Meggin Lane: And you know as well as any writer that the only thing you can do to stop that annoying ( and in this case very distracting) mantra the plot bunnies keep repeating is to write a fic about Dean in shackles…

LeeMarieJack: Ackles in Shackles does have a nice ring to it, though. Any possibilities?

GrammarDemon: Guess you'll have to tackle that Ackles in shackles thing instead.

Well, I'm not completely convinced, but I'm willing to try anything at this point. So may I present to you an inter-chapter interlude titled, um…

A Spot Of Bother - an inter-chapter interlude

Sam pouted in that adorable yet vulnerable way that made him look like a little boy, then sat back and ran a hand through his magnificent man-mane. His research had apparently come to a dead end, and the Summer heat was making it hard to concentrate. He pulled off his damp shirt, stretched out his magnificent lats and reached for his drink bottle, rolling it across his face then drinking greedily, a small dribble of ice water escaping and running down the cleft in his chin to trickle slowly down his chest.

"Dean!" he yelled, heading upstairs, thinking he might change into a pair of shorts, "Dean, I've hit a brick wall with this job, I think I might need to…"

He was interrupted by a yodel of surprise and outrage from the room the Winchesters shared. He immediately broke into a run, and burst in through the door.

"Dean!" he yelped anxiously, "What's wro-HOLY SHIT!"

"Saaaaam!" yowled his big brother. "Saaaaaam! Haaaaaaalp!"

"Aaaaaaaargh!" warbled Sam, clapping his hands over his eyes. "Aaaaaaargh! Ooooooogh! Yeeeeeeeerg! Dude, what the fuck?"

"I don't know!" snapped Dean, "I was just getting out of the shower, and… this!"

Sam peeked between his fingers. The sight before him didn't get any less weird. In fact it got weirder.

Dean was, for reasons unknown, in what could only be described as shackles.

"Uh, Dean," he asked tentatively, "Why are you, uh, in shackles?"

"Because I've decided that Trivial Pursuit wasn't interesting enough, and I'm gonna turn Singer Salvage into a branch of the Hellfire Club!" Dean snarled, his top lip quivering and his chains rattling in indignation, "How the hell should I know?"

"It must be a witch," mused Sam. "This is the sort of thing some asshole witch would do." He scowled, and paused to hitch at the waistband of his sagging jeans where they barely clung to his hipbones like a couple of fangirls clinging to a lifesized cut-out of Jared Padalecki. "But which witch?"

"Could be a job we did recently," mused Dean, inspecting the metal around his right wrist, his bicep flexing in a fashion fit to make a Deangirl go squee, "Here, see if you can get the damned thing off."

Sam took hold of the shackle, and together they tried to open it, sweating, sweariing and grunting as their sweating arms bumped against each other.

"It's no good," Sam panted, chest heaving, "It won't open."

"Fuck," muttered Dean, wiping an idle trickle of sweat as it ran down the side of his face like a dribble of chocolate body paint, "Go get a mallet and chisel."

"If they're magic, that won't help," Sam pointed out. He cocked his head. "That's, uh, kind of interesting," he commented, "I just noticed the way that the little diamante studs on your collar spell out your name in a certain light."

"Stop admiring the hardware, you freak!" Dean hissed.

"Okay! Okay!" Sam said placatingly. "I'll make you a deal. I'll stop remarking on the strangely aesthetically pleasing appearance of your shackles, if you put on some shorts…"

Oh, damn, it's not working, let's just get on with the story and hope it stops…