Okay, now that I have your undivided attention ...
... I have been doing a bit of a review of my stories on Fanfic.net and one thing has occurred to me as I am reading through; namely how many of my stories involve Dean losing some, most, or all of his clothing.
I find this somewhat concerning; I think I may need to get my hormones looked at.
But in the meantime, perhaps you will permit me to share some of these
gorgeously adorable, hot-flush inducing troubling images ...
Disclaimer: Own nothing except a tiny mind and a hormone imbalance
Word Count: approx 100
Dean's lost everything in a poker game - no really ...
Sam angrily slammed the Impala's door, after Dean's call, begging him to come urgently.
The ass had lost everything on a poker game; no wonder he sounded sheepish when he phoned . To add insult to injury, his call had gotten Sam out of bed and Sam was ready to chew his conjoles off for it.
"So, I haul my ass out at stupid o'clock in the friggin' cold because you're too drunk to walk, too skint for the bus, too …"
Dean appeared from behind a bench.
"… Too naked? …" Sam stared at the shivering, huddled form, "… seriously Dean, STRIP poker?"
Word Count: approx 100
and now I need to go and lie down ...
Dean stood in the shower, head bowed, allowing needles of hot water to pound his aching neck and shoulders, washing away the grime and tension of the evening's hunt.
Guided by strong hands, the soap traced a slippery path down the planes of his torso, soothing his weary body and pooling at his feet.
He raised his head, inhaling deeply of the pine scented steam; stretching and flexing his rigid back, relaxing as the hot water worked it's magic like skilful fingers.
A motel with a power shower; Dean was glad he appreciated the simple things in life.
Rating: T for a couple of naughty words
Word Count: approx 500
My experiences at art college were nothing like this ... :(
'Going undercover'; Dean snorted inwardly at the irony of the phrase.
He and Sam had ended up doing some pretty dumb things in the course of their work. Dumb, illegal, dishonest, reckless … the list was depressingly long, but Dean had no idea where he would categorise this particular episode. Suicidally humiliating came close; an 'I'm-not-showing-my-face-in-public-until-e
The call had come from Bobby last night to say there were reports of a poltergeist manifesting at a small provincial art college close to where the boys were currently operating. Nasty bastard too, traumatising students and tutors alike, especially the poor woman who had jumped out of an upstairs window in panic and was now in the local hospital with two broken ankles.
He shifted the weight of the grecian urn on his shoulder with a grunt and mentally kicked himself for sending Sam to the library to do the boring, geek-boy part of the research; if he hadn't, it could have been Sam standing here wishing he was dead while Dean was holed up in a library with a whole pile of knuckle-chewingly dull books and a lukewarm coffee.
At first, when the receptionist had asked him if he was the model for the life drawing class, he answered yes without hesitation. It got him into the building without even trying; and she thought he was a model - how freakin' cool was that?
Anyway, how was he to know what being an artist's model involved?
Heck, this friggin' urn was heavy …
Sam discovered a whole heap of information about the site's chequered history and headed back to the college to share his findings with Dean. With a bit of luck, they could track down and waste this creepy skank tonight.
He wandered casually down the corridor, peering through the glass inserts in the doors until he reached room 5b and froze, mouth dropping open.
There, in the middle of the room, surrounded by an assortment of bewildered students behind a forest of easels stood his brother, on a velvet-lined plinth, butt naked and looking like a stunned rabbit in headlights, armed only with a grecian urn and his perky nipples.
Sam stood in a state of catatonic shock, and stared, gaping helplessly; he stood for what seemed like ages, completely unaware of the thin ribbon of spit which was hanging off his bottom lip.
Gradually, the shocked gape stretched into a grin; there was a lifetime's worth of mileage in this …