Ooooh, look at this, the plot bunny is whispering again. It must be the delicious reviews you fed him. Yay Beau-Ponty! Gooooo bunny!
Chapter Three
Sam was no stranger to responding to a brotherly S.O.S.; Dean's Batman complex meant that he would never say it out loud, but in his heart of hearts he would have to admit that very occasionally, in dire circumstances, in extremis, in the most desperate of situations, the caped crusader might possibly need some help from Robin, if it was a matter of life or death. Maybe.
Of course, what exactly constituted dire circumstances requiring a priority one immediate response from his baby bro might not always be something that the Boy Wonder agreed with…
Being jumped by a nest of vampires, yes.
Being jumped by an overly friendly Pomeranian with semi-automatic tongue action, no.
Being attacked by an alpha male werewolf at the full moon, yes.
Being smacked with a spatula by a cranky alpha female werewolf because he poked his fingers into a tray of brownie mix before it went into the oven, possibly not.
Discovering that the cave they were checking was occupied by a Black Dog, yes.
Discovering a pimple on his neck, not so much.
Running out of salt and holy water in the middle of bailing up a demon, definitely.
Running out of beer and doughnuts in the middle of a movie, definitely not.
Tearing a calf muscle while making a fast getaway from a raging daeva, yes.
Tearing the seat out of his pants whilst climbing a fence: I'm not your damned wardrobe valet, for fuck's sake, call Alfred.
Nonetheless, there was no way that Sam could know exactly what the circumstances were until he'd seen for himself; this time, the same as every time, he sprang into action, intent on saving Dean's skin. Or possibly just what passed for his dignity.
So, gun in hand, Jimi right behind him, he burst through the bathroom door, ready for anything, no matter how strange.
"Dean!"
As the door flew open, what he saw was definitely strange.
As in, what he saw was not expected, and not familiar.
But Sam was a Hunter – he kept his gun trained on the man who stood gawping at the speckled mirror.
"Dean!" he called his brother again, not taking his eyes off the intruder. "Dean! Hey. Hey! Who the fuck are you? Where's my brother? Dean!"
The guy slowly turned around, moving as if he were dazed, and raised his eyes to Sam, who just glared back at him, weapon steady. "S-Sam?" he stammered.
"Where – is – my – brother?" Sam repeated, menace dripping from every syllable, "And how the fuck do you know my…"
"Rumph!"
Jimi broke the tension by shouldering past Sam and into the small room, where he trotted up to the guy and nosed his head under the man's hand, grinning doggily and wagging his tail as he solicited attention.
Sam blinked; Jimi was a friendly dog who liked to acquaint himself with new humans, but he also unerringly had what Dean referred to as a nose for evil shit: if anyone or anything approached the Winchesters with dishonest, malevolent or murderous intent, he turned into a slavering monster, intent on protecting his pack.
Given that they stayed in cheap and crappy accommodation, it was inevitable that from time to time they would have break-ins, petty thieves intent on an easy job – watching Jimi stalk out of the shadows, growling like a grumpy earthquake, and chase the would-be burglar up the nearest piece of furniture was one of the few amusements that their life had to offer.
By rights, this guy should now be perched perilously atop the rickety shower screen, pleading tearfully not be eaten.
Instead, he looked down at the dog, and scratched absently at Jimi's ears. "Hey, J-Man," he murmured distractedly, before looking back up at Sam with bewildered green eyes.
Green eyes.
Below untidy dark blonde hair.
In a face that, due to recent sun exposure, was starting to show a smattering of freckles.
Slowly, Sam lowered his gun, his face taking on the same stunned expression as the man before him.
"… Dean?"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"It's me, Jim, but not as we know it." The voice that spoke – then let out a little giggle that might well have graduated to 'gibber' if it had gone on any longer – was higher pitched than his brother's, but the accent, cadence and content were unmistakably pure Dean.
"Uh, yeah," agreed Sam, staring at the guy sitting on the bed. His brother. Dean.
Only… not.
After the initial shock, he'd stopped gawping, and looked, really looked, like a Hunter seeking details and filing away information for later reference and collation.
The guy – Dean, it was Dean, he told himself sternly – would not set alarm bells ringing for even the most paranoid conspiracy theorist, because he was completely normal-looking.
And it was Dean. He could see the features that made his brother himself, but they were… dampened. His cheekbones were not so high, his features and jaw were less defined, his eyelashes were definitely shorter, his lips were not so sinfully full, but he was still Dean.
"So, er, you still more or less look like you," he ventured tentatively. "Seriously, I can recognise you as you."
"Except I'm not," his brother pointed out, standing up and observing himself despairingly in the room's cracked dresser mirror.
"Well, er, no," Sam had to agree. "You're, uh, I'd estimate you're about five-nine, maybe five-ten, and your ctual frame's a bit smaller, but you're maybe, maybe…"
"Make it about 200, 210," Dean sighed, prodding unhappily at his waist, where there was an unfamiliar bulge. He was wearing sweats after discovering that none of his pants would fit him. Frowning, he peered at himself critically. "Jesus, what the hell happened to my hair?"
"It's still there," Sam reassured him. "Mostly."
"It's going grey!"
"Only on the sides."
"And what the fuck is that on my face?"
"Your nose, bro."
"No, bitch, that!" He leaned in towards the glass, indicating a mark. "What the fuck is that?"
"Let me see… uh, it just looks like an acne scar. Or maybe it's from chicken pox. You can hardly see it. Nothing to worry about."
"Nothing to worry about." Dean sat down heavily on his bed again. "Right. Right. Nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing to worry about. I've woken up shorter, fatter, with thinning and greying hair and a fucking crater in my face, a fucking acne scar on my fucking face, which looks like it's been nipped and tucked by a plastic surgeon who played too much Sims as an intern, but there's nothing to worry about, no sirree, nothing to worry about here, people, just move along…"
"Dean," Sam tried to keep the fulminating Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) off his face. "I can understand that you're unhappy…"
"Oh, I aint unhappy, Sam," the Deanesque growl was completely authentic, "Unhappy don't begin to describe what I am right now."
"Okay, okay, I understand that you'd be fucking angry about now," Sam amended, "But I think it's important not to over-react, let's just concentrate on fi-"
"Over-react?" echoed Dean, "Over-react? You think I'm over-reacting? Some asshole fugly has clearly cast a spell or put a curse on me, I wake up looking like this, and you accuse me of over-reacting?"
"For fuck's sake, Dean, you've had worse!" Sam snapped in exasperation. "You're not injured, you're not sick, you're not in imminent danger of death! Yeah, somebody has obviously laid the whammo on you, but, really, you look completely human! You don't look like there's anything wrong with you! Nobody will run screaming if they see you in the street, you look completely ordinary, completely unremarkable, completely typical, completely regular, you're unexceptional, just an average guy!"
"Yeah," Dean gazed sadly into the mirror, "That's me. Just an average guy." He turned mournful eyes to Sam with an expression reminiscent of Jimi when told that there was no more bacon.
"Yeah, so…" Sam paused, and regarded his brother carefully.
An average guy. Dean was, almost by definition, a walking, talking example of The Average Guy. Mr Average made incarnate.
And definitely no longer the Living Sex God.
Understanding dawned, and he tried not to sigh too obviously.
"Okay, look, clearly this is a spell of some sort and we have to work out how to undo it as soon as possible…"
"Damned straight," agreed Dean immediately.
"But what I'm trying to say is, we should at least be grateful that it won't stop you Hunting. You might look a bit different on the outside…"
"A bit? Ha!"
"…But on the inside, you're still Dean Winchester, the best Hunter in the country, if not the Northern Hemisphere," Sam finished, feeling that a judicious dollop of hyperbole might be warranted just for ego soothing reasons. "So, it's not like an injury that has you hospitalised or laid up: you can still do the job, we can still do the job, find out who or what did this, and get on with working out what's targeting hot guys. The family business, bro."
"Yeah, you're right," Dean didn't make any attempt to suppress a heavy, dejected sigh. "You think this could be related to those others? Was I targeted because I'm a… well, usually, I'm a hot guy?"
"Possibly," shrugged Sam, "But you're not dead. Or gone nuts. Well, I'm assuming no more nuts than usual for you, it's too early to tell."
"Bitch," Dean scowled, reaching for the car keys, "Go do your hair, Samantha, we're going out."
"Yeah, I'm kinda hungry…"
"Breakfast can wait," Dean snapped, "First order of business is to get me some pants that fit!"
Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. The Living Sex God… desexed. How will he cope? What other mortifying manifestations of mediocrity will he have to suffer? Will he adjust to not being the hottest guy in the room? Will he expire from terminal mediocrity? Feed reviews to the plot bunny, and let's find out!