A plague upon Real Life. The plot bunnies have clammed up, and I am assailed by the Astonishingly Dense And Indescribably Bland Tofu Of Creative Block; yea and verily am I smoten by the Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip of Mundane Reality left right and centre, the entire Stock Of The Health Food Shop Of Unwelcome Circumstances besets me! Work is insane (who does teleconferencing at FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING, FFS), and one of my bikes ate his battery. Oh, and our Prime Minister is behaving like a complete dick once more, and the law is very clear, stabbing people just because you think they are idiots will be most dimly viewed by the courts. It's just vexing. I'm terribly vexed. But I did manage to get a chapter out of Alfie-Con. Here it is.
Chapter Fifteen
The first general session was a combination of welcome, mixer, and housekeeping announcements. A member of the convening committee talked through the various workshops and sessions that would be running. There would even be some subject matter experts: a professor of English would be hosting Grammar For People Who Have No Grasp Of Grammar, a psychologist would be speaking at Why We Love Angst, and a producer of erotica marketed at women would be presenting her insights in What Women Want.
"Huh," sniffed Dean disdainfully as they sat scanning more fanfics afterwards, "I could host that, I know more about what women want than most people will ever learn. In fact, I've forgotten more about What Women Want than most people will ever learn."
"Well, you can't manifest as the Living Sex God here," Sam murmured back.
"You're tellin' me," sighed Dean, "Not with Mr Pliers here sabotagin' me."
"Titi!" chittered RJ, patting his parent's chest.
"That wasn't what I meant," Sam rolled his eyes, "What I meant was, you cannot risk breaking cover. Anyway," he flicked through the session notes, "I don't think you'd want to be at the, uh, What Women Want session. I sure as hell don't."
Dean turned a sad expression onto his girlified brother. "I don't know where I went wrong with you," he said in a forlorn voice.
"No, not because of that," Sam shot back a Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "I think you misunderstand the nature of the, uh, topic." He pointed out the description of that particular workshop. "Says here it's a discussion and exploration of what makes slash fiction so attractive to so many women." He peered at the page. "Says here, 'Whether you're into Wincest, Destiel, Sastiel, Sabriel, or even Crobby, talk to someone in the know about what women want, and take your yaoi from hot to smokin'!' I mean, if you want to go, that's up to you…"
Dean let out a sad little noise. "I don't get it," he moaned, "I really just do not get it."
"Well, maybe you could go along and have your curiosity satisfied," shrugged Sam, "There will be a whole bunch of women talking about why women like it."
Dean let out a horrified squeak. "Are you kidding? They're all perverts!"
"No they're not," Sam rolled his eyes, "Don't be so melodramatic."
"Are you tellin' me that women writin' and readin' about… that is normal?"
"Well, it's a lot more common than you'd think," Sam sounded worryingly like somebody about to go into lecture mode.
"Whoa, whoa, big fella, stop right there," said Dean firmly, "Wantin' to read about, you know, guys like that, it's just weird."
"Why is it weird?" posed Sam. "You can't call it 'weird' just because you don't share a taste for it."
"Well, I got no taste for rolling naked in peanut butter, then runnin' up and down the street pausing only to hump lamp posts and yelling 'Free The Tomatoes!' at the top of my voice," growled Dean, "And that would be totally weird."
"That wouldn't be weird, that would be some sort of mental illness," Sam noted tartly. "Or possibly a frat boy thing. Look, maybe we're a bit uncomfortable about it, but it's no weirder than men who get turned on watching two women get down and dirty. Of which you are one, I might add."
"Yes it is!" yapped Dean, "That's completely different!"
"How?" asked Sam.
With the arm that wasn't holding on to RJ, Dean waved expansively. "It's, you know," he said uncertainly, "It's totally different."
"How?" repeated Sam. "You, a guy who identifies as straight, find two members of the opposite sex having intimate relations to be a turn-on – how is it different?"
"It's objectifying men," Dean sniffed in high dudgeon, "Reducin' men to objects to be, you know, depicted for women's lust."
"Yeah, I guess," agreed Sam. "And maybe one day, when men stop watching pornography and pole dancing and stop buying girlie magazines, that argument might have a leg to stand on."
"It's not the same thing!" Dean spluttered.
"Why not?" Sam's serenity was maddening; Dean was sure he was doing it on purpose.
"Because, because…" he stuttered, "Because… they're women! And men are very visual creatures," he added authoritatively, "We like to look at women. It's the way our brains are wired."
"Well, who's to say that women's brains aren't wired to read about men?" Sam countered. "Women supposedly being the ones who are supposed to be more engaged with communication through language."
"There's somethin' seriously wrong with you," muttered Dean. "Bein' in that female body is messin' with your rational thought processes. As soon as we're us again, you need to get laid, Sam."
"Maybe I'm just comfortable enough in my own masculine identity not to get too bothered about what other adults want to write about for their own amusement," Sam studied Dean. "Although, I'm not surprised if you're having trouble with your masculine identity right at this very moment."
"Titi!" agreed RJ, going the grope.
"OW!" Dean pushed the offending hands away. "They're weird," he muttered sullenly, "We should let some of 'em get murdered and sent Downstairs as a warning to the others."
Sam laughed outright. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you'd be in if the only criteria for goin' to Hell was for somebody else to think you were doing something weird, when you considered it to be enjoyably kinky?"
"There's a difference between kinky and weird," Dean intoned solemnly, "It's the difference between using a just a feather, or the whole chicken."
"More than half the human race would be headed for Hell! And you'd be at the front of the line. So stop being such a drama queen. Anyway, remember, nobody's getting murdered just for writing slash – they've been murdered for writing crap."
Dean muttered mutinously, but subsided.
"You can go to one of the gen sessions, if you like," suggested Sam. "Or maybe hurt/comfort."
"See? More weird!" declared Dean with a note of triumph. "Those hurt/comfort stories, what the hell's goin' on there? Are they sadists? Seriously, I was readin' this one author, she's got a serious ladyboner for shovin' you into boxes…"
"It's the emotional dynamic, I think," mused Sam, "They like to see us lookin' out for each other, manifesting the brotherly connection. Probably because you're so emotionally constipated."
"You do enough emoting for both of us and then some," Dean grumbled. "Besides, there's nothin' remotely attractive about tryin' to massage life back into your limbs after you've been stuck in some tiny little space. It's difficult, because your legs are real hairy." She peered down at her bestie's legs. "Speakin' of which, we could always take an hour or so to go get you some womanscaping…"
Even recast as a woman, Sam was able to shoot his brother an unmistakeable Sam Winchester Bitchface™, choosing for the occasion Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?). "Will you worry less about defoliating me, and more about this job?"
With a dramatic sigh, Dean scanned the program. "Oooh, hey, 'Dean Loves The Metallicar'!" he enthused, "There's a whole bunch of women like to write about me and my Baby, only somehow she's been turned into a human! Awesome!"
Sam gave his brother a sidelong glance. "Awesome?"
"Totally!" grinned Dean, "Because it's a fact that my car is the coolest and sexiest car in the world, so naturally she'll be the coolest and sexiest woman in the world…"
"We've, uh, met your car, in human form," Sam reminded him. "She's middle-aged, wears a twin set, and likes to embroider your initials in your underwear."
"These women aren't concerned with mundane reality," Dean scoffed.
"Canon," Sam corrected him, "For us, it's reality, for them, it's canon."
"Whatever," Dean waved a hand airily, "I'm goin' to that one. It'll be hot."
"You sure you wanna take RJ to something like that?" asked Sam.
"Why not?" queried Dean, "He's got the vocab happenin' already, and mostly he's interested in tryin' to eat Stanley."
"Titi!" chirped RJ by way of demonstration.
"Well, just remember, we're working a job here," Sam reminded his brother sternly, "So concentrate on that, and don't get too wrapped up in listening to stories about… you know…"
"Look on the bright side," Dean trilled brightly, "If I come in my pants nobody will know…"
"Dean!"
"What about you, then?" asked Dean, grinning even harder as Sam shot him a recognisable Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust)
"The other session is 'Drop Dead, Gorgeous: Death By Deathfic'." Sam gave his brother a sour look. "Maybe if I'm lucky, there will be some inspiring stories about how to get rid of you."
"Why nobody ever writes about killin' off Crowley is beyond me," Dean said. "You'd think he had fans, or something. He's the King of Hell, for fuck's sake!"
"Yeah, but they don't know that he's real," Sam reminded him. "Maybe you could let RJ run around for a bit, then he might sleep through the worst of the Dean-car gropefest. In fact," his face brightened, "Why don't I get him something to help?"
Dean frowned. "You aint dosing my kid with antihistamine," he growled.
"Well," Sam grinned, "I was thinking more along the lines of warm milk."
"Hey!" yapped Dean, "Don't you dare give my kid any more of that sissy drink stuff!"
"What do you think, RJ?" asked Sam cheerfully, "You want some milk and froth?"
"Faff!" declared RJ emphatically, "Faff! Faffaffaffaff!"
"The child has spoken," Sam smiled as he headed for the café again.
Dean sighed and glared at his son. "What the hell Grandpa Winchester would say, I don't know," he muttered. "What have you got to say for yourself, young man?"
"Titi!" giggled RJ, going the grope once more.
"Yeah, okay, you're a Winchester after all, I guess."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
It was kind of a pleasant change from the meetings he'd been to in his later years at college, Sam found out, informal, people chatting, reading over coffee, and in a couple of cases apparently collaborating. The chair conducting the deathfic panel called the session to some sort of order.
"Well, as you can see, we like to keep things informal here," she announced, "We're here to have fun, not because we need to attend for class credit…"
"Amen!" called a voice from the back, and the whole room laughed.
"So, what we thought we'd do is pick out a couple of stories that caught the panel's eye, and look at them in more detail," she continued, "What they do right, or, what they do wrong. Remember, this is about enjoying ourselves, talking about what we love – fanfic! - and maybe learning about improving your writing – no author has to identify themselves, and let's keep it to the writing, and keep it constructive, not get personal, because we're all at different levels here, and not everybody is the next Edlund Carver. We want Sam to be the only bitch here today, okay?"
Jerks, thought Sam as the room laughed again.
"Great, so, if we have enough coffee and snacks, let's get started!" She tapped at the screen of her tablet. "Okay, our first reading is from an author called ImpalaDude…"
Sam's ears pricked up and he sighed inwardly as others around him tapped at various devices.
ImpalaDude? Seriously, Dean, you went with that again?
Praying that nobody recognised the pen name that Dean had once used to write some truly pornoriffic werewolf fanfic in a Supernatural fan site challenge, he searched out the document to follow with the reading…
Dean parked the Impala and checked his gun – he was loaded with silver, natch – then checked the silver blades in his boots and his belt. A small predatory grin slid across his face a bit like the way the frosting runs off the side of a chocolate iced doughnut if you leave it sitting on the dash on a sunny day and forget to eat it because you stop for coffee and have pie instead except the frosting runs down rather than across because of gravity and shit. He got out of the car, and stared into the darkness, hearing nothing, which immediately put him on guard because when you're out at night, and you hear nothing, you know that there's not nothing there, there's something, because normally there's all sorts of noises and stuff so yeah he knew that nothing was not there. Something was there. A big, bad, ugly, evil something. He was there to kill it. He was there to kill it, salt it, and burn it, and grind its ashes into the ground and piss on them. Although he might have to come back when the fire had burned down, maybe go to a bar while he waited and see if there were any frisky women around, provided he didn't stink too badly of smoke because chicks can get a bit funny about that.
He slammed the door of his Baby, but not hard enough to damage her, of course, especially given the way the door strut on the driver's side had been bent once when it had got caught in a gust of wind when they'd had to drive through a hurricane to a job and his little bitch of a brother never remembered that no matter how often he was reminded, and the noise echoed around the clearing.
"You can run but you can't hide" he announced "Time to die bitch."
Like the vicious and evil coward she was, Ronnie jumped him from behind…
Denizens, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recall Dean's previous foray into fan fiction in "Six", in which he wrote some truly appalling smut and asked some truly inappropriate questions. It's a Dean thing. And he got to meet his car in human form, Miss Impala Chevrolet (Kaz to her friends) in 'A Lady Of A Certain Age'. What on Earth can he planned for this foray into fan fiction? At least we can be confident that it won't be Porn Without Plot.
Send reviews, and I'll bunch them together and try to scoop the plot bunny out from behind the fridge where he went to hide as soon as he'd finished dictating this chapter. I just hope he doesn't have a lady friend there, and they start breeding, the ones you lot keep sending are bad enough.