Well, little Fergus the plot bunny has grabbed the talking stick and whacked Ulfric over the head with it, so here's the next chapter he dictated.
The stripperpirate!Winchesters are, of course, from a review-soliciting interlude in 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow', with them et al. performing a song from 'Fanservice - The Musical', the Modern Reigning King Of Hell song. We also had a suggestion of them in the Special Bonus Feature at the end of 'Nun Of That'. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if somewhere out there on the interwebs there are picture of pirate!Winchesters, or even stripperpirate!Winchesters. I've stumbled into enough LJ, Tumblr and deviantART pages to know that there should be another internet rule: If somebody has a kink, then somewhere out there is a picture/story of the Winchesters doing it.
Chapter Eleven
Sam squelched the small stab of guilt as he listened to his brother doing the equivalent of sniffle.
That was really mean, conveyed Dean, sounding forlorn. I got so dizzy afterwards; Bobby said I did fifty-two fucky turns…
Fouettes en tournants, corrected Sam, looking at the menu. You asked for it. Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Now, behave.
Order something good? Dean sounded more hopeful at the possibility of food.
Sure, Sam grinned, Hey, look, they do waffle fries as a side – how about I get some of…
Of their own accord, his eyes fixed on a box of text halfway down the next page:
THE BURGERWORX!
It was accompanied by a picture of what looked like a football-sized construction of animal protein, with a bun thrown in grudgingly as a sop to any pedants who might suggest that otherwise, it should more accurately be called the PILE OF MEAT AND FAT ON A PLATE.
He felt Dean gasp in awe. Look at that, Sam, his big brother was transfixed, Look at that, all those patties, all that cheese…
Dean, I'm not getting that, Sam insisted firmly. Look at it, it's a heart attack on a plate!
…I'm looking, I'm looking, crooned Dean longingly, All that bacon, all those fries, all those wedges…
Look, it's something for three hundred pound truckers to eat, Sam reasoned, To help them on their way to their next bypass surgery. You know that just about every place on a major road has something like it.
Sam, Dean's presence growled, I need that burger.
No, Dean, Sam managed to convey the mental equivalent of an eye-roll, You want it. Not the same thing.
When I'm talkin' about a burger, it's the same thing, Dean's 'voice' was low and menacing. Order the burger, Sam.
No way, jerk, Sam scoffed disdainfully. When you're back in your own body, you can put whatever toxic artery-clogging liver-killing crap you like into it…
It wasn't a request, little brother…
The sound Sam could hear made him wonder if there was a dog somewhere.
"Sam?" Crowley was looking at him, eyes bugging, "Sam, did you… did you just growl at me?"
"No," snapped Sam, "It's Dean, he's bein' a total dick about ordering food…" he felt a strange sensation at the back of his head. "Knock it off," he muttered, "Dean, fucking knock it off, or I'll dredge up the memory of you naked in that lavender field…"
Before he could threaten to go on to the bit where his teenaged big brother had emerged, stark naked, from the lavender field in front of a busload of cheerleaders there was an overwhelming feeling of coldness in his head, and he suddenly pitched forwards.
"Sam!" yelped Crowley, as Sam appeared to be about to faint, "Sam!"
Fortunately, before he broke his nose on the table top, he put out his hands, and caught himself.
"Moose?" pressed Crowley cautiously, "Are you all right?"
Sam Winchester smiled at him hugely, winningly, and his eyes flashed momentarily black.
"Never better, Your Royal Maj," he beamed, gesturing to a waitress in a way that somehow oozed a come-hither sensuality, "And I'm starvin'. Let's order!"
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam blinked hard, and took in a gasping breath; for a moment there, he thought he'd been about to pass out.
Then he blinked again, and looked around.
He was standing in what looked like a cosy, well-used study. There was a desk piled with books, notepads and esoteric manuscripts. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with books. There was a comfy-looking chair beside a small but cheerful and welcoming open fire. An unoccupied dog bed sat beside the chair. On a small side table sat a steaming mug of cocoa.
Sam slowly turned in a circle, looking around himself. He immediately recognised where he was. He was inside the study he'd only ever dreamed of. Literally, only ever dreamed of.
Which meant he was inside his own head.
Which meant…
"Fuck."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting down rising anger. "Dean!" he yelled at the top of his voice, "Dean!"
There was no answer, just the quiet crackle of the fire, and the aroma of cocoa.
Don't catastrophise, he instructed himself, Don't catastrophise over this, your brother has temporarily commandeered your body, we're only a few hours away from his, then he'll want to get his own back ASAP. What's the worst that could happen?
Apart from him giving you atherosclerosis and fatty liver disease, and possibly an STI if he stops to bang the police officer who'll pull him over for driving like a lunatic before getting your ass thrown in jail for indecent acts on a public highway with a public official in a very public manner, then zapping himself right out of there and leaving you a police record as a fugitive while he tries to get to Gilette to get his body back and ends up in France, where he'll cause an international incident and get your face onto an Interpol list as well and that's before he even decides to climb the nearest public monument then attempt to talk to the nearest female gendarme, given that the only French Dean knows is 'ménage a trois', 'soixante-neuf' and 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi?'
First things first; he had to find a way of keeping tabs on what Dean was doing. Sam's eye fell on the laptop on the desk. He sat down, and started it up. One of the icons on the desktop was a shortcut to MeTube. It made sense, he thought, in a weird-metaphysical-I'm-trapped-inside-my-own-head kind of way. So he clicked on it, and went to full screen.
Crowley's astonished face peered out of the screen.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Dean?" said Crowley warily, "Dean, are you… are you, er, driving?"
"The one and only," Sam Winchester's face beamed at him in an annoyingly familiar fashion.
His Demonic Majesty leaned forwards and peered into Dean's eyes. "Is he in there, then?" He waved a hand in front of the eyes of The Individual Formerly Known As Sam Winchester. "Sam? Moose? Are you in there, Jolly Green?"
"Yeah," he's in here," Sam!Dean tapped the side of his head.
Crowley raised his voice. "Are you all right in there?" he asked loudly. "Not tripping over things? Got enough lettuce to keep you going?"
Dean angrily swatted Crowley's hand out of the way. "Knock it off!" he snapped. "He's fine!"
"Yes, well, I've been inside your brother's head," sniffed Crowley reproachfully. "I know what it's like. It can be a scary place. So wholesome it could make you start to twitch. You better just hope you don't run into his sense of propriety – it's terrifying, it's huge, and it's all tentacles…"
"He's fine," Dean repeated, "He's got books and stuff in there, he'll be happier in there than havin' to talk to you." The waitress arrived, and he gave her a version of the Killer Smile as she greeted them, then placed his order. "I'll have the Burgerworx, with extra bacon, extra cheese, extra fries, and no salad. How about you?"
"Oh, er," Crowley consulted the menu, "Well, the, er, Eggs Benedict look good…"
"He'll have the same as me," Dean told the waitress, gazing up at her with his brother's hazel eyes.
"Now just a minute," protested Crowley, "There's actual cutlery here, and I'm not going to…"
"Should be ten minutes," the waitress said, not taking her eyes off Dean for a moment. He cranked up the smile a notch, then watched her retreating backside approvingly.
Crowley was not impressed. "I am perfectly capable of deciding what I want to eat," he growled, "If I even want to eat."
"Course you do," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "What's the point of hangin' around up here, Topside, if you don't do the stuff that's fun to do? Like, eating, and driving, and drinking, and having sex…" he paused and peered at Crowley. "When was the last time you had sex?"
"That's irrelevant!" snapped the King of Hell, "What is relevant here is that I don't need you making decisions for me!"
"Isn't that what an evil overlord has minions for?" posed Dean, "You know, underlings to sweat the small stuff, so you can channel all your energy and diabolical genius into the really big, really evil stuff, like, you know, personal aggrandisement, world domination, and new boy bands, bwa-ha-ha?"
"What I do not need," Crowley rumbled in a quietly dangerous voice, "Is some jumped-up smart-arse telling me what to do. I do not need it, and I will not tolerate it." His eyes glowed briefly and faintly red. "Do you understand me, Dean Winchester? I am King of Hell, and you would do well to remember that."
"Whoa, aggro much?" Dean's eyebrows shot up. "That's a lot of tension you're carryin' there. You need to get laid, Crowley."
"What I need," Crowley's eyes pulsed redly, "Is for you to stop behaving like a complete wanker, and recognise that I am older, more powerful, and infinitely more sneaky than you, and I suggest that you don't press your luck, child, because you will come off second best, and I won't even feel the bump."
"Yeah, yeah, you're like Bobby, only with horns and a tail. And a limey accent," acknowledged Dean. "You could probably kill me, Your Hellside Highness, but I do promise you one thing," Sam Winchester's face took on a predatory look, "The last thing I do, with the last passing essence of my being, will be to bury the Blade in your guts." He looked thoughtful. "Or, I could just, you know, burn you right out of that midget meatsuit," he went on. "Seriously, you wouldn't believe the wiring in here." Sam's face suddenly twitched down one side.
"What the hell?" snapped Crowley. "If you break your brother, Bobby will be so angry he'll exorcise you himself!"
"It's okay, I'm just tryin' to work this out." The twitching stopped. "Hey, what does this do?" Sam's eyebrows began to waggle up and down.
"Look, I really don't think that testing your brother's Special Children circuitry in a public place is a good idea," suggested Crowley through clenched teeth.
"There should be a diagram, or something," Sam!Dean muttered. "Mais il n'y a pas rien comme ca ici. Merde. Oh, regardons, qu'est-ce que c'est?"
"The French language module, apparently," humphed Crowley, "Look, Dean, why don't you…"
"Je shr shenma?"
"Mandarin, I think. Now, perhaps you should…"
Kore-wa nan desu ka?"
"Japanese. Dean, I really think…"
"Nuq 'oH Dochvam'e?'
"Klingon, possibly. Or the prelude to throwing up."
"Sum, possum, eo, volo. nolo, malo, fero…"
"That's irregular Latin verbs!" hissed Crowley, "Stop it! Before you hit something that…"
"Hang on, hang on, I'm getting it…"
A sugar bowl two tables away exploded. The small child who'd watched the toupee flapping earlier clapped eagerly.
"Oh, Lucifer's bum," sighed Crowley, peering into the hazel eyes across the table, "Sam, if you're in there, will you please try to do something to put the problem child back into his play-pen?"
"Okay, okay, I got it," Sam's voice held all of Dean's most cocky confidence. "It's just a case of bein' logical, and systematic. That's Sam in a nutshell. Logical and systematic. And girly. So, the neuron's connected to the, uh, other neuron, aaaaaand…"
A vase of plastic flowers on a window sill burst into flame.
"Well done," smirked Crowley tartly, "Burning out artificial floristry – check; burning out demons can only be several dozen IQ points away."
"Shut up," muttered Dean grumpily. "It's not my fault if my little brother's brain is… oh, hey, here's our food!" He immediately went from crestfallen to beaming at the speed of Dean as the waitress put down two large plates piled with enough food of dubious nutritional value to power the entire electricity needs of a small third world nation somewhere for several months. "Thanks, darlin'," he winked at her, smiled winningly, then turned his attention to his plate.
Crowley gazed at him levelly. "Sam, if you are going to do something, I suggest you don't muck around," he intoned, "Otherwise, best just try to hang on to your aorta."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam's eyes bugged as he watched his brother's antics, then saw the gigantic burger meal arrive. He actually let out a little shriek when it loomed large in the screen as Dean bit into it, then wiped frantically at his chin when he felt the ghostly dribble of a phantom trail of grease.
He looked around wildly; he had to do something, and fast, before his brother killed him with cholesterol.
This is your brain, he reminded himself sternly, this is your brain, and you know it better than Dean does. He might know you pretty well, but he doesn't know everything that goes on in here. He eyed the beautiful oak bookcases, the comfortable chair, the cheerful fire. There has to be something in here, he thought, what I need is a distraction, a wedge I can jam into a chink in his armour.
The problem was, demonised Dean didn't seem to have the chinks anymore: the crippling self-doubt, the overwhelming sense of worthlessness, the belief that he was a disappointment to their father, those feelings were just gone. No, he'd have to find something that was still there…
His gaze fell on the laptop. I can get MeTube, he reasoned, which suggests that I've still got some sort of connection with the outside world, and that includes a form of internet connectivity.
An idea came to mind.
He sat down at the desk, closed MeTube so he didn't have to watch the disgusting spectacle of himself eating like a starving hog, and grimly began his search.
Oh noes! What is Sam going to do to his brother? He was equipped to be the Boy King, so we know he's capable of absolute ruthlessness when it's needed.
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(Yeah, yeah, you like your GWN, I do stationery porn. A chacun son gout.)