Chapter Fifteen

Sam quickly located the Impala in the parking lot of the bar, and left Jimi waiting there, alert and silent, ready to run to their aid at a single call from his Alpha or his Second. Then he headed into the bar.

Nothing immediately caught his attention: it was a busy bar, packed with people, and there was not any occult threat he could see. He spotted his brother easily enough – Dean was slouched at a table with a beer, looking like a guy unwinding with a drink after work, but to Sam, who had years of practical observation of his big brother in the wild, the tells were there.

His big brother was tense. He was in trouble.

Dean noticed his baby brother enter the bar, and the brief expression that crossed his face told Sam all he needed to know.

Don't attract any attention, and get over here like nothing's wrong.

Sam bought himself a drink, and drifted over to the table where he joined his brother, their conversation covered by the sounds of other patrons talking and background music. "What's up?" he asked, sipping his beer, but alert for any threat.

"Thank fuck you're here," Dean muttered, his voice low and tense, "I have to get out of here, Sam."

"Why?" asked Sam, "What is it? Is it something to do with your curse?"

"Uh, well, not exactly." Dean swallowed. "I, uh, I have a problem."

"Huh?" Sam turned to look at his brother, who was looking frankly sheepish, and, if he thought about it, just a bit worried. "What sort of problem? Crap, is it the Law?"

"No, no, it's not cops," Dean assured him, "It's, uh, it's a bit, er, closer to home than that..."

"Dean," Sam swept the room with a Hunter's alert gaze, "Whatever it is, we'll get out. Jimi is waiting in the car. Tell me what it is. We'll get out, through the back if we have to, over the bar if we have to, we'll call Jimi if we have to, shoot our way out if we have to..."

"Uh, that won't be necessary," Dean interrupted. "There's no fuglies here. At least, none I can spot."

Sam turned to stare at his brother. "I got your message, dropped everything to haul ass here because you were in trouble, and now you tell me it's a false alarm?"

"It's not!" Dean hissed, "There really is a problem! A serious problem!"

"Then what the hell is it?" demanded Sam.

Looking like a deer in the crosshairs, Dean visibly swallowed. "Well, you know how I came out to find a like-minded lady for frisky funtimes tonight?" he began.

"Yes," Sam prompted. "And?..."

"And you know how I kind of had, uh, you know," Dean waved a hand uncertainly, "A bit of, uh, trouble last night?"

"Yeees...?"

"And you know how I wanted to get straight back on the horse?"

"Yeeeees...?"

"But of course I didn't want a repeat performance of, uh, you know, lack of performance?"

"Dean," Sam spoke with a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "If you don't get to the point before Easter, I might just shoot you myself."

"Well, the thing is, the thing is," Dean went on, visibly unhappy, "I thought that I should, kind of, maybe give Mother Nature a helping hand, sort of thing, since I'm so Mr Average at the moment, so, uh, I uh, kind of... helped things along. A bit. Kind of."

Sam stared at his brother in complete incomprehension. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"This Mr Average Joe suit needs all the help it can get," Dean stated, "And I thought, well, maybe I could just use a little bit of a boost, for interaction with the ladies."

"For interaction with... Dean, if you have been dumb enough to try one of those stupid alleged female attracting pheromone sprays, and you've had some sort of allergic reaction to it, it serves you right, those things are a complete rip-off with no research to back up their claims of efficacy..."

"Not pheromones, Sam," Dean looked stricken. "No, not pheromones."

"Then, for fuck's sake, bro, what?"

Wordlessly, with a face like a dog who's been caught with his nose in the garbage, Dean reached into a pocket, pulled out a small bottle, and handed it over.

Sam scanned it, and his face went from confusion to horror at the speed of WTF.

"You... oh – my – God, you took these?"

"Um, yeah."

"Seriously? Seriously? You actually took these? Are you nuts?"

"I'm not nuts! I just wanted to, you know, uh, avoid, um. Yeah."

"I mean, they could contain anything, up to and including poisonous adulterants! People have died taking this stuff! When did you start feeling sick?" Sam pulled out his cell, preparing to call an ambulance. "What are your symptoms? Are you light-headed? Is that why you can't get up, and leave by yourself? We have to get you to the nearest ER, because if your blood pressure crashes..."

"No! No! I'm not sick!" Dean protested. "I'm fine! I'm feeling fine! You don't have to worry about me keeling over, that's not going to happen."

"Dean, you took this stuff," Sam waggled the bottle, "And now you don't want me to worry?"

"Well, no, of course not," Dean scoffed.

"How many did you take?" demanded Sam.

"One or two," Dean replied defensively. "Maybe three. No more than four."

"It says this is a bottle of twelve."

"No more than six, absolute worse case scenario."

"The bottle is empty, Dean."

"Well, according to Doctor Google, they aint as potent as the real deal, so…"

"That's what doing earlier today? I thought you were working on the case! And this is what you were researching with such ferocious concentration?"

"Look, I don't want you to worry, just..."

"You don't want me to worry?" Sam's voice rose an octave with indignation. "You don't want me to worry? My big brother eats a handful of this so-called herbal Viagra crap, which could contain anything, and you don't want me to worry?!"

"Sam, I am NOT sick, I am NOT feeling bad, I am NOT in danger of dying here!" Dean yapped irritably. "So stop being such a mother hen! Who's the drama queen now, huh?"

Visibly reining in his temper, Sam drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm surprised at you," he spoke with deliberate calmness, "To spend money on something like that. There is absolutely no peer-reviewed evidence to suggest that these 'alternative medicine' versions work, and..."

"Oh, they worked, Sam," Dean's pained tone was as eloquent as his expression. "They worked."

"What? What do you mean, they..."

Dean pushed his chair back.

"OH JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST!" Sam clapped his hands over his eyes. "I do NOT need to see that!"

"Don't be so squeamish!" snapped Dean, scooting his chair back in. "You're a guy, it's no surprise to you…" His eyes travelled down. "Yeah, okay, maybe you've never seen one that's quite so, uh, you know, keen to meet new people…"

"HOW could you DO that to me?!" demanded Sam.

"Do that to you?" Dean scoffed. "What the hell are you complaining about?"

"THAT!"

"Hey, I'm the one sittin' here with a circus tent in his pants, trying to work out how to stand up without hurting myself..."

"SHUT UP!" Sam scrabbled for his phone. "Ohhhh, I need a huge bucket of mind bleach, sixty seconds ago... shit, get up, we're taking you to the nearest ER, right now."

"What?" Dean looked panicked. "No! No! You can't do that! Don't you DARE do that!"

"Dean, this could be a serious health problem," Sam said in a level tone, "I'm not kidding. It could damage you permanently. If it doesn't resolve by itself, it needs medical attention. This is no time for he-man reticence or embarrassment; your health could really be at stake, here..."

"NO!" Dean insisted.

"Dean, this matter is not up for discussion!"

"Damned right," Dean crossed his arms, "You aint takin' me to any damned hospital."

"I have to! This is not funny!"

"It's absolutely not funny!" agreed Dean.

"Damn you, bro, this has to be addressed by modern medicine!"

"Well, you go get me the pill to reverse it, then," his big brother specified.

"There is no pill to reverse it," Sam scowled, scanning through his search results, "It needs a very specific procedure performed by a qualified specialist."

"Ohhhh, hell no," Dean moaned. "I'm not letting some old grey guy grab my junk... what?" Dean watched his brother's face visibly go green. "What?"

"It says here," Sam swallowed, "It says here that, uh, the excess pressure in the corpus callosi has to be relieved via bilateral phlebotomy, usually assisted by ultrasound, to restore normal circulatory function and vascular return."

Dean looked nonplussed. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Wordlessly, Sam handed his cell to his brother.

Dean read. Dean's eyes bugged. And then, Dean exploded.

"What the... no way, Francis! No fucking way!"

"Dean this sort of thing can be a real medical emergency, bro..."

"I don't care if it jumps up and knocks my eye out, NOBODY is doing THAT to me!"

"Look, I'm sure that it sounds worse than it actually is..."

"Sounds worse? Sounds worse? Does the theme to 'Jaws' sound worse than actually getting eaten by a shark?"

"Dean..."

"There's pictures, Sam! Pictures of what they do! It does NOT sound worse!"

"I think you need to calm down and consider this..."

"Calm down? Calm down?" Dean gawped at his brother, "It says here that they stick needles into your dick and suck out blood until it goes down, and you are telling me to calm down?"

"Well, no doubt there's at least some topical anaesthetic involved..."

"NO!" Dean shouted. "Sam, I am NOT going to hospital to be treated for a raging hard-on, okay? I'm just NOT! ESPECIALLY if some SADISTIC WEIRDO wants to stick fucking NEEDLES INTO MY DICK!"

There was a sudden pocket of silence as people at the tables around them stopped, and turned to look at them with bemused expressions.

"Sorry," Sam apologised with one of his most adorable smiles, "Rehearsal for a Post-Deconstructionalist Drama class. Keep your voice down!" he added in a hiss directed at his brother. "For somebody who doesn't want to attract attention, you're doing a bang-up job."

"Anyway, I gotta get out of here," Dean stated.

"So, get up and go," Sam humphed, thoroughly piqued by his brother's behaviour, attitude and general wilful Deanishness.

"I can't!" Dean protested. "What if somebody sees?"

"They'll just think that you're an inappropriately horny asshole. And they'll be totally correct," snapped Sam. "Oh, for fuck's sake, can't you just camouflage it with your jacket?"

"Nope," Dean said glumly, "I tried that, look, it doesn't work..."

"Hey, I said I do NOT need to see that! Fuck," Sam growled, "Okay, here's what we do. I get up and leave, you get up and leave, you stick close behind me, I'll be your camouflage."

"No," Dean said firmly. "If somebody does see, they'll think I'm some creepy pervy creeping pervert with the hots for you."

"Nobody will see!" Sam insisted. "Look, the lights in here are low, people are talking to each other. And nobody's going to be interested in looking at you, Joe Average," he added trenchantly.

"No!" Dean insisted.

"Look, we'll never come back to this bar again," Sam attempted to use reason, always a long shot with Dean but sometimes worth a try, "So even if somebody does see you, they'll never see you again after that, and it won't matter."

"It'll matter to me," griped Dean sullenly. "Come on, college boy, you're supposed to be the smart one, think of something!"

"You are impossible," Sam ground out between clenched teeth. "Completely, totally, utterly, infuriatingly impossible..." his eyes strayed to the bar. "Belay that," he muttered thoughtfully, "I might just have come up with something worth a shot. Stay here."

"Attaboy Sammy," Dean encouraged as his little brother left the booth and headed for the bar. "I knew you'd think of something!"

Sam had thought of something: Dean watched him head for the bar, and buy a jug.

"Way to go, Supergeek!" Dean enthused as his brother returned, "The Living Sex God, o' course, doesn't have to worry about alcohol impairing his performance in the bedroom, but Mr Average Joe? Keep pouring booze into him until the problem goes away? That's an awesome idea…"

However, Sam's idea lost a lot of its awesomeness once Dean realised that Sam was carrying a jug not of beer, but of ice water.

It lost absolutely all of any remaining awesomeness when Sam upended the jug in his lap.

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

"For this, I will end you," Dean rumbled dangerously as they made their way out into the lot, "You will not see it coming, it will not be clean, it will not be quick, and before I am done, you will beg for death..."

"Shut the fuck up," snapped Sam, "It worked. And you could blame it on your clumsy little brother, and not your own fucking stupidity, in front of all those people."

"You traumatised me!" Dean whined.

Sam rounded on his brother. "I traumatised you? I traumatised you? You message me, tell me you're in trouble, and I get there and find out that it's a rampant case of self-inflicted priapism, and you make me look at my older brother's monumental hard-on, and you are accusing me of inflicting trauma on you? Jerk!"

"I think you froze it," Dean complained, "I can't feel anything there, and that aint normal."

"I hope I did," Sam shot back as they approached the car, "I hope it froze, and I hope it snaps off, and I hope I never have to hear about anything to do with it again, because..."

He stopped abruptly. Before Dean could put the key in the door, Jimi suddenly pulled his Hellhound heritage trick and shot straight through the door, making a beeline for the bar.

"What the... Jimi!"

The Winchesters immediately left off their argument, and followed him.

The dog didn't go far – he headed past the doors and around the building to where the garbage dumpsters were.

Only, he wasn't interested in the dumpsters; he was interested in the figure slumped against one of them. Whining, he nosed and pawed at the motionless body, moving in to lick anxiously at his face.

"What the... Jimi, what is this?" said Dean, mystified, "Is that guy dead?"

"Dead drunk, I think," Sam corrected, hunkering down to check on the man, his nose wrinkling. "Either that, or he's been bathing in liquor."

As he spoke, the man's eyes opened, and he stared groggily at the Winchesters and their dog. Catching sight of Jimi, his eyes went wide. "Don't let him eat me!" he shrieked.

"Hey, it's okay, he won't," Sam reassured him, "He's just worried about you, for some reason..."

"He tried to eat me!" the intoxicated man insisted, trying to get up and failing miserably, "He tried to eat me!"

"No, he's not tastin' you, really he's not," Dean reassured the stranger, "He just wants to make sure you're okay..."

"The other night, he tried to eat me!" insisted the man, scrabbling to his feet unsteadily, "After you cheated me at pool!"

"Huh?" Dean looked bemused. "There must be some mistake, man, I've never met you before!"

"You cheated me," the guy slurred, "And I came to get my money back, and, and, and your dog was there, and his eyes glowed, they glowed, and he, and he..." he slid back down the dumpster to the ground, and burst into tears.

Dean looked at Sam, who stared back, just as dumbfounded, and Jimi whuffed supportively, leaning in to lick the guy's face again. "Sam, this is not the guy I played pool with," he stated, "You saw him, you saw them, they were a bunch of steroid-munching smoothie-sipping protein powder snorting assholes, but this guy, he looks, he looks..."

"He looks completely unhot," Sam noted grimly. "He looks average, ordinary, and unhot. Just like you."

Sam is a big bloke - sometimes, why he doesn't just strangle Dean is a mystery. He could put an iPod jack in the car.

If it appears that I am being excessively mean to Dean, I can only plead transferrence: at the moment, I am seriously contemplating banging some colleagues' heads together.

For those who are conversant with The Craft, these two allegedly educated individuals have put a PCR cycler and a next gen sequencer in the same room.

For others, that's like holding your Democrat working party in the same room as your GOP get-together and expecting both of 'em to function efficiently.

Morons: BEWARE! They can strike anywhere, anytime, when you least expect them! And the more educated they are, the more dangerous they are...

I am seriously contemplating asking the security guys if I can draw a weapon, just for fifteen minutes. Having to write on paper and post it out from prison will put a bit of a crimp in my fickriting, but I'm sure we'll all adjust.

But enough of that splim-splam-splom, we have... a Plot Development! What is Beau-Ponty planning? Dictate little plot bunny, dictate! Feed him reviews, because Reviews Are The Bloody Swathe Of Mayhem You Cut With Semi-Automatic Weaponry Through The Workplace Of Life!