Chapter Eighteen
The office of the Real People agency looked like the inside of what a modelling agency might be expected to look like: the walls were lined with photos of all sorts of people. Dean had the impression that their teeth were following him around the room.
He was examining a picture of a child with jug ears and buck teeth that suggested he was somehow descended from both elephants and chipmunks when he heard a voice behind him say cheerfully, "Hello!"
He spun around, and let a slightly shy smile spread across his face. "Uh, hi," he replied, "I, uh, saw your ad in the paper and…"
"Hold it right there." Dean found himself being stared at intently by a middle-aged, slightly balding, slightly paunchy man whose appearance suggested that he had somehow stepped out of the pages of a book called 'Gay Stereotyping: If You're Going To Dress Like That You Might As Well Be Fa-LAMING!'. There were lilac pants. There was an orange shirt with wide lapels and ruffles. There was a pair of platform sneakers that had been left too close to an explosion in a sequin factory. He had a sudden mental picture of Crowley raiding Liberace's wardrobe.
"Uh, is everything okay?" he asked, as the man continued his scrutiny.
"Dear boy, everything is better than okay," breathed his examiner, "Oh my God, will you look at that bone structure, those cheekbones, those lips… " he moved closer, and let out a little gasp. "Are you wearing contacts?" he asked.
"Uh, no," Dean replied, and the man let out a little squeak of happiness.
"Oh my, all this, and green eyes too!" he bubbled happily, then suddenly let out a little gasp. "Oh, I am SO sorry!" he chirped. "I'm Butch Schwartz, owner, manager, and chief stage mom of Real People."
"Dean, Dean Page," Dean replied, holding out his hand.
Butch recoiled theatrically. "Oh, I don't shake hands, sweetie," he trilled, "And let's face it, you don't know where I've been!"
"Um, well, it's good to meat you, Butch. Really?" The last word popped out before Dean could stop it.
Butch rolled his eyes dramatically. "Blame my parents," he sighed, "They didn't have a lot of imagination. Wishful thinking on my father's part, maybe. It could've been worse. My brother was named Hercules. Hercules! Who does that to a child?"
"Yeah?" Dean couldn't help but smile. "So, did he go into the circus as a strong man?"
"He's as skinny as a rake," confided Butch, "And he works as an interior decorator in Cali these days. But anyway, what can I do for you, Dean? No, scratch that, a better question is, where have you been wasting your life up until today?"
"Well," Dean ran a hand through his hair uncertainly, "I'm a mechanic, but it don't pay real well these days, and, uh, your ad said you take all sorts of people, and the guys at work are always teasin' me about how I look…"
"Oh, I get where you're coming from," Butch said sympathetically.
"And I thought, well, maybe I could make a bit of extra money," Dean went on. "I figured it couldn't hurt to come in and ask, right?"
"Absolutely!" Butch beamed, "And I am so glad you did! When I look at you, I see all-American man, I see toothpaste, I see barbeque sauce…"
"Have I got some on my face?" Dean wiped anxiously at his chin, and Butch laughed.
"No, no, sorry," he apologised, "What I mean is, frankly, I think you have a look that could pick up commercial work. Have you ever done any sort of modelling work before?"
"No," Dean said, letting worry leak into his voice. "Is that gonna be a problem?"
"With your face, not for long," Butch smiled broadly. "I have a couple of very good photographers, we can get one of them to put together a few shots for you – look, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"
Butch fetched them coffee from a pod machine that made Dean think of spaceships, and they chatted for a while. Dean spun a story about being newly arrived in town, with no family left to speak of, no real connections, nobody who'd notice if he suddenly dropped out of sight – in other words, he was eminently abductable.
"If you'd like to drop by tomorrow, I can get Lois to take some shots of you," Butch suggested, "You won't need many just to get a starting folio together."
"Yeah, sure, that'd be great," smiled Dean. "Well, thanks for your help, Butch."
"Oh, I think we'll be able to help each other!" enthused Butch, waving him out of the shop front.
Dean made his way back to the car where Sam and Jimi were finishing off their snacks.
"So, are you the Next Big Thing?" asked Sam.
"Funny you should ask that," Dean smirked, "Butch says that when he looks at me, he sees all-American guy, and he thinks I can pick up some work pretty quickly."
"Butch?" Sam raised his eyebrows.
"Yeah," Dean grinned, "Butch Schwartz. He runs Real People. He's actually about as butch as Julian Clary. Actually, I think if he shook hands with Julian Clary, he'd probably get his wrist broken. He dresses like an explosion in RuPaul's wardrobe rejects. I think the expression we're lookin' for here is 'Larger Than Life'. Or possibly 'Screaming Queen'." His face became serious. "He comes across as nice enough – harmless, even – but if you asked me, I'd say he was kind of creepy."
"Is that 'kind of creepy because he's setting off my Hunter's spidey senses' or 'kind of creepy because I'm an unreformed homophobe'?" asked Sam solicitously.
"Bitch," scowled Dean, "Well, 'Schwartz' is another word meaning black, right?"
"German," Sam nodded. "So, I think I should go, to get a second opinion."
"Yeah," Dean agreed reluctantly as he sifted through the wrappings on the front seat, "What were you eating? Did you leave any for me? You didn't!" Jimi looked at him from the back seat and licked his chops. "You pair of little bitches!"
"I was hungry," Sam complained, "We both were, so I just got us some burritos, and…"
"What?" the horrified gasp burst from Dean. "Have you and Jimi been eating burritos in my car?"
"Well, yeah," replied Sam, "Like I said, we were both hungry, and…"
He paused, looked thoughtful, then passed gas musically.
"Gaaah!" gasped Dean, "Get the fuck out of my car, Toxic Taco Boy!"
"That won't be the burritos," Sam pointed out, "We've only just eaten them. That'll be last night's steak."
"I don't care if it's a skunk with the plague that crawled up your ass and died!" yapped Dean, flapping a hand in front of his face as he started the engine, "If you do that again, you can walk!"
"Screw you," said Sam serenely. "Like you've never let fly loud enough to wake up people on the other side of a brick wall."
"I hate you," Dean muttered, "I can't win. You live on vegetables, you're toxic. You live on meat, you're toxic. You could be one of those freaks who claims to be able to live on sunlight, and you'd still be capable of breaking a dozen international laws about the use of chemical munitions."
As the car pulled away from the kerb, Jimi woofed happily and wagged his tail in the back seat. A wave of lavender scent washed over Dean."
"Et tu, Jimi," he sighed in resignation.
An afternoon spent at the local library going through back issues of newspapers didn't turn up any more solid connections between disappeared girls and the modelling agency. Dean called a halt, claiming that his eyeballs were going to claw themselves out of his head, so they called it a day, and went for dinner.
"Maybe we should try to find out more about this Butch guy," Sam suggested, making his way through the massive Reef & Beef platter that made Dean's steak dinner look positively modest, "Where he's from, how long he's been here, how long he's been in this line of work…"
"Well, I'll leave any fashionista-ing to you," decided Dean, "Seein' as you're probably closer to Butch in taste in clothes than I am."
"I don't wear lilac pants! Or ruffles!" protested Sam, biting into a large shrimp.
"You got that thing that looks like a maternity shirt," sniffed Dean in distaste.
"It's not a maternity shirt!" protested Sam, crunching away on the shrimp.
"Close enough," shrugged Dean, "Uh, Sam, did you peel that thing properly?"
Sam crunched a few more times, swallowed, then picked up another shrimp and bit into it with another crunch. "Peel?"
"Never mind," sighed Dean, "Just enjoy your dinner. And don't solicit kitchen scraps for Jimi; I'm gonna get him wings. After what you bitches did to my car, it needs some cinnamon scent."
Sam finished his dinner with obvious relish just before Dean.
"That was great," he hummed happily, picking at his teeth.
Dean eyed his brother. "You might get disqualified if they decide that you're wearing too much of it to qualify as having 'eaten' it inside the time limit."
Sam looked down at himself, and brushed at the evidence of a meal enjoyed at least partly without cutlery. "I'm good," he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, then going back to picking his teeth. "It needed a wash anyway…"
"Dude!" hissed Dean, "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I think I got something stuck," Sam replied, frowning, "Feels like a piece of shrimp shell, maybe…"
"Your hand, Sam!" Dean yelped under his breath. "Your damned hand!"
"Huh?" Sam took his hand away from his mouth; from his index finger there extended a length of sharp claw. "Oh." He concentrated, and the claw retracted then disappeared. "Uh, sorry," she said sheepishly. "But it's really annoying."
"You eat like a starving dog, then you pick your teeth at the table. With your claws," griped Dean. "What do you think your Den Mother would have to say about that, huh?"
"I think she'd be pleased with me for reeling my claw back in so easily," Sam replied brightly.
Dean paused to consider what he knew of Ronnie's own table manners. "You're probably right," he sighed in a resigned tone. "I'm warnin' you, though, you scoot your ass across the carpet here, and I'll rub your nose in it."
"Jerk," Sam huffed, sounding remarkably like Jimi being told to get off the sofa. He wiped at his hands again. "Uh, maybe I should go clean up."
"Unless you wanna ride in the trunk," snarked Dean. Sam flipped him off, then headed for the men's room.
While he was gone, a waitress came to clear the table. She gave Dean a brilliant smile, and he couldn't help but smile back at somebody with such a pretty face and legs that went up to there…
"Wow, you guys were really hungry!" she noted.
"This is a nice place," Dean told her, Killer Smile deploying instantly, "The food is good, and the décor," he twitched a come-hither eyebrow, "Very attractive indeed."
A minute later, as she passed the table again, she gave him another smile, and discreetly slid a folded docket onto the table. Smiling to himself, he unfolded the paper.
It had her name, Katie, and a phone number on it. And under that, a note:
Please pass this to your friend when he comes out.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"Why are you so grumpy?" asked Sam.
"I'm not grumpy!" grumped Dean grumpily, shrugging off his jacket grumpily then sitting down on his bed grumpily.
"Dean, this is ridiculous!" Sam insisted. "Just because some woman wanted me to have her phone number – I thought you'd be pleased!"
"Course I am," Dean shot back, taking off his boots. Grumpily.
Sam ran a hand over his face. "Look, I'm not interested anyway," he said, holding out the offending docket, "Why don't you give her a call, and…"
"The Living Sex God does not have to make do with his brother's rejects!" declared Dean with as much dignity as he could muster. He said it very grumpily.
"That's absolutely true," agreed Sam, "The Living Sex God can take himself to a bar somewhere, and take his pick, any time he wants. So," he waved a hand, "Go hook up and get laid."
"Maybe I will," Dean snarked. "You do know you got what looks like steak sauce in your hair?"
Sam inspected his head in the speckled mirror. "I, uh, seem to have gotten it all over me," he admitted sheepishly, "I think some of it went through my shirt." He peered down said garment.
"That would explain why you smell of steak sauce and shrimp shells," humphed Dean. So," he went on casually, "You're not gonna call Katie, then?"
"No," confirmed Sam, pulling his shirt off and inspecting the sauce stains on it. "I just said I wasn't interested."
"Okay, then," Dean nodded, mollified somewhat, "Well, I will be watchin' TV, bitch, so if you're gonna… what the hell are you doin'?"
"You said I smell like steak sauce and shrimp shells," Sam replied, sliding out of his jeans, "I can't go out smelling like that, so I'll have to take a shower. Oh, yeah, I got it on these too."
"I thought you weren't interested in Katie!" said Dean, confused.
"I'm not," Sam confirmed, "Because I already made arrangements with Eva."
"Eva? Who the hell is Eva?" demanded Dean.
"The waitress from breakfast," Sam told him. "She asked first. Hey, can I take the car?"
"Be my guest," growled Dean, "Just don't you dare leave a mark on my Baby's upholstery, or I swear I will skin you and use your hide to replace the bits that get marked… Jesus H. Christ, Sam!"
"Thanks bro," smiled his baby brother, heading for the bathroom.
"How many times do I have to say it?" Dean yelled at his retreating back, "NO PARADING AROUND NAKED!"
"Dean, a walk from my bed to the bathroom is not 'parading'," Sam protested. "Besides," he paused at the bathroom door, "It's like Ronnie says, I'm not naked, right now I just don't have any…"
Dean threw a pillow at him.
"AND DON'T TURN AROUND, BITCH!"
Poor little Mavgang the plot bunny poked wiya's head up from under the desk a few days ago, got a look at Real Life, then let out a shriek of horror and scuttled away to hide behind a book shelf. Wiya refused to come out until today. I know the feeling...
But keep encouraging the bunny with your maaaaarvelous reviews, because Reviews are the Flamboyant Garments In The Dress-Ups Box Of Life!*
*Go nuts with the Bedazzler if you must.