I often thought that if our beautiful boys ever explored the average fanfic site, they'd never leave the house without a bodyguard :)
Therefore, as if by magic, Dean suddenly finds something on the computer that he finds very, very disturbing ...
Word count: 2,300 approx
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own dirty mind!
The LazyDaze Motel, Room 12
"When did we last do any laundry, Dean?" Sam's voice drifted over the edge of the bed nearest the wall as he grovelled around on his hands and knees for abandoned socks.
"Uh-huh" came the response.
"Dean, your socks are disgusting" Sam's snorted, "this one's stuck to the floor, and I swear the other one's been trying to bite me; when was the last time you washed these things?"
Sam's head appeared, prairie-dog-like from behind the bed. "Dean?"
Dean was sitting at the table, staring intently at the laptop, utterly engrossed.
Sam watched him, puzzled. It wasn't like Dean to become this absorbed in any kind of research and, well, that certainly wasn't Dean's 'porn' face, Sam was mildly relieved to note.
"Dean, we really need to go and do the laundry"
"So, what, I'm going on my own then?"
"Dean, are you listening to a single word I say?"
"What are you looking at, dude?"
"Busty Asian Beauties?"
Sam snorted. "There's a Wendigo under your table …"
"Dean Winchester wears women's underwear …"
"and high-heels, but only at weekends …"
Sam scratched the back of his neck and huffed, "Dean - you might want to think about blinking sometime soon."
Sam shook his head and sighed, pulling the laundry bag over his shoulder, "I'll get food while I'm out".
"So that's a nice Ceasar Salad with celery sticks and a humous dip then?"
Sam shrugged, "I'll be a couple of hours", and headed out of the door taking one last puzzled look at Dean, who was still staring, utterly mesmerised, at the screen and, according to Sam's observations, still hadn't blinked.
The laundry took longer than Sam thought. It seemed that Dean's socks were too much even for the industrial strength washer, which broke down halfway through the run, leaving Sam waiting forlornly for an engineer; and as a result it was dusk by the time he struggled irritably back to the motel room with one huge bag of clean laundry and two bags of chinese food to find the door locked.
He hammered on the door. "Dean, open up". He peered through the grubby net curtain; the room was in darkness. "Dean", a bit less aggressively this time, "let me in".
Now Sam started to get concerned. He dropped to his knees and pressed his nose to the window glass, squinting to see through the grime and the net curtain; he wasn't sure, but through the darkness he thought he could see a lone figure sitting on the floor leaning against the far wall.
He sat back on his haunches, chewing his knuckle in thought; he had to get into that room.
With Sam's skill and the questionable quality of the door, the lock proved mercifully easy to pick, and he cautiously pulled the door towards him, snaking his head and neck around the edge of it. Sure enough, in the gloom, he could just make out a figure sitting pressed against the far wall of the room. It was hugging a rifle. It was Dean.
"Dean?" he took a step through the doorway towards his brother; and heard a scuffle and a whimper as Dean backed further into the wall.
"Dean, it's me", he called softly, "Sammy".
"S-Sammy?" the response was strained and unsure, "Sammy?"
"Hey Dean, it's me. What's wrong?" he stepped tentatively across the room towards his brother's laboured breathing, switching on the light as he went.
"No, nooo!" Dean cried out, flailing arms dropping the rifle, "switch it off, they'll find me, SWITCH IT OFF! "
Sam spun round and switched off the light, "Hey, man, what's wrong - who'll find you?" He made his way across the dark room, to crouch down next to his brother.
"They will", gasped Dean, reaching out and clutching the front of Sam's jacket, "the ones on the computer".
Sam blinked twice. "The ones on the computer? Who on the computer?" He grabbed Dean's trembling hand, "c'mon dude, talk to me, who on the computer?"
Dean looked up at him, saucer-wide green eyes drifted from Sam's face across to the laptop still sitting up on the table. "Them", he whispered, pointing at the offending item as if it could jump off the table and bite him, he looked back up at his brother.
"Sam, they want me dead. You should see the things they want to do to me …"
"Who?" gasped Sam in exasperation, "WHO?"
Dean tucked his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.
"The Fanfiction writers, Sam", he shuddered, as if the image was too horrific to contemplate, "The Fanfiction writers …"
Now it was Sam's turn to forget to blink. He scrubbed the heel of his hand through his hair and fished around for any words that seemed appropriate. What actually came out was "Uh?"
"Dean, have you been drinking?"
The cowering heap that was Sam's brother tore his glance from the window momentarily.
"No Sam, I have not"; He looked thoroughly offended.
"My life is in danger here, bro; I'm at risk of dying an appallingly violent death, and all you can do is accuse me of being off my face! Well thanks, bro. I'll try not to bleed on the carpet when they're disembowelling me".
Sam was struggling not to smile, still gripping his brother's sweaty hand. "Dean, don't you think you're overreacting, just a teeny bit?"
Dean looked indignant, as well as panic-stricken; a not-inconsiderable feat. "When I come staggering through that door with my spleen in my pocket and a pickaxe stuck in the back of my head, will you still think I'm overreacting then?"
Both brothers were silent for a moment.
Sam cleared his throat, "You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?" whispered Dean nervously, glancing toward the door, reeling Sam in by the front of his jacket.
"You see", Sam hesitated, he really didn't believe he had to explain this to his supposedly streetwise big brother.
"You see, they only do this – um – because they like you", … he trailed off.
Dean looked at him, wide-eyed "like me?" He spluttered, "LIKE ME?" His mouth worked soundlessly like a stranded goldfish, "Well, they've got a friggin' funny way of showing it! " He glared at Sam, "In the stories I looked at, they stabbed me in the kidneys with a toasting fork, smashed my ribs, gave me pneumonia, had me laid up with a temp of 112 yakking up everything I'd ever eaten and then had Bobby removing my appendix in the back of the Impala with a penknife and an ice-cream scoop."
He hyperventilated briefly.
"they're giving me major abdominal surgery, dude; my innards are all over the internet; Sam, these people are describing parts of me that I've never seen!"
"Sammy, if they like me, God forbid; I would hate to get on the wrong side of them! They're freakin' psychotic."
"And don't even get me started on how they describe me … I cry, and I hug, and I whine; I cuddle you, Sam – YOU! I let you wash me and give me medicine and don't even punch your lights out!"
Sam cringed at the image of washing his brother …
"Sam, they make me sound like a pathetic, wussy, steaming great GIRL!"
Sam bit his lip so hard to keep from laughing, he tasted blood.
"In one of the stories", Dean continued, "I even whimper … have you ever heard anything so stupid? When was the last time you EVER heard me whimper?"
Sam looked at his watch, then hesitated. He didn't think 'half-an-hour ago' was exactly what Dean wanted to hear.
"It's not a sound I am capable of making," Dean whinged. Sam could have sworn it sounded exactly like a whimper.
Sam shook his head incredulously. "How many women have you been with, Dean?" he asked.
"Mind your own business, pervert", was the response.
"How can you be so out of touch with what they think?" Sam continued. Dean looked at him like he was speaking fluent Martian.
"Their minds aren't exactly top of my priority list, Sam" he explained, not understanding how this had anything to do with the fact that he was facing hideous death by crazed fanfiction writer, "I'm far more interested in their …"
Sam took a deep breath. "You see, it's kind of a 'woman-thing'. They like to mother and nurture and care for people, and if they, um, really like the person they're caring for, they sorta get a kick out of doing it; a REAL kick – if you get what I mean."
"Yeah, well, I'm happy for them to fawn over me as much as they like – why have they got to maim me in the process?"
Dean clearly didn't get it.
"Well, think about it Dean, I mean, the broken ribs, the pneumonia, the fever, the appendicitis; these are all conditions that, um, require the removal of a large amount of clothing."
He hesitated to see if the penny was showing any signs of dropping …
Dean stared at him, wide-eyed and utterly vacant.
When it became clear the penny was staying well and truly put, Sam continued … "I mean, no fangirl on-heat is going to get palpitations strapping up your sprained ankle, are they?"
S'nothing wrong with my ankle", groused Dean, "it's a very nice ankle – they both are."
He looked up at Sam, "so, are you telling me, my pain and misfortune is the perverted fantasy of a huge number of hormonal women?"
"Well, not quite", replied Sam, "it's just that the more sick or hurt you are, the more … er … hands-on they can be helping you to recover …"
CLANG! … The penny dropped resoundingly …
Dean stared at Sam, and silence reigned between them. The air was filled with nothing but the hiss of a sudden downpour outside.
Dean eventually spoke. "Ah."
A 50 megawatt grin spread across his face … "Wow!"
There was a short pause, "Sam, are you telling me that cyberspace is full of women wanting to molest me back to health?"
"Well, uh, yeah!"
Dean suddenly looked like all his birthdays had come at once … then his smile faded.
He looked around, bewildered, "Sam, why am I sitting on the floor?" he picked up his rifle, "and why the hell are you holding my hand?" Dean let go of Sam's hand like he had just discovered it was toxic.
They helped each other up, "and why is our dinner sitting outside in the pouring rain?"
Sam realised he had left the newly-washed laundry and two bags of Chinese food out outside when he had dashed into the room to attend to Dean.
"Oh dammit," Sam yelled and leapt across the room to open the door. The laundry was sodden and the food was a waterlogged mess. They both stood in the doorway and stared.
"You know," said Dean, clapping his brother on the back, "seeing as you have educated me today, I'll go out and get dinner – again" he slipped his jacket on, "anyway Samantha, you forgot the beer – and the chocolate - can't rely on you for anything!"
"Dean, you can't go out there – it's pouring down, you'll get soaked," Sam grabbed his sleeve.
"Well too bad, I'm hungry, there's no beer, and who knows, I might catch myself a nice juicy dose of the 'flu". He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "then you can call in that cute little blonde thing on reception."
Dean grinned before disappearing out into the rain.