Chapter Twelve
They stretched the trip to Chicago over two days, and by the time they arrived, Dean had worked himself (herself? Sam was glad it was only for a week or so, he'd seriously never get the hang of the whole female thing) into a grump.
"I hate this female thing," griped Dean.
"Look, it's only for a few more days," Sam reminded his brother, "Then it's back to testosterone central."
Dean glared at his son, who sat in his seat in the back, flanked by the dogs. RJ had gleefully sung along to his father's selected music, although instead of his usual babbling noises, his renditions now seemed to consist of various rhythms and syncopations of the syllable 'ti'. "It's a good thing you're so cute, little dude," he muttered, "Otherwise, I'd have slapped you by now."
"Well, he's Dean Winchester's kid," Sam shrugged, "So it's not completely surprising that he's totally fascinated by your, uh, chest."
"Aint nothin' wrong with bein' fascinated by the female form," Dean said, "But there's ways and ways to approach it, is what I'm sayin'."
"Well, you like to get your hands on 'em," Sam pointed out somewhat trenchantly, "So you really can't get on your kid's case if he wants to do the same."
"I can if he's doin' it with all the finesse of an octopus!" yapped Dean.
"He's just a kid!" Sam rolled his eyes. "He's a toddler! He's nowhere near old enough to understand about that sort of thing."
"He's old enough to know about not hurtin' the dogs," Dean muttered, "So he can learn not to grab Daddy's nipples like they're space hopper handles!"
Sam gave his brother a sideways look. "There's something very wrong about what you just said right there," he ventured.
"I mean it, Sam," Dean went on, "I understand the attraction of a fine rack, I really do, but seriously, he leaves bruises!"
"Titi!" RJ contributed from the back seat, with a happy wave of Stanley the honey badger.
"Yeah, I'm talkin' about you," Dean told his boy, "What the hell do you think you're doin', tryin' to tune an old receiver in to Radio Boobs? You really have to knit him a pair of teddy tits, bro."
"I am NOT knitting your son a pair of toy tits," Sam stated firmly. "Besides," he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, "It seems to have the happy side effect of keeping you from ogling women."
"Yeah, well, havin' a kid grabbin' at your chest and tryin' to, I dunno what he was doin', trying to push 'em together to make one big one maybe, it's kind of distracting," Dean grumped. "Seriously, trying to appreciate a woman is not easy when it feels like you're bein' groped by Pliers Man. Next time I'm having trouble shifting a bolt on one of the junkers at the yard, I'll just get RJ to try, the kid has fingers like a pair of vice grips…"
Sam gave his brother a calculating look. "Who knew that would be what it took to stop you from ogling women wherever we go?" he mused. "Maybe after this job, I can use this information – just get you a pair of nipple clamps, perhaps, and…"
"Yaaaaaargh!" Dean let out a yodel of outrage. "Shut up, you perv."
"Don't mind your dad, RJ," Sam smiled as he addressed his nephew, "He's just cranky because he can't chat up women, and men keep tryin' to chat him up."
"Huh," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "I wouldn't call it 'chatting up'. They have no charm, no finesse, and absolutely no talent – as The Living Sex God, I am embarrassed for them by their efforts. I wish they'd just go away, and leave me alone."
"Not much chance of that, so long as you're wearing that disguise," Sam replied cheerfully – watching Dean attract unwanted attention from men, and watching Dean attempt to brush them off as politely as possible (which, under the circumstances, meant 'without throwing a punch'), had proved to be more entertaining than he'd thought it would be.
"Even with a kid, you'd think they'd take a hint," Dean complained. "You don't help," he threw over his shoulder to RJ, "Being engaging and friendly and adorable is all well and good when you do it to women, but not when it just encourages men to stare at Daddy's boobs."
Sam considered making a crack about choosing a nicer guy and letting him rub them better, but thought better of it. "You could always just tell 'em you're gay," he suggested.
"Won't work," sighed Dean, "The Living Sex God transmits straightness vibes in the megawatt range. Besides, I already tried it, on that guy where we stopped for dinner last night. If anything, it seemed to encourage him."
Sam was on the alert. "What did he do?" he asked tensely.
"He looked at you, and asked if he could join us," growled Dean in outrage, "Seriously, what sort of a pervert would want to do that?"
Sam looked squarely at his brother. "Well, you, for a start," he answered promptly.
"That's different," Dean snapped.
"How?" demanded Sam. "How is it different?"
"It's… it's… look, I'm the Living Sex God, okay?" Dean snapped, "I could show two ladies a good time if they were interested, which is more than any of those sad failures could manage – they're just interested in gettin' off to a free show."
"Right," Sam sighed, resigned, "Right, because you're the Living Sex God. Totally different. Got it."
"Totally," Dean nodded. "So, when do we hit this weirdofest?"
"Tomorrow," Sam replied, "And you're gonna have to at least pretend to be enthused about being there." He looked down at the back-up laptop he was working on; Dean glanced across, and let out a pained yelp.
"Hey, don't delete that!" he protested.
"You're gonna need a working laptop for this," Sam told him, removing another spyware program, "So no surfing porn while we're on this job – keep it virus-free until the job's done. You can start work on your fanfic tonight."
"Oh, it just gets better and better," moaned Dean, "No women, no porn, and on top of that there's homework. Welcome to Hell."
"Once we find somewhere to stay, why don't you go get yourself that pedi?" suggested Sam, thinking that wrangling his nephew solo for a couple of hours would be worth it if it would get his bitching big brother out of his hair. "Me and RJ can entertain ourselves, and a little bit of me-time will make it all seem less crappy."
Apparently, he pushed the correct button, because 'Dee' seemed to brighten up at that idea. "That's a great idea, Sammy!" 'she' trilled. "You're the best brother – or bestie – a girl could have."
They found a motel of a higher than usual standard – when RJ travelled with them, Dean insisted on a slightly higher rating than the usual zero-point-four star places they frequently patronised, but even so, Sam was somewhat taken aback by the establishment that Dean finally settled on.
"Is this absolutely necessary?" he asked, eyeing the spacious bathroom with a deep tub.
"Absolutely!" 'Dee' insisted, taking in the toiletries on the sink, "Although I'll see if I can get us something nicer than this stuff."
"Fine, fine," nodded Sam, deciding that going with the flow was going to be the only way to cope with his 'sister' and her feminine proclivities as and when they emerged.
'Dee' perused a local directory, made a call, and then set off as soon as they'd lugged their gear into their room. "I'll bring back something for dinner," 'she' promised, "And maybe some volumising conditioner for you."
"Uh, yeah, thanks," Sam said faintly, watching as Dee flashed a brilliant smile, then headed for the car. He turned to his nephew, who was sitting on the sofa between the two dogs, contentedly chewing on Stanley. "So," he told RJ, "Looks like it's just you and me, kiddo. And the ladies here, of course." He moved to the couch. "We should probably check if you need to be changed, after that trip."
"Titi?" RJ said hopefully, holding his arms out.
"Well, technically," Sam informed him as he picked the boy up. "Not nearly as impressive as your, uh, let's say, your parent's, I'm just not comfortable talkin' about your dad's boobs, I'm really not."
RJ hummed thoughtfully, and poked experimentally at Sam's chest before looking up with a disappointed expression. "Meh," he pronounced.
"You sweet talking Romeo, you," muttered Sam. "And here I was, about to suggest that we do a Dean Winchester cosplay with you."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam had been an eager student through all of his schooling: from elementary through college, he had enjoyed learning, enjoyed improving his knowledge and academic skills, and enjoyed attaining a high standard in all the subjects he applied himself to. Dean had always protested that getting too educated would compromise his abilities as a Hunter, convinced that it made him 'Think too much'. Don't overthink it, Sam, his big brother would insist, Don't try to analyse it, critique it, deconstruct it, reconstruct it, reinterpret it, explain elaborate discuss contrast or compare – it's a job. Work out what it is, and how to kill it. That's what we do, we identify fuglies at work, then we find 'em, fuck 'em, and forget 'em.
Sam had always strenuously disagreed with that, but he was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that on this one occasion, on this one very specific occasion alone, his brother might be onto something.
As a keen reader from an early age, he had been fascinated by words, and the language they made, the ways they could be strung together and manipulated to evoke certain moods, ideas or idioms.
As someone who had at one time been on track for a career as a lawyer, Sam was someone who could use the English language, and use it well. He could express himself clearly, or he could obfuscate and complicate, filibuster and farnarkle until the cows came home, the universe ended, or the opposition just gave up in bewildered bemusement and went away. He could wield it like a sledgehammer or a scalpel as the situation demanded. He could make it get up and dance, he could bend it over and make it his bitch, he could identify the subjunctive (formulaic or mandative) in the wild.
As an unreformed and unrepentant grammar nazi, the mere sight of an apostrophe being maltreated was enough to set his teeth grinding.
All of which had set him up to discover something about fan fiction:
Writing bad fan fiction when you are not genuinely bad at writing fan fiction is bloody difficult.
"It shouldn't be that hard," he told RJ uncertainly, "I've read enough of it recently, all I have to do is, kind of, uh, reproduce that sort of writing, how hard can it be?"
When all your intellectual instincts are screaming at you to stop, pretty damned hard, as it turned out.
After fifteen fruitless minutes of trying to start a fanfic equivalent of 'It was a dark and stormy night', Sam huffed, and shut the document.
This was like any other job, he told himself sternly, he just needed to do a bit of systematic research first, make some notes, identify the key features of a bad fan fiction. All he had to do was get into the mindset of somebody who enjoyed reading Supernatural stories, and write stuff that those people would be sure to find execrable.
With grim determination, he sat RJ on his lap, opened a couple of fan fiction sites, and began to browse, checking review numbers and comments against the content of stories. As RJ chewed on Stanley and babbled to himself, pausing occasionally to check Sam's chest for any further developments, Sam tried to produce a list of features that could make for terrible story writing.
- wedding fics – 'Nobody wants to read your long and rambling fantasies about you becoming Mrs Winchester, BOOOOOORRRRIIIIIINNNNGGGG'
NB - wedding fics – everybody wants to read about Cas or Gabriel becoming Mr Winchester 'ZOMG Dean as bridesmaid LOL!'
- excruciatingly detailed descriptions of what character is wearing – "Your OC is a completely obvious self-insertion, and if you'd wear an outfit like that in public you're clearly some sort of slut and nobody wants to read about you'
NB - excruciatingly detailed descriptions of what Sam/Dean is wearing – everybody loves them 'OMG he'd look so HOT in that make his pants tighter hahahahaha'
- technically bad English expression – no punctuation – tense agreement – etc. 'For the love of Cas, please stop writing. Or at least, please stop publishing.'
- technically good English expression – extensive vocabulary – discursive writing 'Huuuuuh what the hell those words arent even real IDK your making it up its crap get off are site TL;DR'
- inadequately slashy slash – 'I want DETAILS here, needs a lot more lemon juice'
- descriptively slashy slash – 'Gross, just gross, that's completely disgusting and you should be thrown off this site for writing this sort of trash.'
- Sister fic – 'How the hell is she supposed to be one month old, when Sam is only six months old? This is completely unbelievable. 'What is this, was Mary a squirrel, or is there stork involvement in your verse?'
NB sister fic – hahahahaha, she's a nurse, I don't believe it's taken me three chapters to get it – she's a nurse, named Phillipa – Sister Fic! I'm an idiot…'
- plot – 'This is a story in search of a plot. Seek one, find one, get one, or don't waste our time again.'
NB PWP (without) 'I don't care about the background of this case. Gimme more PWP!'
NB NB PWP (with) 'If all they're doing is screwing, it's not much of a story. Ho hum.'
It was writer's block as he'd never experienced it.
He was still doggedly reading and noting when his stomach rumbled; he paused to look at his watch, and noticed just how much time had gone by. Great, Dean was late with dinner – his 'bestie' had probably dropped into a bar with a pool table on the way back and lost track of time.
He let out a small sad noise – incidentally, at the exact same time as RJ, who had finally satisfied himself with one final forlorn prod that Auntie Samantha was never going to grow the sort of assets he had become most fond of – when his cell chirped. Thankful for something to do besides try to write a lousy fanfic, he answered it.
"Samantha Plant? Ma'am, my name is Irene Baker, I'm a police officer, I'm with your friend Deanna Page – we're just escorting her to the emergency room."
Oh no! What's happened? Has Deanna sprained a boob? Rolled an ankle in those heels? Been arrested for a lewd act in public? Feed Alfie-Con reviews to find out!