Title: Attack of the Clones
Fandom: Supernatural
Word Count: 3750ish
Rating: PG. One swearword.
Summary: Days of Dean's Life - episode III. There's a Dark Angel marathon on TV. Sam wants proof it's a shapeshifter.

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.

Sam was looking at Dean. Dean could feel his eyes on the side of his face, shrewd and calculating. He could practically hear his brother’s mind whirring. He kept his own eyes studiously on the bright screen of the unusually new television in the Hollywood-themed motel room. Scooting backwards on his bed until his back was to the wall, he struck a relaxed and casual pose and ignored Sam completely.

“So you’re still going with a shapeshifter, huh?” Sam just would not give up.

“Yes, Sam, I’m still going with a shapeshifter. Because it is a shapeshifter.” Dean shuffled across his bed to dig his liquorice out of his duffle. If he was going to have this conversation again, he needed provisions. “Why are you so sure it’s me, anyway?”

“Are you watching the same thing as me, Dean? You’re pretty much playing yourself. You don’t even have to act.”

Dean smiled widely at his brother through a mouthful of liquorice. “Well, gee, Sammy. I know you worship me, and I hate to disappoint you, so I’ll break it to you gently. I’m not a genetically engineered super-assassin who was made in a lab.”

Sam scrunched his face up and gestured wildly at the TV with a giant hand, almost taking out the glass of water on his night-table. “Not that bit. His personality. He’s got all your mannerisms. Look at that!”

On screen, the genetically engineered super-soldier who looked like Dean was taking back a necklace from the enormous dog-man.

“What are you talking about? He’s nothing like me at all! I don’t do that with my face.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Dean.”

The super-soldier’s face flickered from poorly concealed anger and sorrow to a bright, shiny grin. “I’m always alright,” he assured his friends.

Dean put aside his liquorice and concentrated on searching his bag for the snickers bar he knew was in there somewhere.  “Dude, if I’d nailed Jessica Alba, do you really think I’d be hiding it?”

Sam’s attention was distracted from the show for a moment. “Who said anything about nailing Jessica Alba?”

“Exactly.” Dean paused in his search, turning to look at his brother. “I know you, little brother. The second you saw this, you were on the net, researching. Did you find anything suggesting that Jessica Alba and this guy were together?”

Sam’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Ah, no, but – “

Dean interrupted him. “There are no rumours that this guy slept with Jessica Alba. Therefore, this guy either did not sleep with Jessica Alba, or hid it really well. Therefore, this guy is not me.”

Sam gaped incredulously at him. “So your proof it’s a shapeshifter is that you didn’t nail Jessica Alba?”

“Yes.” Dean returned to his search for the elusive chocolate bar.

“Your logic astounds me.” Sam returned his gaze to the television.

The giant dog-man was showing a slapdash painting to Jessica Alba, telling her that Alec-the-transgenic-super-soldier was all bright, pretty colours on the outside, but dark and confused on the inside. For a moment, Dean dared to hope that his brother had given up for the time being.

Sam hadn’t. “Okay, for one thing, Jessica Alba is way out of your league. Of course you wouldn’t tell anyone if she shot you down.”

Dean opened his mouth to retort that no-one shot him down (an outright lie, but sometimes the best defence is a blatant untruth), but Sam wasn’t finished. “Secondly,” Sam continued, “This Jensen Ackles came out of nowhere and disappeared immediately before you came to find me at Stanford. Thirdly, it can’t be a shapeshifter because there’s no camera flare in his eyes, and fourthly, this is exactly the kind of show you would be on. And he’s not even pretending not to be you!”

Dean scowled. “He’s not like me! Look at him! He’s brooding in a bar! When have I ever done that?”

Onscreen, Alec was sitting at the bar, sipping whisky, and saying, “Well, I appreciate the offer Max, I really do. But you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me,” Jessica Alba insisted.

The shapeshifter’s face twisted into a wry smirk. “I would, see, but you wouldn’t understand. You can’t understand. You weren’t there.”

Dean continued, speaking over the TV. “Okay, one: Jessica Alba is not out of my league. Two: He appeared from nowhere because he’s a shapeshifter. And lots of actors have a couple of hits and then fall back into obscurity. He probably changed faces because he was getting old or something. Three: he’s wearing special contacts that cover his whole eyes; I saw them when I was investigating him. And four: this show is actually awesome. Why would I not admit I’d been on it?”

“How would I know why you’d deny it? You never talk about your feelings. And Jessica Alba is so far out of your league you’re not even playing the same game.”           

Jesus. Sam just would not let this go. Much more of this and Dean would be looking around for something to smash his brother over the head with. What did a guy have to do to get some peace and quiet? “What do you want me to say, Sam? What proof do you want? It’s not like I brought back an ear or something.”

Sam was concentrating deeply on the screen. “He punches just like you.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Dean shoved himself off the too-soft bed and pulled his boots on, grimacing at the squelch of still-wet vamp blood in the left one. He grabbed his coat and gun and headed for the door. “You want proof? I’ll get you proof.”

Sam followed him out, laughter barely contained.




“Do you even have a plan?” Sam enquired as they walked towards the studio entrance.

Dammit. Dean had been hoping Sam would give up before it got to that. There was a look in Sam’s eye. Almost a twinkle. They longer it stayed there, the surer Dean became that his brother was never going to let it go. Sam might be messing with him, but that just made Dean doubly determined to prove him wrong.

“Of course I have a plan,” Dean scoffed, pulling Sam behind a tree so they were out of sight of the security guard, a pudgy middle-aged guy who had probably been hired to replace a more competent but more expensive employee. The studio was looking a little more rundown than it had last time he was here. Soaps were dying, alright.

“Oh, very inconspicuous, Dean. Two guys lurking behind a tree. He probably already thinks we’re here to murder someone. Why are we here?”

“Remember the soap opera,” Dean shuddered at the words, “with the guy who looked like me on it?”

Sam grinned widely. “How could I forget?” He schooled his face into and earnest, beseeching expression. “Dean, if I didn’t have cancer, and I wasn’t married, and I had plenty of money, would you- would you want to run away with me?

Dean jabbed him hard in the side with a fist, continuing as Sam huffed out and doubled over, “This is where they make it. I came here when I was investigating last time.”

“So you’re trying to prove it wasn’t you by showing me you know your way around the studio? You really don’t do yourself any favours, do you?”

“They must keep employment records or something. We find that, we find out who his agent or manager or whatever is, then we make that guy tell us where to find him. You distract everyone; I’ll break into the office and find the file.”

“Or,” said Sam, holding Dean back with a hand on his arm, “You could just go and ask for your file.  I’ll be your manager.”

Dean shook his head. “It ain’t gonna be that easy, Sam. I think he might’ve burned some bridges when he left.”

“And how do you know that?” Dean could practically see Sam planning his next argument.

“I kind of held him at gunpoint until he agreed to leave the show that day and never come back. It must have been a pain in the ass to write him out.”

“So you got fired, then?”

Dean could feel his hands moving on their own in the direction of his brother’s neck. He hastily shoved them in his pockets He would probably get arrested if he strangled Sam in broad daylight in the parking lot of a television studio. Also, Sam was taller than him and he wouldn’t have the right leverage. He’d have to settle for the old tried and true revenge of placing Sam’s hand in a bucket of warm water while Sam slept tonight.

“Mr Ackles?” A female voice said suddenly.

Dean looked up. Oh no. It was the scary woman who had tried to drag him off to make-up last time. She looked even more harassed than last time, and was hiding it behind a false grin so wide it looked a little psychotic.  Her hair was frozen in chestnut waves, held in place by about a gallon of hairspray. Dean was willing to bet the dye-job hid a host of grey hairs.

While Dean was staring at her, trying to decide whether or not to back away and hide on the other side of the tree, Sam stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Samuel Cameron, Mr Ackles’ new manager. And you are?” He shook her hand. Dean was half expecting him to accidently rip it off. The chick was skeletal. Her hand looked like it could hardly hold a pen, let alone withstand a gigantor enthusiastically shaking it. But then, she’d been pretty skinny last time Dean saw her, and he could still remember the feeling of her iron claws digging into his arm as she tried to drag him into make-up.

She smiled even wider, baring her brilliantly white teeth at them.  “Caroline Sharp. Executive producer. Of course, we welcome Mr Ackles back with open arms.”

Dean finally regained the ability to speak. “Weren’t you some kind of slave person?”

Caroline Sharp’s smile barely faltered. “I was promoted.  Now, Mr Ackles, this is excellent timing. We will of course have to draw up a contract, but we’re willing to negotiate on salary and offer a guarantee that your character will have a significant storyline for the next three seasons,” she told him, and then added so quietly he barely heard her, “assuming we’re not cancelled.”

Dean frowned at her in confusion. “But didn’t the old dude with the toupee say he was going to ruin th- my career when I left?”

“He’s not in charge anymore,” Caroline Sharp said briskly. “I am. And the actor playing Eric Brady just had a drug-induced psychotic break and is currently residing in the secure wing of an appropriate facility. Now, I suggest we continue this discussion in my office.”

“Listen, lady,” Dean began, “I’m just here to—“

But Sam was already speaking over him, sternly. “Mr Ackles. You’ve had no offers for almost three years. You hired me to get you work, and this is the best opportunity you’re likely to get.” He looked at the producer. “Ms Sharp, show us to your office.”

Crap. Dean didn’t like where this was headed. And what the hell? They hadn’t killed him off? They’d just had some other guy play the same character as the shapeshifter? Surely people would notice that Eric Brady suddenly looked like a completely different person.  Unless – oh God, no – there couldn’t be another one could there? Two shapeshifters taking his face was just beyond unlikely.

 Dean nudged Sam in the ribs as they followed the scary woman past the security guard, who barely looked up from his newspaper, and into the building. “Dude! What are you doing?”

Sam looked innocent. “It got us in, didn’t it?” Dean couldn’t shake the suspicion that Sam was deliberately making the situation worse.




It got worse. Dean had never really considered the possibility of having a real job. He’d always thought if he got one, he’d probably get fired immediately anyway, so he might as well get by with fraud and hustling, which was way more fun anyway. He’d certainly never thought it would be this hard to get fired. Especially from a job he didn’t actually have.

Caroline Sharp was seated in a leather swivel chair behind a desk in her office. There was a window behind her that Dean was thinking seriously about throwing himself through. He might survive. It was only the third floor. Caroline Sharp had taken her suit jacket off and hung it on a stand by the door. She was wearing a white dress shirt with the third button undone, and was leaning across the desk to point something out on the script in front of Dean. He could see right down her shirt, and she wasn’t hot. Not even a little bit.

“Ow!” Dean flinched as Sam kicked him in the ankle. He glared at his brother. Sam hadn’t followed the plan at all. He was meant to be distracting her while Dean searched her filing cabinet for the shapeshifter’s employment records, not accepting lines for Dean to learn and talking about drawing up a contract.

“Concentrate, Dean – I mean Jensen,” Sam made a poor job of covering his mistake.

Caroline Sharp paused in whatever crap she was droning about and looked up sharply. “Dean?” Her fixed smile remained steadfastly in place, becoming shark-like as her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not this Jensen Ackles dude,” Dean announced. Maybe not the ideal solution, but she’d been starting to say some terrifying stuff. Stuff like acting on camera. Shooting scenes. Catching up on schedules. She wanted to start that afternoon! He had to leave, now. His next best idea involved pulling out his gun.

Sam gave Caroline Sharp his best ingratiating smile. “My client wishes to stop using his screen name and be known by his real name, Dean Richards.” Bastard still thought it was funny.

“I am not Jensen Ackles!” Dean shouted.

“That’s alright, Mr… Richards,” Caroline Sharp placated him, “We can stipulate that in your contract.”

“I don’t want a contract! I’m not an actor! Why do you want this guy so bad, anyway? He walked out without warning and disappeared!”

Caroline Sharp’s fixed smile dropped away, revealing the stressed expression that had been lurking underneath. She looked at him pleadingly. “Look, you thought you were too good for us. You walked out. This studio wasn’t big enough to hold your ego. And look where you are now. No work for three years. You should be begging us to take you back. But the truth is ratings took a big dive when you left, and they never really picked up. All the heads of production left. The writers keep threatening. The last three years, we’ve been fighting cancellation. So I am begging you: please come back. At least until Joey’s out of the ‘spa’. We can’t lose Eric Brady. We won’t survive.”

Shit. Dean was never good at saying no to begging women. Even when he really, really should. But that didn’t mean he was leaving without his means of getting proof. Okay, change of plans. Dean would distract her while Sam found the file. “Fine,” he said, “But just this afternoon. I’ll do this one scene on this page. But that’s it. Then I’m retiring.”

That got the first real smile he’d ever seen on Caroline Sharp’s face. He ignored the stab of guilt he felt when he thought about it draining away from her face as she watched him attempt to act.

He shoved his paper clip into Sam’s hand when Caroline was turned away, getting her coat. “I’m distracting her. You find the file.” He gestured to the battered, green filing cabinets that ran along one wall of the office. The place was surprisingly low tech. He’d have thought everything would be on computers, but he guessed there was probably stuff in the files that couldn’t be computerised. And the show had been on the air forever. Computers probably hadn’t been invented when some of these people started.




Dean scanned the room for Sam. Yep, there he was, standing in the corner, out of the way, trying to blend into the wall. He gave Dean the thumbs up. That better mean he’d found the name of the shapeshifter’s agent, or Dean was going to cause him serious pain.

He took a deep breath. He was Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester had no shame and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. He could do this.

They’d put make-up on him. There was crap all over his face, and black stuff around his eyes, and friggin’ mascara on his eyelashes. They’d taken his clothes. Dean had been made to leave his boots in the dressing room. He was wearing stupid slip-on canvas shoes, and his feet felt vulnerable and unprotected. He’d had to leave his jacket in there too. It gave him a weird, nervous feeling to be walking around in just a t-shirt and jeans, without that extra layer of protection. They’d made him leave his gun behind as well, out on the dressing table where anyone could get at it. To their credit, the costume people hadn’t batted an eyelid when they’d seen it. Apparently Joey carried concealed illegal weapons too. Dean could feel his muscles tensing up. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all. He read over the page of script again.

Christ, there were lights everywhere. Bright, powerful ones like the CIA always used for interrogations on TV. Dean squinted against the glare. Heat radiated from them. He could feel himself sweating. He ran his hand across his brow, wiping the sweat off before it dripped into his eyes. The hairdresser chick ran across and repositioned his hair on his forehead. He hated the hair. They’d done it wrong, and he didn’t look like himself anymore. Someone shoved him over to stand on a blue marking on the floor, directly in front of a camera, and snatched the script out of his hand.

The scene was in someone’s living room. There was a shiny, black leather couch behind him that he was fighting the urge to dive under. Hiding under a couch seemed like a great idea right now. There was a trickle of sweat running down his back. His t-shirt was sticking to it. He balled his hands to stop them shaking. He thought suddenly that he might not be breathing. He took a deep breath. God, he should have put on more deodorant. The chick doing the scene with him was going to smell him sweating like a horse.

“Action!” The director shouted, and suddenly everything felt like it was a long way away. Dean looked around the room for Sam again. He couldn’t pick him out. Shit, there were a lot of people.

The chick he was doing the scene with had big, blonde hair and was wearing a purple spandex aerobics outfit. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her standing somewhere behind his left shoulder. She was saying something.

The blonde chick stopped talking. Dean thought it might be his turn to talk, but he couldn’t remember how. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t remember what to do after that. There were some words he was meant to say, but he’d forgotten what they were.

“Cut!” yelled the director.

The hairdresser chick ran back over and shoved him back onto the blue mark. He hadn’t been aware he was moving, but he must have been subconsciously edging out of shot. The woman jabbed at his face with some kind of sponge thing covered in powder. She brushed his hair back across his face, and then abandoned him to his fate.


Dean’s hands were shaking even worse. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, vibrating with tension. It was starting to hurt. There was something wrong with his chest. It wouldn’t move enough to let the air in. Dean searched the crowd for Sam. He couldn’t see him. All the people were just shadows behind the lights. Dark shapes looking at him. Judging. He could feel their eyes on him. He wiped his sweaty palms on his t-shirt and tried to listen to what the aerobics-girl was saying.

The words didn’t make sense. There was a whole string of them, and none of them meant anything. There was a giant camera in his face, recording his idiocy for eternity, red ‘on’ light laughing at him. His heart was jumping around in his chest. “Guh,” he said.



“You’re really not Jensen Ackles, are you?” Caroline Sharp said as she showed them out of the studio.

Dean shook his head, taking a big gulp of the Gatorade someone had fetched for him when he was sitting on the floor with his head between his knees.

“I should really have you both arrested for identity theft,” she told them. Then she looked over at Dean and eased up, sympathy overcoming her harassed features for a moment. “Thanks for trying.”

“You should retire,” he told her gruffly, “There’s way less stressful jobs out there.”

She just raised her eyebrows at him and turned to return to her office, her false smile already determinedly back in place.

“I hope Joey gets better soon,” Sam called after her.

She didn’t acknowledge him.




Dean flopped onto his bed, back at the Hollywood themed motel, and reached for his uneaten Snickers bar. Sometimes, you just needed chocolate. “Did you get the file?”

Sam pulled a thin file out of his jacket. “Agent’s name is Murray Clarkson.”

“We can pay him a visit tomorrow,” Dean said, through a mouthful of well-deserved chocolatey goodness.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I believe you,” said Sam, picking up the remote and flicking on the TV. “I think you proved it pretty comprehensively today.”

Onscreen, Dean’s doppelganger was sitting in a bar with Jessica Alba, saying, “He said I had to take care of you.”

“What is this, some kind of friggin’ marathon?” Dean glared at the TV.  

Sam was silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. He watched the screen closely. At last he spoke. “Jessica Alba is definitely out of your league.”

“Is not,” Dean retorted wittily, and threw his pillow at his brother.


The End.

Title:  Finding Eric Brady
Genre: Gen
Word Count: 2550
Summary: Preseries. Dean sees himself on daytime television. He investigates. Prequel to 'Days of Dean's Life'

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural or Days of Our Lives. Lines said on TV are directly from an episode of Days of Our Lives.           


The first time it happened, Dean rolled with it.

“Hi, Eric.” The girl giggled a little, pink infusing her cheeks. She looked away, almost shyly.

                Huh. That was new. Most of the girls that approached Dean were, to put it politely, forward. Occasionally they blushed or stumbled for words, but that was usually when it was Dean approaching them. The waitresses he flirted casually with in diners or the girls at supermarket checkouts that he gave his best smiles to and made friendly conversation with, were the ones that went shy and looked away. It was only the ones that weren’t used to the attention, or weren’t secure in their attractiveness that blushed and stammered.

                But this girl, she was hot. Like, really hot. In a really obvious kind of way. Heavy make-up, low cut top (and what a magnificent view it revealed), short skirt, high heels. She was wearing fishnet stockings. Clearly looking to get laid. Dean knew how to pick them. She was definitely not shy. And yet, here she was blushing, and sneaking glances at him through her lashes.

                Dean smiled at her. “I’m Dean. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

                The girl blushed a brighter red, words tumbling from her mouth in a nervous rush. “Oh, sorry.  I mean, I know your name’s not really Eric. I know you’re an actor and you just play him on TV, but I just OMIGOD YOU’RE SO HOT I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.” She stopped suddenly, an expression of horror crossing her face. Covering her face with perfectly manicured hands, she groaned. “I can’t believe I just said that. Oh, God you must think I’m such an idiot. I should never have come over here. I’m just going to go hide in the bathroom and you can pretend I was never here.”

                That explained it. She thought he was some guy on TV. Dean put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I don’t think you’re an idiot. You’re doing fine.” He decided not to tell her he wasn’t this guy. If she was this embarrassed now, imagine how she’d feel if she found out she’d been embarrassing herself in front of a guy who wasn’t even who she thought he was. Or worse, if he told her now, she might think this Eric guy was trying to get rid of her because she was making him uncomfortable.

                “Really?” The girl looked up hopefully, tears of embarrassment in her eyes.

                “Sure,” he gave her his most reassuring grin. “How about I buy you a drink?”

                Three drinks in, the girl stopped being shy and invited him home with her. Dean figured they both won. The girl got to believe she’d slept with a TV star, and he… well, Dean always counted a night like that as a win.


                The second time, Dean rolled with it again. Hey, she might have been twenty years his senior, but older women have experience, and boy did she use it. It wasn’t until he was back at her place that she asked if she could call him Eric. A woman who could do that with her tongue could call him anything she wanted.


                The third time, Dean was walking down the street with his father. Dean had twisted his knee running from a werewolf the night before, and he’d just ducked into the pharmacy to restock the first aid kit while Dad bought the groceries next door.

                Dad came out of the supermarket carrying two bags of food and wearing a perplexed expression. He frowned at Dean. “Did you tell some girl you were a movie star?”

                Dean sighed. “No, why?”

                Dad pointed behind himself. “You wanna tell me why there’s a group of teenage girls stalking you, Dean? They asked if you’d done that on set.” He nodded at Dean’s leg.

                Dean peered around his father, down the wide main street of the small town. Sure enough, five girls of fourteen or so were lurking with false casualness in the entrance to the supermarket, pretending not to watch him. One of them whispered something and pointed at him, and they all fell about in uncontrollable giggles.

                Dean shook his head and shrugged, limping off towards the Impala. It was weird, but there were more important things to think about.


                The fourth time, it was a little girl of about six. He felt a bit bad about lying to her, but at the same time he didn’t want to disappoint her. He signed her piece of paper with a smiley face and an illegible scrawl, and followed her request to kiss her Mommy on the cheek.


                When he finally figured out what the hell was going on, it wasn’t because someone told him. His Dad had sent him on a hunt by himself. It was just a simple vengeful spirit, but it had knocked him around a bit, and he was giving himself a couple of days rest, waiting for the bruises to fade before he joined back up with Dad. He was just lying back, flicking on the TV for a bit of company, and there he was. On the TV.

                Dean sat up, staring. This wasn’t just some actor who looked a bit like him. This was like staring into a mirror, or watching a recording of another reality, where he was a massive pussy with stupid hair.

                What the hell was he doing? The version of him on television was wearing a ridiculous baggy white sweatshirt and having a heart to heart with his father, who, thankfully, didn’t look anything like Dean’s real father. And the hair! Dean shuddered. They were sitting in a coffee shop drinking foamy crap from bowls. Dammit! Why couldn’t his double at least have been on something good? Maybe something with hot chicks and fighting. Or clones. Hell, he’d even have been okay with superheroes. But this sitting around in cafes, talking about feelings crap was disgusting.

                “I don’t want the same thing to happen to you as happened to Sami,” the father was saying, “I mean you believe in somebody you also love, and then that person turns around and betrays you.”

                “Well it’s not gonna happen, Dad. I know that Nicole loves me. I know that,” Dean’s clone said intensely, leaning forward over his giant cup of coffee to drive his point home.

                Dean turned off the TV, fighting the need to take another shower. He rolled off the bed and got dressed, securing his ankle sheath firmly to his leg, and tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. It was time to do some research.

                The first thing he did was call his father. Rule out the evil twin possibility. Dean was certain his father wouldn’t have lied about something like this his whole life. There was no way. He trusted his father absolutely. Dad would never keep a secret like that from him. He was like, 95% sure. Still, horrifying scenarios painted themselves in his head. He’d had a twin who Dad had left behind in Lawrence after the fire, and Dean had blocked it out because of the trauma. Dean was one of a pair of twins who’d been switched at birth with Mom and Dad’s real baby. A teenage crack-whore had given birth to twins and Mom and Dad had adopted one, while the other suffered horribly and was forced to act on a soap opera to pay for his mother’s habit. Dean deliberately pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind.

                Dad’s phone rang three times, and then Dad picked up, saying gruffly, “John Winchester.”

                “Ah, hey Dad,” Dean said, weakly, wishing he’d planned this conversation out before he’d started it.

                “Are you finished with the spirit?” Dad skipped the preliminaries, like always. “There’s a suspected kelpie about two hours away from you. I need you to deal with it.”

                “I’ll get right on that,” Dean waited for his Dad to give him the details, only half listening, while he tried to figure out how to phrase the question ‘do I have a secret twin?’ After all, he could always do more research about kelpies. Getting back in his father’s good books after accusing him of having a secret child wouldn’t be so easy. “Hey, Dad? Um, I saw someone today. He looked kind of familiar. Do we have any relatives I don’t know about? Maybe a cousin or something?” Do you secretly have another son? “About my age? Looks kind of like me?” Exactly like me.   

                “Not that I know of,” Dad replied absently, “Call me when you’re done with the kelpie.” There was a click as Dad hung up.

                Dean ruled out secret twin as a possibility. If Dad had known anything about it, he would have said something. A lie or an order to stop asking questions would have been suspicious. Dad focussing on the work was just Dad.

                He turned the TV back on. It was like the first time he’d seen a dead body. He’d thrown up violently, and then been compelled to glance back and see if it still had no head.

                Dean’s clone, Eric, was standing in a hospital being told off by his father, who was saying, “… stupid! You and Billie thinking you were going to investigate the mob by yourselves…”

                Huh. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, after all. He kind of wanted to stay and see why they were investigating the mob. He didn’t, though. He had work to do.

                A week later, Dean had taken care of the kelpie, narrowed down the possibilities of what this thing was to either a shapeshifter or an insane human with a photo of him and an excellent plastic surgeon, and developed a morbid fascination with the show.

                Dean felt a strange pang of regret as he loaded his gun with silver bullets and tucked a small silver blade into his ankle holster. Still, if this thing could use Dean’s face to get a job on a terrible but compelling soap opera, who knew what else he could use it for. Bank robberies. Murder. Modelling. He shivered, throwing his bag into the backseat of his baby. It was time to go to California and deal with this, before it got out of control.


                Security was surprisingly lax on the set of the soap opera. Or maybe it was just that everyone thought he was on the show. No-one even checked him for weapons.  

                A harassed-looking woman in her thirties rushed up to him, grabbing him by the arm. “I’ve found him,” she said into her headset. A reply that Dean couldn’t make out crackled into her earpiece. “Copy that,” she answered. “On my way.” She pushed the mouthpiece down to talk to Dean. “Where have you been?” she hissed, “You’re wanted in make-up. They’ve been waiting for you for fifteen minutes!”

                “Look, I’m not feeling well,” Dean said, freeing himself with difficulty from her iron grip on his arm.

                “No one cares if you’re hung-over, Mr Ackles. Get to make-up now, before you put the whole schedule behind.”

                “I think I’m gonna hurl,” Dean made gagging noises for realism. What kind of a screen name was Jensen Ackles, anyway? If monster-him had consulted him, at least he would have come up with something cool. Like James Bond, or Keith Richards. The woman hesitated. He sprinted past her, searching for the door with fake-him’s fake name on it.


                Dean cornered the shapeshifter in his dressing room. The actor was putting his contacts in, his back to the door as he used a mirror with lights across the top. It was strange seeing himself from behind. He barred the door with a chair and cleared his throat.

                The monster turned.

                Dean aimed his gun steadily at him. “Think you can steal my face, assclown?”

                “You won’t do it,” the shapeshifter paused, one contact lens in, one out. “You can’t shoot yourself.”

                “Maybe not, but I can sure as hell shoot a monster who hides his laser-eyes with contacts and plays a wussy pretty-boy on TV.” Dean cocked the gun. “But tell me something first. Why me? You could turn into anyone. I’m sure there are people out there who’d just love to be on TV.”

                “Oh, honey,” said the shapeshifter, “Look at me. I tried for years to get a break. I spent fourteen years cleaning up the puke from hotel bathrooms, because all I could get was bit parts that wouldn’t pay the rent. And then I saw you. It was in a bar in LA. There was a guy talking to you. A modelling scout. And you just shut him down without even considering it.”

                Dean thought back. Now that he thought about it, last time he’d been in LA for a case, he’d been hit on by a disturbing number of dudes pretending to be talent scouts. It was where he’d learnt how to make it believable when he did it.

                The shapeshifter continued. “It wasn’t fair. It’s cruel of you to have a face like that and not use it.”

                That wasn’t true. Dean used his face. For eating, and talking and stuff. And to get laid, or get free food. But he couldn’t imagine wanting to be on camera, or pose for photos. It gave him the creeps just thinking about all those people looking at him. He could think of a thousand things he would rather do than act on a soap opera. Being eaten by lions sprang to mind.

                “That doesn’t mean you get to take it.”

                The shapeshifter ignored him, stepping gracefully closer. “So I took it. And you know what? My first day back in Hollywood after I took your face, I got this job.”

                Dean tightened his finger on the trigger. It was harder than he’d thought it would be, shooting himself. And now that he thought about it, the guy hadn’t really done that much wrong.

                “I don’t kill people. I’m not harming anyone by using their face. Think about it, I could have killed you when I took your face, but I didn’t. I’m just taking an unfortunate genetic defect and using it to my advantage.”

                It was like there were two people fighting in Dean’s head. One saying monster. Kill it. The other saying person, actor. Me. His hands shook.

                “Dammit!” Dean exclaimed, lowering his gun. “Fine. I won’t kill you. Today. But you put a foot wrong and I’ll be back, and I just because you’re wearing my face doesn’t mean I won’t shoot you in it. And if you’re still on this show in two months, I will come back and shoot you. It’s not even a cool show, dude.”

                “So what? I keep wearing your face, but I have to find a part you like better?” The shapeshifter looked torn.

                “Damn straight,” said Dean, “Something with fighting and clones, or superheroes or something. No more sensitive bitches.”


                Dean didn’t leave the set until he’d heard the guy quit.

                He drove out of town praying that Sam never managed to catch a re-run.


                                                                                The End

Title:  Days of Dean's Life
Genre: Gen
Word Count: 899
Summary: "So you're going with 'a shapeshifter stole my face and used it to pursue a career in daytime television'?"

Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone and am not making any money. The lines from the soap opera are almost word-for-word from an episode of Days of Our Lives.

Sam watched his brother’s face closely. Dean had never given him any reason to suspect he was hiding this awful secret, but then, there were a lot of sides to Dean that he was just finding out about now. And Dean never did talk about what he’d done while Sam was away at Stanford. But this – if Sam was really seeing this, he had a lifetime of ammunition.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s not me!” Dean growled, somewhat too defensively, of you asked Sam.

“So you’re going with ‘a shapeshifter stole my face and used it to pursue a career in daytime television’?”

“What else could it be, Sam? What did you think I was going to say? Yes, Sam, I was so lonely when ditched us for Stanford that I had to express myself by secretly acting on a soap opera?”

Sam frowned at the TV, where someone who was clearly Dean, only younger and quite a lot less badass, was begging a blonde girl with big hair and too much makeup not to do… something. Sam wasn’t quite sure, because it was hard to concentrate on the plot when his brother kept showing up onscreen, wearing tight clothing and a look of bemusement while his thoughts were broadcast in a voiceover. “I thought maybe it was for a case?”

“Sure, a case where I had to go undercover for three years. Turn it off, it’s creepy.” Dean made a sudden grab for the remote.

Sam stood up and childishly held the remote above his head. On screen, in a disturbing echo of real life, Dean said: “I had to stop you hurting people, Sammy.”

“Wait, if it’s not you, how do you know he was on there for three years – oof!” Sam doubled over as Dean’s fist slammed into his stomach, but he managed to keep hold of the remote.

Dean grabbed at his hand, trying to free the remote. “Do you really think I didn’t investigate? Like I’d be okay with him wearing my face and doing… that.” The expression of disgust on Dean’s face was comical. It was an expression reserved by normal people for finding used band-aids in their food, or having someone vomit on them.

On the TV, Dean was facing away from the girl and saying dramatically, “All the lies, the manipulation… you never really had amnesia, did you, Sammy?”

Dean took advantage of Sam’s distraction to tackle him. Caught off guard, Sam stumbled sideways into the TV, knocking it backwards into the orange and brown patterned wallpaper of the motel room. There was a disturbing crunch, a hiss of static, and then the big-haired girl cried: “Twins are supposed to support each other, but you love her more than you care about me, don’t you?”

Dean dived forward, jabbing at the power button. Nothing happened. “Now look what you’ve done! Where’s the remote?”

Sam lifted his boot. The remote lay, crushed beyond repair, where it had fallen out of his hand when he’d stumbled. “Dude, it’s no big deal. I know you did some questionable things for money sometimes. You don’t have to lie about it. There’s no judgement here.” Except for the constant teasing that was going to take place for the rest of his life.

“I’m not lying! When have I ever shown any indication of wanting to be on TV, Sam? And don’t you think if it was me I’d have aimed a bit higher?” Dean finally gave up on stabbing at random buttons on the elderly television and retreated to sulk on his bed.

“Dean, you have to admit it’s a pretty thin lie. I mean, why the hell would a shifter turn into you just to get a part on a soap opera? It’s not like he’s even a great actor.” Sam moved the TV back into its original position on the faux-wooden cabinet, and went to sit down.

Onscreen, the now slightly fuzzy Dean urged his insane sister to get help, in a caring tone with an edge of desperation.

“Dude, have you seen me?” Dean gestured to his image on screen.

Sam smirked. “Exactly.”

Dean glared at him. “Shut up. Maybe I was a mindless child soldier, but I was really freakin’ pretty.”

Sam kind of wanted to say something about Dean not being mindless, and also about the fact that he was undoubtedly still very handsome, but he thought that might be a weird thing to say to your brother. Instead he said: “So you’re so pretty that this monster had to turn into you to get work as an actor? I’m just shocked it hasn’t happened more often. ”

And suddenly, Dean’s bright grin was back. “I tell you, Sammy, it’s a pain in the ass being this pretty.”

“So have you already taken care of this then?”

Dean shook his head, scooting backwards to lie sprawled on the worn brown bedspread beneath him. “Nah. You know, the show’s really not that bad.”

Onscreen, Dean’s face was scrunched up in a position Sam could only assume was meant to represent thinking. He looked directly into the camera, one hand gripping his blonde-streaked hair.

Sam settled down into a more comfortable position. Actually, he did kind of want to know if shapeshifter-Dean was going to stop his crazy sister from killing the other sister, who had just married the crazy sister’s ex husband.

Title: The All-Conquering Spell of the Fuzzy Baby Sheep
Genre/Rating: Gen, G
Length: 814
Summary: Nobody is immune to the lambie effect. Not even Dean.
Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural.

Dean looked at the building and groaned. “Really, Sammy? A Bed and Breakfast?”

Sam was already unfolding himself from the driver’s seat. “Yes, a Bed and Breakfast, Dean. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of nowhere. We’re both tired, and I am damned if I’m sleeping in the car again. Now are you coming in while I ask about rooms?”

Dean scowled. He hated Bed and Breakfasts, with the frilly comforters and freakish cleanliness and floral wallpaper. Not to mention the overly friendly, bored-retiree hosts, who forced food on you at ridiculous hours of the morning, and asked probing personal questions under the guise of polite hospitality. Given the choice between that and his car, he’d sleep in his car, thank you very much. “It’s pink!” He protested, resolutely staying in his seat.

“Only the trimmings,” said Sam, like that was at all better. “Fine, stay here. I’ll come back when I’ve got us rooms.”

Dean turned up the tape deck, concentrating on the calming strains of Ramble On in preparation for an evening of awkward conversation and smothering niceness, followed by eventual escape to a pink and flowery cell for the night, an absurdly early wake-up call in order to be judged over breakfast.

Ramble on faded out, and Dean ejected the tape, replacing in with his well-worn copy of Metallica’s black album. He tapped along to the first song. He moved to a more comfortable position in his seat. He tapped some more. Played some air drums. Watched the door. What the hell was taking Sam so long?

Finally, the door opened once more and Sam came out. Dean stared at him. That was weird. His brother was practically skipping. There was something wrong with his face, like he was trying to keep his mouth under control. Fighting a smile.

By the time he reached the car, Sam had stopped trying to fight the smile. He beamed down at Dean. “Dean! There’s a field out the back with lambies in it!”

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Did you just say ‘lambies’?”

“No,” Sam lied. “Come on, Mrs Cooper said we can feed them.”

“Did they do something to you in there?” Dean switched off the stereo and opened his door.

Sam grabbed his brother’s arm and dragged him upright. “No, they didn’t do something to me. The ‘lambies’ thing was just some kind of rollover effect from the lambs being cute. You know, like when you see puppies and immediately feel the need to shout ‘PUPPIES!’ and talk in a weird voice.”

Dean strode around to get the bags out of the trunk. “Yeah, that doesn’t happen to me.”

Sam huffed out a sarcastic laugh. “I bet you a million bucks you can’t go three minutes in the presence of those lambs without turning into a moron.”

“Really, Sam? A million bucks? Why don’t we make this interesting?”

“Fine. Winner picks where we eat for the next month.

“Fine.” Dean hauled the bags out of the trunk and chucked Sam’s at him, before locking up and following Sam into the Bed and Breakfast.

He’d been right. The rooms (separate, because there were no rooms with twin beds) did have floral wallpaper and frilly bedspreads. The Coopers were indeed an excessively friendly older couple, but thankfully didn’t seem to see much need for replies to their chatter. Mrs Cooper was round and warm and comfortable, and Dean kind of wanted to hug her. Mr Cooper was big and made jokes in a big booming voice, and didn’t seem to notice that Sam was only pretending to laugh. Dean knew he was pretending, because they were the same kind of jokes Dean made, only cleaner, and when Dean made them, Sam just scrunched up his face and threw stuff at him.

Mrs Cooper quickly ran through the procedure for bottle-feeding lambs, and handed each of them a small bottle of warm milk, before leading them outside.

Two small, white lambs were poking their heads through the fence, baa-ing plaintively as they waited for their food. Dean had to admit they were pretty cute, with their tight curls of wool, and too-big ear, and knobbly knees and waggily tails. Not that he would ever show he thought that. He was a hunter. Hunters did not think things were cute.

He climbed the fence, kneeling down and presenting the bottle to the left-hand lamb to suckle. It grabbed the teat eagerly, pulling surprisingly hard at it, tail wagging crazily. He laid his other hand on the lamb’s head, running his fingers through the springy wool. “Who’s a hungry lambie? Are you a hungry lambie?”

He heard Sam laughing faintly in the background, but it didn’t matter, because the lambie had finished its bottle and was nuzzling at him, looking for more, and it was doing something really strange to his insides.   

Title: Playing Fetch
Genre/Pairing: Slight Dean/Lisa, pretty much gen
Length: 1,347
Summary: Every summer solstice, Dean is cursed into dog-form for three days. Usually, Sam looks after him, but this year, Sam's gone and the task falls to Lisa. Lisa POV. For a prompt at hoodie time.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Characters are not mine.

Dean keeps apologising. Lisa doesn’t know why, because in that infuriating way of his, he won’t tell her. He just goes on one of his guilt trips and says she shouldn’t have to deal with this and he should never have taken advantage of her goodwill and she shouldn’t feel obliged to look after him.

“I’m just gonna go away for a while,” he says, refusing to meet her eye, “Tomorrow’s the solstice. You shouldn’t have to deal with this… I mean, S-Sam always used to…” He doesn’t finish, trailing off. There’s a faraway look in his eye and he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists as he goes to stand up.

Lisa puts her hands on his shoulders, refusing to let him up. “Dean,” she says firmly, “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re worrying me. Stay. Whatever it is, we can deal with it. But if you leave, I’m calling out a search party.”

Dean ends up staying, but he’s quiet and twitchy all afternoon, and insists Ben sleeps over at his friend’s house. He won’t come to bed. Lisa works very hard at being understanding – after all, there is no denying the suffering Dean’s been through and how hard he works every day just to keep going – and brings him a blanket for the sofa.

Dean finally looks at her, his eyes big and apologetic. “You don’t have to keep me,” he says.


The next morning, Lisa wakes to the sound of something whimpering in her living room. All the things Dean’s told her about being alert and not going to investigate strange noises on her own run through her head. She ignores it. She knows there are threats out there, but she also knows that Dean’s paranoid, and that you can’t run and hide at every unexpected noise. That’s not living. And anyway, Dean’s in the living room.

When she peers around the door, the first thing she sees is the sofa. Her blanket is thrown messily over it. There’s a lump in the blanket, and it’s wriggling and whimpering. It’s not big enough to be Dean. She approaches cautiously and gingerly peels back the blanket.

It’s a dog. It’s a black Labrador, with sleek floppy ears and a droopy face and big, worried eyes. There are flecks of grey on its chin. It lowers its head onto its paws and stares up at her. It’s wearing Dean’s shirt.

“Dean?” She asks. It doesn’t reply. She is grateful for that. Having your boyfriend turn into a dog was one thing, but a talking dog? That would just be too weird. “Dean?” She tries again. It blinks at her.

She curses to herself. Why couldn’t he have told her this was going to happen? He’d obviously known. At least then she could have done some research. She doesn’t know anything about looking after a dog.

The dog cringes and looks away, like he can feel her annoyance.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she says soothingly, reaching out to stroke the dog’s head. It’s very smooth, and its ears are like silk as she runs her hands over them. “I’ll look after you.”

She gently untangles him from the blankets, talking quietly the whole time. She’s pretty sure he can’t understand her, but the sound seems to make him feel better.


The dog whines when Lisa leaves the room to search the old shed out the back for any dog-related equipment the previous owners might have left behind. To her relief, she finds a collar and lead, abandoned and dusty in the corner. She’s not sure she likes the symbolism of tying Dean up, but if he’s retained any of his consciousness, the first thing he’ll do if he gets out is try to run away so she doesn’t have to put up with him.

To her surprise, he stands still while she puts the collar on him, head lowered meekly. She’s surprised at how expressive his face is. He’s got little eyebrows like fuzzy caterpillars. She hadn’t realized dogs had those. He looks sad and confused. Not at all like those dogs in the dog-food commercials, bounding through fields with their tails wagging and tongues hanging out.

She takes him for a walk that afternoon, because even someone who has never had a dog knows that dogs need to go for walks. Especially big dogs. He walks close beside her and looks around him suspiciously, growling quietly as they pass Mrs Badger from two doors down, who is out walking her poodle.

“Shh, Dean, it’s not going to hurt you,” Lisa soothes him, before it occurs to her to temporarily rename him.

Mrs Badger gives her a funny look.


The next day, the dog eats his breakfast with gusto. He doesn’t whine while Lisa’s in the shower. Well, not much. Not like the night before, when she’d gone to get the dog food.

She sits in the backyard and reads her book, one hand absently stroking his head as he lies beside her. Eventually, the sun gets too hot on his black coat and he gets up and flops down comfortably under the lemon tree. He’s not out of sight, but not nervous and unhappy and stuck to her like glue, either.

When she takes him for his walk, she has to wait for him while he sniffs things. The ground. Lamp-posts. He snuffles at Mrs Badger’s daisies, sneezing when the pollen goes up his nose.

He even stops and sits patiently as James and Valerie’s three year old twins attack him with cuddles.

That night he lies curled up on her feet as she watches TV. It’s a comfortable silence.



On the third day, Lisa starts to worry. The dog is lovely, but she wants Dean back. Proper, human Dean, who might be more complicated than a dog, but is also better conversation. She misses him. Even the messed up bits.

Dean doesn’t seem to mind though. He gobbles his breakfast in two mouthfuls before looking at her with his head cocked to one side, wearing an expression that clearly says “What? That’s it?”

He paces impatiently around the house as she tries to do some research on what could be causing the transformation and how to fix it. She gets nowhere.

Dean keeps coming and snuffling her with his wet nose, sliding his head under her hand so she has to pat him. It makes it hard to concentrate. He wags his tail and looks towards the door.

“Ok,” she sighs, “We’re going to the park.”

Outside, the sun is shining and the sky is clear. A slight breeze keeps it from being too hot. Dean chases a butterfly, barking joyfully. Then he gets distracted, veering into the bushes, emerging a moment later with an old tennis ball in his mouth and leaves on his back. He drops the ball at her feet and looks up at her, expectantly. She throws it for him, and he leaps after it exuberantly.

She watches him running full-tilt, his ears blowing in the wind, an expression of doggy-excitement on his face, and is suddenly, unexpectedly sad. She wishes Dean could look like this all the time. Not dog-shaped, obviously. But this carefree, wild enthusiasm reminds her of Dean, the first time she met him, so long ago, and she hasn’t seen it since. For a second, she thinks maybe it would be better for Dean if he stayed like this.

She throws the ball a few more times, and then he loses interest. He walks over to her and leans against her legs, panting, before sliding down onto her feet and rolling over so she’ll rub his belly.


On the fourth day, Dean is human again. He mumbles uncomfortably when she greets him and looks embarrassed.

“Thanks for, you know, looking after me,” he says after a moment.

“Anytime,” she says.

Later on, she asks if he remembers anything.

“Not really,” he says, “I remember you looking after me.” He pauses. “Guess it wasn’t really that different for you.”


                                                                                          The end.

Title: Maxwell Martin's Modern Menswear
Genre/Pairing: gen
Length: 3,497
Summary: Dean goes undercover as a model. Written for a prompt at SPN_Bigpretzel.

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural. Not for profit.

   “Why do I have to be the model?” Dean complained, stuffing three fries in his mouth. He chewed slowly and deliberately with his mouth open. Little brothers who tried to trick you into walking along a rickety wooden death-trap in embarrassing clothes in front of a crowd deserved a view of semi-chewed French fries.

   “You’re the handsome one, Dean. You said so yourself,” Sam was hardly even pretending not to laugh. Bastard.

    “When?” He jabbed a couple more ketchup-covered fries into his mouth for good measure.

     “Uh, all the time, Dean. Come on, all you have to do is offer to be the new model, ask a couple of questions, sweep for EMF, and walk up and down the stage a couple of times. You’ll be fine.” Sam gestured across the food court to the portable stage that had been set up in the centre of the mall. “You have to walk, like, twenty feet. Nobody even watches these shows anyway.”

    Dean narrowed his eyes at the stage. It looked wobbly. It was made up of four sections of thin chipboard. They didn’t fit together right, so there were cracks between the pieces that would have been bad news for a woman in high heels. Time and damp had warped the wood, which the organisers had tried to hide using artfully draped carpets (slightly worn) and advertising banners. On either side of the runway, tall lamps on flimsy poles threw out a bright, unflattering bright light when they were switched on. All except the third one on the left, which was blown. At one end of the stage were a set of green curtains that the models emerged onto the runway through. They cut off a portable wooden room which was presumably where the models got changed.

   “If I have to be a model, you have to be a model,” Dean told Sam.

     Sam shook his head, the infuriating smirk remaining in place. “One of us has to be in the audience to see what happens. Remember, it’s just the models that are disappearing. We can’t both be models. Besides, I’m heavier than you. I don’t think that stage would hold me.”

    Dean shoved the last of his fries in his mouth and grumbled, “Do I look like a guy who shops at ‘Maxwell Martin’s Modern Menswear’ to you?”

    Sam’s eyes lit up. “Not yet,” He grinned. “We’ll have to go shopping. You can ask about the modelling job while we’re in there.”

     Dean took a final gulp of coke and stood up, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. But I catch you laughing and my revenge will be sweet. Got it?”




The store was worse than Dean had imagined. It looked pretty bad from the outside, tucked between a hairdresser and a women’s clothing store, and somehow more sissy than both of them combined. Maxwell Martin’s Modern Menswear was inscribed in curly purple writing across the top of the window. The paint was old and flecking off in places. Beside it was a logo in purple and silver that looked a bit like a sheep caught in a blackberry bush, but was probably meant to be something else entirely. Beneath the name were three headless mannequins, lit from below and wearing – well, Dean didn’t even want to look.

   “Come on,” Sam grabbed his arm and dragged him through the door.

    Much to Dean’s surprise, there were other customers in the store. Two middle-aged men and a woman in her forties were browsing the racks, and a man about Dean’s age was in the fitting room, emerging every now and then to ask the shop assistant for an opinion. Huh. Were there no thrift stores or army surpluses in this town?

   “Try these on,” Sam thrust a pile of clothes, almost certainly the ugliest ones he could find, into Dean’s arms and shoved him in the direction of the fitting room. “Don’t forget to come out and pose in them.”

     Dean glared at his brother and made an inward vow never to let Sam win an argument again. He slipped past the man in the first fitting room, who had over-gelled black hair and looked like he enjoyed discussing brands of moisturiser. The shop-assistant was wearing a long-suffering expression as the guy modelled a far-too-tight t-shirt for him.

    “Can I?” Dean nodded towards the second fitting room.

     “Certainly, Sir. Is there anything I can help you with?” A slightly desperate note crept into the shop-assistant’s voice as he leapt at the chance to escape.

     “We’d love some opinions,” Sam jumped in before Dean could say no, “As you can see, neither of us is all that fashionable.”

    “Of course. Now, Cody, why don’t you take what you’ve chosen over to Sally and she’ll ring it up for you,” the shop-assistant suggested to his customer, “I’m sure if you need more help, she’ll be happy to assist you.” He turned to Dean, “Why don’t you try on the first outfit? Is this for a special occasion?”

    Dean took his pile of clothes into the fitting room, Cody’s glare hot on his back.

    Dean grumpily pulled on the shirt and pants at the top of the pile and opened the door to glare at Sam.

     The shop-guy was staring at him. “Oh my,” Dean saw him swallow, “That shirt flatters your shoulders perfectly.

    “Do a twirl, Dean,” Sam instructed, doing a twirling motion with his finger and struggling not to laugh.

     Dean turned in a circle, hissing at Sam through gritted teeth: “These pants are shiny, Sam. I am not wearing shiny pants in front of people.”

      Dean went back into the fitting room and replaced the shiny pants with his own jeans. There was no way on earth he was getting back into the shiny pants, and he wasn’t touching the kilt with a bargepole. He swapped the shirt for the next in the pile.

    “Huh,” said one of the middle-aged men, who was on his way to try something on in the fitting room vacated by moisturiser-guy. “I didn’t know anyone could actually pull that off.”

     Damn right, Dean could pull off pink. It didn’t mean he was willing to wear it in public though.

     The next shirt got a “You know, I think I’ll buy one of those for my husband,” from the only female customer in the store, and a “You should wear flowers more often,” from Sam.

     The one after was a cable knit jumper in mustard yellow that Sam had obviously grabbed from the clearance shelf.

    “No way,” said the guy in the next fitting room, who came out in the same item. “This isn’t fair.”

     By the time Dean had buttoned himself into the final shirt in his pile and opened the door of the fitting room, everyone in the store was gathered around. The original shop-assistant, Sam, the two middle-aged men, the woman shopping for her husband, and Sally from the counter. The only one who wasn’t was moisturiser-guy, who was pretending to browse while sending Dean a death glare from the other side of the store.

   “Wow,” said Sally, “That colour green really makes your eyes pop.”

     Dean grinned at her. She was quite pretty, in a mousy sort of way.

     “You know,” said Sally, “I’m in charge of organising the store’s show for the Mall fashion week, which we have every year, and we’re down a model. Would you be interested in helping us out? You’ll be paid fifty dollars for your time, and receive a four hundred dollar gift voucher for the store.”




     Dean felt ridiculous. He plucked at the collar of the green shirt and waved away the mascara wand the guy next to him was offering.

    “Are you sure?” The dude asked, “Those lights totally wash out your face. If there are any talent scouts in the audience, they’re gonna want to be able to see your eyes. I’m Steve, by the way.”

     Dean froze. “Talent scouts? I thought no-one watched these things.” He was going to kill Sam.

    “Sure. A guy a couple of years ago got picked up by Versace from one of these mall gigs. It’s why I keep coming back even though the pay’s so bad and all the weird stuff keeps happening.”

     “What exactly is the weird stuff?” Dean asked, “Should I be worried?”

      “A couple of guys have disappeared during the show in the last couple of years. The pool of male models in this area is getting pretty small. They were going to have to use Cody Poole again this year until you showed up. He’s the guy who filled in last year when Barry disappeared. You might have seen him around. Black hair, kind of a douche…”

       Dean made a mental note to keep an eye out for moisturiser-guy. He must really want to be discovered badly if he was making people disappear to get a chance at modelling. And Dean had just cut him out.

     “Two minutes, guys,” Sally came in and ushered them over to the curtains. Crap. He wasn’t going to get a chance to sweep for EMF.

     “So did they disappear before or after the show?” Dean asked Steve, calculating in his head how long he had to work out how Cody was doing it.

    “During the first show,” Steve told him, “Off the stage. Like a magician’s trick. Usually they show up a few days later perfectly fine but talking about really weird crap. Except Barry didn’t come back last year. It happened two days ago to the new guy, Jason.” He looked sad for a moment, and then forced himself to smile as the music started.

     Dean watched Steve push through the curtains and stride confidently onto the stage. His heart thundered in his chest as he caught a glimpse of the people gathered to watch the show. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them shaking. This was ridiculous. He was Dean Winchester. He had faced down demons and archangels without a quiver. He wasn’t afraid of a few people looking at him. He breathed slowly and evenly, and hummed a few bars of ‘Nothing Else Matters’. It didn’t help. Sally tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped. He’d missed his cue. He pushed the curtain aside and walked out onto the stage, trying hard not to look at the crowd or think about the speeches he’d been forced to do at school.

    His foot caught on the gap between the two sections when he was halfway down the runway and only his hunter reflexes stopped him stumbling. He looked up, searching the audience for Sam. He found him almost immediately, his brother being about a foot taller than most of the other hundred or so people there. The audience seemed to mostly be teenage girls, despite the fact that this was a menswear show. Sam gave him the thumbs up. Dean glared at him. And then finally, the end of the runway was approaching. Dean took two more steps and turned to walk back to the curtains.

    There was a loud, collective gasp of a hundred simultaneous intakes of breath, and then a silence from the crowd, filled only with the thud of the electronic dance music they had been making Dean walk to. Dean looked down at himself. He looked perfectly normal. He looked around at the crowd. A clamour was growing, confused voices rising above the music. Some people were pointing to the end of the stage where he’d turned. Everyone was shouting, one on top of the other so he couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. Except for Sam. Sam was shouting his name, and there he was, running towards the stage, shoving people out of the way.

    “Sam?” Dean called, waving at his brother to slow down.

     Sam didn’t acknowledge him, squeezing past two teenage girls and leaping onto the stage, which cracked ominously.

     “Sam?” Dean said again, turning and walking back down the stage towards his brother, who was still shouting for him. Sam’s eyes searched desperately, but they slid past Dean every time.

       Crap. Dean waved his arms at his brother. No response. He waved to the crowd. They didn’t see him either. Someone had turned the music off, and two security guards had run up from somewhere and were trying to calm the crowd down. Dean jumped up and down and made faces at the crowd. Nothing.

      He ran over to Sam. “Sam, can you hear me?”

     Sam continued examining the stage. Damn. Invisible and whatever the equivalent was for being heard.

      Dean picked up the nearest lamp, pulling the stand free from the tangle of wires that ran alongside the stage.  He thudded it against the stage. Sam looked up. Awesome.

     He paused and then hit the stage again. One long, two quick. D. A pause and then one short tap. E. Another pause, followed by a quick tap and a long one. A. A final pause, then a long tap and a short one. N. Morse code was hard with the stand, but Sam seemed to be listening. He moved to one of the working lamps and tried to repeat the message with light flashes, but his body wouldn’t block the light and it didn’t work. He went back to thumping. D.E.A.N.

    “Dean?” Sam asked, “Where are you?”

     Dean let go of his stand and reached forward to grab Sam’s arm. Sam jumped, but at least he felt it. Dean spelt his name in jabs on his brother’s arm.

    “Dean? What happened?” Sam allowed Dean to drag him by the arm back through the green curtains. “Do you know what caused it? Did you feel anything?”

    “Sir, you can’t be in here,” Sally told Sam. Dean stepped aside so she wouldn’t walk into him as she rushed about trying to fix things.

    Sam let Dean lead him out of the portable room, out of the mall, and through the parking lot to the car. Dean pulled out his keys, unlocking the Impala’s door, and sat in his seat. Sam didn’t make a similar move.

    “Dude,” Sam said, “I think you’re going to have to let me drive. We’ll get pulled over for sure if it looks like no-one’s driving.”

    Dean made a face at his brother, but handed over the keys, dancing awkwardly with Sam as Sam tried to sit down while Dean was still getting out of the driver’s seat.



     Sam drove them back to the motel, a dive decorated in orange and olive green, and led the way inside, not closing the door until he saw the chair Dean pulled out to sit on move. They opened their laptops, Dean pulling up a word document to write messages in, while Sam researched invisibility on the internet.

I think it’s a spell, Dean wrote. It’s the guy Cody from the store. The guy was helping him before us.

   “Why’s he doing it?” asked Sam, continuing to tap away at his laptop.

He’s nuts.

    “He must have a reason that makes sense to him, though.  What’s he doing, taking out anyone better looking than him?”

That’s me, Dean typed smugly. He just makes them invisible for a few days. They usually come back fine.

Sam’s eyes bugged out. “Usually?”

Keep researching. This is your fault. Modelling never leads anywhere good.

    Sam’s face took on its concentrating look. Dean turned on the TV. Commercials. Commercials. America’s Next Top Model: Men. He turned the TV off. He sat on his chair. He got up and sat on the bed. He got up and opened the fridge. He sat back down in his chair.

I’m bored. I’m going to the health club.

   “Stay out of the women’s showers, you friggin’ perve,” said Sam, not looking up from his computer.

      Dean smirked invisibly at him on his way out the door. If he had to be invisible, he might as well take advantage of it.



     Dean didn’t make it to the women’s health club (it was very poorly signposted), but he did procure a few necessities from the grocery store, and severely freak out multiple people by going for a drive. He also took the opportunity to obtain all fifteen seasons of Dr Sexy MD, thus sparing himself many knowing looks and unwanted assumptions.

     He was eating one of his newly acquired chocolate bars when he opened the door to the motel to find Sam still at his laptop.

      “Is that you, Dean? I think I found something,” Sam looked over at where he thought Dean was. He gazed at the wall approximately three feet to Dean’s left.

Let’s go then. Dean typed.

      Sam drove them to the address he’d found for Cody Poole, stopping briefly on the way to pick up some spell ingredients.  Cody Poole lived in a decent, slightly rundown brick house, with a front lawn that was perfectly trimmed, and new-looking red curtains in the front windows.

      They crept across the grass and peered in the front window. Cody Poole was standing in his living room, admiring himself in the full-length mirror. “That’s fine, Sally,” he was saying, tensing the muscles in his left arm and moving so they were shown to their best advantage in the mirror, “I’m happy to help. You know I’ll always make time to fill in if you need me.”

     “What a dick,” Dean glared at him. He sent Sam a text: Back soon. Don’t let him leave.

      “Wait, where are you going?” Sam hissed, but Dean was already on his way round the back of the house.

      Dean let himself in the back door and explored the house until he found Cody’s bedroom. He didn’t bother to sneak. It wasn’t like the guy could see or hear him. He opened all of the drawers in chest of drawers one by one and sprinkled the itching powder he’d filched from the grocery store in each one, taking extra care with the underwear drawer. He made sure they were all shut, and then walked into the living room, where Cody was still standing at the mirror, admiring himself in the mustard-yellow woollen sweater Dean had tried on at Maxwell Martin’s Modern Menswear. Dean pulled a black permanent marker out of his pocket and wrote on the white-painted wall: BE CAREFUL WHO YOU CAST SPELLS ON DOUCHEBAG. Then he capped the marker and sent a message to Sam. Come in.   

     It was all over pretty quickly after that. Cody Poole wasn’t really a fighter. He was too worried about messing up his hair. Dean darted around the room throwing things at him, distracting him while Sam slammed in through the door and dashed across the living room to the altar in the corner.

    “Stop!” yelled Cody. “You don’t get it! It was my last chance to be a star!” He threw his comb at Sam with surprising accuracy. Dean threw a book at him. “I will end you!” Cody roared, “You’ll wish you’d never been born! Spirits of the earth, I command thee – “

     Dean grabbed him from behind and slapped his hand over the aspiring model’s mouth. “MMMPH!” shouted Cody, and licked Dean’s hand. Dean fought the instinct to let go and vomit, but he held on as Sam smashed up the altar with a hammer, sprinkled herbs over it, and set it on fire.

   Dean let go. Cody kept yelling. “What are you doing, you psychopaths? I wasn’t doing any harm?”

   “No harm?” Dean exclaimed, “You’re turning people invisible! They’re just disappearing, and sometimes not coming back.”

      Clearly, Sam’s counter-spell was working, because Cody heard him.

     “They didn’t want it as bad as me! None of them had the burning passion for stardom I have. They wanted to be invisible.”

      “I didn’t want to be invisible.”

      “Yes you did. You were wishing it the whole time you were up there! People like being invisible. Barry came back and asked me to redo the spell when it wore off. He had debt collectors after him.”

       Dean spluttered. He had kind of liked being invisible. Just for a little while. Not forever. “Well, you can’t just make people invisible without asking. And I hate to break this to you man, but you’re like thirty-five. You’re not going to be discovered. If you’re not a model by now, you never will be.”

      “I’m thirty-two,” Cody glared at him.

      “Come on, Dean.” Sam steered Dean out of the room by the shoulder. At the door, he turned back to Cody. “Witchcraft leads nowhere good. If we catch you at it again, it won’t just be your altar we smash.”

     They left the clean-up for Cody and made their way to the car.

     “It’s good to see you again, Dean,” Sam said, tossing him the keys. “What did we learn from this experience?”

      Dean opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “Modelling is a poor career choice.”

                                                                                           The end.


A/N: Written for Jennytork’s prompt “they go undercover as singers/dancers/models” at SPN_bigpretzel on LJ

Title: The Complex Art of Perfect Toast
Genre/Rating: Gen. G.
Word Count: 968
Summary: Dean and Cas make toast. It's harder than it sounds.

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.

“What’s up?” Dean lifted his head from his pillow and peered across the room to where Cas was standing in the motel’s kitchenette. Just standing there, examining the microwave.

“I’m making breakfast,” Cas replied, without taking his eyes off the microwave.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Whatcha making?”

“Toast.” Cas pressed a button on the microwave. Nothing happened.

“Need some help?” Dean offered, levering himself into a sitting position and rubbing his face in an effort to wake up.

Cas stiffened even more than usual and didn’t turn around. Dean could practically feel him frowning. “I’m not a child, Dean. I can make toast on my own.” He jabbed at the appliance again and the door swung open.

“Whatever, man,” Dean said, flopping back on his bed. He figured he had about twenty minutes before Cas either managed to make toast or blew up the microwave. Either way, it was twenty more minutes of sleep for him. If Cas didn’t want his help, fine. He watched drowsily as Cas flicked the switch to turn the microwave on at the wall, and relented. “The toaster’s in the cupboard under the sink.”

The smell of burning woke him ten minutes later. He sat up, coughing, and waved away the cloud of black smoke drifting through the room. Cas was standing at the open door, shaking the upside-down toaster. Dean watched as two black lumps fell out on the stoop. He got up. Cas usually let him help when something was going this wrong.

“Everything all right?” Dean asked, as Cas stalked across the room to plug the toaster back in, an expression of righteous fury on his face.

“There is something wrong with this toaster.” Cas flicked the switch to turn the toaster on at the wall, examined the toaster closely, and experimentally adjusted the knob on the side. He pulled two pieces of bread from the bag and placed one in each slot. He lowered them, and stared at the toaster, waiting for them to pop.

Dean made his way over to join Cas, watching the toaster apprehensively. Pop! The spring in the toaster was violently released. The toast jumped out, one piece landing on the floor, the other hitting Cas, who was leaning over the toaster, watching, in the face.

Dean laughed, and was rewarded with a glare that would send the fiercest of monsters running to hide behind their mothers’ skirts. He stifled it and bent to pick up the piece from the dirty, food-stained linoleum. It flopped around in his hand. “Maybe put it on for a bit longer. Try it so the knob’s about halfway round.”

Cas looked at him. “I did that, Dean. Why do you think the room is full of smoke?”

“Okay, so between the two settings you already used.”

Cas reset the toaster, replacing the bread, and set it going. They stood in the kitchen and watched. And watched. And watched.

“Do you smell that?” Dean sniffed. A new smell of burning was replacing the one that had drifted out the open door.  A thin tendril of dark smoke was coming from the toaster. “Quick, pop it!”

“How?” Cas asked, peering at the toaster.

Dean followed his gaze. The toaster’s sides were smooth and blank except for the slider for putting the toast down, and the knob for controlling the time the toast stayed down. He frowned, narrowing his eyes at it. Didn’t these things usually have an eject button? He pressed the slider down, hoping it would have a release if you pulled it down a little bit further. It didn’t. He twisted the knob right down to its lowest setting. The tendril of smoke was gathering into a cloud. He flicked the switch at the wall and unplugged it, and was rewarded by the red glow disappearing from the elements in the sides of the toaster.

“Shouldn’t it pop up now?” Cas asked. “It wouldn’t go down until I turned it on at the wall.”

Dean turned it upside down over the sink and shook it, wincing at the heat on his hands. The toast didn’t budge.

They tried getting the toast out with a knife, next. Dean vaguely remembered something about not being meant to do that because it was dangerous, but the thing was unplugged, and anyway, it was that or let it win.

When the knife didn’t work, Cas had the bright idea of shaking the toaster until the toast came free. After an almighty shake, one piece of charred bread leapt out and made friends with Sam’s bed, but the other remained firmly wedged in place. Dean smacked the side hard. Something rattled.

“This seems like a lot of effort to go to for toast,” Cas remarked.

Dean scowled and went to get his tools from the car.


“So, these are the elements,” Dean pointed them out to Cas on the gutted appliance. “One on each side of each piece of toast, and they clearly work fine. We can rule them out as the problem.”

They were sitting opposite each other at the tiny table, the various components of the toaster spread out between them.

“There seems to be some kind of problem with the mechanism for releasing the toast,” Cas said.

Dean pulled it toward him. It was rusty. That was probably the problem. He bent to examine it more closely.

Dean was still looking at it, trying to decide how to fix it when Sam came through the door. “What the hell are you guys doing?” He asked, flopping onto his bed. There was a crunch, then a disgusted noise, and then a piece of toast hit Dean in the back of the head.

“Making toast,” Cas answered for Dean.

“Okay, then,” Sam said, “But the toaster’s busted. I got donuts for breakfast.”

Supernatural Standalones

Title: A Shameful Addiction
Word Count: 687
Rating: PG
Summary: Comment fic written for the prompt: "Sam's too smart and curious for his own good. He HAS to know what the appeal of the Twilight books is. Problem is, he gets sucked in and can't look away. Obviously, he's gonna get busted." by lolaann1 at the spn_bigpretzel "I didn't know you..." meme.

Title: Deputy Morris and the Disappearing Man
Word count: 993
Genre/pairing: Gen
Summary: Written for Big Pretzel's Outsider POV comment fic meme. Prompt: A local cop arrests Dean and is bamboozled when a trenchcoated guy appears in the locked cell with his prisoner.

Title: Desolation in Greenish Eyes
Word count: 2,085
Rating: PG
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Cas (no funny business onscreen though), Sam POV.
Summary: Cas vents his angst through poetry. Then so does everyone else.
Warnings: Monstrously bad poetry.

Title: Efficient Use of Resources
Word Count: 702
Genre: Gen, teen!chesters
Summary: Rule number one for hunters: always use your resources efficiently. Or, Dean cooks dinner. That is all.

Title: Glimpses of Blue
Genre/Rating: Gen or Dean/Cas, G, angst
Summary: Post 7.02 Dean keeps seeing Cas. He's okay. Really.

Title: Help Me
Word count: 2,909
Rating: PG
Genre/Pairing: Gen
Summary: Dean is cursed with helpfulness. For cursed!week on spn_bigpretzel

Title: Honey Heals All
Length: 1,144 words
Genre/Pairing: Gen
Summary: Written for Spn big pretzel Outsider POV comment fic meme. Prompt: Nurse *Insert Name Here* is trying to track down next of kin of the hottie in bed number 2 after an extremely busy night in the ER.
Who would blame her for stabbing the moron in the trenchcoat who snuck up behind her and started talking about Bees?

Title: Maxwell Martin's Modern Menswear
Genre/Pairing: gen
Length: 3,497
Summary: Dean goes undercover as a model. Written for a prompt at SPN_Bigpretzel.

Title: Playing Fetch
Genre/Pairing: Slight Dean/Lisa, pretty much gen
Length: 1,347
Summary: Every summer solstice, Dean is cursed into dog-form for three days. Usually, Sam looks after him, but this year, Sam's gone and the task falls to Lisa. Lisa POV. For a prompt at hoodie time.

Title: The All-Conquering Spell of the Fuzzy Baby Sheep
Genre/Rating: Gen, G
Length: 814
Summary: Nobody is immune to the lambie effect. Not even Dean.

Days of Dean's Life Series

Title:  Days of Dean's Life
Genre: Gen
Word Count: 899
Summary: "So you're going with 'a shapeshifter stole my face and used it to pursue a career in daytime television'?"

Title: Help Me
Word count: 2,909
Rating: PG
Genre/Pairing: Gen
Summary: Dean is cursed with helpfulness. For cursed!week on spn_bigpretzel

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural.

“So I talked to the guy who stabbed Sarah Jane Parker. He said he just lost it and stabbed her for no… Dean, where are you going?” Sam stared after his brother, who for some reason had stopped listening and was walking off through the parking lot. Huh. Maybe he’d seen something. Sam followed him.

A tiny, middle aged woman was struggling to lift a set of drawers into her little red hatchback. “Want some help with that?” Dean offered.

The woman looked up in delighted surprise. “Oh, thank you. You know the store wouldn’t even send someone out to help.”

Dean gave her a dazzling smile and grabbed one end of the dresser. Sam took the other end, helping Dean lift it and position it so it wouldn’t fall over.

Well, that was nice, he thought as they watched the little woman drive away with her drawers. Kind of unusually thoughtful of Dean. But nice. Sometimes it felt good to help with something small.

“What were you saying?” Dean asked as they started driving back to the motel on the outskirts of town.

“Matthew Fife, the guy who stabbed the first victim, said he just lost it for no reason and stabbed her. He was really upset about it, said she hadn’t done anything wrong and was just being nice, but it was so annoying that he stabbed her.”

“There’s definitely something weird going on here,” Dean agreed. “The second victim’s wife was pretty freaked, but she said all the guy did was offer to mow the neighbour’s lawn for him and the neighbour lost it and bashed his head in with a garden gnome.”

This case was weird. Sam couldn’t wait to get back to the motel and have a shower before a long night of research. But it was no to be. Dean was pulling the car over.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I think they’ve got a flat,” Dean told him, gesturing to an old blue station wagon that was pulled up in front of them. “This’ll take five minutes.”


After Dean changed the tyre, the trip back to the motel was uneventful. Sam watched his brother. This was good. Maybe he’d finally got through to Dean about being more considerate. Now if only he could get through to him about the importance of diet.

Dean’s new thoughtfulness lasted even after the door of the motel was shut. He let Sam have the first shower, and brought him his towel when he realised he’d forgotten it. He actually helped with the research, rather than pacing annoyingly around the room, whining about wanting to do something, or sitting on his bed watching something with lots of explosions in it, with the volume way up.

They decided to take a break after a couple of hours of research got them no further. There had just been the three murders in town following the pattern. No previous murders in the area showed the same M.O., although there had been a series of similar murders in Alabama in the sixties. Dean had discovered that, and Sam couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed that Dean had more to show for his research than he did.

Sam closed his browser and pulled up solitaire. He’d just have a nice, relaxing game before bed.

Ten minutes later he was staring at the screen, working out his next move. He’d used up all his uses of the card pile at the top, and needed a way to access the cards face down under his columns.

“Why don’t you just move the eight of hearts onto the nine of spades?” Dean suggested over Sam’s shoulder, pointing at the screen.

Sam glared at him. Everyone knew you were supposed to help when someone was playing solitaire. Especially when it was really obvious.


Sam started to think that maybe something was really wrong the next morning, when he buttoned his shirt wrong and Dean came over and re-did it for him.

“Dude, are you feeling okay?” Sam examined his brother. Dean looked fine. Happy, even. He shrugged it off. Dean did weird things sometimes. They had more important things to worry about.

The waitress at the diner they went to for breakfast was rushed off her feet. Someone hadn’t turned up, and they were short-staffed. Sam resigned himself to a long wait, and pulled out his case notes to discuss them while they were waiting. Dean tapped his fingers on the plastic table and jiggled against the red vinyl cushions of the booth.

“Are you listening to me?” Sam asked in annoyance, but Dean was distracted. The happy smile that had been all over his face after helping Sam with his buttons was gone, replaced by a tense, twitchy expression. He kept glancing at the waitress. “Dude, the food’s not going to be that long.”

But Dean was getting up, going over to talk to the waitress. Sam groaned. And then, to his surprise, the waitress’s face was lighting up, and she was handing Dean her coffee pot and a pad and pencil.

“What a helpful man your friend is,” The waitress beamed at Sam as she handed over his oatmeal.

Sam looked over at his brother, who was filling up a trucker’s coffee up and writing down his order. Helpful was right. Too helpful. Not that Dean wasn’t a helpful person. It was just that Dean’s helping usually involved more killing things and less offering to wait tables for free. Something wasn’t right, here.


When they finally left the diner, an hour and a half later than planned, Dean’s smile was back in full force. It disappeared two feet out the door, when they saw the homeless guy. Dean disappeared back into the diner and came out with bacon and eggs on toast for him, and his smile back in place.

They stopped again, two cars down from the Impala in the parking lot, to help a nice Chinese couple who were examining a map confusedly. They didn’t speak much English, and neither Sam nor Dean spoke any Chinese, but after much gesturing and pointing, Dean eventually managed to direct them to the interstate. The tourists smiled their thanks and shook the brothers’ hands, and Dean’s shoulders relaxed again.

On the street where the witness to the third murder lived, a small, fluffy white dog was wandering the street. Dean stopped the car and carried it back to the address on its collar. He disappeared inside the house with the distressed-looking owner. Half an hour later, he still hadn’t come out, and Sam went to investigate.

The woman who answered Sam’s knock left the chain on and peered at Sam suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I’m, uh, looking for my brother,” Sam replied, hoping that Dean hadn’t told some complicated lie to get in.

“Oh,” the woman unhooked the chain and opened the door, looking up at Sam. The fluffy white dog snuffled at his feet. “Can you get him to leave?” She hissed.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

She beckoned him in, and he followed her down the hallway. He could hear clanging and the sound of running water, and Dean swearing quietly. She pointed into the room the noise was coming from. Sam looked. The bottom three-quarters of Dean’s body was visible, lying in a growing puddle of water on the pale blue tile of the bathroom floor. His head and shoulders were in the cabinet under the basin, where he was banging away at the pipes.

“Dean?” Sam ventured. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Sammy. I just have to finish helping this lady. Her pipes are broken. Shit!” There was a gush of water, followed by the sound of Dean spluttering. “Maybe I should’ve turned off the water.”

The lady in question was looking at Sam desperately. “I was just going to call a plumber, but he barged in here and won’t leave. Please make him leave.”

“Dean, she doesn’t need your help, you’re making it worse,” Sam said firmly, “We need to go.”

“It was flooding her bathroom, and Ralphie escaped.” Dean said, because in his mind that qualified as a good reason for coming into this poor woman’s home uninvited and refusing to leave.

“Maybe you could help her by calling the plumber?” Sam suggested, but apparently Dean needed to be more hands-on in his approach to helping her, because he ignored Sam and reached for the wrench.

“If you don’t leave in two minutes, I’m calling the police,” Ralphie’s owner announced, picking the dog up and holding him tightly.

“Come on, man. You don’t have to do this,” Sam said persuasively. They really didn’t need cops sniffing around them right now. Not when they had an investigation to finish. An investigation they were getting way behind on.

Then miraculously, the water stopped gushing out all over the floor. Dean emerged from the cabinet, soaking wet, but with a satisfied expression on his face. “Fixed,” he announced. “Should I clean this up?”

“No!” Ralphie’s owner practically shoved them out of her house. Sam heard the snap of the dead bolt behind them, and what sounded like a chair being shoved up to the door. She was making sure they couldn’t get back in.

“We should probably interview that witness now, huh,” Dean said cheerfully as he squelched down the garden path, leaving a trail of drips behind him. “Wait –“ he held up a hand for Sam to stop. Sam stopped in his tracks as Dean knelt in front of him and retied the shoelace that had come loose on Sam’s shoe.

“You know what, let’s do that this afternoon instead,” Sam said as casually as possible. “Maybe we should go back to the motel now.”


It took them nearly four hours to get back to the motel. Dean helped two old ladies across the road, helped a guy in a wheelchair with his grocery shopping, weeded someone’s garden, untangled a kid’s kite from a tree, and spent twenty minutes talking to an old man on his porch, who was lonely and needed someone to talk to. He also had the police called on him when he went into someone’s house to help a ten year old boy with his math homework. Sam had to wrestle him out before the cops came (“But he’s crying, Sam! I know a really easy way to do long division.”).

Sam finally managed to get hold of the car keys after that, and he really thought they might make it back to the room with no more trouble. Dean freaked when they passed a young mother struggling to control several children, and again when they passed a kid who’d lost his balloon. He tried to get out of the moving car to help when he saw a teenage girl walking along the street, crying. Sam refused to stop. He felt bad for these people, he really did. But that didn’t mean you had to help everyone. For one thing, you’d run out of time. For another, half of them didn’t want help.

On the way from the Impala to the motel room, they met a woman in her late twenties. She was tall and thin, with mousy hair and glasses. She wore a loose shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck, practical jeans, and sensible shoes.

Dean offered her his best smile. “Hi, I’m Dean.”

She looked at him like she wasn’t used to being spoken to. “Hi. I’m Charlotte.”

“Well, Charlotte, what’s a beautiful woman like you doing in a motel like this?” Dean asked her, catching her eye.

Sam groaned. Oh no. Dean was putting the moves on her.

Charlotte looked disconcerted and mumbled something Sam couldn’t catch.

“Why don’t you come to my room for coffee, and then…” Dean trailed off suggestively, running his eyes up and down her body.

“No thanks,” Charlotte said, and went to move on.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Sam interrupted, grabbing his brother’s arm and attempting to drag his brother in the direction of the room. “Come on, Dean.”

“Wait,” Dean tapped Charlotte on the shoulder and she turned automatically to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “It’s just you seem really sexually frustrated and I want to help.”

The slap she gave him echoed down the street.

Sam finally managed to drag him into the motel room and lock the door.

“There’s something weird going on, man,” Dean said. “I would never normally act on that impulse.”


The problem with locking Dean up in the motel room, Sam soon discovered, was that the only person available for Dean to help was Sam. And so he helped him and he helped him and he helped him.

He tried to help Sam research by looking up instances of altruism on the internet, but Sam had to shut that down, in case it gave him ideas. So he filled the void by looking over Sam’s shoulder and suggesting ‘better’ keywords for his searches and pointing out typos in Sam’s notes, and offering to type for him so his fingers wouldn’t get tired. He made Sam cups of coffee, and toast cut into soldiers. He washed all of Sam’s clothes in the sink in the bathroom, and then ‘helped’ by going through and throwing out the ones he didn’t like, including Sam’s favourite yellow and green plaid. He made dinner with the ingredients Sam had purchased while Dean was helping the guy in the wheelchair, and proceeded to cut it up for Sam. After dinner, while Sam was trying to concentrate on figuring out what or who Dean might have come into contact with that would cause a helpfulness curse, Dean cleaned Sam’s gun for him, and then found Sam’s book of crosswords and filled in all the blanks that Sam was going to go back to after he’d had time to think. When Sam had his shower, Dean wouldn’t shut up until Sam let him scrub the places he couldn’t reach and Dear God, Sam was never thinking about that again.

When Dean was finally asleep, Sam congratulated himself for not yelling at his brother too much. He’d come to the conclusion that whatever was affecting Dean must be what had caused the earlier murders. He could totally understand murdering someone if they kept trying to help you and you didn’t need it, or if someone misinterpreted someone’s attempt to help, like the math kid’s parents had. It probably wasn’t a cursed object, because the three victims and Dean had never come into contact with the same object. It must be a witch, and Dean must have met that witch while he was interviewing the second victim’s wife.

When Sam woke up, Dean had laid out his clothes for him, made his coffee and made him breakfast. It was a boiled egg and toast. The toast was cut into soldiers again, like it always had been when Sam was little. Dean helped him make his bed, and tied his shoelaces for him, like it was completely normal.

“Who did you talk to when you were interviewing the wife?” Sam asked.

“Just the wife. She gave me cookies.” Dean’s eyes glazed over momentarily. “Man, those were good cookies.” His eyes cleared and he looked closely at Sam’s head. “You should get a haircut, man. It must be hard to see with it in your eyes all the time.”

Sam made a mental note to hide the scissors. The last thing he wanted Dean to do was cut his hair. Dean might think he was helping Sam by making sure he could always see the monsters coming, but Sam liked his hair. There was no way he was letting Dean hack it off.

“What kind of cookies?”

“I dunno. They were kind of different to any I’ve had before. So nice, though, man. You have to taste one.”



Sam kept a close eye on his brother as he drove them back across town to see the second victim’s wife.

She confessed immediately, wailing that she hadn’t realised what was happening, and only figured it out when she saw that the third victim had eaten her cookies at a shared lunch. “It’s my Grandmother’s recipe! I only wanted people to be a bit more helpful. People think they should help, and then they don’t follow through. The cookies were just meant to help people act on those impulses! But I guess they just affect some people more than others, and now…” she sobbed, “Now Clive is dead and I don’t know what to do.”

Dean stopped doing her dishes and gave her a hug.

Sam just tried to look sympathetic but stern. “When does it wear off?”

“My kids stopped volunteering to do chores after three days,” she sobbed into Dean’s shoulder.

Great. Two more days of either being locked in the motel room and having Dean cut up his food for him, or being out on the street trying to stop Dean throwing himself in front of buses to save children (although to be fair, Dean did that anyway) and horribly offending the majority of people he interacted with (Dean did that anyway too).

Sam sighed. He supposed he might as well let Dean out. Maybe if Sam went along on his ‘helping’ missions, people wouldn’t be so freaked out.

Title: Efficient Use of Resources
Word Count: 702
Genre: Gen, teen!chesters
Summary: Rule number one for hunters: always use your resources efficiently. Or, Dean cooks dinner. That is all.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.

Dean snapped out of his daydream, his mouth watering. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to use the new skills he’d picked up in Home Ec to make dinner for himself and Sammy. He’d only taken the class because the only other one with slots available was Drama, and anything was better than that, but it was actually turning out pretty good. Homemade food every lesson. The reward was worth the embarrassment of taking Home Ec.

He opened his notebook to the smudged and food stained page with the recipe on it, and propped it up on the dirty windowsill. Macaroni Cheese, from scratch. You couldn’t get much better than that. And the best bit was there were hardly any ingredients. He could just make it with what was in the cupboard, which was a definite plus considering how much money they had left, and it would be ready by the time Sam was finished geek-club.

He turned the oven on to pre-heat, and checked the ingredient list. Okay, a bag of macaroni. He checked the cupboard. Well, there was half a bag of spaghetti. That would do. But that probably wouldn’t be enough, especially if they wanted leftovers. He checked the next cupboard over. Jackpot! Three small potatoes, starting to sprout. He washed them and peeled them, cutting them small. They would work fine. After all, potatoes and pasta were essentially the same thing, if you came right down to it. The potatoes would probably take longer than the pasta, but he figured if he baked the crap out of them for a couple of hours, it would work out in the end. He put them all in a pot of boiling water, and turned his attention to the next section of the recipe.

1 onion

3 Tbsp butter

1/3 C flour

½ tsp mustard powder

2 C milk

2 C grated cheese


He opened the fridge. To his surprise, half an onion sat on the top shelf, just waiting to be used. The cut side was kind of strange and wrinkly, but that could always be cut off. There was butter there too – Dad liked it on his sandwiches, so they almost never went without. He shook the milk container. Damn, that wasn’t two cups. Oh well, he could always top it up with water. He opened the container and sniffed cautiously. Maybe not ideal, but still usable. He grabbed the stump of cheese and four slices of processed cheddar, adding them to his pile.

 It wasn’t even worth looking for mustard powder or flour. What the hell kind of people had those lying around? The flour was just for thickening anyway. There was an egg in the fridge. That would probably work. It needed using anyway. Now, what could he use for flavour in place of the mustard and the second cup of cheese?

After much searching, he came up with a wilted floret of broccoli (he could put that in Sam’s bit), two slices of ham, and a small jar of chilli powder that he found in his Dad’s hunting supplies. He shrugged. Might as well put them in.

He rescued the pasta and potatoes from boiling over and drained them, emptying the pot into a casserole dish left behind by the previous occupant of the house. He dumped the butter and onions into the pot and set to work making the sauce.


An hour and a half later, Dean pulled the meal from the oven. It was a bit blackened on top, but it smelled awesome. Even better than the one they had made in class.

Sam wandered in, fresh from putting his bag away after drama club, and wrinkled his nose, peering into the dish as Dean placed it on the table. “What. Is. That?”

Dean dished it out onto two plates. “Macaroni Cheese.” He took a big bite, sighing with pleasure.

Sam looked at it, prodding it with his fork. “I’ll pass.”

Dean shrugged. “Whatever,” he said through a mouthful of the most delicious macaroni cheese ever made. If Sam didn’t recognise a masterpiece, that was Sam’s problem. All it meant was more for Dean. He could live with that.

Title: Honey Heals All
Length: 1,144 words
Genre/Pairing: Gen
Summary: Written for Spn big pretzel Outsider POV comment fic meme. Prompt: Nurse *Insert Name Here* is trying to track down next of kin of the hottie in bed number 2 after an extremely busy night in the ER.
Who would blame her for stabbing the moron in the trenchcoat who snuck up behind her and started talking about Bees?

Disclaimer: SPN is not mine.

The John Doe in bed 2 was stirring. He blinked sleepily, his long eyelashes making shadows on his cheeks. “Mmummph,” he said, the anaesthetic still affecting his speech.

    Sophie was at his side quickly. She did all the regulation checks, speaking to him the whole time. Introducing herself. Asking in a soothing voice how he was feeling. Nobody should have to wake up from surgery alone.

   “Do you remember your name?” She asked him. “No, don’t try to sit up.”

   “D – I, uh, don’t know,” he said slowly, the slur of the drug still in his voice. He paid no attention to her instructions to lie still, weakly propping himself up on his elbows. He blinked at her confusedly. His eyes were big and green, standing out against the pale skin of his face. He was a very handsome man, even in a hospital gown.

  “What year is it?” She asked, placing her hand on his shoulder and easing him back down in the bed. She put her clipboard down on the stand beside the bed, but held onto her pen, clicking it in a nervous habit she’d been trying hard to get rid of.

  “You’re pretty,” he didn’t answer her question, instead staring up at her face through his lashes. 

   She ignored the little skip her heart gave, and asked, “Do you have anyone I can call?”

  “Is S- is my brother here? He’s big.”  The man gestured with his hands, like a fisherman telling a story.

   Sophie hoped it was just the pain medication affecting him. He was on a high dose, and people had different reactions to it. If his memory and thought processes hadn’t become clearer in a few minutes, she would call the doctor. “I’m sorry, he’s not here,” she told him.

   “Oh.” His face fell. Then he brightened again. “He’ll find me soon. My brother’s real smart,” he assured her. “You’re pretty.”

   Sophie smiled at him, pretending her heart wasn’t breaking a little. She’d gone through the contacts on his phone while he was in surgery, searching for his next of kin. This number is not in service. This number is not in service.

   She caught his hand as he reached up to touch her face.

   “Hello Dean.”

    Sophie jumped at the gruff voice coming from immediately behind her left shoulder. Her heart leapt into her throat. Before she could stop herself, her survival instincts took over and she swung around, jabbing out with the pen that she still held. Who could blame her, really? What kind of person snuck up behind someone who was concentrating? Especially at night! Okay, the lights were on, so it wasn’t like it was actually dark, but still. And who could sneak up like that without making any noise? Serial killers, that’s who. Serial killers and ghosts.

   The pen stabbed hard at his chest. There was a crack as the plastic outer of the ballpoint broke in half, the spring pinging the pens innards across the room. The man didn’t flinch. He was wearing a trenchcoat that screamed ‘homeless person’, and simply looked at her curiously as she backed away.

   “Hello,” he said, smiling widely at her. “I’ve come to heal Dean and take him to my garden to watch the bees.”

     Sophie looked closely at him, taking in the wide blue eyes and the perfectly clean white scrubs he wore under the dirty trenchcoat. Oh. That explained it. “Oh, I am so sorry, I didn’t realise… I hope I didn’t hurt you. Why don’t I call someone to help you back to your room?”

    “Do you like bees?” The man asked, appearing intensely interested in her answer. He didn’t seem violent, which meant he probably hadn’t escaped the secure ward, but had simply wandered up from the floor below. “Have you considered placing beehives in the courtyard? Honey has excellent healing properties.”

    “Sir, what room are you meant to be in?”

    There was a bee on the shoulder of his trenchcoat. Sophie watched in horrified fascination as it crawled across his collar and onto his neck. She’d never liked bees. All buzzy and stingy.

    “I have to take Dean to see my bees,” the man insisted. “Bees are very relaxing. They dance to show the path to the flowers.”

     Sophie glanced back down at the man in the bed. It would do him no good to be disturbed this soon after surgery. To her surprise he was grinning goofily, as though the exchange between nurse and intruder was the most entertaining thing he had seen for a long time. “Cas!” he cried, sounding overjoyed as he tried to sit up. “Cas is my best friend,” he told Sophie confidingly. “He’s a – a multidimensshi… dimensional wavelength… form… thingy…”

   Sophie decided it was probably time to call the doctor. Possibly for herself.

  “Do you mean it, Dean? Will you be my friend again?” The man in the trenchcoat, who may or may not have been called Cas, peered around Sophie at the man in the bed. Sophie stepped across to stand between her patient and the escapee from the psychiatric ward. He might seem harmless, but she couldn’t have him fiddling with any of the equipment surrounding ‘Dean’. A lot of damage could be done by someone with good intentions but no education.

  “I missed you when you were dead, Cas,” Sophie’s patient said seriously, “Did you know you have a bee on your neck?”

   Sophie paged the doctor. When he arrived she was going to recommend a psych consult.

   The man in the trenchcoat stepped around Sophie. “I brought you a peace offering, Dean. I don’t like to fight.”

  “Is it food?”

   The psychiatric patient reached into his pocket, which Sophie noticed with a sudden rush of trepidation was moving slightly. He pulled out something small, wriggly and fluffy. It was tortoiseshell and super-cute and definitely should not be on the bed of a man recently out of surgery. What was the doctor going to say when he saw she’d let in a mental patient with a kitten? Where had he even got it from? She took deep breaths.

   “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to take the kitten out of here.”

    Neither man acknowledged her. The kitten was snuffling Dean’s chin. Sophie had to fight the urge to jump up and down and squeal at the cuteness, reminding herself that kittens of unknown origin and recently operated on patients were not a good mix.

    “I’ve got nowhere to keep a kitten, Cas,” Dean was protesting, not very convincingly.

    “She can stay in my garden. Sam is already there. Hold on to her.”

    Sophie was never sure what happened next. She blinked and they were all gone. Two men, a bee and a kitten. Vanished into thin air.

    By that afternoon she was starting to wonder if reality truly existed.

Title: Glimpses of Blue
Genre/Rating: Gen or Dean/Cas, G, angst
Summary: Post 7.02 Dean keeps seeing Cas. He's okay. Really.
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Supernatural.

Dean sees Cas in a crowd on a sidewalk. There’s a flash of a tan trench coat, and Dean nearly calls out to him before he remembers Cas is gone.

There’s a girl with blue eyes and no sense of personal space at a diner in North Dakota, and Dean’s heart leaps. It’s Cas, he thinks. Cas has come back in a new vessel. Then her friend calls to her and she steps around him. He looks after her, sees her laughing freely with her friends. She’s not Cas.

A guy with windswept dark hair is standing on the roadside, staring at his cellphone like it’s deliberately confusing him, just to piss him off. Dean helps him get into his voicemail, but he's not Cas.

They go past a park with two benches angled slightly towards each other, with a view of the playground. Dean almost goes and sits down, but he doesn’t.

Sam stops the car at a glass-smooth lake, and goes to sit at the end of the jetty to eat lunch. Dean lies in the back of the Impala. He’s not hungry.

A bird hops along after him as he walks. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s small and brown and it sits on his boot and cocks its head to the side, looking at him. Dean watches it. Then it flies off to peck at the crumbs of someone’s lunch, and he knows it wasn’t Cas.

He sees a reflection of Cas in a store window, catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn fast enough and Cas is gone before he can grab hold of him.

Dean sees Cas in his rumpled suit, ill-fitting and strange without his coat. He grabs his arm and drags him into the alleyway. Shoves him up against the wall, ready to yell at him for leaving (beg him never to do it again). The guy looks at him, terrified, and says he’s calling the cops. Now that Dean can see him properly, he’s nothing like Cas at all.

Dean’s laughing. He throws his arm across Cas’s shoulders, and Cas smiles the little smile he does when he doesn’t get the joke but he’s happy to see Dean smile. Then he twists out from under Dean’s arm and walks out into the lake.

Sam tosses him dinner. “You okay man?”

Dean nods. Clenches his jaw. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t eat the burger. He’s okay. Really. He’s just not that hungry tonight.
Title: Desolation in Greenish Eyes
Word count: 2,085
Rating: PG
Genre/Pairing: Dean/Cas (no funny business onscreen though), Sam POV.
Summary: Cas vents his angst through poetry. Then so does everyone else.
Warnings: Monstrously bad poetry.

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural.

“What’s up, Cas?” Sam looked up in surprise. It wasn’t all that often that Cas approached him for conversation. Sure they’d been living in the same car for a few months, but it was still usually Dean that Cas sought out to talk to. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other. It was just that since the whole crazy-false-God-stabbing incident, they’d been a little awkward around each other. Not to mention that since purgatory, Dean and Cas had been closer than ever, albeit in a more violent, watching each other’s back, pulling knives at sudden movements kind of way. So for Cas to take a break from keeping a lookout while Dean ate his lunch, this must be vitally important.

“Sam,” Castiel said, stepping forward to stand uncomfortably close to Sam, and maintaining eye contact to properly convey the vital importance of what he was about to say. “What is another word for ‘extreme emotional pain’?”

Sam took a step back and blinked. “Uh, I dunno. Despair? Desolation? Anguish? Um, why?”

“Thank you, Sam,” the angel said seriously, and left to return to his position fending off rogue ducks and improperly controlled children while Dean finished his lunch.

Sam shrugged it off and carried on feeding the ducks.

He thought nothing more of it until two days later, as they were on the road to their next hunt. Dean was driving, staring at the road ahead apprehensively, while Sam was sitting in the passenger seat, passing the time by reciting the opening chapter of the first Harry Potter book in his head. Cas was in the backseat, writing in his notebook. Wait, since when did Cas have a notebook?

“Hey Cas,” Sam broke the silence, “What are you writing?”

Cas looked up and frowned at him. “Nothing of import,” he said firmly, which was Cas-speak for “Mind your own business, you nosy bitch.”

Sam sighed and turned back to face the front. Nobody ever wanted to tell him anything anymore.

But then Castiel’s pen paused in its movements, and he said distractedly, “What colour would you say Dean’s eyes are?”

Sam paused to think about it. He would have thought Cas was more of an expert on his brother’s eyes than he was. He sure spent enough time gazing into them. “Greenish?” He ventured.

“They’re hazel,” Dean growled, like he thought hazel was more manly than green, or something, “and I’m sitting right here, dude. Why do you need to know my eye colour?”

But Cas had gone back to scribbling in his little book, and didn’t reply.

At the motel that night, Sam surfed the web for news articles relating to the headless corpse that had been spotted in town, Dean sat with his back to the wall and cleaned his gun, and Cas sat on his bed and violently crossed out everything he’d written that day.

“What are you writing in that thing, anyway?” Dean asked, like Cas would tell him even though he’d flat out refused to tell Sam earlier in the day. Actually, that was a real possibility. Sam didn’t know what Dean and Cas talked about when he wasn’t around, but he was willing to bet there were a lot more eyes brimming with tears than when he was around.

“You should go to sleep, Dean,” Cas suggested sternly. “I’ll watch… keep watch.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Dean snapped the clip into his clean gun and placed it on the bedside table where it would be easy to reach in the night. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

Cas watched him closely, and then said to Sam: “Can you think of another word for exhausted?”

“Are you doing crosswords?” Sam asked. He got no reply, but went to sleep that night listing all the synonyms for exhausted in his head. Tired. Worn out. Used up. Beat.

He woke in the middle of the night to a dark room. The familiar shape of his brother was missing from the next bed. It took him a moment of sharp worry for his eyes to adjust and catch the shadows of Dean and Cas, sitting up, leaning against the base of Dean’s bed. They were talking quietly.

Sam strained his ears. Everyone always said not to eavesdrop, but the people who made that rule obviously didn’t have brothers like Dean, or friends who carried around mysterious notebooks and might be writing about you in their diary. Although to be honest, if Cas was writing about anybody in his secret diary, it was almost certainly Dean.

“Can I read it?” Dean asked.

“I don’t think you’ll like it,” Cas said dubiously.

“Why do you say that? I do read, you know.”

“It’s private,” Cas insisted. “I only write to express myself. It’s not for publication.”

Dean snorted. “Oh, so you get to read my mind for four years, but I don’t get to read your emo poetry? How is that fair?”

Oh wow. Sam had to get his hands on that book. He could practically see the see the title page, with its perfect script reading “Poems about Dean”.

  “Can I ask why you’ve suddenly taken up poetry?” Dean asked.

“I’ve been reliably informed that creative writing is a good method of purging unwanted negative feelings.”

“Does it work?” Okay, this must be a dream. Sometimes it was hard to tell, but if this conversation finished with Dean deciding to take up poetry, that would be absolutely conclusive proof that this was a dream.

“No,” said Cas.



The next morning, while Dean was in the shower, Cas asked Sam if he could think of a metaphor for running for your life. Sam couldn’t think of one, because running from monsters wasn’t really a situation that leant itself to metaphors (in fact, it usually was the metaphor), and anyway, Sam hadn’t written any poetry for since college. Well, okay there was a bit after Jess died, written in the night while Dean slept, and then a bit more after Dad died, and that one free-form verse that was more like an art piece than anything, that time that his purple shirt with the dog on it had ripped all down the front and he’d had to throw it out.

“Can I see what you’ve got so far?” Sam asked, but Cas wasn’t listening, because Dean had just come out of the bathroom, still damp from the shower.

“Can you think of a more poetic word for ‘slightly wet’?” Cas asked later, as they were on the way to meet up with the support group for the people who had seen the headless corpse.

Sam couldn’t concentrate on his interview because he was too busy trying not to imagine what Cas’s poem said.




“Why can’t I read it?” Dean whined. “I won’t laugh, I swear.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Cas. “Eat your dinner.”

Sam frowned at Dean. He could guess why Cas didn’t want Dean to read it. “Why do you want to read it so badly, Dean? You don’t even like poetry.”

Dean ate his burger sulkily. “Why don’t you want me to see it?”

Cas ignored him and crossed something out in his notebook, replacing it with a different word.

It made Sam think. That notebook seemed like a good way of avoiding unwanted conversation, and Cas was right about poetry being a good way of getting feelings out. He could do with that these days. He could remember the time just after college, when he was away from home for the first time, self-righteous but lonely, free but angry, confused and scared but in control of himself. Pouring the feelings out onto smooth, blue-lined refill had released space inside him to let in happiness and romance and learning. He wondered what had happened to the shoe-boxes filled with writing that he’d left in the bedroom of his burned apartment.

When they returned to the motel in the early hours of the following morning, having secured the headless corpse back into its grave with silver spikes, Sam found he was too wound up to sleep. He pulled out the spare notebook he kept in the side pocket of his duffel, and began to write.


“Seriously, what the hell is going on here?” Dean’s voice broke Sam’s concentration, light flooding the room as Dean pulled up the blind. “Is this some kind of curse? Why is everyone writing poetry all of a sudden?”

Sam shaded his eyes against the sun and put his pen down, looking up at his brother. “It’s very cathartic, Dean. You should try it.”

Dean just looked at him.

“Can I read yours?” Cas asked. “I am becoming frustrated with mine, and you are clearly an experienced poet.”

Sam hesitated for a moment. On the one hand, if Cas read it, Dean would definitely find out what it said. On the other hand, he could make a deal. “I’ll let you read mine if I can read yours.”

Cas was nodding, pulling out the notebook.

“Wait,” said Dean.



Dean must have really wanted to read Cas’s poem. Like, really, really badly. There was no other way to account for what happened next. Unless it really was a curse and Dean had just held out longest because he had the most prejudice about poetry writing.

“There, finished,” announced Dean with a flourish, placing his pen down. “Now, Sam first.”

“Uh uh,” Sam shook his head. “You first.”

Dean shoved his paper across the table. It was torn from the middle of Sam’s notebook. On it was written:

There’s a tree outside

It’s green, I think

There’s a monster in it



Okay, so it wasn’t great. Or very long. But it was headed in the right direction, and considering Dean’s abhorrence for a) poetry and b) talking about feelings, it was a good effort. There seemed to be at least some attempt at honesty, which was what Sam had been looking for when he’d made the deal.

“Your turn,” said Dean, flipping the paper over without waiting for anyone to say anything.

Sam opened his notebook, creasing the page so it would stay open on the table. He ignored the slight nervous flutter that reminded him of English class at high school, when teachers had made people read out their work. He hadn’t had time to perfect the poem yet, so if Dean and Cas thought it was awful, at least he could console himself with the fact it was only a rough draft.

No escape.

He’s always there,

Forked tongue and pleasantries

Fire and tricks of light

Suddenly empty

Everyone’s gone

When they come back, I don’t know them

I’m lost

I miss my dog

Pungent odor

Pleading eyes

Wet hair on my jeans

I want to go for a walk


Sam looked at the others. Cas looked approving. “This is very much in the style of the examples given in the article.”

Dean just looked confused. He brightened. “Cas’s turn!”

Cas looked reluctant. “Dean. You should know that this poem is not about you.”

“Why would I think it was about me?” Dean asked. “Come on, let’s see it.”

Cas opened his notebook and placed it on the table in front of Sam, so that Dean had to get up and look over Sam’s shoulder to read it.


Desolation in Greenish Eyes


Anguish fills him

I can see it

But green eyes don’t brim

With tears

Nor tiredness overtake

He runs forever

He lies awake

And again I’m falling

I did it all for him

He is enthralling

And sometimes, when he’s slightly wet

I’m happy that I did

Because the sight makes me forget

I fell, and all I want to do

Is take away the sorrow

That haunts those greenish eyes

So he’ll be happy tomorrow


There was a moment of silence. Sam fought back the unbecoming feeling of satisfaction that at least his poem was less embarrassing than Castiel’s. Then he thought that maybe he should leave, so Dean and Cas could talk about Cas’s insane stalker crush on Dean.


“I’m just gonna, um, go outside now,” he said. Nobody seemed to hear him.

He took his notebook and pen and made his way outside. The last thing he heard as he stepped out the door was Dean’s voice, saying, “Are you sure it’s not about me, Cas?”

And Castiel’s voice replying, “Dean, I have a confession to make.”

Sam shut the door and smiled. 

Title: Deputy Morris and the Disappearing Man
Word count: 993
Genre/pairing: Gen
Summary: Written for Big Pretzel's Outsider POV comment fic meme. Prompt: A local cop arrests Dean and is bamboozled when a trenchcoated guy appears in the locked cell with his prisoner.

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural. Not for Profit.

  Deputy Morris polished his badge on his sleeve. It was only his second day on the job, and already the Sheriff trusted him to guard the most dangerous man ever to be held in the cells of the Bendy Creek Sheriff’s Building. Of course, Sheriff Stevenson hadn’t had much choice about leaving Dean Winchester under the watchful eye of Deputy Morris. No sooner was Winchester cuffed and locked in the cell, than the phone had rung. Dean Winchester’s brother (equally dangerous and even bigger, apparently) had been seen heading into the Hoolihan farmhouse with what Charlie Bickmore described as “a rocket launcher”. Since it was just the two of them, it fell to Morris to stand guard over the man in the cells.

  “Don’t take your eyes off him,” Sheriff Stevenson had said on his way out the door. “Not for a second. “He’s as smooth as a snake and twice as slippery. He’ll try to charm his way out the moment I’m out the door.”

  So Morris hadn’t taken his eye off Dean Winchester. Not for a second. Not even to check his badge was shiny enough. He was staring straight at Dean, watching every twist of his hands in the handcuffs. If Dean got out – well, Morris had heard stories. Things about blown up police stations and people skinned alive. He tried hard not to think about it, and instead thought about the newspaper articles that would appear after the FBI got here and took Winchester away.

  “Hey, there,” Winchester said, a friendly grin on his face.

    Deputy Morris stood his ground, did not blink, did not take his eye off Dean Winchester, not for a second, and absolutely did not quake in terror.

   “Aren’t you a little young to be a deputy?” Dean asked, still in that friendly, casual tone that did not scare him at all. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”

    Deputy Morris did not respond. Do not let him engage you in conversation. That was the official guideline on what to do upon apprehension of a Winchester. Of course, there had been a message after that saying that the Winchesters were dead again, so it might not be reliable advice. But up till now, following instructions had served him well, so he didn’t reply. Did not blink.  Did not take his eye off him. Not for a second.

  “What do you like to do?” Dean asked genially, “Any hobbies? Seems like we’re gonna be here a while, we might as well make friends. Oh, you like to stare at people, huh?” Dean twiddled his thumbs, seemingly unbothered by the cuffs fastened tightly around his wrists. He sat on the bare cot and leaned against the wall. “I’ve got a friend who does that. It’s sort of creepy. You guys could have contests.”

   Deputy Morris’ eyes were watering with the effort of not blinking. The dangerous criminal that Deputy Morris was absolutely not to stop watching at all, ever, under any circumstances, not even for a split second, was going strangely blurry. He’d never realised quite how painful not blinking could be. And then he couldn’t do it anymore. Really, what could happen in the time it would take him to blink? Dean Winchester was chained up, behind bars. It wasn’t like he could escape or get his hands on a weapon in the time it would take Morris to blink. His eyes would be shut for about a hundredth of a second. Nothing could happen.

   Morris blinked. Shut his eyes thankfully, just for an instant.

  “Hello Dean,” said the guy in the trenchcoat.

    Wait, what?

    Morris blinked again. Yes, there was definitely a guy in a trenchcoat in the cell. He was standing casually in the centre of the cell, looking at Dean Winchester. His trenchcoat was rumpled, his brown hair untidy, like he’d been out in a strong wind.

    What? There had definitely not been a guy in a trenchcoat in that cell half a second ago. Morris would have noticed, surely. He’d checked the cell before the Sheriff had locked Dean in it, making sure there were no weapons anywhere. There was nowhere the guy could have been. He’d even checked under the fold out cot and on the ceiling!

     But how the guy had got in was not the important thing. The important thing was what to do now. Obviously, Mr Trenchcoat couldn’t stay in the cell with Dean. Sheriff Stevenson had made it very clear that Dean was to be left alone in the cell until the FBI arrived, and Deputy Morris was not to take his eye off him, ever. But if he opened the cell to let out the trenchcoat guy, Dean could charge him down and escape. He couldn’t watch them both. A guy only had so many eyes.

  “Took you long enough,” Dean Winchester said, unfolding from his relaxed pose and standing up. “Nice enough place, but the conversation’s a bit one-sided.”

   Just as Morris was deciding circumstances demanded breaking the do not let him engage you in conversation rule, trenchcoat guy, lifted his hand and touched Dean Winchester on the forehead.

   Deputy Morris did not blink. Did not avert his gaze. Did not take his eyes off them. Not even for a second. They were just gone.

   He suddenly felt very woozy.

   When he opened his eyes, he was lying on the floor. The first thing he saw was the empty, locked cell. Oh no. What was he going to tell the Sheriff? He was going to set a new record. Fastest firing in the county in the history of ever. He sat up slowly, trying to remember what the handbook had said about keeping calm when things went south.

    The Sheriff was sitting at his desk, pale-faced and gulping whisky directly from the bottle. “Sonny, here’s some advice,” he said, “Never become a Sheriff. We need to call the – somebody. Old lady Hoolihan’s been eaten by a goat.”

Title: A Shameful Addiction
Word Count:687
Rating: PG
Summary: Comment fic written for the prompt: "Sam's too smart and curious for his own good. He HAS to know what the appeal of the Twilight books is. Problem is, he gets sucked in and can't look away. Obviously, he's gonna get busted." by lolaann1 at the spn_bigpretzel "I didn't know you..." meme.

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural. No offence is intended towards Twilight fans.

Sam jumped at the sound of a sudden, sharp knock to the door, his heart beating wildly.

“Dude, are you okay? You’ve kind of been in there a while. If you don’t say anything, I’m breaking the door down.” Dean informed him through the door.

“I’m okay,” Sam’s voice came out strangely squeaky. He jumped off the closed toilet and shoved the book into the back of the bathroom cabinet. It took some contortionism in the tiny room, but eventually he managed to position it so that it couldn’t be identified by the casual observer. “I’m fine, don’t come in.”  He flushed the toilet for good measure, washed his hands, and slid the lock back on the door.

Dean was looking at him weirdly when he emerged. “What?” Sam asked, feeling himself blush at how defensive the word sounded.

“What were you doing in there?” Dean asked.

“Want me to draw you a picture?”

“Come on, I know you weren’t on the can for two hours.”

Sam gulped. Surely he couldn’t have been in there that long. No, it was like ten minutes, tops. It wasn’t even a good book. The writing was bad. The heroine was whiny. The love interest was both dead and completely devoid of personality. And the mythology was so unrealistic! He glanced at his watch. Oh.

“I hope whatever you were doing in there was awesome. You missed Die Hard.” Okay, Sam was going to have to prevent Dean looking in that cupboard at all costs. There was no way his brother could find out that the reason he’d missed Die Hard was that he’d been reading a vampire book aimed at teenage girls and had lost track of time.

“Do you want to order dinner?” Sam tried to change the subject.

“You know what? Why don’t you go out and get us some?” Dean suggested.

Yeah right. The second Sam left, his brother was going to start searching the bathroom, and when Dean wanted to find something, no hiding place was safe.

“It’s your turn. I went yesterday.” Sam realised he was standing defensively in front of the bathroom door, and attempted to casually walk across to his bed and flop down upon it, indicating that he had no intention to move. Judging from Dean’s expression, it came out more awkward than casual.

“I’m old,” Dean complained. “You should be looking after me in my old age.”

When Dean finally left, after losing best-of-three Rock Paper Scissors, Sam waited until he heard the Impala rumble into life, and then dashed into the bathroom to collect the book and dispose of it before Dean got back.

He pulled the book out of its hiding place. If he threw it out in the dumpster behind the building, Dean would never know. He looked down at the creased black cover and dirty, dog-eared pages. He was nearly finished. Dean would be gone at least twenty minutes. If he threw it out now he might never find out if James killed Bella, or if Edward and Bella ended up together. There was only about a chapter to go. He could totally finish it before Dean got back. He repositioned himself to lean against the cabinet and opened the book.

“Hah! I knew it!” Sam jumped at the sound of his brother’s voice and looked up to see Dean grinning at him. “Good book, Sammy?”

Sam tossed the book aside and scowled at him. “No. It’s evil. It sucks you in, and you know it’s awful and you can see how bad the writing is and how shallow the characters are and how unhealthy the relationship is and the vampires sparkle, but you just can’t stop reading! Here, throw it out for me.” He threw the book at Dean.

Ten minutes later, Dean hadn’t returned from his mission to throw out the book. Sam smirked opened the motel room’s door, peering out into the parking lot. No sign of Dean. He closed the door quietly behind him and snuck around the back of the building.

There was Dean, standing at the dumpster, halfway through chapter three.   

I just thought I'd see what all the fuss was about. This account will have all the same stuff as my LJ. I'm still figuring out how it works, so bear with me.
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