Supernatural Fic: Real Men Don't Wear Panty Hose
All feedback, positive or negative, welcome. It makes my little world go around.
Title: Real Men Don't Wear Panty Hose
Author: dodger_winslow
Challenge: Paranormal 25 Chart: Incubus
Word Count: 2200
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG13
Spoilers/Warnings: Harsh Language
Summary: If you wanna catch an incubus, you've gotta have the right bait.
Author’s Note: Special thanks to my hubs for pointing out the difference between an incubus and a succubus, 'cause details like that matter.
Real Men Don't Wear Panty Hose
"Dean."
He tried to ignore it.
"Dean."
He tried harder to ignore it.
"Dean."
He gave up trying to ignore it and looked over at Sam with a glare that could have broken stone. Sam was staring at him the way you stare at someone when you’re trying to stick a thought in their head without using words. As soon as Dean looked at him, he started making a clappy sort of motion with his hands. It looked like he was going for "trained seal" in a game of charades. What the fuck do trained seals have to do with incubi? It made absolutely no sense to Dean, so he just smiled at his brother through gritted teeth and turned away again, trying very hard to look comely and sweet and vaguely innocent.
"Excuse me. Sorry. Pardon me. Sorry. Ooops, let me get that. Really sorry. Excuse me."
Dean could hear his brother making his way across the heavily-packed, underage dance club. He would have tried to ignore it, but based on past experience, he was pretty sure that wouldn’t work; so instead, he just sat there, hands clenched primly in his lap, and listened to Sammy come.
It was a bit like tracking something he was planning to kill through the brush by the cracking and snapping of twigs in its path. It was almost exactly like that, in fact, be cause he really wanted to kill Sam right about now.
"Excuse me. Thanks. Do you mind? Thanks. I appreciate it."
He stopped right behind Dean’s left shoulder. Dean was still trying to ignore him. Surprisingly enough, Sam was still refusing to be ignored.
"Knees," Sam hissed into his brother’s ear.
Dean looked at him out of the corner of one eye, smiled once again through gritted teeth, and said, very quietly and very sweetly, "Fuck off, okay?"
"Knees," Sam insisted.
Since ignoring him hadn’t worked out all that well, Dean tried the "shove words into his head by staring" trick; but Sam didn’t get the message any more than he had, so he finally gave up and, with a deep, long-suffering sigh, stood. The slick bastard with the funky-ass sideburns across the dance floor was still staring at him, so Dean offered what he hoped was a coy little wave - fingers only - before he adjusted himself as best he could using just his biceps to keep everything more-or-less equal and level so they didn’t shift in flight, so to speak, and turned with a flip of his hair and a more-than-necessary swish of his hips.
His "you are so fucking dead" expression didn’t get exactly the response he was looking for. As soon as Sam saw it, he started to snicker. Dean was pretty sure it was the damn lipstick thing again.
Grabbing his brother by the elbow, he steered them both over to a corner where Mister Sideburns couldn’t watch their exchange before saying, "What in the hell are you doing?!?"
"Your knees," Sam said like duh, wasn’t it obvious.
"What about my knees?"
"You’re supposed to be a girl, Dean. Girls don’t sit with their knees like this." He demonstrated his point with an over-exaggerated splay of knees that -- while it wasn’t an entirely inaccurate mimicry of Dean’s earlier posture -- made him look like an idiot. Or a clown, maybe, doing some kind of comedy bit about a clumsy ballerina in mid plie. His overly long legs exaggerated the effect enough that it was Dean this time who almost snickered.
Almost.
He didn’t because he was pissed, he was wearing high heels, and this fucking medieval torture device they were trying to pass off as a bra was the most God-awful uncomfortable thing he had ever put on his body in his whole, entire life … and that included the damned near strangulatingly constrictive pantyhose that had been pinching him in places better left unpinched since he gave up trying to twist them around and just left them on backwards, figuring the extra ass room of the attached panties couldn’t be a bad thing when it came to giving the boys their space.
"They do, too," he groused, abandoning the subtle approach of adjusting his unwieldy breasts by biceps to just go ahead and grab the one that kept trying to migrate around under his left armpit and stuff it back where it belonged. "At least, the ones I like do."
"Oh, that’s classy," Sam said as Dean shoved and shifted and adjusted until both of his wandering silicone breasts were more or less back where they were supposed to be. "Real classy. Why don’t you just scratch yourself while you’re at it?"
"Because I can’t even feel myself through this damn nylon nut corset you made me put on." He reached under the hem of his short skirt for at least the third time in half an hour and tried yet again to adjust things that definitely were not getting enough space to breathe properly.
"Girls don’t wear short skirts and high heels without hose," Sam said reasonably. "They just don’t."
"The ones I like do," Dean said again.
"Well we’re not going for the kind of girl you like, Dean. According to all the research, this thing feeds off virginal, innocent, shy girls; not the kind who write their numbers on the bathroom wall in red lipstick."
"Which only supports my argument that it should be you wearing the high heels, not me. I haven’t been virginal since I was nine."
Sam snorted. "Yeah, right. I’m sure I’d look very fetching hobbling around on my cast in high heels." He tapped his walking cast lightly on the floor to remind his brother of a dark night, a pissy chupacabra, and the snap, snap of breaking bones. "And nine, my ass."
"Okay, ten. Which is completely beside the point anyway, because you still look virginal, even if you technically aren’t."
"Technically? What’s ‘technically’ supposed to mean?"
"Hey," he tried really hard to say it with a straight face, "you don’t use it for more than two weeks and you’re back to square one, buddy." He shrugged off Sam’s disgusted frown, adding, "Don’t blame me. I don’t make the rules; I just live by ’em."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, dude. All I’m saying is you can’t sit with your knees like that and expect him to hit on you if he’s into sweet, young virgins."
"Like what?"
"Like that," Sam said, doing the open part of that clappy trained seal thing with his hands again.
Dean finally got it. "Oh! That’s what you were doing. I could not figure out what this," he made the clappy seal gesture himself "had to do with anything. I was like, Dude, what the fuck?"
"I was saying sit like a lady," Sam said.
"I’m not supposed to be a lady," Dean protested. "I’m supposed to be a virgin." He was about to add something else when Mister Sideburns walked up behind him and rested one hand lightly on the small of his back. It might have passed as a respectfully protective gesture if you didn’t know the guy sucked the life out of shy teenagers for kicks.
"Is he bothering you, Miss?" Sideburns asked in a voice that promised all sorts of gallantry and white knightishness and other fairy tale lies the young and inexperienced were prone to mistake for the truth.
Leaning back a little into Sideburns’s supportive hand, Dean turned like he was seeking refuge from big, bad Sam in the protective embrace of the big, bad incubus. "Yes, he is. He’s so … just so … so … rude." Drawing a deep, quivering breath as if he could hardly bear to go on, he went on: "He said terrible things to me. He said he wanted to … wanted to … oooooh." Dean dissolved into a relatively accurate impression of pitiful weeping, hiding his face in his hands because what passed as a sweet young thing at 20 yards might not make the grade at 20 inches.
Sam stepped back, holding both hands up like he was ceding Sideburns the right of way to a deeply unvirginal Dean-in-virgin-clothing. "Hey. I’m not looking for any trouble. I didn’t realize she was here with anybody. I was just trying to make small talk."
"Your idea of small talk obviously needs some fine tuning," Sideburns said, his tone more machismo than genuine threat. "Maybe you and I should have a little talk about that."
Dean wailed a little into Sideburns’ cologne-stenchy chest. "No. Please … I don’t want to draw any attention. I’m so embarrassed." He shifted like he was shrinking away from Sam’s mere presence. "I just want to go home. Can I please just go home?"
Sideburns slipped a protective arm around Dean’s trembling shoulders. "It’s all right, Miss," he said. "I’ll take you home if you want."
"My car’s just outside. But … but … I don’t want to walk out there alone." He peeked around the cup of his hands at Sam, then buried his face back where it was safely hidden to begin weeping all over again.
"There, there." Sideburns patted Dean’s back comfortingly. "It’s all right. I’ll walk you to your car. You’ll be safe with me."
Five minutes later, Sideburns was salted and burning behind a dumpster in the dance club parking lot. Peeling the blonde flipwig off his head, Dean scratched his entire scalp vigorously before announcing, "Being the girl sucks."
Putting the lid back on the gas can, Sam asked, "Can I give you a lift anywhere, Miss?"
"Lift this, bitch," Dean retorted. The gesture that accompanied the suggestion was anything but virginal.
Sam grinned a ridiculously wide grin. "We’d better scatter before someone comes looking for the weenie roast."
"Yeah, I suppose. Give me the keys; I’m driving."
"But you’re the chick." Sam’s eyes were glinting the way they did when he was thinking about gluing somebody’s hand to a beer bottle or something else equally not cool.
"Fuck you," Dean replied. "The keys."
Digging the Impala’s keys out of his pocket, Sam said, "You know, you’ve really got to start carrying a purse, Dean."
"Again, fuck you."
They were half way across the parking lot when Dean stepped in an uneven spot in the cement and staggered, nearly falling off his heels. Shooting his brother a glare that just dared him to let that grin break to laughter, he reached down and jerked off one shoe, and then the other. As they continued toward the Impala, he demanded, "What was up with that guy anyway? I mean, I know he was a demon and all, but did he actually think I’d fall for that ‘I’ll take you home, Miss’ crap? Come on. Is anybody ever really virginal enough to fall for that?"
Sam shrugged. "Guys are real assholes," he said. And then he laughed like it was much funnier than it was.
And he kept laughing.
He was still laughing when they reached the Impala. He was laughing even harder as he replaced their sundry incubi killing supplies in the trunk locker and slammed it shut while Dean threw his shoes in the back seat, then dug both silicone breasts out of his bra to throw them there, too. He was laughing so hard he was almost crying by the time he swung into the Impala’s passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
Dean cocked one eyebrow at his younger brother, glaring while he split his pantyhose down the midline with a couple of deft, surgical slices with the hugely wicked blade of a hugely wicked-looking knife. Sam had tears streaming down his face. He was having a little trouble breathing between the gasps of laugher that had him nearly doubled over in his seat.
"What?!?" Dean demanded finally.
"You’ve got a little lipstick there," Sam said, gesturing with one finger at Dean’s eyebrow. And then he had to brace both hands against the dash and let his head hang between his arms while his shoulders shook like jello and he wheezed, and laughed, and wheezed some more.
"You’re an asshole." Dean said.
Sam nodded, laughing too hard to answer.
" A real asshole," Dean clarified.
Sam started making the kind of high, keening sound you make when your throat is trying to clench itself into a spasm. "What do you expect?" he gasped in small bursts of strangulated effort. "I’m a guy!"
The corner of Dean’s lips quirked to a half grin. It was good to see Sammy laughing this hard. It had been far too long since he’d seen his younger brother wrap his arms around his belly and rock back in forth in a silence dictated by lack of air from laughing too hard for too long.
"Asshole." Dean said.
"Jerk," Sam wheezed.
"Bitch."
And then he started to laugh, too.
-finis-