Guess what?
It appears that I've offended somebody.
No, really.
I have no idea who, since they didn't leave a name, so let's just refer to this person as Guest.
Well, Guest is feeling a bit ticked off right now, goodness me, yes. See for yourself.
Frankly im a little offended by some of tyhe contents of this fic.
I get that we fic writers are sometimes a bit bad(ok alot ) at writing fanfics andf some of us just do it to satisfy are differewnt kinks. But this is what fanfic is about isnt it? the freedom to express those tini tiny ideas in you heads through writing? But to say we deserve to be killed for it is just...wrong.
Many people arent as talented as you when it comes to writing nand only a few people had a talent for it (lampito anf elfinblue comes to mind) but there is no need to shove it in our faces. Oh and by the way, you can shove those cuddly knitted toys in the cot of life up your ass.
To which I can only reply:
Oh, ferchrissakes, I'm sending Dean and Sam Winchester to save them, aren't I? What more do you want, the bloody Fire Brigade? The Avengers? Batman?
(Actually, Dean would probably be really impressed if Batman turned up – he'd fangirl all over him.)
Because really, I don't think people should just be killed for writing bad fan fiction. Oh no. That would be unreasonable.
If I truly was in charge of That Sort Of Thing, it would be much worse than that for supposedly 'native speakers' of what in this day and age passes for English.
For example, if somebody could not tell the difference between your and you're, the fine would arrive in a discreet brown paper envelope, and include a worksheet clearly outlining the difference. A second offence would see the offender receive another fine, with a curt letter.
A third offence would result in summary execution.
Similar inability to differentiate between its and it's would also be subject to my Three Strikes And You're Dead policy. We'd have Friday night executions on a major channel. "Tonight's episode of Friday Night Execution is brought to you by The Oxford English Dictionary, now, it's over to Angelina, who is down on the killing floor, talking to one of the badger trainers, who's been working really hard on turning these normally shy creatures into blood-crazed killers for the amusement of the public…"
Those who habitually abused apostrophes would spend a couple of weeks in what I believe Jello Biafra referred to as a 're-education resort'. Failure to appreciate the differences amongst their and there and they're would result in breeding privileges being revoked. Anyone who says or writes I seen or I done will have their hair dyed green to indicate that they are a bit of a twit and should not be trusted with car keys or sharp items, and if you cannot tell the difference between our and are you would be repeatedly thwacked with a dead chicken until you got it right or cried, for I shall be Chief Head Grammar Nazi Boss In Charge and I shall rule with an iron ruler, and I shall wield my Red Pen Of Office mercilessly, and every time I have to write the word necessary I shall have to put my own head through the wall because I always get that word wrong at least twice before I get it right and I have to set an example because we must have STANDARDS and I shall be DANAEL ON EARTH.
There will be carrots as well as sticks: those who can use who and whom correctly, and can tell the difference between practice and practise, will receive extra chocolate cookies; I am not completely heartless.
Let them hate me, so long as they fear me. And spell correctly when daubing public buildings with graffiti declaring me to be the spawn of Satan.
I will of course have to make allowances for non-native speakers, and those visiting from other countries – should any of our Merkan cousins from the YouSay come to visit, you will not be shot for leaving the u out of favour or flavour or savour, but before you disembark from your plane please watch the screen for a quick tutorial on how to spell and pronounce the word aluminium…
Chapter Ten
If we were in a bar in the Wild West, mused Sam, The piano player would just have played a minor chord, and everybody at the bar would've put down their glasses and turned to bring their weapons to availability, just to remind the two confrontees that these things should be settled nice and quiet like, or at least outside, where any brawling would not interrupt anybody else's drinking or gambling.
As it was, only a couple of guys at the next pool table noted with interest the sudden tang of bitch in the air.
"What the hell are you doin' here?" Dee hissed through clenched teeth.
"I'm on my way to Bobby's," was the answer. "I got a load of silver ammo for him, and I thought I'd stop in and have a drink. Then, when my nose started to tell me that the stunning blonde at the pool table was actually you, I just had to check it out, to see whether I was going nuts."
"That obviously already happened a long time ago," snapped Dee. "So, you can just piss off and have a drink somewhere else."
Of course, Sam sighed inwardly, If this was the Wild West, everybody at the bar could just open up and shoot 'em, and that would be the end of the problem.
So long as at least a few of 'em were loaded with silver, anyway. Maybe if the Lone Ranger was at the bar…
"Calm your tits, Winchester," smiled Ronnie, taking a drink from her beer. "Although I realise that those tits will take a lot of calming."
"How the fuck did you know it was me?" demanded Dee.
"The nose knows," Ronnie tapped the detecting appendage. "I could smell Winchester underwater. Hell, I could smell Winchester under cement. I can certainly smell Winchester under a layer of oestrogen." She sighed. "You'll probably get a giggle out of knowing that I'm officially seething with envy, right now."
"Yeah?" Dee sounded uncertain.
"Seriously. When I was feeding Connor then Sabine, both of mine put together wouldn't have amounted to one of yours. It pains me to admit that you're a total babe, Winchester – I'm turning green as we speak."
"Well," Dee preened a little, "We can't help what the genetic lottery gives us."
"I bet that's what Sam thinks every time he looks at you," grinned Ronnie, as Dee let out a small shriek of outrage. "Gday, Sam. Or is it Samantha?"
"Uh, hi, Ronnie," Sam replied, as she cocked her head and studied them both.
"So, either of you want me to call you Loretta now?" she asked with some amusement. "Or is there some other reason why your big bro is now drop-dead gorgeous with a killer walk, a killer bum, and truly bodacious tatas?"
"We're workin' a job where we need a disguise," Sam explained, "So we gotta go undercover. Really, really undercover."
Ronnie hummed thoughtfully as she studied them both. "You don't look all that different," she mused, "I mean, you still look like you, just much prettier versions of you." She paused. "Of course, Dean, you were damned pretty to begin with…"
"It's Dee," griped the older Winchester.
"Name, or cup size?" asked Ronnie solicitously.
Dee's eyes fell on the note on the pool table. "I can still kick your ass, you do understand that?" she smiled dangerously.
"It's not fair, really," Ronnie sighed dramatically again, "Because your arse is such a tiny, pert little target, I don't have much to aim at."
"My ass could be the size of a barn, and you couldn't kick it," Dee sniffed loftily, then paused. "You really think it's pert?"
"Just as much as the rest of you," confirmed Ronnie. "You're an attractive woman, Dee."
A small smile bloomed on Dee's face. "You really think so?"
"Absolutely," nodded Ronnie with a grin, "I'd do you."
Dee let out a small snarl as she put down a fifty. "So, are you yappin', or are you playin'?" she demanded.
"Whoa, hakuna those tatas, girlfriend," Ronnie took a coin from a pocket to toss for the break. "Although your chest does heave in a really interesting way when you're angry…"
Sam sighed as the game got underway. As a rule, whenever they crossed paths, it was better for Dean and Ronnie not to play pool (or, in fact, any kind of competitive game – he still had shudder-inducing memories of a rainy afternoon and a game of Monopoly that had seen London destroyed, the racecar airborne, the little dog inhumanely treated and blood drawn), but you might as well jam two atoms of plutonium together and tell them to play nicely.
He looked around at the men in the bar who'd picked up on the vibe, and were watching to see if a truly interesting catfight would actually develop, and thought that if it did, perhaps he could at least sell tickets.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"You should've let me kick her ass," griped Dean as they headed back to Singer Salvage.
"You did," Sam reminded him, "You beat her twice."
"But she beat me twice!" complained Dean, "We shoulda gone to best out of five!"
"Not with all those guys watching," Sam said firmly. Something of a crowd had gathered, drawn by the heady mix of female trash talk and oestrogen , to watch two women who exuded danger play pool: both were excellent players, and the collective regret that the gorgeous model type and the muscle chick only had a pool table and not a pool of jello in which to compete with each other was tangible. "That's the sort of attention we really want to avoid."
"She's a perv," Dean muttered, "Sayin' stuff like that. Like I'd ever, ever, let her do me."
"She was just sayin' it to rattle you," Sam pointed out, "And it worked. She's not stupid; the best way to discomfort the Living Sex God is to poke him right in the gender identity, and she knows it."
"She was lookin' at my ass!"
"EVERYBODY was lookin' at your ass!" snapped Sam. "The way you walk, the way you stand, it's as if your body was designed to make everybody look' at your ass!"
"Yeah, well, she wasn't supposed to," griped Dean sulkily. "You shoulda let me beat her." He fished the mirror out of a pocket and opened it then dropped it on the seat between them. "Mirror mirror, you're no fool, tell me who'd have won at pool."
Tonight, it would've gone your way
And Ronnie would've had to pay.
"See?" declared Dean, "I woulda won. The mirror doesn't lie. Because I'm just more awesome than her. Mirror mirror, don't demur, who was hotter, me or her?"
Everyone saw you were hot;
Everyone saw she was not.
"Damn straight," Dean nodded with satisfaction, as Sam rolled his eyes. "I can kick her ass any time I want."
Ronnie is a werewolf, Dean;
In a fight, your clock she'd clean.
"Hey, nobody asked you!" snapped Dean as Sam burst out laughing. "Smartass mirror. I thought it only talks if you ask it a question the right way?"
"The mirror never lies," Sam said with a smile, "And it's entitled to an opinion, same as all of us." He picked up the mirror. "And she actually said nice things about you," he told his scowling 'bestie', "She told you how attractive you are. For one woman to admit that another is attractive like that, that's a big compliment, bro, er, sis."
"She's just jealous," muttered Dean.
"Yep, she told you that," Sam agreed. "You might be a bit more thankful about how you turned out, you know – there was no guarantee that just because you're an attractive man, you'd turn out to be an attractive woman." Because Dean's immaturity had annoyed him, he went on. "It could've been very different."
Dean looked thoughtful. "How, different?"
"Well, you could've ended up looking a lot less, you know, feminised," Sam mused, "You could've not gained the undoubtedly female assets you've now got. You could've carried a lot more of 'Dean' over into 'Dee'." He paused, then gave the knife a small twist. "You could've ended up less like you did, and more like Ronnie."
Dean shot Sam a horrified look. "But… but… she's… she's not… and she's got…"
"Uh-huh," nodded Sam, "So, you might try to be a bit grateful, and maybe a bit nicer."
The idea of having changed into anything except the female equivalent of the Living Sex God sank in. "Shit," Dean breathed, "That would've been… a disaster. I mean, I could've turned out totally unhot."
"Could've," Sam noted, "You really dodged a bullet on that one."
Dean seemed more thoughtful for the rest of the drive back to the yard. He even went so far as to say a polite 'good night' to Ronnie before she headed up to the room where she'd be staying before heading back the next day.
In fact, he surprised everybody by being civil, even going so far as to make her a coffee the next morning while he made his own, before she set out for an early start.
"I wonder what's gotten into him?" mused Sam, watching Dean wave as the truck pulled out of the yard.
"No idea," Bobby scratched his head, "Maybe it's them feminine hormones, appealin' to his nurturin' side?"
"Well, I wish he'd keep his hormones to himself," Sam muttered, "And not let them ooze out all over the place. A guy at the bar last night asked Dee if she'd like to be the stripper at a friend's buck's night."
"Yeah?" Bobby's eyebrows went up. "So, did he have friends to take him to the ER after he got punched out?"
"Oh, he just got a knee in the balls," Sam shrugged, "It was the guy who tried to grab 'her' ass who got punched out."
"God's tits," muttered Bobby, "You be careful if you go out on this job, Sam, somebody asks him for a lap dance there will be blood on the walls and the cops will take an interest…"
Dean came striding back indoors, smiling. "So, you packed, Samantha, or you still waitin' for your heated rollers to cool down so you can put 'em in your bag?"
"Why are you so cheerful?" demanded Sam without preamble. "Why were you being so, so nice to Ronnie?"
Dean's face became serious. "I was thinkin' about what you said, last night," he replied, "About how I should be grateful that I turned out like I did. Totally hot. Because I might not have done. And bein' catty to a woman who's totally unhot, whereas I'm so hot, well, it's just bitchy." He drew himself up straight. "And I'm a bigger person than that. We women should be supportin' each other, not sabotagin' each other."
Sam blinked. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" he demanded.
"It's still me, Sammy," Dean smiled, and bent to pick up RJ, who grabbed eagerly for Dean's assets with his now familiar war-cry of Titi! "Just tryin' to have some sympathy for those less fortunate – and less hot – than myself. So, tiger, you're gonna have to stay with Grandpa Bobby while we go and take care of this job, okay?"
RJ's face assumed an expression of bewilderment; he reached out for Dean's chest again. "Titi?"
"I'm afraid they're attached," Dean told him ruefully, "But we'll be back in a week, okay, and you'll be here with Grandpa Bobby, like always, and…"
RJ's eyes welled, and his bottom lip wibbled. "Titi, titi," he moaned sadly, his little face crumbling.
"Oh, hey little dude," crooned Dean, lifting the boy to his shoulder as his son let out the droning prelude to a wail, "It's okay, we won't be gone long, I promise…"
"Tiiiiiitiiiiiiii," wailed RJ between sobs, "Tiiiiiiitiiiiiiii, tiiiiiiitiiiiiiii."
Dean's face was bewildered. "What the hell's wrong?" he asked, jiggling the crying boy, "He's never minded when we go do a job before!"
"Uh, I don't think it's us he's worried about," Sam began, "So much as, uh, you know," he waved his hands vaguely at bust height. "I think he's really disappointed at having your, uh, assets arrive, and now they're gonna leave him."
"He's yours, all right," humphed Bobby, turning to take a call as his phone chirped.
"Oh, is that it, RJ?" asked Dean, "You've formed an attachment?"
"Tiiiitiiiii," RJ grizzled, grabbing for the objects of veneration.
"Well, we'll have to fix that before we go," Dean said brightly. "Sam, go get your knitting stuff. Before we leave, you gotta knit RJ some tits."
Sam's mouth dropped open. "Huh?"
"Tits," Dean repeated. "Tits. Boobs. Hooters. Gazongas. Fun bags. I know that you know what they are, because I taught you when you were in grade school…"
"I heard what you said," Sam interrupted, "I know what tits are, Dean."
"Good," Dean grunted, "Because you gotta knit some toy tits for RJ."
"Dean, I can't do that!" Sam yelped.
"Sure you can," Dean said airily, "You knitted Stanley the honey badger, right? And you knit those beanies with the dog ears on, yeah? So, just knit a pair of tits. It's okay, it won't take you long, and we can leave a bit later, it's only a few hours to Chicago…"
"Dean, I cannot knit a pair of boobs for your son!"
"Sure you can – a man who can knit a honey badger can knit a pair of boobs."
"I mean, giving a child a pair of boobs as a stuffed toy is just wrong!"
"Look, I'd buy something on the internet, you can get 'em from Japan…"
"Oh my God, you've looked up toy boobs on the net?"
"Well I wasn't looking for toy boobs, okay, I just found these cushions while I was lookin' at somethin' else. Point is, we need a pair of boobs, and we need 'em fast. So, get knitting."
"No!"
"Samantha, I ORDER you to knit a pair of tits for my son! You get your needles, and you go get some stuff from your yarn stash, ohhhh yeah, I know aaaaaall about your dirty little secret, you hide it like a teenager tryin' to hide a porn mag, you go get your stuff, and you make with the titty-knitty, right now!"
"Dean…"
"They don't have to be Caucasian, if you don't have any pink yarn. I can tell you from experience, they're beautiful whatever colour skin a woman has."
"Dean…"
"Not blue, though, and not green, I think we should keep it feasible, and RJ's not old enough to understand about Andorians or Twileks yet."
"Dean…"
"But a contrasting colour would be nice for the…"
"NO!"
Bobby, who had retreated from the kitchen, returned with his face looking grim. "If you two ladies have stopped swingin' your handbags at each other, we got a development."
"What is it?" asked Sam.
"That was Dave," Bobby continued. "He's on the trail of somethin' real nasty, probably hitched a ride on a visitin' museum artefact. He needs a couple o' books, and a couple o' things I got, and somebody who can decipher Sumerian. I gotta go help him; this can't wait."
"Bobby, you hardly know any Sumerian," protested Sam.
"Which is more than him," Bobby grunted, "So, I gotta haul ass six hours ago." He nodded at RJ. "And I sure as hell aint takin' a kid near anything like this."
"You hear that, RJ?" Dean smiled brightly, wiping the boy's tears away, "You don't have to stay with Grandpa Bobby – you can come with us!"
In the Jimiverse, Sam learned to knit while scouting out a stitch & bitch session in 'Teacher's Pet'. And Dean has found his yarn stash. How embarrassing.
What is Dean up to? Why was he so civil to Ronnie? Speak, Alfie-Con, speak! Send him delicious reviews, then, as Guest suggests, Shove The Comfy Knit Toys In The Cot Of Life Up Your Ass!*#
*Or not. Not shoving things up your ass is fine, if you don't want to.
#Just be warned that, since this is the Jimiverse, doing this to donkeys may result in you receiving a visit from Raphael, who takes the well-being of donkeys everywhere VERY SERIOUSLY.