I nearly split this one into two separate chapters, but I think it probably works best all together like this. And will make the Denizens happier, because they approach their chapters the way Dean approaches sex: they like it to last as long as possible. And involve nudity, for preference.
Chapter Twenty-One
"So, you gonna take the job?" asked Sam.
"Yeah," shrugged Dean, "I don't often get opportunities to make money off the awesomeness of the Living Sex God, so I might as well while I can."
Sam looked thoughtful. "Well, you could," he pointed out, "There was that time we were workin' that case in Pennsylvania, and you did that stripper routine to Nine Inch Nails, you made several hundred in tips for less than ten minutes' work, if I recall..."
"Sam..."
"And there was that case in Massachusetts, the escort agency running out of that old building that was haunted, and the manager offered you a job on the spot, said she'd pay you whatever the FBI was and then some..."
"Sam..."
"And correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that Mistress Amanda in Nevada told you that if you were interested, she could line you up with some very lucrative paying customers, because apparently the Silver State is just full of women who would pay enormous sums of money for the privilege of spending an hour tying you to..."
"Sam!" Dean snapped, "That's not the point! The point is, the point is, in this case, here and now, I can pick up some cash while we're workin' a job."
"And possibly pick up a photographer," guessed Sam.
"Not my fault if I'm irresistible to frisky women," Dean sniffed.
"Or cougars with a lot of energy for their age," Sam reminded him helpfully.
"Shut up, bitch." Dean dropped the car's keys. "I think I'll turn in early tonight," he decided.
"Sounds sensible," Sam nodded, "And I should stay here, too."
"What, you haven't got women to ravish, Cujo?" enquired Dean pointedly.
"I gotta be here to watch your back," Sam told him seriously, "in case there are any cougars roaming around – I see even a suggestion of a flash of leopard skin print, and I'll leap into action."
"Gee, I feel so safe," grunted Dean, dropping onto his bed where Jimi greeted him happily. He grabbed up the remote, and started flicking through channels. "What I need is to find a Dr Sexy marathon."
"Well, knock yourself out," suggested Sam, "Can I take the car?"
"Aha!" yapped Dean, "I knew it! You're off to screw some unsuspecting woman's brains out!"
"I'm sure this conversation is meant to be the other way around, but no," Sam rolled his eyes and gave Dean a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "I got a job for myself."
Dean sat up. "You got a job at Real People?"
"No," Sam clarified, "At the university – there was a notice at the Real People office, seeking models for art classes. I gave 'em a call yesterday."
"Art classes?" repeated Dean. "As in, standin' around in a room full of strangers, naked?"
"No," Sam answered, "It's just standing around in a room full of strangers, with no clothes on."
Dean gazed at his baby brother. "You're not tellin' me that it's the complete strangers with no clothes on, are ya?" he said flatly.
"If people are gonna practise their drawing, or painting, or sculpting, they gotta have a body to look at for reference," Sam shrugged. "And I'll get paid. It's no big deal."
Dean's eyes bugged. "No big deal? No big deal? My baby brother, who usually blushes if women just look at him, will be standin' there, bareassed, while a whole bunch of pervs, weirdos and, and, and weirdo pervs look at you, and it's no big deal?"
"Dean, these people are fine art students!" Sam huffed in exasperation, "They won't be looking looking at me, they'll be looking at the shape of me, and practising drawing it!"
"Huh, for you, maybe, but not for them..."
"Oh, God." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Dean, the depiction of the male nude is a classical form of art that goes back centuries, millennia, even, and the focus is on the aesthetics of the depiction. Some of humankind's most amazing art masterpieces are nudes: think of the statue David, or Rodin's The Age of Bronze, or even the Creation of Adam in the Sistine Chapel..."
"Don't you go all Sister Wendy on me," scowled Dean, "I've seen her, grinnin' up at those pieces of 'art'. Consecrated virgin my ass, we know what she's thinkin'." Putting on a huge smile and jutting his front teeth over his bottom lip, Dean channelled one of Sister Wendy's expositions in a teddibly British voice. "The first thing, the very first thing, that I notice about this statue, what jumps out at me, and strikes me, is that this man has an absolutely enormous scrotum..."
Sam gave up. "You're a philistine, you know that?" he sighed in a resigned fashion.
"But Sam," Dean sounded wistful, "What if there are non-hot women there?"
"It's irrelevant!" Sam snapped back, "It's irrelevant, Dean! What the students look like is irrelevant! What the model looks like is irrelevant! It's art practice, not some sort of orgy! Look, do I have to go through this with you again? There's the way life actually works, and then there's the scenarios that pop into your head. Think of them as two completely separate, hermetically sealed boxes, Dean. Porn – reality. Porn – reality. Porn – reality."
"What about your, you know, your essence of Sam?" Dean asked. "your Whiff of Werewolf cologne? Can you keep that under control, huh?"
"Oh, my fairyhomos, you mean?" asked Sam brightly, "Or would that be my furry moanings?"
"You know what I mean," Dean growled.
"I think that's largely to do with context," Sam tried to explain, "I don't think it'll be a problem, in an atmosphere of aesthetic detachment. I'll get us dinner on the way back," he wheedled. "I'll get hamburgers, and waffle fries, and pie."
"Pie?" Dean eyed his brother suspiciously.
"Plenty of pie," confirmed Sam.
Dean threw him the keys. "Well, okay," he grumped, "But watch out for any women who try to set up their easels too close. Unless they're hot. In which case, if one of them asks for your number afterwards, it's probably okay. I hooked up with this chick, once, she was a painter, and man, those brushes can really tickle..."
"Jerk."
While Sam was gone, Dean took out the salon card, and looked at it. On the one hand, there was no way that he wanted his brother to know that he was getting thatdone.
On the other hand, there was something decidedly frightening about the idea of holding still while somebody spread hot wax onto skin for the purposes of ripping it off and taking hair with it.
On the other other hand, there was no way he wanted his brother to know that he was getting that done.
He picked up his phone, and made a call.
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The next day, after breakfast, Dean waited until Sam was deeply engrossed in something on his laptop, then casually mentioned that he had somewhere to be.
"There's somethin' I gotta go check out," he told Sam, "Don't fart on my bed, bitch."
Sam's head came up. "Research for the job?"
"Kind of," nodded Dean.
"I'll come with you..."
"No, no, you stay here," Dean insisted hurriedly, "See if you can find any way that the last disappearance was connected in any way with Real People."
Sam looked worried. "Dean, if you're gonna go and poke at something that could raise a fugly..."
"Stay here," Dean said firmly, "It's nothing I can't handle myself. In fact, it's probably better if you stay here, pheromone boy, because there will be women present."
Sam humphed. "Dean, I had no problem at the art class yesterday; like I thought, it's largely contextual."
"Well, you can stay here and be contextual," Dean specified, "I'm not havin' you distractin' women, oozin' your Essence of Alpha, and standin' around looking totally available."
"I do not stand around looking totally available!" Sam protested. "No more than you do," he added snidely.
"That's because I'm the Living Sex God," Dean smirked smugly, "And for me, it's totally natural. Whereas for you, it's because you're temporarily an abomination, so it's unnatural, and therefore wrong."
"Wow," remarked Sam sourly, "Perhaps I should be sprayin' myself with air freshener every hour on the hour?"
"It couldn't hurt," grinned Dean. "Just don't pick one with lavender in it or you'll be ridin' in the trunk. Why don't you enjoy some outside time, because in a day or so, you'll be confined to barracks during the full moon. Go and find a deer to chase down, tear apart with your bare hands, and eat. Take Jimi. Make a picnic lunch of it."
Looking a lot more cocky than he felt, he headed out.
Sam stared after him. "What's goin' on with him?" he said to the universe in general as he turned back to his laptop. "Huh. Demons I get, but big brothers, they're crazy."
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It wasn't decorated in shades of pink and lilac, it didn't have oil infusers spreading Essence Of Sissy, and there was no whale porno soundtrack running.
Somehow, that just made him more apprehensive as he approached the desk, where a woman who was tapping at a keyboard looked up and smiled warmly.
"Hello," she began, "I'm Toni. How can I help you?"
He suddenly felt tongue-tied, even in the presence of a woman who would clearly be a candidate for worship at the altar of Friskytimes with the Living Sex God. "Hi, uh, I'm Dean, I'm here for, uh..." he handed over the card. "I called yesterday. Butch from Real People said I should come and see you..."
Understanding dawned on her face. "Ah," she went, "Yes, we're ready for you! Don't worry, we've had many of Butch's first timers here, we know the drill! Come on through, I'll introduce you to your therapist."
He followed her into a small treatment room where another woman was fussing with something that looked like a small cauldron. "This is Kathy," she turned and held out a hand as Toni introduced her. "Kathy, this is your client Dean. Kathy is one of our most experienced aestheticians," Toni reassured him, "You'll be in good hands."
"Oh, uh, great," Dean managed to find a polite smile, as Toni left them to it.
"So, Dean," Kathy began, "Have you ever had anything like this done before?"
"No," he replied, "No, definitely not. I'm pretty sure I'd remember if I had." He glanced at the cauldron, which appeared to be full of some ghastly thick gloop. A bubble slowly rose to the surface, and popped stickily. Although it's possible that I have, and I've repressed the memory, he thought.
"Well, I'll explain everything as we go," she assured him, "And you can tell me if anything's wrong at any time, if you feel uncomfortable, or too cold, just say." She picked up a clipboard. "First of all, there are a few questions I need to ask about your health, any medications you might be on..."
The check-list done, she put the clipboard down. "So," she said brightly, "Do you have any questions before we start?"
"Um... doesn't it hurt?" he blurted out, eyeing the pot of gloop.
"It does sting a bit," Kathy told him, "Because hair is being removed from the root, but I've never had a client run away. Mostly, I tell my male clients, just remember, women have been doing this for longer than you guys, and further up too, and we don't bitch about it."
"I'll try to remember that," he gave her a wan smile.
"Okay then," she handed him a small scrap of what looked like tissue paper, "You get changed, then lie on the table with the towel over you."
"Okay," he turned the paper over in his hands. "What's this?"
"It's a disposable thong," Kathy explained, taking it and turning it around to demonstrate. "I'll be back in a few minutes; I'll knock before I come back in."
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Sam and Jimi went for a walk later, when Sam's stomach began to growl, and Jimi began to slaver in sympathy. They bought wings, and found a small pleasant park to sit and share them.
"It can't be a woman," he mused out loud, holding out a wing for Jimi, "If it was, he'd have been all waggling eyebrows and single entendres – he wouldn't be at all evasive if there was the slightest chance of maybe grossing me out."
A man walking a good-natured Neapolitan Mastiff went past. The dog gave them a whuff of acknowledgement, and Jimi exchanged polite sniffs with him, while the owner indignantly yapped at Sam,
"Hey, you shouldn't let your dog eat cooked chicken bones, that's..."
Sam lazily gave him The Stare, bit heartily into a wing of his own, and crunched contentedly.
The man's jaw snapped shut.
Sam smiled. Then he gruffed briefly to the mastiff.
Get your Alpha out of my scent range
"Twinkle!" the man yelped as the large dog began to tow him away, "Twinkle, what the hell are you doing? Twinkle, stop!"
"Serves him right," Sam humphed to himself, "What sort of a dick names a dog like that Twinkle?"
He thought about calling Dean, but then decided that his brother would not appreciate being checked up on. No, he'd show his brother the trust he wanted himself, and let Dean get on with whatever he was doing.
They finished the wings, then Jimi decided to go and bark at the ducks on the pond. They ignored him, but he enjoyed woofing at them.
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"You're not too bad," Kathy assured Dean, as he huddled under a large fluffy towel, with just one leg sticking out, "I do this for guys who are much hairier than you. There are some real gorillas out there; you don't even come close."
"I shall take that as a professional opinion that I'm an evolved individual," he replied, the Killer Smile peeking out from behind his anxiety as she pressed the cloth strip onto his shin – in fact, he was a bit worried that he might become 'inappropriately unanxious', because she'd even warmed her hands before she started with the talcum powder, and the wax was warm, and it didn't pull because she was clearly good at this, "So, how long have you been doing..."
Something went zrrrrip.
And then his brain exploded.
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Sam laughed as Jimi jumped into the pond, swimming eagerly after the ducks, who were clearly veterans of demented dogs trying to eat them – they just glided smoothly away, leaving Jimi paddling in circles, barking a hopeful invitation to play.
"I don't think they wanna let you into their clubhouse, dude," he chuckled, as Jimi finally got the message and headed for shore. "They can be snooty like that." Not to be downcast by the rejection, Jimi put his nose to the ground, and happily began to follow a smell.
Sam followed after him. Maybe Dean was right; he should enjoy being outside while he could. It was a nice day, and he enjoyed the sun on his face, and the breeze in his fur... er, hair. He thought of his big brother again, then chastised himself.
"I shouldn't worry," Sam said out loud, "Dean said he could handle it, whatever 'it' is, and I should trust him on that."
An enticing smell came to his nose – somewhere close by, a doughnut shop was open for business.
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"See?" Kathy prompted, "Not so bad, is it?"
Dean was no stranger to pain – he was a Hunter, he'd been beaten up by Lucifer himself, he'd been to Hell, for fuck's sake, he knew what it felt like to have your skin peeled off, and he was barely game to look at her, fearing that she'd be standing there, holding a long, dripping piece of his hide, the vessels still pulsing and the muscles underneath twitching...
In fact his leg was completely intact, except for a bald strip down the front, and Kathy was holding what looked like a rather flat caterpillar.
"Yep, all you," she grinned, seeing the look of shock on his face. "It's a bit of a shock the first time you see it."
"Christo," he squeaked, not able to understand how something could feel like that without blowtorch involvement, "Uh, I mean, who'da thunk it?"
"We're underway now," she assured him, pressing the strip to his leg again, "So we'll be done before you know it."
"Uh, good," his hands took a death grip on the side of the treatment bed, "Because..."
zrrrrip
He probably left his fingerprints in the metal frame.
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"I think I can see why Dean's always so keen to stuff his face with these," Sam said to Jimi as they shared a large bag of doughnuts. "Oh, God, these are fantastic!"
While Jimi snuffled determinedly into the empty bag, he stood up, and looked up to the sky. It was a lovely day, and he had a sudden urge to run, for the sheer hell of it, because he could, to havethe wind against his face and smell the scents of the foliage and feel the earth beneath his paws... er, feet. With a start, he found he was stopping himself from howling at the delight of being there, and alive, in that moment.
The full moon was only a day away. He could feel the pull of it. He must've been twitching with it, he realised. So Dean had bugged out, and left him to get outside, and let him work some of it out of his system.
He grinned to himself. His big brother was awesome. He should buy Dean some doughnuts too.
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It will end, Dean reminded himself, surreptitiously getting the hem of the towel under him between his teeth for muffling purposes. It will end, and it will be over, you've survived worse than this, it's not even an injury, it's just
zrrrrip
He bit through the seam.
"You're doing very well," Kathy told him, wielding the powder like the professional sadist that she clearly was, "A lot of guys really start screaming by the time you get to the backs of their thighs."
"I'm good," he trilled, as wax came into contact with skin that was getting perilously high, "Uh, how far up does this go?"
"Well, if you'll be doing underwear, it's best to go all the way up," she answered matter-of-factly, "You don't want any fluffy patches poking out!"
"No, no, definitely not," Dean nodded vigorously, "No fluffy patches, can't have that, death to fluffy patcheseeeeeEEEEEEE..."
"Okay, now just bend your knee a little bit for me, great..."
zrrrrip
He left teeth marks in the padding of the bed.
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I should do this more often, Sam thought to himself, Get out from behind the laptop and the books, and just… be.
It was something that Dean and Bobby both pestered him with from time to time, but there was always something that needed doing, something that needed checking, research that needed attention, a translation that needed reading…
He felt Jimi's head butt under his hand, and the dog gave him a lolling doggy grin and rumphed contentedly. We are strong and happy!
"You could learn from that little critter," Bobby had said when Jimi Junior was just a puppy, who could drop everything just to sniff at a weed, or sit content just to be with his family. "Learn from the carefree soul of a puppy. Just leave out the bit that involves peeing on the carpet."
Our pack is strong and happy, Sam gruffed back, feeling the goofy grin on his face, and not caring. On the way home, he'd buy some beer and snacks for his brother. Just because.
With a bark, Jimi dropped into a play-bow, and woofed a cheeky challenge.
Sam laughed out loud, broke into a run – and the race was on.
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Dean wondered how many men had been there before him, staring at the mockingly bland ceiling, whilst some viciously friendly evil bitch tortured them with hot wax in ways that should earn jail time
zrrrrip
It made his toes curl. It made his hands curl. It made his teeth curl. It made his brain curl…
"Okay," The sadistic torturing cow announced, "Just turn over for me while I turn this one off."
"Are we done?" His voice came out a lot higher pitched than he'd expected. It was making his tonsils curl too, and he thought he could feel a breeze somewhere that bare skin hadn't felt a breeze since he was a toddler and Mommy had let him run around on a fine day with no diaper on…
"Almost," the fiend in a woman-suit told him. "We'll just swap to the hard wax to finish off."
"Finish off?" He repeated, repositioning himself under the towel and clutching at it like a virgin clutching her skirts at a frat house keg party.
"Uh-huh," she transferred her attention to another pot. "The hair on your brief-line is a bit coarser… uh, just let go of the towel Dean… great. And you don't have much of a happy trail, so we'll just tidy you up a bit. Unless," she smiled at him, a shark in nymph's clothing, "You're feeling brave, and you'd like to go a manzilian…"
The noise he made, or possibly just the look on his face, conveyed the answer of 'No'.
"Well, then, we're nearly done," the she-devil and concubine of the Anti-Christ told him, "Then we can get to work on
zrrrrip
your tan."
"Meeeeep," went Dean, glad he was already horizontal.
The exfoliation and actual spraying was a walk in the park after his run-in with a neophyte of the modern day Spanish Inquisition, and by the time Sam found out, he was as cocky and nonchalant as ever.
However, his brother did notice for some months afterwards that whenever they had to do any sort of ritual that involved the use of a candle, Dean had a tendency to flinch at the sight of melted wax.
If you don't know who Sister Wendy Beckett is, you are a philistine whose education has been sadly neglected – hit YouChoob and find out. Then Dean's impression will make more sense. You may also have seen her being gently mocked by the 'Vicar of Dibley'.
Send the bunny lovely reviews to eat, because Reviews Are The Carefree Days Of Frolicking In The Park Of Life! With Doughnuts Supplied!
What?
Oh, very well.
Those of you who are not that interested in Carefree Frolicking may attend the Life Drawing Class Of Life (With Winchester Of Your Choice As Model supplied). You depraved beldames. At least try to draw/paint/sculpt something. Just sitting there and drooling is considered bad form.