Chapter Twenty-Two
"Ah, perfect timing," announced Sam as Dean strolled in the door. "We got burgers, we got wings, we got fries, we got beer, we got pie, we got snacks, aaaaaaand," he hefted a large greasy-looking bag, "I got you doughnuts."
Dean stared at him. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?" he demanded.
"Jerk," Sam barely rolled his eyes, "You don't have to eat it. Me and Jimi can take care of it... Dean?" Sam's tone turned concerned as he watched his brother walk across the room. "Hey, are you okay?"
"I'm fine, peachy and okey-dokey, Sam," smirked Dean, suppressing a shudder at the strange sensation in his trousers; things felt... drafty. And when he felt a cold draft, the feeling of the hair on his legs trying to stand on end, but nothing happening because all the follicles had been clear-felled, was decidedly weird. "It turned out to be a dead-end." He sniffed. "You got pie?" he pressed hopefully.
"What sort of a little brother would I be if I forgot your pie?" grinned Sam. "But you gotta eat your mains first – no pie for you until your burger is completely gone."
"Yes, Mom," drawled Dean. "You got leaves and stuff in your hair."
"Well, we had a race and, uh, I fell over," Sam looked sheepish. "I'm not as fast on two legs as I am on four."
"Well, I hope you got it outta your system," Dean frowned, "Because as of tomorrow evening, you are on curfew. Just in case. I aint havin' you wanderin' around, suddenly turnin' into Follicula the Great Beast, and scarin' the civilians. And don't do the eyes thing," he ordered, "It's for your own good, Rinny." He reached into a paper bag and pulled out a bacon double cheeseburger. "I never thought I'd ever be this comfortable letting my baby bro make our menu choices," he remarked.
"Well, I won't be, if I'm on lock-down," humphed Sam, "You'll be in charge of catering. Although we could probably get a lunch in at that other place with the eat-it-in-an-hour-and-it's-free offer, we still haven't gone to..."
"Not tomorrow, Sam," Dean grinned, "The Living Sex God will be workin' his mojo – his money-earning mojo – at his first modelling job."
"I'm not completely happy about you goin' to that place, when I may not be in a position to back you up," complained Sam. "It smells... funny. Wrong. And I don't know why."
"Well, you can concentrate on finding out what it is," Dean told him, shoving a handful of waffle fries into his mouth and dropping a couple for Jimi.
"Hey, how come the Big Eyes Thing works for him?" protested Sam.
"Because he's adorable," Dean sniffed disdainfully, dropping another fry for the dog, "And you aint."
They ate their dinner, bickering in a comfortable brotherly fashion, until Dean said to his brother, "So, you need to take the car?"
"What?" Sam looked puzzled. "Why would I need to take the car?"
"To go have chandelier-dangling sex with some random chick, duh," Dean rolled his eyes, "Mr Beast In The Sack. Enjoy it while you can – you're grounded from tomorrow."
Sam gave him a long look. "If you've got some pre-job 'coaching' with Lois arranged and you want me out of the way, all you gotta do is say," he chuckled. "Maybe not to do you any favour, but the last thing I wanna see is my brother doin' the horizonal hula..."
"Nah," Dean waved a hand languidly, "I'm kinda beat. Think I'll turn in early tonight. Gotta look fresh for the camera tomorrow."
"But you need me here!" Sam exclaimed. "To protect you from the cougars!"
"Bitch," griped Dean. "What's the matter, your wolf stink not workin' any more? Less Essence of Alpha, more Whiff of Wet Dog?"
"Well. we did meet a girl at the park," Sam admitted, "She was walkin' her dog – a Doberman – and me and Jimi were, uh, kind of having a bit of a rassle, and the Doberman came over and joined in, and for a minute there, when I looked up, I thought she was gonna join in, too..."
"I don't believe this is happening," announced Dean in a level voice, "But I can feel the phrase 'too much information' hurrying towards my lips. It must be another apocalypse." He threw the car keys at his baby brother. "So, go rassle with Madam Doberman," he made a shooing motion at Sam, "But if I find out that you let the dog join in, I will end you for the freak that you are."
"Thanks, bro," Sam smiled, pulling out his cell.
After he'd headed out, Dean ended up making his own Dr Sexy marathon on the laptop, eating doughnuts and and hurling abuse at the characters who tried to thwart his favourite soap character.
Later, he took a quick, careful shower – he'd been given an information leaflet (the instruction that having sex would be a very bad idea made him sigh sadly), and Kathy had told him that it would be a good idea to have a short rinse before bed. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and thought it really didn't look so bad after all; kind of surfer dude, maybe. Chicks might like it. Hell, chicks would like it, because it was on the Living Sex God...
Reassured somewhat, he headed for bed.
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Sam came sneaking in soundlessly in the wee small hours. Dean grinned as he heard the distinct sound of a bag of doughnuts being deposited on the small table.
"Was she any good?" he asked the darkness.
"Justine, or her dog?" came the innocent query.
"Bitch."
"I thought I wasn't supposed to let the dog join in?"
"Shut up and go to bed, Sam."
They went back to sleep for a few hours.
Sam was in the bathroom when Dean woke, and performed the time-honoured ritual of Man Arising (yawn, stretch, fart, scratch groin). As he hauled himself out of bed and started to dress, his nose twitched at the smell of doughnuts hanging in the air like a glorious perfume. Yeah, maybe having his little brother as a werewolf wasn't completely bad...
"Mornin'," Sam yawned, strolling past to his own bed, wearing nothing but the skin the Almighty gave him.
Okay, scratch the 'not completely bad' thing.
"Oh, God," Dean moaned, "How many times do I have to say it? Clothes, Sam, clothes! You know, those pieces of fabric that people wear? To cover themselves up?"
"I'm putting some on now," Sam shrugged, reaching into his duffel, and beginning to dress. Once he had pants on, he moved to the window to let some morning light in.
"Well, if you could just work on the whole get-dressed-before-I-have-to-look-at-you thing, that'd be great," Dean pulled his sleep tee off over his head.
"It's kinda funny," Sam chortled, "Havin' you turn into somebody's maiden aunt, because... AAAAAAARGH!"
"Sam!" Dean flung his shirt away, watching his little brother's eyes bug as Sam fell flat on his ass, "What's wrong?"
Sam's mouth opened and shut a couple of times before he managed to get a word out. "You!" he yipped, "Dean! What? Dean? Dean! You're... you're..."
"I'm me, dude," Dean grinned, bemused, "Are you feelin' okay?"
"I should be asking you that," yelped Sam, staring as he climbed to his feet. "Dean, what happened?"
"Whaddyamean, what happened?" Dean asked. "I was just puttin' on a shirt," he reached for said garment, "When my baby bro suddenly went... YAAAAAAAARGH!"
In the light coming through the window, he got a look at himself.
"Dean," Sam asked in a tentative voice, "What happened to you?"
Dean stared down in horror at himself. At his strangely coloured self.
"JESUS CHRIST I'M ORANGE!" he shrieked.
"When did this happen?" demanded Sam, as Dean spun around in a circle, apparently trying to see if his back was the same astonishing colour. "Dean, when did this happen?"
"I'm orange!" Dean howled, "I'm orange! Saaaaaam, I'm oraaaaaange!"
"Dean!" Sam snapped, "Dean! Listen! When did this happen..." Dean was beginning to hyperventilate.
Sam dumped the doughnuts out of the bag and onto the table.
"Here, breathe into this, bro," he instructed, handing the bag to Dean.
Whether it was the re-establishment of sufficient blood levels of carbon dioxide, or the soothing scent of deep fried doughnuts, the exercise calmed Dean down.
"Okay, that's better," noted Sam, "Now, let's think about this. People don't just turn orange for no reason. Carotenosis can be an indicator of a number of disease processes..."
"It was meant to be a tan!" Dean wailed in despair.
"So, we should get you to a clinic, and... huh?" Sam paused, mid-diagnosis. "Did you say, 'tan'?"
"It was meant to be!" Dean repeated. "It was meant to turn me into a surfer dude! Not an Oompa-Loompa!"
Sam's eyes bugged. "Are you... are you sayin' that you did this on purpose?"
"It was for my job," Dean told him, "Kathy said I didn't need much, just a bit to even out my colour for the camera..."
Understanding dawned on Sam's face. "Oh, thank fuck for that," he sighed, "I was really worried there for a minute. SunnyD."
"You were worried?" snapped Dean, examining his arms, "You were worried? How do you think I feel?"
"Like a pumpkin?" suggested Sam brightly. Dean shot him a scowl. "No, seriously, bro, it's supposed to be like that."
"How... how could anybody possibly be meant to look like this?" his big brother demanded. "It's not natural!"
"Well, of course it's not natural!" Sam agreed, "It's a fake tan, duh!"
"I can't model underwear like this," Dean moaned, "I can't, nobody will want to take photos of a guy who looks like he's stepped out of Willy Wonka's factory..."
"Dean, calm down!" ordered Sam. "You're supposed to look like that!"
"No I'm not!" Dean snapped, "Not even Mr Potato Head's friend Katie the Carrot is supposed to look like this! Not even those freaks on Jersey Shore are supposed to look like that!"
"For the camera!" Sam clarified, "You have to look like that for the camera!"
Dean glared dubiously at him.
"Look, it's because of what lighting does to people, especially at close range," Sam explained, "You got flashes goin' off, they wash out all the colour and shade and depth, especially at close range like a modelling shoot. You'd come out looking like a zombie, otherwise. It's why people on stage, or on film, wear so much make-up. In real life, you look like you've rolled in the stuff, but in photography, you come out looking, well, normal, without the photographer having to do too much retouching. It's easier to cover the subject in make-up – including tan – first, than it is to try to fix the colours and contrast and gamma balance later." He gave his brother his most earnest expression. "Trust me, Snooki, I went to college..."
"Bitch," scowled Dean, humphing at his new hue. "Well, at least it's only temporary. Now, go get breakfast. I aint goin' out in public lookin' like this."
"I'm on it," Sam grabbed the car keys. "You need anything else? Moistuiser? Lip gloss? Hair product?"
"Get me a newspaper – I'm gonna roll it up, and whack you with it."
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Dean headed out later, giving Sam strict instructions that, if he went out, he was to be back at their room well before moonrise.
Once he was at Real People, Lois was undertaking the arcane rituals of the order of photographers, whilst the stylist, a motherly woman named LInda, dabbed at him with foundation and messed with his hair.
"Am I really supposed to be this colour?" Dean asked her mournfully.
"I'm afraid so," she reassured him, "It is a bit confronting, the first time, but you'll see, in print it'll come out looking just right."
"Uh, what exactly is that stuff?" he asked, as she took a handful of gloop and proceeded to perpetrate what could only be described as zhushing on his hair.
"Just a bit of wax," she replied, tweaking at a recalcitrant tuft, "The lighting can make it look flat, otherwise, and we don't want that."
"No, no, definitely not," Dean looked at himself in the mirror, and began to think of the ways he would get back at Sam if his brother used the words 'toilet' and 'brush' in the same sentence. "Can't have that."
"Okay, done!" Linda chirped, "So, now we hand you over to Lois, and she and her lights have their wicked way with you."
"Well, that doesn't sound so bad," he grinned.
When Lois was happy with the set-up, she gave them a thumbs-up, and went back to fiddling with her camera. Linda took Dean aside to what looked to him like a box of stuff ready to go off to a Goodwill store.
"They sent a couple of sizes of everything," she announced, picking up a pair of board shorts, "We'll start with the beach stuff." She herded him towards a screen. "Try those on, and we'll see how they fit."
"Okay." Dean obliged, and emerged to Linda's careful scrutiny. "Uh, how do they look?"
"My, you really are a clothes horse, aren't you?" she smiled, "Just let me look at the back, there."
"Uh, is it just me, or is it kinda cold in here?" he asked, with a bit of a shiver.
"Oh, we try to keep the studio cool, because of the lights," Lois told him, as Linda tweaked at the fabric around the waistband, "They get very hot, and we don't want you to sweat. Besides," she added, with a grin, "I always think that men look better in these shots if they're, you know... perky."
"So," Linda went on brightly. "You'll get the hang of this. Now, see that tape on the floor? That's your mark. So, stand on that, face this way, now, look up there, and smile as if you're seeing a beautiful girl up on the balcony..."
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Sam and Jimi went for another walk later, met some other dog people, ate wings, and charmed the staff at a café where they stopped for coffee. Sam was mildly amused that he got an extra cookie and a phone number, whilst Jimi got several tidbits dropped from plates going back to the kitchen, pats from passers-by, some friendly butt-sniffs from their dogs, and a big hug from a little girl whose amazed mother informed him that the child had previously been afraid of dogs.
"Well, he's just a friendly soul inside a scary-looking body," Sam explained, as Jimi kissed the little girl's nose, making her giggle. "He wants to make friends with everybody."
"Bye-bye Jibi!" piped the toddler as her mother led her reluctantly away.
Sam turned to look down at the dog. "I acknowledge your mastery," he said, "For the Big Brown Eyes thing, I accept that I will never match you."
"Rumph," went Jimi, meaningfully eyeing the crumbs of Sam's cookie.
It must be because the full moon is tonight, he mused, contemplating the strange sense of restless joie de vivre he'd been feeling. Dean was right, I'd better make sure I'm back at the room in plenty of time.
Buying plenty of snacks on the way back, he started up his laptop, and thought about the case.
Disappearing aspiring models. Disappearing. Where did they go? People didn't just disappear into thin air. Horrible, awful things could happen to them, making them (or what was left of them) pretty damned difficult to find, but physical matter didn't just disappear. That included human beings. Alive or dead.
He had tracked down some photos of the previous incarnation of Real People, and managed to find one of Butch. That was something else strange – for a guy running a modelling agency, there was a surprising lack of photos of him. You'd think that a modelling agency would court publicity, not seem to... well, not avoid it, but not make too much effort to leave an electronic footprint in the 21st century.
Butch was a common factor, though. Sam thought he might start to look for his home address.
Right after he checked the footage from the laptop camera that he'd so casually activated before he went to get breakfast; he wanted to get some good screen caps of his big brother for blackmail purposes.
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Inexplicably, Dean was starting to wish he had a robe or something on. Especially as the beachwear got... skimpier.
This is how a Ken doll must feel, he thought, as Linda gave him directions, tweaked at what he was wearing, pinned here, taped there, and posed him like a Ken doll, A big Ken doll, a big orange and, with the large fan running, kind of uncomfortably perky Ken doll...
"Butch was right," enthused Lois, "The camera does love you."
"He's just wonderful," agreed Linda. "That bone structure, those eyes."
"Dat ass," Lois winked at him. "Did you know that Australians call those 'budgie smugglers'?"
"What's a budgie?" asked Linda.
"It's a type of parakeet," Lois answered. "We had one when I was a kid – they can talk. My brother taught it to curse."
Dean made a mental note to ask Ronnie why anybody would want to shove a parakeet down a pair of swim briefs. And tried not to think about the idea of having a beak and a pair of claws down the front.
"He just oozes aspirational appeal!" declared Linda.
"Is that good?" Dean asked, fighting the urge to tweak at the elastic of the swimmers he was wearing, which Linda had assured him was supposed to be like that.
"It's what any company looks for in a model," she replied.
"Okay, done for that," Lois announced.
"There's just one more," Linda told them, "This is the new hot ticket item for the range – it's a wonderful break for you to be doing this as your first job, Dean!"
"Yeah," Dean smiled wanly, suppressing a shiver, "It makes me feel, uh... perky."
Linda handed him the scrap of fabric. "So, let's see how it looks," she said, "We gotta make sure your tan has enough coverage.
Dean ducked behind the screen, and examined the garment he'd been given.
On the one hand, he was glad that he didn't have to ask what it was.
On the other hand, he only knew what it was because it looked remarkably like a lycra version of the disposable thong he'd worn the previous day.
We really do call those Speedos type togs 'budgie smugglers'. (And 'togs' is a Victorian – Australian state, not late 1800s – word for swimming costume.) Presumably this derives from the astonishing frequency with which people attempt to smuggle native birds out of the country by stuffing them down their pants. I kid you not. Apparently a sulphur-crested cockatoo can command prices of tens of thousands of US dollars. I still don't think it would be worth the risk of shoving something with a beak like a pair of sharpened pliers down your pants.
Australia's Prime Minister, one Mr Tony Abbot, is oft photographed wearing budgie smugglers, or his bike shorts. Which makes us kind of special, I suppose, because even shirtless Vladdie Putin keeps his long pants on in public. Does any other world leader regularly get photographed in lycra?
Whene'er Tony in Speedos goes,
That stretchy fabric doth expose
The Tony it dost juxtapose.
Yeah, we do stuff differently Down Here.
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