I'd love to hear somebody who can sing, sing Ronnie's song - I, unfortunately, am one of nature's contraltos, with a voice like a foghorn, i.e. if you can't get the note right, just compensate with volume. But the dancing snowflakes? The ghastly thing is, there's probably already fanart of something very similar out there in internetland. Le shudder...
Chapter Eighteen
"You're gonna wear that thing out," muttered Sam as Dean sat, RJ in his lap, tapping at the laptop.
"Well, when inspiration strikes, I gotta get it down," stated Dean, smiling as an alert pinged. "Oh, hey, I got another review!"
"Forget your epic tragedy!" growled Sam, "You're supposed to be writing the opposite of your epic tragedy!"
"I am!" protested Dean, "What about your crap chapter?"
"I had to make a few changes," Sam conceded gloomily, "It was just so awful, it looked intentionally awful, but it's a self-insertion, and fanfic readers often really hate those. It's bound to get the attention of our fanfic nazi fugly, and convince it that I'm a complete travesty as an author. So, where are you headed?"
"Anywhere," humphed Dean, "So long as I don't have to listen to either of us having sex with an angel in a male vessel."
"Good luck with that," sighed Sam glumly. "The self-insertions session might be safe – nobody ever goes into their own Supernatural story to watch you have sex with Cas, they do it to have sex with you themselves."
"Yeah?" Dean brightened. "Stories about me havin' sex with women?"
"That, or getting married," shrugged Sam.
"Hmmmm," Dean frowned thoughtfully, "Kind of like fanfic Russian roulette."
"Well, if they read mine out, make a point of talkin' about how crap it is," instructed Sam.
"What's your pen name, then?" asked Dean. "SaladSister? Collegegirl? EmbraceTheRainforest?"
"Embrace the… what the hell?" yapped Sam.
"You could take some time to go and get a little Samscaping done, is all I'm sayin," intoned Dean judiciously.
"For the last time, I am NOT getting my legs waxed!" snapped Sam. "Anyway, I'm writing as 'Jaqueline Hyde'. What?" he demanded as Dean rolled his eyes. "It's my evil alter ego, okay, the one that writes really badly and should be taken out and shot for the good of literature." He looked at his program. "Okay, well, I'll go do this one. 'He's Got The Whole World In His Angst'."
"Beats me why people like readin' about us gettin' uptight about stuff," shrugged Dean.
"Well, with you, it's because you're so insufferable when you're cheerful," humphed Sam. "And you cry so prettily."
"What?" Dean's face turned into a pout that would make a trout swoon. "I don't cry!"
"I'm afraid you do," Sam went on, "And prettily, according to some of these writers."
"Sam, I do not cry."
"Yeah you do."
"I do not!"
"You do."
"Look, sometimes, I might get something in my eye, and it might make 'em water, sure, maybe occasionally there's one solitary manly tear…"
"Yeah, they water. When you cry."
"Sam…"
"The more you cry, the more they love you, because the prettier your face gets."
"I don't! They don't! It doesn't!"
"I don't always cry, but when I do, I wish I could do it as prettily as Dean Winchester."
"Well, you can't – at least my face doesn't get all screwed up and snotty, like yours does."
"It does not!"
"Yeah, it does."
"It – does – not!"
"Yeah it does, when you sob like a long-haired emo."
"What, because I'm not completely emotionally constipated?"
"Because I'm not a hormonal little bitch. Real Winchesters don't cry. Right RJ?"
"Huh, your kid cried when he thought he was gonna be separated from your boobs!"
"Well, of course he did – he's my kid, with a proper appreciation of the female form. I don't expect you to understand."
"Jerk."
"Cry your way through sex, yes, but cry because a beautiful pair of nature's finest assets has been removed from within arm's length, you wouldn't even notice…"
"Titi!"
"OW! Knock it off, Mr Pliers!"
"Does it bring tears to your eyes?"
"Bitch."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Many of the women were using the occasion to do as much socialising as reading and writing, 'Samantha' noticed – the informality of the gathering provided an opportunity to talk about all sorts of things with like-minded individuals, like a sort of large scale extended girls' weekend away. 'She' found herself inevitably sitting with a group of other women who were knitting and crocheting, laughingly referring to themselves as the Stitch and Bitch and Jerk group, until the convenor called anyone interested to the next session.
"Well, we all know how much Mr Edlund's fans love angst," she began, getting a chorus of enthusiastic hoots, "And I think we've got some great examples of the right way to do it, and the way that could use a bit of work, so, if you'd like to read along, for our first piece, let's look at another one by ImpalaDude…"
Samantha tried to suppress her smirk, and steeled herself for the chorus of groans that Dee's writing was bound to provoke.
"I know a lot of you liked this author's last one, but this is a bit different, so…"
Keyboards clicked and Samantha enjoyed a small a frisson of horror that had nothing to do with a scary plotline, as Dee's latest offering began.
Dean Winchester was a guy who knew how to get a job done. Fixing a car, or taking down a fugly, or getting the ladies where they want to go every single time and at least twice because if he didn't make her toes curl at least twice then the Living Sex God wasn't doing his job properly and that was just a travesty and totally NEVER going to happen, he knew how to get something done when it had to be done. Even when he wasn't looking forward to getting it done, like making a salad sandwich for his emo little vegiesaurus brother, or that time he had to be a ballerina to lure out a ghost, yeah, he really didn't look forward to that one but he totally nailed it because he was Dean Winchester and he did fifty-two fucky turns because that's just how awesome he was, so yeah. He could get stuff done.
Tonight, he wasn't going to make a woman's toes curl. He was going to nail her ass, by which he didn't mean show her a good time, although he could've if he'd wanted to, but make sure she ended up dead. And stayed totally dead.
He was loaded with silver, and carrying silver blades. She'd finally gone too far, and had to be put down like the mad dog she had become. Even being able to cook brownies that good can only get you forgiven for so much. Taking a swipe at his car had been the last straw. Somebody had to stop her before she damaged duco again, and that somebody was him.
Promising his Baby that he'd buff out and repaint the panel with the claw marks just as soon as he'd dealt with the monster responsible, he stepped out into the clearing.
She came out of the shrubbery, smirking and drinking. "Hey there Winchester," she grinned at him, "Want some?"
Dean felt a lump in his throat and it was totally because he was upset about his car. "Ronnie," he said, his voice sounding anguished yet totally sexy at the same time. "This has to stop."
"Hang on" she upended the bottle and drained it "Just want to make sure I got enough on board to piss on your corpse when I've torn you to pieces"
"No" a single manly tear that was concentrated angst and not at all sissy made its way down his vulnerably handsome face which did not end up looking at all pretty as a result. "I'm here to stop you. I'm sorry, Ronnie, but you're not you any more and you're going down."
"Don't flatter yourself" she snarled "The only thing I'm going to do with your dick is tear it off and use it as a rolling pin for my next batch of pastry yeah the shortcrust stuff you really like and you won't be there to eat it because you'll be dead hahahahaha!"
She pounced, shapeshifting in midair…
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"So, the idea is to start off with a small brush, really subtle," 'Dee' explained as she wielded the eyeliner on a young woman who'd shyly approached to compliment her on her make-up, and asked her how she achieved her daytime look. She'd attracted something of an audience when she'd started pulling make-up items out of her bag, and held an impromptu tutorial.
RJ, who'd been introduced as 'Robbie', looked around the circle of smiling females, beaming hugely as they cooed at him, piping 'Titi!" as his little fingers twitched. When they passed Stanley the honey badger around, all miming tasting the knitted toy, Dee thought the kid might just shart himself in delight.
"Aaaaaaand, ta-dah!" Dee flourished the eye pencil, "A daytime look that says I'm hot but classy, and totally not a slut." Her circle of admirers gave her a small round of applause as the convenor called the session to order.
"Welcome back!" she began, "I think we should all pat ourselves on the back for being here, because you gotta be thick-skinned or really silly to tackle self-insertion in fanfic!" That got a giggle. "So, while we will be looking at a couple of stories that may not be great works of literature, please remember that we're here to have fun, and help out fellow writers, and writing doesn't come easily to everybody."
The make-up group shuffled their seats around, and Dee seated 'Robbie' more comfortably on her lap.
"So, we're going to start with one by Jaqueline Hyde – remember, you don't have to identify yourself if you don't want to, and no outing, either, please…"
"That's Auntie Samantha," Dee murmured to Robbie, casually looking around, "Keep your eyes peeled for anybody who looks like they're gonna explode."
Hunter's senses on full alert, she scanned the room without looking as the reading began...
Some people complain about pet dogs being frightened of thunderstorms; I never do. Monty is frightened of thunderstorms, and that's always reassured me. It's such a very ordinary, normal thing.
He wasn't always Monty, though – when Dad brought him home from the animal shelter, several years ago now, and announced that he'd been christened Jimmy when he'd been rescued from a construction site, I yapped "No!" and renamed him. "He doesn't look like a… Jimmy," I protested, "He looks like a Monty." My parents let it go at that. That sort of pronouncement is normal for somebody at that age to make; I've been very careful about that, doing normal things, being normal, ever since…
His head burst like a ripe melon
I was reading when the storm broke, back at home, enjoying the short break between graduating and having to find a job, in the space between education and employment – my future as an adult (and my tuition loan debt) loomed large on the horizon, but for a few more weeks, I could make like it was just another school break, letting my mind wander over what my mother insists on referring to as my 'pulp fiction' (she's never seen the movie), even though I read them all on my Kindle these days.
I still have the earliest editions in hardcopy though, dog-eared and well-thumbed. Supernatural, Twilight, True Blood, Vampire Diaries, I've been reading them all for years.
I have to admit to a particular soft spot for Carver Edlund's books. My friend Simone, whom I've known forever, will tell you I'm a Samgirl because I'm a hopeless romantic with a yen for little lost emo boys. When we were at high school, we could spend hours talking about them. She liked them for the hot bodies and the angst, and I said I did too.
I sure as hell would never admit that what I loved about the Supernatural books was that they're fiction, a constant reminder that it's just stories, made-up monsters and fanservice and what bored young women want to read about. It's not real. There's no such thing as Hunters, there's no such thing as demons, there's no such thing as special children
It was Mr Benson the day before that math test
They're not real. None of it is real.
Like the… things I sometimes see. Not real. Coincidences. But not real.
Monty is scared of thunderstorms.
Except this time, he wasn't. And that scared me. Because it wasn't normal. And I like normal. I like real. I like
I saw the accident the day before it happened
ordinary and normal and rational, which is why I studied science.
When I dropped my Kindle to pick up my phone, Monty started growling at it. My hand was shaking when I picked up my cell to dial Simone; I've always been at home with my own company, but
A tall guy with shaggy hair, his face a picture of anger, shouting something, a bearded man with a trucker's cap, lifting a gun, facing another man, a man with black eyes, but he's too slow
The lightning flash was too bright for the sound of the thunder, and Monty howled and I think I must've screamed when the lights went out…
When they came on again, I was on the floor. Well, on a floor. It wasn't my floor.
If Simone had been with me, she probably would have commented on how hot the guy pointing the gun at me was – all I could see was the gun, completely steady in his hand, and a willingness to do murder in his green eyes.
"What the fuck are you?" he demanded. "Talk."
I sprawled there, gawping like a fish out of water, until I heard the growl.
It wasn't Monty. Monty might have a bit of Rottweiler in him somewhere, maybe a couple of hundred-and-twenty-eighths, but he's nowhere near that big.
And Monty's eyes don't glow red.
And it all snapped into place.
I made myself look past the gun, and finally recognised him. Dean Winchester didn't look at all like the pictures on the covers of the books. He looked a lot more dangerous than that. Eventually, I found my shaking voice.
"I… don't know. But I think a demon is going after Bobby Singer. And your brother is going to get in the way."
Oh dear, Sam just had to go back and make a few adjustments, didn't he? I wonder what genre they'll tackle next? How the hell are they going to flush out the fugly at this rate? Feed the bunny reviews, and let's see if we can wring the answer out of this loony little leporid.