Chapter Twelve
"Sam, what the hell is this?"
"It's your breakfast, Dean."
"It's structurally unsound."
"It's scrambled eggs, Dean."
"What's that green stuff in it?"
"Spinach."
"What the hell? When the fuck did I change my name to Popeye?"
"Oh, God..."
"Why is it all soggy?"
"It's wilted, Dean."
"Wilted? That's a thing? It's bad enough you make me eat fresh vegetable matter, now I don't even get fresh stuff, I gotta get the wilted leftovers?"
"Wilted in a frying pan, Dean! Cooked quickly!"
"So, where the fuck is the bacon, Olive Oyl?"
"Look, I am not having this conversation with you every damned time we get something to eat. Shut up and eat, or go hungry, choice is yours."
"Oh, so now you don't care if I starve to death?"
"Right now, as long as you do it quietly, no."
"I want coffee."
"No more coffee. Order some tea."
"I don't want tea. I want pie."
"You are not having pie for breakfast."
"Who are you, my mother?"
"Who are you, my three-year-old?"
"Look, I have to fuel my brain up for more research."
"Okay, yeah, trawling through Facebook can be pretty draining, so on the way back we'll get you some..."
"No, no, I mean researching how to get laid!"
"Ah. Of course. How could I have gotten our priorities so messed up?"
"You're probably faint from lack of proper food."
"This is proper food!"
"No it aint. What I usually eat is proper food. What this body wants is proper food."
"All right, then, if this isn't 'proper' food, and what that body wants to eat is 'proper' food, why is it that I look like this, and it looks like that?"
"Awesomeness genes."
"There's no such thing."
"Course there is, and you inherited them from me, because I'm your brother."
"Dean, NOBODY inherits genes from a brother! Maybe very very occasionally it's happened in the most broad-minded parts of the Appalachians, but otherwise, it's impossible!"
"Well, it's probably because I spent so much time and energy raising you, making sure you had everything you needed to grow into a healthy Sasquatch from when you were six months old..."
"Oh, great, here we go."
"Lavished care and attention on you, my baby brother, because you were more important to me than anything else, even the car..."
"High praise indeed."
"I lied for you, I stole for you, I shoved ice-cold jars of pears and custard down my pants for you..."
"Oh the sacrifice."
"Hey, do not ever underestimate the grim determination and steely resolve required to shove jars of chilled baby food down your pants. Have you ever done that? Ever shoved something that cold down your pants?"
"Well, there was that time you dumped the contents of the ice bucket in my lap."
"You were on fire, bro."
"Only because you got careless doing flaming shots!"
"Totally different. My point is, I took care of you when you were just a kid, and even now I hustle pool and scam credit card companies to keep you in lettuce and shampoo – the least you could do is let me have a piece of pie."
"Think of it as me returning some of the care you lavished on me – I have only your well-being in mind, and your best interests at heart."
"Sam, you can't expect me to eat this crap, then spend the day doin' research!"
"I don't. I expect you to eat it, then take the dog for a walk, then do some research. And when you get back, we'll download your data from your tracker, and see if you've improved on yesterday."
"Whaddya mean, improve on yesterday?"
"Well, it was more of a stroll than a walk, bro."
"No it wasn't!"
"Yeah it was. Plus there was ice-cream."
"How would you know? You weren't there."
"I downloaded your data this morning."
"WHAT?"
"It can be done remotely, over a short distance, so I did it while you were getting dressed. You strolled. Or maybe 'dawdled' is a better word."
"You're using that thing to spy on me!"
"No, I'm using it to see how active you've been, how far you went. Not enough steps, bro."
"I hate you."
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Dean insisted on doing some research before heading out for his constitutional, and even went outside to make phone call. He came back in looking unhappy.
"Lead petered out?" asked Sam.
"Pretty much," Dean sighed. "At least I didn't get laughed at."
"What?" Sam looked up, mystified. "By who?"
"Andrew," Dean replied. "Andrew Jaeger."
"Andrew?" Sam echoed with incomprehension.
"Yeah, you know," Dean waved a hand just above his own head, "About this tall, wears his hair in a hippy drippy ponytail, looks perpetually bemused, would rather turn an ankle than step on a mouse, sees the best in everybody, turns into a monster capable of flipping medium sized cars and disembowelling just about anything with his bare hands – or paws, really – at every full moon, gets ridiculously possessive over potato pancakes, that Andrew."
Sam blinked. "Why did you call him?"
"Well, I'm looking for advice on how to hook up with unhot chicks, right?" Dean reasoned.
"Yeah," Sam nodded, "So, you wanted some nice-guy pointers from an original nice guy, is that it?"
"Well, actually, I wanted some pointers from someone who's clearly an expert in having sex with unhot chicks," Dean shrugged, "I mean, Ronnie's about the most unhot chick you could find, and he managed to hook up with her, and..."
"Dean!" Sam snapped, giving his big brother a mortified Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). That's... that's..."
"Thinking outside the box?" suggested Dean brightly.
"Totally appalling!" Sam yapped. "The situation was completely different! Andrew wasn't looking for a one-night-stand, he was attracted to her as an individual! The whole package, who she is, not just what she looks like on the outside."
"God knows why," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "I mean, she looks more like a guy than he does, her arms are at least as big as his, you could at best be charitable and describe her as 'striking', if only because she gives the general impression that she'd like to hit you..."
"That wasn't what he saw," Sam scowled, "When werewolves pair up, they look for somebody they can be with for life. He was looking for something more than an attractive veneer – he was looking for, and found, a mate, a pair-bond, another half for a relationship, a lasting partnership, somebody he could spend his life with."
"Yeah, he wasn't much help," Dean sighed.
"Talking about inner beauty, intangible qualities, personality and other things you usually don't concern yourself with?" Sam asked snidely.
"Nope. Actually, he, uh, growled at me, then hung up."
"That's because he's a decent person," Sam declared in grim triumph, "Who was no doubt saddened, appalled and affronted to have his pair-bonded mate referred to so casually as 'unhot', whereas you are a serial one-night-standist who's as shallow as a redneck gene pool..."
"Yeah, thanks for that, Dr Phil," grumbled Dean. "So, we've still made no progress."
"Actually, I think I might have..."
"No, no, no, I mean, I'm no closer to getting laid!" snapped Dean.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sam took a deep breath. "Have you ever considered just asking nicely?"
Dean stared at him. "Asking nicely?"
"Yeah. Just... asking nicely. Politely. Leaving out the leering, the smirking, the pick-up lines, the arrogant assumption that she can't possibly refuse, and just find a woman who's maybe not size 00 Vogue catwalk material but has something about her that you like, tell her that you find her attractive, and sexy as hell, and ask nicely? It's worked for me," he added.
"What? When?" demanded Dean.
"Here and there," Sam shrugged nonchalantly. "It's probably the one approach you've never tried."
Dean looked thoughtful. "You really think that would work?"
"You got nothing to lose," Sam pointed out. "At worst, you're unlikely to get slapped for trying to be nice. Look, why don't you think about it whilst you take the delta-oscar-golf for his whiskey-word?"
"Hmmmmmm." Dean made a non-committal noise as he grappled with the novel concept. "Yeah, maybe. Come on then, J-Man," he called to the dog, "You wanna go out for a walk, huh, out for a walk? I'd say that's a yes," he decided, as Jimi woofed happily and spun around on the spot.
"I might head out for a run, too," Sam mused, standing up and stretching, "Before it gets too hot."
"Don't overheat that brain," cautioned Dean, picking up Jimi's lead, "We need it on this job, to get me back to my awesome self. Oh yeah, and find out what's killing hot guys."
"Of course," grunted Sam, "Saving people, Hunting things, getting Dean laid – it's the family business."
"Bitch."
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Later in the day, Sam took a moment to download Dean's tracker data.
"Hey, you went further than yesterday," he noted, smiling, "And took about twenty-five percent more steps!"
"Well, you're so keen on this health thing, the path of least resistance seems to be the easiest way to shut you up about it," Dean muttered.
"No, seriously, Dean, that's a really good effort," Sam went on. "And it might even help that body. Get those endorphins flowing."
"The what?"
"Endorphins," Sam repeated, "Your body's in-house feel-good chemicals. It's why you feel so good after exercise."
"Well, of course you feel good after exercise," Dean scoffed, "Because you've stopped."
"No, seriously, they're mood lifters. Might even help you feel less, uh, average. Seriously, well done, bro."
"Can we celebrate my achievement by goin' to a bar tonight?" asked Dean hopefully.
"If you promise me you won't act like a jerk and get yourself slapped," Sam stipulated.
"No, no, definitely not," Dean said firmly, "I've been thinkin' about what you said, about askin' nicely? Not bein' arrogant about it? I can do that."
"You think?" Sam asked doubtfully.
"Sure! Look, it's like, it's like different fuglies, right?" Dean appeared to be warming to a theme. "The same thing won't work on every type of monster. Holy water won't work on a werewolf, dead man's blood won't work on a rugaru, consecrated iron won't work on a wendigo, and a devil's trap won't stop a zombie – every job needs a different weapon, and different tactics. And right now, I just don't have the right weapon to use the usual tactics..."
"Not really sure I like the analogy of bedding women as a Hunt," Sam mused.
"Look, just go with me on this, okay? If you don't have silver rounds, you don't chase a werewolf. If you don't have a stake you don't chase a zombie. Right now, I don't have the right hardware to chase really hot women. So, I gotta find a Hunt I can finish with what I've got. Which, frankly, aint much."
Sam gave him a dubious look.
"Besides," Dean looked thoughtful, "I'm still me inside. I still know everything that I know. Okay, my Ferrari might temporarily be impounded, and I'm drivin' around in a Civic, but I still know how to drive, and I'm betting I can make that Civic do things that most drivers can't..."
"Metaphor of you as car, strangely appropriate," commented Sam.
"And ultimately, whatever model I'm drivin', I know how to take the scenic route, and let the ladies enjoy the drive, and get 'em to their final destination."
"Okay, sex as road trip, less comfortable with that," Sam noted.
"And is it really fair to withhold the inner talents of the Living Sex God from the less hot ladies?" Dean posed earnestly. "The hot women might not know what they're missing out on, but that's their loss, and their less hot sisters' gain, right?"
"Your capacity for being magnanimous is astounding," Sam answered in a level tone.
"I know, right? That's just the awesome kind of guy I am." Dean smiled winningly. "So, bar, booze – yeah, yeah, not too much, I get it, Samantha – and bedding babes. You can find one too," he offered.
"Gee, your generosity knows no bounds," gasped Sam in mock awe.
"Shut up, bitch. So, let's go eat. On, and just for info, if there isn't a decent sized chunk of dead animal in mine, I will hurt you."
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The evening found the Winchesters in a bar that Dean had not already visited, lest he be recognised and get his face slapped again on general principles. Sam watched as the camouflaged Living Sex God played some pool, played some darts, and ended up buying a drink for, and actually talking to, a woman.
She wasn't one of the hottest women in the bar, and ordinarily Dean probably wouldn't have given her a second glance when there was thinner, prettier, more scantily clad female flesh on show, but Sam thought that she had an attractively womanly figure, and a lovely smile.
Some sort of agreement seemed to have been agreed when she let out a laugh of real amusement, reached out to brush a speck of something off Dean's jacket, and smiled at him.
A moment later, she left with his brother; Dean gave him a brief and surreptitious thumbs up as they left the bar, and a couple of minutes later he received a text.
Don't wait up
Sam let out a sigh of relief. Hopefully, after an evening of beautiful natural acts, his brother would be less annoying.
Well, he'd still be annoying, but he'd be annoying in a less annoyingly annoying way.
He finished his own drink, and headed for the car, anticipating a quiet evening of research, and maybe an engaging documentary on cable.
On the way back to the room, he stopped to pick up more kombucha. Not only was he able to get it at a heavily discounted price, but the store next to it had a pair of high end trainers in his size in the window at cost price because of a small mark on one, and the drugstore on the other was doing a clearance sale on his favourite shampoo and shower wash.
I hope everybody had a happy Mardi Gras (as in, Pancake Tuesday). What are you giving up for Lent? I'm giving up hippopotamus rides.
So, maybe Dean will shut up now... or will he? How will the Living Sex God fare in his Honda Civic? At least Sam can wash his hair in peace tonight.
Poor little Beau-Ponty the plot bunny loves your reviews, they make him dictate further chapters, so feed him! Reviews are the Delicious Pancakes On The Fat Tuesday Of Life!