*looks carefully around door* That Christmas thing, is it over? Oh, thank dog for that...
I can offer no excuse for the inactivity on this story: Real Life got its teeth into my leg, then Christmas was perpetrated with extreme prejudice (next year, I'm doing Festivus) and the bunny, whose name has not been settled yet (Beauregard has a certain appeal, since it's a story about hot guys, but Ponty-Max sounds delightfully bouncy) took one look at the end of year shenanigans and hid under the couch for several weeks. But I hear a timid little voice whispering from amongst the cushions, so let's continue, and see if we can get something approaching a story...
Chapter Two
Although there was nothing ordinary about the Winchesters and the way they lived, sometimes they did like to enjoy ordinary simple things, just like other people. Sitting on the car, watching the stars, was one thing. And if a job took them to the coast at the right time of the year, sitting on the beach, enjoying the weather and the scenery, was another.
Jimi Junior the half-Hellhound/half-Rottweiler particularly loved the beach: there was water to paddle in, sand to dig in, seaweed to snuffle in, maybe even something dead at the tide line to roll in. There were new people to meet, and if he approached them with a wagging tail and a wistful expression they were often happy to throw his frisbee (or, if they were kids, maybe even his dead jellyfish).
Dean laughed as Jimi suddenly lost interest in whatever he was digging out of the sand and took off chasing a seagull. "That never gets old," he chortled, sitting down on his towel, "Do you remember that time he caught one? Watching him chase after things that can fly, it's hilarious!"
"Oh, yeah, hilarious," Sam muttered, eyes on his phone screen. "That time we were at the beach and he caught a hang-glider, that was just totally hilarious, that was. Almost as funny as the time he plucked a kite surfer out of the air, I'll bet that guy didn't stop laughing for a week…"
Dean sighed at his brother. "There's somethin' wrong with you," he declared, "We got more important things to do than that. Here."
"Like what?" asked Sam, not lifting his eyes from the screen, "I'm trying to… yerg!"
Sam let out a strangle squawk as an ice-cream cone was thrust at him.
He looked up at his brother. "Dean, what the fuck?"
"We're at the beach," Dean smiled sunnily, and took a lick of his own ice-cream. "At the beach, you do beach things. Like sit on a towel, and dig your toes in the sand, and eat ice cream."
Sam sighed, and inspected the cone.
"I got you yoghurt," Dean went on. "It's low fat, dolphin safe, bycatch free, it's probably safe to feed to baby vegan whales."
"We should be trying to make inroads with the research," Sam grumbled, nonetheless taking a lick of his cone. "I found details for two more of those guys – both dead, and both, well, aesthetically pleasing to women, I guess."
"We can do research," Dean insisted, leaning back on his elbows.
"Okay, so," Sam huffed, "I'm just checking to see if any more of those documents I've requested have…"
"Not that research," Dean scoffed, "Bikini research!"
"Oh, God," groaned Sam, the Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) barely muted by his sunglasses.
"Now, down by the water, there," Dean began, "We see a wonderful example of the Well-Filled Bikini, easily recognisable by the tautness of its hide as it covers the figure beneath it…"
"Dean…"
"And if you look to your left, you will see a fine specimen of the Double-Fronted Strapless Bikini, known for its spectacular mating display rather than its activity, because if it moves around too much it can lose its grip on its tenuous footings…"
"Dean…"
"Aaaaaand if you look to your right, you will see one of those rare creatures, the Dental-Flossed Postage Stamp Bikini, so named because of its small size and uncanny resemblance to…"
"DEAN!" Sam snapped, "Will you stop going on about women in bikinis?!"
"I don't know where I went wrong with you," Dean sighed sadly. Jimi returned, and flopped down on the sand next to him with a contented humph, turning the Big Brown Eyes all the way up to eleven in the hope of getting some ice cream. Dean smiled, and scratched the dog's ears. "Now Jimi here, he's got the right idea. He's makin' friends with the ladies… Howdy." By way of demonstration, Jimi offered a big doggy smile and a tail wag to the two bathing-suited young ladies who walked past – they giggled to each other as Dean offered them a barely attenuated version of The Killer Smile and a drawled greeting.
"Jimi makes friends with everybody," Sam countered, "It's just what he does. And stop doing that!"
"Doing what?"
"That! That! You're licking your ice cream at women!"
"No I'm not, I'm just sitting here, enjoyin' the ambiance, and cooling off eating a nice cold treat."
"Well, don't do it so… lewdly!"
"The Living Sex God cannot help it if everything he does is just inherently hot," Dean shrugged. "You, on the other hand, you're being positively anti-social."
"Look, just because I don't ogle every woman in a bathing suit who walks past within a one hundred foot radius does not make me anti-social!"
"I don't expect you to check out every woman," Dean tutted, "I'm not completely unreasonable. Only the ones that are, you know, checkoutable…."
"You're as shallow as a bird bath after an ostrich has sat in it," Sam muttered.
"…And I'm not sayin' that you should make friends with everybody, all I'm asking is that you maybe make friends with one, a hot one, obviously, and you only have to be friends for an evening, just long enough for some beautiful natural acts…"
"I take that back," Sam announced. You are not as shallow as a bird bath after an ostrich has sat in it. That ostrich-emptied bird bath is deeper than you."
"I'm just looking out for your well-being, baby bro," Dean grinned. "You need to get laid, Sam."
"What I need is for you to stop doing that with your ice cream," Sam griped, "And I need to figure out if this is a job for us. So if it is, we can figure out what it is, then we can gank it, and we can get out of Bikiniland and I won't have to listen to you talk so much shit. Or watch you doing that."
"Bikiniland is not a location, Sam, it's a state of mind," Dean sighed happily, taking another slurp.
"Very Zen," Sam snarked sourly. "So, whenever I hassle you to take some down time, just rest and recover, you're all, hey, we can't stop, Sammy, there's the family business to run, things to Hunt, people to save, but there might be a job here in sunny Cali, and suddenly you find the beach bum within?"
"Well, it's all about time, and place," Dean replied. "You want to take time out in the middle of winter to check out museums and galleries and stuff. You shoulda found us a job in Bikiniland earlier."
"I give up," Sam moaned, putting his phone away, then digging his bare toes into the sand, determined not to let his brother know how much he was kind of enjoying just sitting on the beach, watching the waves and the sky. And yeah, maybe the odd bikini. "So, if it is some fugly attacking hot guys, what might it be?"
"A couple gone completely nuts, but mostly dead," Dean mused. "Succubus, maybe?"
"Not enough murdering afterwards," Sam replied. :"Dropping dead, yes, but homicide, no."
"Asshole demon, Topside and on a working vacation, killing for the hell of it?"
"I see what you did there," Sam rolled his eyes again. "Nope, this feels… not untidy enough for a demon."
"Djinn?"
"Possible – doesn't explain the hot guys thing, though."
"Choosy djinn?"
"Djinns aren't so choosy about what a victim looks like, they just want blood – or fear – to feed on."
"Oh, look, I think maybe a mermaid has just wandered right outta the sea."
"That's hardly likely," Sam snorted, "Mermaids are like aquatic succubi, traditionally luring sailors to their doom, and they'd have tails anyway and would hardly wander anywhere on dry land…"
His voice petered out as he looked up; Dean and Jimi were offering happy smiles to yet another young lady making her way up the beach.
"Dean!" he hissed once she was past, giving his brother a hefty Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). Will you stop ogling women, and pay attention!"
"Oh, I'm payin' attention, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Nothin' but beach babes as far as the eye can see, I tell ya, I'm payin' attention."
"Well, I'm clearly not going to get any sensible discussion out of you for the rest of the day," Sam huffed.
"If you wanna talk about bikinis, I'm up for it," Dean's eyebrows indicated that he was ready to deliver the lecture or take notes, whatever Sam preferred.
"What I want to talk about is this job!" snapped Sam. "Look, I think that if we can work out why it's choosing the guys it is, that might help us figure out what it is."
"Okay," Dean frowned. "So, why were they killed? Was that the intention, or a side-effect? What did it want from 'em? Did it want to feed? Did it want attention? What did they have that it wanted?"
"Good questions," Sam mused. "I'll see if I can get a peek at some coroner's reports, see if there was any tissue missing or damaged, blood, organs…"
"We got one weapon that'll work, whatever it is," Dean's irrepressibly irritating grin resurfaced, "All we gotta do is trawl my awesomeness around, and the Living Sex God will bring it out to play."
"Yeah, right," Sam rolled his eyes. "So long as it's not a wraith."
"No problem there, Sammy, if it's a wraith, I can gank it, and not even have to put down my beer."
"I don't doubt your ability to kill it, Dean – I doubt your ability to lure it into the open."
"Hey, if it's something going after hot guys…"
"It may be, but since you clearly don't have a brain it won't be interested."
"Bitch."
"Jerk. AND STOP DOING THAT!"
"Rowf!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Later that even, Sam regretted suggesting that they hang around a bar that was clearly a favoured venue for students and faculty to see if they could pick up on any further intel – it was a regular haunt for at least two of the guys who'd turned up dead, and seemed like a good place to start.
He wasn't sure what was worst, watching his big brother trawling for female company because he was on the Hunt and looking to attract a monster, or watching his big brother trawling for female company because he was an incessantly horny individual who had raised casual hook-ups to an art form.
"You lay it on any thicker, you'll need a trowel," growled Sam as his brother winked at yet another attractive woman.
"I can't help it if I have an irresistible animal magnetism," Dean complained, helping himself to another handful of peanuts.
"Well, you've certainly never tried to do anything about your animal eating habits," Sam griped. "I dunno, I'm not picking up any, you know, evil shit vibes."
"Neither am I," agreed Dean, making eyes at yet another woman, "But I'm prepared to sit here for a while yet, just in case."
"Jerk," Sam muttered. "It's a shame we can't bring Jimi in here, his nose for evil shit is never wrong."
"We could put his work harness on, and tell everybody he's your service dog," Dean suggested, "We can say, he's an emotional support dog, specially trained to help a long-haired emo cope with everyday life situations – at the first sign of you going into a meltdown because your lettuce leaf is from the wrong end of the vegetable patch, he's trained to distract you before you start bitchfacing in public…"
"Ha frigging ha," snarked Sam. "God, you're such a man-slut, you must've made eyes at every woman in here except the bartender."
"She's not hot," Dean waved a hand airily in the direction of the bar. A bespectacled woman, quite ordinary and unremarkable, was collecting glasses. "She looks like she'd rather be reading books."
"Well, she might," Sam pointed out, "This is a university town, Dean – she's probably a student, or junior faculty without tenure, making a bit of extra cash, especially if the semester is ended and the tutoring is drying up. And it's a busy job on a Friday night. Given a choice, I'd rather be reading a book."
"Yeah, but we know you aint normal," Dean grinned, and made eye contact with a buxom and leggy brunette sitting at the bar. "Stay put, I got a feeling about this one."
"What?" Sam was instantly on the alert. "What, is she givin' you weird shit vibes?"
"Not weird, no," Dean let the Killer Smile slide onto his face in all its smouldering glory, "Well, you might say 'weird', I'd go with 'kinky', don't worry, we'll go back to her place, don't wait up…"
"Gah!" Sam let out a yap of disgust as The Living Sex God threw him the car keys and a cocky smirk, then sauntered across the room like he owned the place.
At the bar, the woman behind it put down the tray of glasses she'd collected and offered him a bright smile as he ordered a drink. "Hi there, you're back again!" she said.
"Yup," he agreed, eyes sliding sideways, "Just hangin' around, enjoyin' the scenery."
"Oh, are you from out of town?" she continued.
"As it happens, yeah," Dean replied, the Smile briefly dialled down to Interaction With A Member Of The General Public Who Is Not A Hot Frisky Woman With Whom I Intend To Propose Beautiful Natural Acts.
"Thought so," she commented. "I didn't recognise you. I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed you before now if you'd come in before." She smiled again.
"Nature of my job, I go where I'm needed," he shrugged, his eyes sliding sideways.
"Oh, you're here for work?" she asked brightly.
"Yeah," he replied distractedly as the brunette smilled at him, "Just passing through."
"All alone on a Friday night, huh?" she said sympathetically.
"For now," he replied, taking his beer and watching as the brunette removed the swizzle stick from her gaudy drink and carefully extracted a piece of fruit between glossy red lips. "Excuse me." He paid for his drink, turned to watch the object of his libido, and ratcheted up the Smile several degrees on the LivingSexGodometer.
Sam watched in resigned disgust, or disgusted resignation, as his brother engaged the object of his intent in conversation. I can smell the testosterone from here, he groused to himself as Dean left the bar with her, I should put a collar and lead on him. No, wait, the jerk would probably just make some completely inappropriate comment. Shortly afterwards, he left too, and headed back to their cruddy room, where he tried to do a bit more research, then prepared for bed.
"Your Alpha is a total man-whore," he griped to Jimi as he shook the dog's blanket out. Jimi humphed, either in agreement or commiseration, as he settled for the night.
It could be worse, he reflected as he climbed into his own bed, at least I don't have to sleep in the car to get away from the noise of Dean entertaining a brand new special best lady friend. Although I will still have to listen to the play-by-play Chick I Have Banged story before the end of the week.
If it got really bad, he decided, he would take revenge: he'd take Dean's phone and message the next woman his brother arranged to hook up with. SO SORRY, I REALISE NOW THAT I CAN'T CHEAT ON MY BOYFRIEND LIKE THIS, I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND.
Said man-whore returned to the room some hours later, doing the Strut Of Smug Self-Satisfaction (because Dean Winchester had never done a Walk Of Shame in his entire life). Sam and Jimi barely half-woke; Sam mumbled something containing the word 'Jerk', and he was sure he could hear Dean grinning in the dark as he undressed and got into his own bed, with a cocky imprecation "Go back to sleep, Princess Samantha."
Silence descended, broken only by the occasional snore and the gentle waft of lavender scented half-Hellhound farting…
Dean was first up the next morning, calling first on the bathroom before Sam had even extricated himself from the bedclothes. He yawned and stretched, looking down at Jimi, who also yawned and stretched. "You know," Sam said to the dog, "I'd swear, the older he gets, the more unbearably smug he becomes afterwards…"
If he had anything more to say, he didn't get to finish the sentence: he was cut off by the scream from the bathroom.
"Dean!"
Gun in hand, Jimi on his heels, he ran for the door and burst through it.
Gasp! Where is this uncooperative little plot bunny headed? (Besides back under the couch, I mean). What goeth on in the bathroom? Run little Beau-Ponty, run!