I have been informed that Up There in the glorious YouSay, the correct terminology for what us Down Here would refer to as a 'Spoodle' is, in fact, a Cockapoo. Which is not to be confused with a Cockatoo. Although both of them could no doubt chew your house, ruin your laundry on the line, crap all over your yard and dig up your garden in a very noisy fashion. Cockapoos are a lot cuter, though, and far easier to forgive.
Chapter Seven
"Knock it off!" yapped Sam after Dean had blown past another car as a road narrowed from two lanes to one, "You can't risk getting pulled over before Bobby has a chance to get our IDs sorted out! Technically, right now, you count as unlicenced."
"It was his fault," Dean grinned smugly at the rear view mirror, where a most discombobulated young man in a modern car was trying to work out how an ageing Volvo driven by a woman who was more concerned about checking her hair in the mirror had beaten him off the lights with a throaty roar, "He was gonna try and force me outta the way." He patted the dash. "We eat young asshats like that for breakfast, don't we, Baby?" The engine rumbled reassuringly. "She still herself under the disguise, and they got no idea who they're messing with. Serves him right, for judging a girl on her looks alone."
"Dean, nobody in their right mind would try to force this car out of the way," Sam pointed out, "It's built like a tank!"
"And purrs like a she-lion," Dean kept grinning unrepentantly.
"Lions don't purr," Sam snapped. "They can only roar."
"Well, so can my Baby," Dean was a cheerfully unsquelchable motorhead, even in a female body. "Some things are clearly too important to be messed with." He gave Sam a frown. "But I am still never goin' to forgive you for doing this to my Baby. I will have my revenge, on you and Bobby."
"That's probably not a good idea," Sam suggested, "The last time you tried to avenge yourself on Bobby for some perceived wrong-doing, you were the one who ended up with green hair."
Dean spent the rest of the trip complaining about the casual attitude with which Sam and Bobby had violated his car, then the first trip was to a lingerie store, where Dean seemed suspiciously at ease surrounded by racks of women's undergarments, as a birdlike old lady with glasses on a lanyard who was no doubt somebody's Great Aunt Muriel wielded her tape measure with the efficiency of an expert.
"This lady would like to be fitted too, please," Dean smiled at another Great Aunt Muriel clone who was hovering discreetly.
"Uh, no, it's okay, I'm good," Sam felt his shoulders hunch involuntarily, feeling suddenly inexplicably defensive.
"No it's not, sis," Dean dropped his voice, "You might think you're fine, but I'm tellin' ya, I don't want to spend the next week havin' to look at my brother's high beams…"
Sam let out a squeak and crossed his arms.
"Don't mind her, she's just shy," Dean smiled, lifting his arms and turning, "But it's just what you need, Samantha, something to make you feel pretty."
'Samantha' gave 'Dee' a brief but concentrated Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep) as the other fitter moved in, tape in her hand and reassuring smile on her face.
"There's no need to be shy," she said in a calm and businesslike tone, "We're all girls here, and you don't have anything I haven't seen before."
"I bet they can find you something to really maximise those assets," suggested Dean breezily.
Reluctantly, Sam lifted his arms to be measured, and started running improbable if amusing payback scenarios through his head.
Rejecting anything too lacy, too racy, or with too much structural engineering for his liking, Great Aunt Muriel v2.0 quickly furnished him with some no-nonsense bras that he thought he could probably live with for a week or so. However, 'Dee' was taking longer.
"Are you gonna be much longer, uh, Dee?" asked Sam.
"I can't decide." 'Dee' popped her head out of the curtained changing booth, and held out two items that looked like they might've been designed by a building firm more accustomed to box girder construction. "I like the lace on this one, but the colour of this one is amazing. What do you think?"
"Uh," Sam eyed the items as though they were poisonous snakes, "They look kind of, uh, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "Fortified. Like you're gettin' ready to go jousting, or something."
"Ladies with bigger chests are better off with something more supportive," supplied Great Aunt Muriel v1.0, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "We ladies with less up front can get away with a lot more."
"I'll have 'em both," 'Dee' decided, retreating behind the curtains once more, "Oh, hey, did you say there were matching panties for this one?"
When 'Dee' was finally satisfied that she had procured sufficient underwear, they headed for the Goodwill, intent on finding some more suitable clothing.
"None of my tees fit me," Dean sighed ruefully, looking down at the shirt stretched across his impressive chest. "Yours do, but…"
"What do you mean, mine do?" demanded Sam.
"Well, when it became obvious that mine didn't fit, I tried on one of yours," Dean explained, "But let's face it, I don't want to wear something as girly as one of your shirts."
Sam stared at him. "Dean, right now, you are about as girly as it's possible to get, without going for implants in some ridiculous size."
"Yeah, but, but," Dean clarified, "Your clothes are girly because you wear 'em, and you're girly. I'll need clothes that are properly girly."
"We're only gonna be, uh, girlified for a week or so," Sam reminded him, "So what we really need is practical, 'cause when this job is done, this stuff will either go into the attic at Bobby's, or straight back to Goodwill. Except this thing," He wiggled, and tweaked at a bra strap, "This, I will salt and burn."
"You gotta suffer to be beautiful, Sammy," Dean smiled.
"I don't care about beautiful, I'd be happier about comfortable."
"Well, I aint spendin' an entire week hangin' with a frump," declared Dean, hitching at his own bra, "Besides which, don't you complain to me about comfortable, you wear the one with underwires, then come and talk to me about… oh!" He stopped dead.
"What? What?" Sam looked around for some threat, "What is it?"
"Look! There!" Dean pointed at the window of the shop they were passing. It was a shoe shop. "See those boots? Those are totally my boots!"
"Boots?" Sam blinked, following his brother's avid gaze. "What do you want wit-HOLY CRAP!"
"I know, right?" trilled Dean.
"Look at the price!" yelped Sam.
"I am!" 'Dee' bounced on 'her' feet. "On special! It's like, it's a sign! I'm meant to have those boots!"
"Dean," Sam growled, "You do not need those boots."
'Dee' produced a pout that would have men scrambling to offer to buy her drinks, or possibly make trout want to kiss her. "I don't care if I need them, Sam," 'she' said, "I want them." Without another word, 'she' turned on her heel, and headed into the shop.
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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of disposable income is probably in want of more clothes.
Having lived with a woman, albeit briefly, Sam knew that apparel shopping was something that many of them did differently to most men: they could approach clothes shopping not so much as a trip made for the purpose of acquiring a particular item, but an excursion, an adventure, an exploration, which might turn up nothing, or might yield an unexpected discovery to the intrepid shopper. Part expedition, part pilgrimage, the act of shopping was just as important as the actual purchasing; should there be nothing purchased, the trip could still be deemed a resounding success, according to a complex formula taking into account number of items tried on, number of shops visited, number of delighted exclamations from fellow shoppers, number of coffees and cookies consumed, and a host of other factors that Man ought not wot of.
Sam had never had any interesting in wotting of it – he just accepted it as yet one more feminine mystery that he would never wot of.
Dean, however, had not just wotted of it, he had wotted of it until Sam was exhausted just watching the wotting.
"Are we done yet?" His higher-pitched female voice came out sounding decidedly whining, "My feet are killing me."
"Mine aint," Dean didn't even look up from where he was contemplating two different shades of lipstick streaked across the back of his hand, "It's like these boots were made for me." He held up two small tubes. "What do you think?" 'Devil Woman', or 'Steel Venus'?"
"If there's one called 'Scarlet Whore' go with that," griped Sam.
"You think?" Without missing a beat, Dean picked up another tube, and frowned. "I didn't think that one worked that well with my colouring, but maybe I should try it again. Actually, it would probably work better on you…"
"That was a joke!" snapped Sam, "Look, we've got all we need, we're practically out of money, can we at least get something to eat?"
"What's the matter, Sammy," Dean grinned as he headed for the counter, "Bra too tight?"
"Don't mention the b-word," growled Sam, hitching at the offending item again.
As they left the cosmetics counter, Dean checked his watch. "Oh, hey, I gotta get to my appointment," he noted.
"What appointment?" asked Sam.
"My waxing," Dean replied. "So here, you go drop this off at the car," He handed his collection of bags over, "Then go get lunch, nerd it up, do some research, eat all the lettuce you like, treat yourself, buy yourself an entire tomato and eat it all by yourself…"
"What? Waxing? Dean!" Sam struggled to control the collection of shopping bags as Dean fished the keys out of a pocket. "You can't be serious, why can't we ju-ULP!"
Sam's last sentence cut off as Dean carefully put the car keys in his teeth. "You're the bestest bestie a girl could have, bro," she grinned, "I'll catch up with you later!"
With nothing else to do, Sam turned and headed back to the car, wrangling shopping bags and thinking uncharitable thoughts.
I hope all his follicles catch cold.
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Some coffee and some food improved Sam's mood considerably, although he was still idly contemplating wildly improbably revenge schemes as he tapped at his laptop.
I could vandalise those boots. Or maybe just hide one. Melt his lipstick. Or dip 'em in chilli sauce, maybe. Hide his bras. No, wait, put itching powder in his bras. Rub IcyHot into 'em? Hey, what about replacing them with identical ones all a size too small…
Eventually, his cell buzzed, and he sent his location to Dean, who showed up looking irritatingly cheerful, and carrying yet another shopping bag.
"So, do you feel like a pretty, pretty princess?" asked Sam tartly. "All primed and primped?"
"The Living Sex God does not primp, Sam," Dean informed him, "It's all about a minimum standard of personal grooming."
Sam didn't believe what he was hearing. "This from the guy who can get four wears out of one pair of shorts?"
"The whole stubble thing looks good on male me," Dean shrugged. "The mohair stockings, not so good on female me." He looked at Sam critically. "You know, I think that an eyebrow shaping would really bring your eyes out." His lips pulled into a moue of disapproval. "And I really think you need to do something with your legs too, if I'm honest."
"No!" Sam bleated, "Nobody is smearing hot wax on me and tearing hair out of my body!"
"I could do your brows for you, at least," Dean's fingers twitched as if they were just itching to start plucking.
"No, you weirdo! Keep your damned tweezers away from me!"
"Huh," Dean sniffed, "You find your first chin bristle, you'll sing a different tune." He ordered himself some food, then leaned over to look at the laptop. "So, what are we lookin' at here?"
"Fan fiction," replied Sam.
Dean sat back with a small yip of unpleasant surprise.
"Get used to it," Sam told him matter-of-factly, "We're gonna be reading it, hearing it, discussing it, and writing it, so you'd better learn at least to pretend that you like it."
"You didn't say we'd have to write it!" Dean wailed, "When did you decide we'd have to write it?"
"Since that's what this convention is all about," Sam said.
"This aint fair!" Dean sounded forlorn, "I aint gettin' paid enough to write stories about, about, about that!"
"It's not just the, er, you know, slash stuff," Sam informed him, "It's not a single genre being targeted. The common factor here seems to be, well, just plain bad writing. It doesn't matter what type of story you write, so long as it's written well, you're safe. All the women who've been targeted, their writing is, well, if I'm charitable, their writing is crap."
"That's charitable?" marvelled Dean.
"Yeah, that's charitable," confirmed Sam. "It's a combination of bad English expression – lousy spelling, lousy grammar – and bad story-telling that links all the victims so far," Sam explained. "So, if we go along, and write appalling stuff and put it out there for the others to critique, we should be able to draw out whatever is doing this."
"I hate this job," moaned Dean, "It hasn't even started, and I hate this job." He looked down at his feet. "At least I got these boots out of it."
"You'll only be able to wear 'em for a week," Sam said with a stab of malice.
"But for that week, I'll be awesome," Dean found a smile, then turned back to Sam. "You know, we could go back to the salon, get 'em to thread your eyebrows."
"No."
"Or at least do something about your pits. Sis."
"I said, no."
"And I'm tellin' you this as your best friend, I'm guessin' your bikini line could use some help."
"No!"
"The Amazonian Rainforest look is so eighties."
"Dean…"
""It's out with the rainforest, and in with the Brazilian Beach…"
"Oh God, I hate you."
Dean - whatever his gender, he is able to be insufferable. He could be insufferable underwater. Hell, he could be insufferable under concrete. I don't get the whole shopping thing, I'm afraid - I hate it. Hate hate hate hate hate vomit spew.
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