Fanfiction is a great, wide ocean, big enough and with depth enough for all sorts of people to enjoy all sorts of shipping. The little inlet known as Jimiverse Cove is not deep enough to admit the draught of some ships, such as the Good Ship Destiel, or the MV Sabriel, that particularly grubby scow the SS Crobby *shudder* or the battlecruiser Wincest. However, as we paddle about in our little dinghies and rhibs and the occasional pedal-paddler, we are always happy for fans from any other ships to jump in a rowboat, and come and visit us here. (Look out for the Deangirls on the bouncy castle, we told them it's not really seaworthy, but they don't care, they just keep paddling round in circles.) From time to time, we may make pretend cut-outs of your ships, and poke gentle fun at them, but we do not set mines and we do not have cannon. We do not want to sink your ships; whatever floats your boat, as it were.
Just watch out for the stripper pirates.
Chapter Ten
"Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne," recited Sam, "Entuned in hir nose ful seemly…"
Hey, you missed the exit! complained Dean.
"And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly," Sam ignored his brother, "After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe, For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe…."
Stop speaking Klingon, and find food! insisted Dean.
"BIjatlh 'e' yImev!" Sam dropped into Klingon to tell his brother to shut up before returning to Middle English. "At mete wel ytaught was she with alle: She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle…"
"Ah, Chaucer," noted Crowley in sudden comprehension. "The Recitation of Faith always did it for me. Even as a fifteen-year-old. Had the same immediate effect as a handful of snow up the kilt."
"…Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe; Wel koude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe…" intoned Sam.
"Well, that, or picturing Sister Josephus in her birthday suit," added Crowley, "Although frankly I think that woman was probably born wearing a habit. Or at least chain mail underwear. The Credo used to leave me less traumatised, though. We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible…"
"That no drope ne fille upon hir brist. In curteisie was set ful muche hir list…"
"Of course, if it was Morag Douglas in her red dress, I'd have to switch to Latin: Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipoténtem, Factórem cæli et terræ, Visibílium ómnium et invisibílium…"
"Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene, That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene…"
"Et in unum Dóminum Iesum Christum, Fílium Dei Unigénitum, Et ex Patre natum ante ómnia sæcula…"
What you two freaks are doin' is a crime against masculinity, Dean sniffed disdainfully.
"Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte…"
"Deum de Deo, lumen de lúmine, Deum verum de Deo vero…"
And is probably lowering the amount of testosterone in the world by a criminal amount, Dean went on.
"And sikerly, she was of greet desport, And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port…"
"Génitum, non factum, consubstantiálem Patri… you know, I never understood the verum/vero bit. 'Very God of very God.' Well, I don't understand a lot of it, but 'Very God of very God'? Isn't that laying it on a bit thick? Can Himself be very God, as opposed to, say, on some days, He's just feeling quite God, or a bit God? Maybe, 'Hey, I'm not feeling very God today, therefore I might just create a new bacterium', or 'Wow, I'm feeling totally God right now, I think I'll create a whole new species of intelligent ape, no, wait, I have a better idea, I'll go and create a new planet, no, no, better than that, I'll go and create a whole new galaxy! Yeah! Who's the Man?' I mean, I have actually met Himself, and I'd hazard a guess that he's pretty damned God all the bloody time…"
Have I mentioned how much I hate you both? grumbled Dean.
Between his recollection of Chaucer, and Crowley's metaphysical musings on the nature of The Almighty, Sam managed to get the body he was currently sharing back to a state where he was not embarrassed to get out of the car, and took the next exit.
"Is this absolutely necessary?" whined Crowley as Sam pulled the Impala into the lot of a diner.
"Yeah, I think it is," he sighed, wincing as another searing hunger pang hit him, making his stomach rumble audibly again. "If we're going to get there without me leaving teethmarks in the dash."
Way to go Sammy! enthused Dean, as Sam patted Jimi, told him to mind the car, and locked the doors, You are an awesome little brother!
Just let me drive for this, okay? Sam stipulated, I promise I'll include something that's totally devoid of sensible nutritional value and full of empty calories, saturated fat and refined sugar.
That's my boy.
"Cutlery," crooned Crowley as they took a table, "Actual cutlery. And a napkin." He raised eyes full of gratitude as Sam perused the menu. "I cannot tell you how welcome a change it is to eat with someone who might just know how to use a knife and fork for things other than stabbing opponents."
"Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts," muttered Sam, "Because we are gonna get him out of my head and back into his own body just as quickly as…" there was a strange sensation in his head, and what could only be described as an internal snigger. Dean, what are you…
At the next table, a man wearing a hairpiece seemed oblivious as his extra thatching flapped its edge.
Dean! Sam snapped the angry thought at his brother.
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig! yodelled Dean, Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig! Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig!
At the next table, the man's hairpiece flapped again. A small child at another table saw it, and stared, entranced. Crowley groaned.
Dean! Stop that! ordered Sam.
The hairpiece lifted, pulled away from the man's scalp, performed a 180-degree rotation, and flopped back down onto his head, making him jump in his seat.
Oh, wow, Dean sounded impressed, You really got the hardware for this, bro…
What? demanded Sam.
The hardware, the wiring, the firepower! enthused Dean with the sort of eagerness he usually displayed whenever he looked under the hood of a classic car. This is… Sammy, this is amazing!
A woman in a business outfit stood at the counter, ordering a coffee. The hem of her skirt began to creep slowly up her legs, as the toupee-next-door flapped again, eliciting a little shriek from its owner, and a giggle from the watching toddler.
You got the goods, dude. A soy latte upended itself on the tablet of a man in a suit who was speaking into his cell much too loudly; he let out a yelp, and shot out of his seat.
Crowley looked around. "Sam! Stop him!" he hissed, as a young lady with pneumatic assets squealed and grabbed at the top button of her shirt, which had apparently come undone all by itself.
Dean! Knock it off! insisted Sam.
Seriously, this is great! Dean practically sang. I feel like I'm drivin' that Ferrari again!
"Ferrari?" Sam muttered out loud, bewildered, "I'm a frigging car now?"
Resigned understanding bloomed on Crowley's face. "Ferrari," he sighed, "Yes, Sam, in a manner of speaking, you are. Your brain has been, shall we say, prompted to be, er, adapted to, uh, demonic shenanigans…"
"Demonic shenanigans?" echoed Sam.
"Well, you know," Crowley waved a hand vaguely, "Azazel's 'special children'? See things before they happen? Telekenesis? Fry demons in their own meatsuits? Boy King, leading the armies of Hell to storm the gates of Heaven, and burn them down? That sort of shenanigans." He rolled his eyes as the toupee-next-door did a three-sixty before flopping down onto the head it had been so rudely and unnaturally plucked from. "He's been driving along in his own stock standard model, so to speak, and being enough of a nuisance with that I might add, and now, he's got the keys to something the factory workshop turned out, with twice as many cylinders, and twice as much power."
There was a sudden short scream from the other side of the diner. A young guy in sagging pants, an overlarge shirt and a backward-facing baseball cap shot out of his seat, and limped rapidly for the door.
"What the…?" Sam's eyes followed him.
Switchblade in his pocket, Dean chuckled. He was thinkin' of carvin' his initials on some cars in the lot, on the way out. Nobody's gonna carve their initials on my favourite toy and walk away unscathed.
Dean, what did you do? asked Sam.
Whaddya think? scoffed Dean. I got in first. I carved my initials on his favourite toy.
"Oh my God," Sam dropped his head into his hands, "Dean, you have to stop this, like, NOW!"
Just another inch or two… Sam felt his eyes drawn to the woman at the counter; she was wiggling, and trying to pull her skirt back down. Hey! No fair fixing the skirt!
Dean! Sam put as much force into the thought as he could. Enough!
What if I leave the skirt alone, and go for panties instead? Dean's grin was palpable.
You leave me no choice, bro, warned Sam, casting his mind back to a job they'd once done. Making his brother experience it was drastic, but desperate measures were called for…
Hey, what's that thing? Dean wanted to know, It looks a bit like, heh heh, it looks a bit like your hentai-propriety.
It's a memory, Dean, Sam told him.
Except… there was a note of hesitation. It's… uh, Sam, it's… I think it has sequins on its tentacles…
I'm sorry, bro, Sam sighed, but this is for your own good.
And it's wearing… oh shit! Dean sounded panicked, Sam! Saaaam! It's got me! It's got meeeeeeeee!...
The memory wrapped its sequinned tentacles around Dean, and pulled him in, hugging him to its ruffled tutu…
It had all the hallmarks of an angry spirit, and that's exactly what it was, the restless and murderous ghost of Marlene Fentonworth, a transgender ballerina whose technical mastery of the art form would've gained her a place as a principal dancer in any company, had it not been for the slight technical difficulty of her standing six foot one and weighing in at just under 200 pounds. It had been her audition for Swan Lake that had been her last performance; after being laughed out of the theatre for crushing Siegfried into unconsciousness during her portrayal of Odile, she had gone on a rampage, strangling the director, the stage manager and a couple of stray swans with her tutu before throwing herself from the scaffolding from which Siegfried and Odette would leap at the end of the final act, only before the extensive padding and air mattresses had been placed. A succession of dancers had, after that, danced themselves to death under her malign influence on that stage. Their research had turned up only one possibility for dealing with the problem: they would have to distract the ghost long enough for somebody to get to the tutu, still hanging in the dressing room, and burn it. And it wasn't safe to drag civilians into a Hunt. Which meant, dragging Bobby along to do the salt and burn, whilst they distracted the ghost…
"Dean, come on out," snapped Sam, fiddling with the small stereo. "The sooner we do this, the sooner Bobby can kill her off."
"I don't wanna do this," came the sad whine from the shadows. "I don't know how to dance!"
"Neither do I!" Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, "We don't have to know how to dance! The whole point is, the stage is cursed, it'll kind of do the dancing for us, we just gotta, you know, be out there and let it happen…"
"I got a draft," Dean mumbled.
"Don't you talk to me about drafts," griped Sam, hitching at the ballet tights again and trying very hard not to think about what he must look like, "You think I like wearing an outfit that's not much more than a lycra condom on each leg?"
"Don't you bitch to me about costumes!" snarled Dean, "This is… this is... oh my God this is so humiliating!"
"Well they don't make pointe shoes big enough to fit me," Sam said grumpily, "And you definitely could not catch me in a fish dive."
"Fish dive?" queried Dean. "I gotta swim too? I can't swim in this, this, this thing!"
"It's just a lift, Dean," sighed Sam, hitting 'Play', and taking his place on the stage. "Now come on, we gotta get Marlene's attention."
Dean came stomping out of the backstage gloom in a very unballetic fashion. "I hate you," he growled, prowling in the wings like a caged animal, "I hate you so much, words cannot express how much I hate you for this…"
The orchestral music swelled and filled the stage.
Sam saw Dean swallow hard as the strains of the Pas de Deux began: he made a last check of his tiara, bounced on his toes a few times, hitched at his sequinned bodice, made a final adjustment to his glittering black tutu…
Then Odile, the Black Swan, made 'her' grand entrance…
The strange things happening in the diner suddenly stopped. Sam could hear nothing but the inarticulate wailing in the back of his head.
Crowley looked around. "What did you do?" he asked, amazed.
"Tchaikovsky," muttered Sam, "He hates it." He picked up the menu. "So, let's eat."
Send reviews, because they make the bunny talk and are the Unexpected Stripper Pirates In The Fanfic Of Life!*
*No, I'm not giving you stripperpirates!Winchesters - that wouldn't be unexpected.