Chapter Five

Back-tracking to the scene of Dean's most recent sexcapade ("Man, she was hot. She's probably the last hot woman I get to have sex with for a while. How am I supposed to pick up hot chicks lookin' like this?" "Dean! Shut! Up!"), they scoped out the apartment.

"Did she mention that she had to go out today, you know, go to work, or anything?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed sadly, "She said she'd love to have another round, and I'd cheerfully have obliged, she could do this thing with her…"

"Dean!"

"…But she had to get up early for work." He scanned the place. "Looks like she's out."

Making sure they were not observed, they made their way to the back door, taking Jimi with them, and Dean quickly had the lock surreptitiously popped.

"So, what do you see?" asked Dean, encouraging the dog to sniff around.

"Nothing at all suspicious," shrugged Sam, checking cupboards and looking in the refrigerator. "I don't see anything that has a specific purpose in laying curses – you need some pretty specific herbs. That tomato paste should probably be released back into the wild, though, before it escapes by itself."

"The nose for evil shit don't seem to be pickin' up on anything," Dean observed, steering Jimi's eager snout away from the garbage. "Except perhaps last night's take out containers."

"Well, keep looking. If she's cast a spell on you, she'll have needed something of yours – a strand of hair will do it – to put the whammo on you. It'll be on her altar."

"Would skin do it? You know, like a skin scraping?"

"Well, yeah – a nail clipping, some blood, an eyelash, even. Recently, Bobby heard about somebody stealing a buccal swab that was meant to be used for a lab class. Some physical connection with the object of the curse. It's just that hair is more traditional, because it's easy to get, you can just pull it off a comb or a brush, or even off a pillow, without the victim ever noticing or knowing."

"Then it was totally her," Dean asserted as they moved to the living room, "Because I'm pretty sure that her nails left marks on my…"

"DEAN!"

"And let's face it, if bodily fluids are sufficient, then…"

"DEAN!" Sam turned a fully automatic metal jacketed turbo charged Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual) on his brother. "If you end that sentence, I will end you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, bending down to peer at some knick knacks carefully arranged on a shelf. "This looks kinda formal, do you think…"

They were interrupted by the sound of a key in the front lock, then Dean's most recent bedmate was unexpectedly standing in the doorway, staring at them. "What the… who the hell are you?" she demanded. "Are you assholes trying to burgle me?"

"What? No! No, no, uh, this isn't what it looks like," Sam held up his hands and tried to look as unthreatening as possible.

"Hey there Sharon," Dean drawled, "I thought I'd just drop by to pick up something I left behind – did you see where I dropped my awesomeness last night?"

"She gaped at him in bemusement. "What? Last night? Who the fuck are you?"

"Ah, you're the find 'em, fuck 'em and forget 'em type," Dean sighed. "Can't say I blame you. O' course, you'll find it harder to forget me after last night. The performance on the sofa was masterly, if I do say so myself."

Sharon's face became a picture of horror. "Oh – my – God – were you… were you, like, watching or something? Were you watching through the windows? That's disgusting!"

"No!" yelped Sam, "It's not like that…"

"So, what, now you've come to collect a souvenir of your perving?" she sounded more angry than frightened. "Oh, that's gross! That's completely gross! You're completely gross!"

"Whoa, whoa, back up," Dean cut in, "That's not what you said last night…"

"You're jealous, is that it?" she raged on, "Because a girl like me wouldn't touch a guy like you with a ten-foot barge pole?"

"Now just a minute…"

"So you go around hiding in the bushes, and watch other people!"

"Hey, I'll have you know I never have to just watch! Well, not unless I want to…"

"That's it, isn't it?" she sneered, "You're just jealous, you weirdo! Because I spent the night with a guy who was totally hot, and you're so… so… so… not!"

"Well, whose fault is that?!" Dean snapped back, "We're here to get the Living Sex God's mojo back, so you'd better…"

"Rowf!" He was interrupted by Jimi who, having finished his inspection of the garbage, came out to meet a new person. Tail wagging and tongue lolling, he sat at her feet, and offered a paw in greeting.

She looked down at him, dumbfounded, hand automatically extending to shake paw. "Is he… is he with you?"

"Yeah," Sam replied hurriedly, "And we're just leaving, we're so sorry, we've made a mistake here…"

"Oh, you bet you made a mistake," she growled, fumbling for her phone, "Get out! I'm calling the cops on you, you pervert!" She turned to glare at Sam. "Why are you helping him with this?"

"Uh, I'm not…"

"You can leave the dog, he's adorable. But get out!" She grabbed up a handful of the knick knacks he'd just been inspecting, and began to pelt Dean with them. "And don't leer at me you creeper!"

With sporadic cussing from Dean as he was hit by, amongst other things, a pewter mouse, a ceramic turtle and a crystal sphere (he was hit by that one twice, as Jimi paused to retrieve it and take it back to her), the Winchesters made their escape as speedily as possible.

"Ow," Dean grumbled as he started the car and made a rapid get-away, "Well, that escalated quickly."

'Gee, I can't think why," Sam replied sourly. "But we can cross her off the list of possible evil spell casters – the nose for evil shit wanted to make friends with her."

"He did more than that," Dean glared into the mirror, "What the hell was that, J-Man? Takin' it back so she could throw it at me again? Whatever happened to dicks before chicks, dude?"

"The universal law of canininity, I guess," Sam shrugged, "Somebody who isn't evil throws a 'ball', you gotta fetch it and take it back in the hope that the game can continue. You know what a strong prey drive he has – somebody throws something he thinks is a toy, he's just gotta fetch. It's in his bones. He does it without thinking about it. Sees ball, must chase. A bit like you and women," he added tartly.

"Okay, so it aint her," Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his head where the mouse had struck home. "Wow, that was one angry chick."

"Well, from her point of view, she did have a couple of complete strangers break into her house," Sam pointed out. "And then you were, well, a bit of an asshole. Rude."

"I was rude?" Dean echoed incredulously, "I was rude? She called me a pervert, and a creeper, and accused me of leering, and bein' disgusting, and you're sayin' that I was rude?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed flatly. "Look, right now, you are not the guy she went home with last night, okay? The whole Dean Winchester, cocky and self-assured smartass might wash for Dean Winchester who looks like Dean Winchester and has Dean Winchester's Killer Smile, but…"

"But not for Mr Completely Average," acknowledged Dean glumly, "Mr Average, and his creepy leer."

"Exactly."

"Great. Just great." Dean turned onto a main street.

"Where are we going?"

"To find a diner, or a caf, or anywhere that does pie."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because you'll bitch if I start drinkin' this early, so I need to eat pie right now."

"We only just had breakfast – which, I might remind you, already included pie – less than an hour ago!"

"I don't care – and I'm not goin' back to that place, either. And I warn you, Samantha, anybody, including you, who suggests I should eat fruit salad will get their clock cleaned."

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

Dean's mood was improved by the ingestion of pie, so Sam took advantage of that to put him in front of the second laptop, with instructions to stay the hell away from porn sites. "See what you can find out about our three dead hot guys," he told his brother, "Whether there is any other connection – somebody they knew, somewhere they went, anything."

"What are you doing?" asked Dean, regretfully pulling the cursor away from 'Naughty Night Nurses'.

"Trying to get to info from the coroners' reports," Sam replied, frowning at the screen. "Unfortunately, whoever set up their network knows their security stuff, so it could take a while, even with convincing fake credentials."

"Well, I have faith in your research fu," Dean gave him a grin. "Because I don't wanna have to suit up and play Responsible State Or Federal Agent to talk to friends and family, not in this weather." His face fell. "My suit probably doesn't fit me now, anyway. Damn. I look good in a suit. I look awesome in a suit. Well, I look awesome in anything, really. And if women are doin' the looking, I look pretty awesome in nothin', too…"

"Well, for now, since 'looking awesome' is not on the agenda, could you concentrate on the case, and any possible link to you?" Sam suggested a touch acidly. "You know, think about something relevant?"

"Yeah, okay." Dean's eyes returned to the screen. "Right now, I'm thinking about demons."

"Demons?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You think demons might be involved?"

"Not in this case," Dean clarified, "But now I'm in a… well, I keep thinking of it as a meatsuit, because it sure as hell aint my body, so I can't help thinking about demons."

"Dean, this is completely different," Sam said firmly. "You have not stolen somebody else's body. You have not done anything to hurt anybody. You are not 'possessing' somebody malevolently, or even unintentionally, there is no comparison between you right now and a demon!"

"Not that," Dean scoffed, "But I've been wondering – say you're a demon, you get Topside, you gotta get a physical body to do your demony demonics, so, what do you do?"

Sam gave him a level stare. "You find a person without any sort of anti-possession mojo on board, and you take 'em as your meatsuit."

"Right. So, how do they pick which meatsuit to take?"

"What?"

"You heard me, how does a demon decide which meatsuit to take? When there's generally a whole lot of people where demons are, or where they go – if you want to be a demonic asshole, you go where the people are, so you have victims to be a demonic asshole at – how do you pick a body?"

Sam looked nonplussed. "I don't know! Maybe you're so desperate to get out of Hell that you take the first available cab off the rank! Or if you want to blend in somewhere, be unobtrusive, you pick someone you think won't be noticed. Or maybe it depends on what sort of evil you're planning. For example, if you possess an authority figure, a police officer, a priest, you could wreak a special kind of havoc, or a politician, maybe – actually, I have some theories about that..."

"Yeah," Dean cut him off, "If you've got something really specific in mind, but what I've been wondering is, why don't demons take hot meatsuits?"

"What?"

"Well, there's lots of choices out there, right?" Dean reasoned. "Once you're Topside, you got lots of choices. Lots of cars in this yard. So, why do so many demons settle on a meatsuit that's not hot, when there are hot meatsuits just as available? Seriously, why would you settle for the ten-year-old Honda Civic when you could go look for a fully restored Pontiac? Or, why not get in the Honda, and just drive it for a little while until you spot the Pontiac, then trade it in?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "This is what you're thinking about? We're trying to find out what turned you into Mr Average Incarnate, and what might be killing hot guys, and the selection of hosts of variable hotness by demons is what consumes your thought processes?"

"I'm just sayin'," Dean waved a hand eloquently, "It don't make sense. Even if you wanted to possess a specific type of host, a cop, say, there are hot ones out there."

"Dean..."

"You don't have to settle for the nearest doughnut-munching Officer Michelin Man you find."

"Dean..."

"A lot of the male ones work out. And a lot of the female ones, too, ohhhh yeah."

"Dean..."

"I love a woman in uniform, and a hot woman in uniform, I love that even more."

"Dean..."

"There was this cop I hooked up with in Maine, and what that woman knew about body searches was amazing..."

"Dean!" Sam treated his brother to a searing Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Shut! Up! About! Hot! Women!"

"Geez, hormonal much?" Dean rolled his eyes. "I just wondered, okay? Maybe next time Crowley turns up at Bobby's I can ask him about it, just before Bobby shoots him with the latest version of his Anti-Demon Rounds – I think he's up to Mark IIX. I mean, why did he settle for Varys, when he could've gone Khal Drogo?"

"Khal Drogo," Sam echoed.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, his face assumed a dignified expression. "I am secure enough in my masculinity to acknowledge that he was, as a guy, hot."

"Dean..."

"Who woulda thought that any guy could wear that much eye-liner, and come out lookin' totally non-emo?"

"Dean..."

"Take note, Sam, he was a workin' example of how to be talll, dark, and totally non-emo."

"Dean..."

"And your hair is practically long enough to braid, but maybe you could pass on the eye-liner, bro."

"Dean..."

"But I ask you, Aquaman? Somebody oughta be shot for that bit of heresy. But hey, if that Affleck guy can be Batman..."

"Oh, God," Sam moaned, then glared at Dean. "This may come as a complete surprise to you, Mr Living Sex God, but people all over the world have lives, professional lives, and private lives, and social lives, and yes, even sex lives, and they do it all whilst looking not nearly as hot as you. I know. Incredible, but true."

"It is one of life's mysteries," mused Dean, frowning at the screen. "That's weird."

"What? What's weird?"

"This guy," Dean gestured at the screen, "He stopped posting to Facebook for a week before he died. He was Mr Selfie - I think he probably took more photos than he did reps - and then, nothing."

"Yeah?" The keys of Sam's laptop rattled. "The same thing happened here – this guy was posting photos of himself every day, then suddenly, nothing, nada. And a week later, dead."

"Aaaaaand Number Three," confirmed Dean, "The selfie king, then radio silence, and a week later, dead. Why?"

"Good question," Sam grunted, "We'll work on that while we back-track on you – Sharon the angry knick-knack flinger isn't the culprit, so before that..."

"We go back to the bar," said Dean firmly. "Before her, that's the last place I was. Besides which, I need a drink."

"Right," sighed Sam, "Well, look on the bright side, you might get lucky."

"Huh?"

"Well, beer goggles work both ways, you know."

"Bitch."

Victim #1 deserved to die. No, really, anybody who stops to take a photo of themselves after every set at the gym - or in the middle of a set - deserves to die. STOP TAKING PHOTOS AND GET OFF THE BENCH I WANT IT YOU NARCISSISTIC WANKER!

Ahem. Please send reviews, because Beau-Ponty enjoys them immensely, and uses them to further horrificate Dean. Which is kinda fun. Go on, admit it, watching him have to make his way in the world like an ordinary person is amusing.