Assume these are all rated no higher than T
THE GRUESOME TWOSOME
Two valiant warriors locked in combat, trying to outdo each other. Just make sure the heating's turned on ...
Dean and Ketch glared at each other across the poker table, each one holding their cards close to their chest, their expressionless faces showing only their steely determination to give nothing away to their adversary.
The no-quarter-given battle of wills and wits had already gone into its fourth hour; two alpha males fighting to the bitter end, two titans locked in noble conquest.
Or as noble as they could manage given that Dean was dressed only in his boxers and Ketch was down to his tie and one sock.
Well, playing for money had just got boring …
There's a new occupant in the bunker - he really needs to learn some house rules!
Sam snatched up the tiny puppy between his big hands, lifting the little being to his face, smiling as it wriggled ineffectively in his gentle grip. It gazed back, midnight blue eyes staring out from the soft fawn fur of its little face.
Sam chuckled as a tiny pink tongue flicked out and licked his nose. "No," he spluttered; fighting not to laugh; "naughty! Dean'll go mad if you do it again!"
The little pup yipped happily.
Dean scowled, turning to the smirking redhead behind them.
"Okay Rowena, you've had your goddamn fun, now change Cas back before he pisses on my boot again!"
NEW YEAR NEW YOU
It's new year in Hell, and there's a self-improvement kick going on. Crowley's POV.
It's all I hear; bloody new year resolutions. Everywhere.
All over Hell, demons are giving up this, giving up that, dancing while they slice and dice just to shed a few demonic inches from their useless demonic arses… It's sickening.
Then there was that sanctimonious little (now deceased) shit who suggested I do 'Dry January' and give up Scotch.
What for? It's not like I've got a sodding liver, and anyway, I like that warm fuzzy post-drinkie feeling.
But, whatever, here's my new year resolution.
I'm going to give up - NOTHING; not a single thing…
Because I'm bloody perfect exactly the way I am!
DRESS TO IMPRESS
It's Hogmanay in the bunker, and Rowena is determined to get those boys organised!
"Rowena, Is this necessary?" Dean scowled, looking down in disgust at his current attire.
"Och yes, Dean, if we're celebrating Hogmanay, I'll have it done properly!"
"I'm wearing a frickin' skirt!" Dean snorted; "I can celebrate Hogmanay in jeans well enough, thanks."
"Oh, stop blethering Dean," Rowena replied with a teasing smile; "it's a kilt, and ye should be honoured to wear it. That's the MacLeod tartan, I'll have you know."
They both looked across at Sam who stood fiddling awkwardly with his sporran. "Look, see - Sam looks fine, and he's not whining about it," Rowena observed; "and, well, neither am I – that's a fine set of knees you've been hiding from the world there Sam."
Sam blushed hotly; "I don't have much choice," he mumbled; "couldn't you find a longer kilt?"
Rowena smiled sweetly; "oh, now why would I want to do that, and hide those treasures?"
"Dean, dear, you haven't fastened your kilt properly. Don't worry, they're quite a challenge if you're not used to them. Here, let me …" Rowena reached out toward the unfastened leather strap at Dean's waist.
"Hands off," Dean growled, recoiling; "I can figure it out for myself."
He squirmed and gyrated, tugging and yanking at the leather straps, muttered oaths filling the room as he did so.
Rolling her eyes impatiently, Rowena glanced at her watch. "Never mind Hogmanay, it'll be Burns night by the time ye've finished rearranging yourself."
"Bite me," Dean snorted.
"Dean," Sam ventured; "I don't think you're tightening it, I think you might have …"
All three stood and watched helplessly as Dean's kilt unravelled, dropping to the ground with a muffled thud of heavy fabric and leather.
"… undone it," Sam groaned.
"Och, well," Rowena smirked appreciatively; "I guess that's that age-old question answered then!"