women, and while Francis here could pass for a girl on the inside, there's no way the Living Sex God can help standing out in a room full of women…"
"Uh-huh," nodded Bobby, "You got it exactly right."
"So unless you got some scheme for…"
Dean's train of thought didn't exactly derail, but it did come to a grinding halt, brakes locking, wheels screeching, boilers hissing and whistle screaming shrilly.
"No," he said firmly, "No, just no. It'll never work. Maybe in the movies – it worked in Mrs Doubtfire, or Tootsie, or even Tango and Cash, and fuck knows how in Junior, and let's not even talk about The Crying Game, but come on! In reality? Not even with a close shave and an inch-thick layer of foundation. Not even if we claimed to be East German basketballers. Not even if we claimed to be related to Ronnie. There's no way we could pass as women!"
With an expression suggesting that he could hear eggshells cracking underfoot, Sam said, "We know. But we've, uh, we've got an idea…" He threw a desperate look at Bobby.
"Nobody's suggestin' that you try to disguise yourselves as wimmen," Bobby said firmly, "Although," he chuckled, "Those eyes, those lashes, those lips, if it weren't for the chin and the shoulders, boy…" he cleared his throat as Dean glared at him. "Anyway, no amount o' cosmetic special effects could disguise you two as female…"
There was a knock at the door, and he broke off to go and answer it.
"Sam," Dean rumbled, "What the fuck are you and that crazy old fart cooking up?"
"It wasn't my idea!" Sam yelped, "But I can't think of a better one! Least worst option, remember?"
Bobby entered the room accompanied by a woman. At least, they assumed she was a woman: she was about five-two, wearing a black dress and a head scarf, looked about a hundred and twenty years old and sported greying eyebrows and a moustache to rival Bobby's.
"Boys, this is Yiayia Panagopoulos," Bobby announced. "Yiayia, this is Sam, and this is Dean."
"Yiasou," the old woman grinned up at them, shaking hands firmly with an old hand that not only felt like it was made of walnuts, it could probably crack them too, "So, Sam? And Dean? Aaaaaah," she smiled up at Dean, "Very good, very good," she turned to Bobby. "This one, easy."
"Yiayia?" echoed Dean, giving Bobby a bemused look, "What sort of a name is Yiayia?"
"It's not a name, Dean," Sam said, "It's a title. It's Greek for 'Grandma'. It's also, uh, a term of respect given to a highly competent magissa. A Greek witch."
Dean looked down at her, as she reached out to give him a prod like a canny housewife assessing a choice cut of meat. "Ow! Hey, I hope you're not suggestin' that she has anything to do with this Hunt, because frankly, I'd have more chance of passin' as female than this… OW!"
"Ndropi sou!" snapped the old lady, giving Dean a smart slap on the backside before stepping back and eyeing the Winchesters critically. "Nai, I can help with this, Bobby," she told the old Hunter, "On the outside anyway," she scoffed, jerking a thumb at Dean, "This one's mouth, you're on your own."
"Situation normal, then," muttered Bobby. "Boys, Yiayia P aint here to go on the Hunt – she's here to provide your camouflage."
"Great," griped Dean, "She can weave me a ghillie suit from her chin bristles... OW!" He let out a yip of pain as he was slapped upside the head simultaneously by Bobby and the old woman. "No fair double-teamin' me!"
"Well, you just watch your mouth then, boy," Bobby said sternly. "Yiayia aint gonna dress you up – she's gonna work up a Tiresias spell for us."
Tiresias?" repeated Dean. "What's a Tiresias?"
"It's not a what, Dean, it's a who," sighed Sam, feeling the figurative eggshells crack underfoot, "Tiresias was a figure of Greek mythology. He angered the goddess Hera, so she did a spell on him."
"What sort of spell?" asked Dean, rubbing his ears.
There was no delicate way to explain it to the Living Sex God, so, as the metaphorical egg white oozed up between his toes, Sam just spat it out. "She turned him into a woman."
Oh well, we had to tackle this trope in the Jimiverse sooner or later. Help little Alfie-Con the plot bunny dictate more - feed him reviews because Reviews are the Severed Horse's Head In The Bed Of Life!
...
Er, maybe not. Let's think of them as the, uh, the Unexpected Greek Pastries At The Morning Tea Of Life. Yeah. Much better.