Chapter Eight
"All I'm sayin' is, there's nothing wrong with giving Mother Nature a bit of help," Dean said as they Volvoed their way back to Singer Salvage. "And you clearly got a lot to work with to start with. You're not as inherently drop-dead gorgeous as me, obviously, but you aint exactly unattractive, Sam."
"Gee, thanks, I think," huffed Sam.
"False modesty sucks, bro. Er, sis. Just a little bit of foundation," wheedled Dean, "A little bit of colour."
"I really don't think I can be bothered," Sam replied, "Anyway, why would I?"
"Well, to look your best and feel good about yourself, duh," Dean told him.
"Why? If there's going to be predominantly women at this conference, who am I trying to impress?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "I've really failed to teach you anything about women, haven't I?"
The WTF moments just keep on coming, Sam mused resignedly.
"Look, when a chick gets dressed up to go out, maybe with her pals, maybe to find a like-minded male for informed and consensual beautiful natural acts," Dean's perfectly arched eyebrows were just as lewdly gymnastic as his usual male ones, "She's most likely not trying to impress guys. If she's goin' out with a boyfriend, she doesn't need to impress him, and if she's looking for a bit of no-strings-attached fun, then it doesn't matter what she's wearin', all the guy is really interested in is her smile and her invitation…"
"Are you sayin' that if a woman walks into a bar with a neckline cut down to here and a skirt that barely covers her ass, you're not interested?" asked Sam doubtfully.
"Of course I'm interested!" Dean answered, "I can appreciate the scenery if it's there to be looked at, but if a lady is looking for a mutually enjoyable evening, then she could be wearing a turtleneck, and still make that completely plain." Dean smiled. "Actually, the right turtleneck can both conceal and reveal."
"Well, that blue one that you bought certainly doesn't leave a lot to the imagination," humphed Sam.
"We can always stop on the way to this convention to pick up some more stuff for you," Dean offered, "I mean, why hide your light under a bushel? You shoulda gone with those pants."
"Dean, they nearly cut me in half!"
"You got wonderful long legs, Sammy," Dean insisted, "You looked totally hot in 'em!"
"I'm not interested in looking 'totally hot' if I can't breathe," snapped Sam. "And don't give me that 'suffer to be beautiful' crap. I'm not prepared to suffer from chronic hypoxia in the name of maybe making some other women resent me because I just happen to have long legs." He looked down at the worn jeans and button-down he was wearing. "I'm decently covered, and I'm comfortable."
"You could at least do something with your hair," Dean pleaded, "You got lovely hair."
"Tied back is practical, and will keep it out of the way," sniffed Sam.
"You know who you sound like?" Dean said sourly, "You sound like Ronnie. Comfortable. Practical. She aint a normal woman."
Sam gave his brother an incredulous look. "Well, of course she's not a normal woman – she's a werewolf! That's about as not-normal as you can get!"
"That's not what I meant," insisted Dean, glancing in the rear view mirror and patting an errant lock of hair back into place. "She might not have a lot goin' for her in the looks department, but she could do a lot with what she's got. Her arms, for a start."
"I think she's a bit self-conscious about her build," Sam suggested, "You know how her mother tried to interfere with nature before Ronnie was even conceived. Anyway, she's pair-bonded, and doesn't care what anybody else thinks."
"And her hair," Dean sighed almost wistfully, "It's just amazing, and all she does is braid it. What a waste. I'd love to have Ronnie's hair." He shot Sam a savage look. "If you ever tell her I said that, I will end you."
"Not a peep, bro, er, sis," promised Sam.
"Good." Dean checked his own hair in the mirror again. "But she does have really gorgeous hair. I wonder if I could go just a shade lighter before we get there?"
"Fine," muttered Sam, "You go lighter, while I go mad. This is gonna be such a hoot."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Back at Singer Salvage, Lemmy and Lars – "Lennie and Lara, ya idjits" – in their Cockapoo disguises were just as enthusiastic as usual in greeting their returning Alphas, and RJ grabbed enthusiastically at Dean's chest once more with his battle cry of "Titi!"
"It's just so cute I could throw up," pronounced Bobby, as he eyed the number of shopping bags that the Winchesters lugged in. "So, you thinkin' of buyin' out any more stores this week, or are you gonna clean out the town's stocks one block a week for tax purposes?"
"It's mostly Dean's," moaned Sam, flopping heavily into a chair. "Oh, I think my legs are ready to drop off. I'm all shopped out for the next twelve months."
"Don't get too settled, Samantha," Dean cautioned, "We gotta go out tonight and hustle some pool, replenish our cash reserves, since none of the credit cards will really work whilst we're in disguise."
Sam let out an anguished groan. "I hate you so much," he grumbled.
"Financial arrangements notwithstandin'," Bobby interrupted, "I got somethin' that might help you on this job."
He headed for the living room, where he handed a small round case to Dean. It proved to be a compact mirror.
"Oh, great!" enthused Dean, checking his lipstick, "I totally forgot to get a little mirror! Thanks, Bobby, this will be really useful…"
"Not for checkin' your make-up, idjit," growled Bobby, grabbing it back, "It's a reflective superlative indicator."
Dean gave him a bemused look. "Uh, did you just say somethin' in English?"
"It's a mirror-mirror, Dean," Sam said with a roll of his eyes.
"A mirror-mirror?" echoed Dean, looking at the compact. "A mirror that shows a mirror?" He waggled his fingers between the two reflective surfaces.
"Oh, God," grumbled Sam, "No, look, you know, a mirror-mirror. As in, 'Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?' Snow White? Evil Witch Queen? This ringing any bells?"
Dean looked at Bobby again. "You been consorting with some evil witch, Bobby?"
"Nope," Bobby rolled his eyes too, "The ladies of Babes On Broomsticks gave me a hand…"
"Babes On Broomsticks?" queried Dean.
"It's a loose association of white witches," Bobby shrugged, as if the info wasn't important, "I'm an honorary member. Anyway, they helped me work up this…"
"Have you ever actually ridden a broomstick?" asked Dean.
"Not at my age," sniffed Bobby. "I'm not a good enough pilot. I've taken a couple of harmless old canister jobs around the block, but broomsticks are really only safe in the hands of an expert – they're unreliable and unpredictable. Now, your brother's right," he turned to Sam, "Show him."
"It's just like in the story of Snow White," Sam explained opening the mirror and looking into it. "You ask it a comparative-superlative question, and it gives you an answer. Watch." He cleared his throat. "Mirror mirror, in my hand, Who's the jerk right where we stand?"
The glass of the mirror fogged over, like video footage of a roiling thunderhead, and a deep, sonorous voice replied:
If it's in this room, you mean,
Clearly, then, the jerk is Dean.
"Hey!" Dean grabbed for the mirror. "We aint takin' any talkin' witch's mirror anywhere!"
"Dean, this will be really useful!" Sam yanked the compact out of reach, "We'll be able to use it to home in on who's most likely to be the next victim at the fanfic convention!"
"Gimme that thing," Dean demanded, holding out a hand. Reluctantly, Sam handed it over. "So, it answers questions, huh?" He peered into the mirror. "So, magic mirror, who's the hottest out of us, me or Sam?"
His own reflection peered back at him.
"Huh, it's broken already," he scoffed.
"No, ya idjit," Bobby growled, "You gotta ask the right way."
"It's gotta be a rhyming couplet," Sam told him, "Or it won't work."
"Fine," Dean glared at the mirror. "Mirror Mirror, tell me true, who's the hottest of us two?"
Once more the glass clouded, and the voice issued forth.
Three of you are standing 'round:
Error 404: not found.
"What the fuck?" demanded Dean.
"Look, you gotta think of it like a computer," Sam said.
Dean cocked his head. "Yeah? Can I get porn on this thing? Mirror mirror, in my mitts, find me pics of gorgeous…"
"Dean, NO!" Sam snapped, giving Dean a full throttle Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "What I mean is, it can only work with what you give it. It can make comparisons, or find superlatives. And it's very literal. So, if you ask it what it considers to be an illogical question, given the information it has available, it won't be able to make sense of what you're asking."
"Great," griped Dean, "A stupid mirror." With a dramatic sigh, he tried again, "Mirror mirror, tell me true, Sam or me, who's hottest, who?"
The glass clouded…
Sam might be the one who's smart,
But you're the hottest, Dean, you tart.
"Perhaps you should just, uh, put this thing away until you leave," said Bobby firmly, taking possession of the compact as Dean let out a bark of outrage. "Why don't you ladies go take this stuff upstairs."
"Dean can take his," Sam humphed, picking up his decidedly smaller haul of bags, "I'm sick of carting all his crap around."
"It's not crap," Dean protested, "It's a bare minimum of what I'll need for a week away."
"A week? Dean, you got enough crap here to keep the most stereotypically air-headed bimbo going for three months!"
"No I don't – don't get on my case just because I want to do this properly."
"You were the one who objected to doin' this job at all."
"Well, if it's gotta be done, Sammy, it should be done as well as we can do it. So…"
"So?"
"So help me with my bags, bitch."
"Get 'em yourself. Tart."
Shaking his head, Bobby headed back to the kitchen, wondering if he should ask the compact a question.
Mirror mirror, am I cursed?
Which one should I strangle first?
Then he sighed, and decided against it. In case it gave him an answer.
Lampito: Mirror mirror, in the tale, who's the bunch beyond the pale?
Mirror: Denizens may be depraved, but they give the reviews you've craved. So listen to the bunny chat, and write another chapter, stat.
Lampito: Pushy bloody mirror.