Fic: untitled
this is for Found_fic_spn...
It was almost midnight when Dean pulled the Impala into Columbia’s only open gas station. Sam was slumped in the passenger seat asleep, mouth hanging slightly open, lightly snoring, like a ginormous kitten. Dean took a quick look around the car to see if there was anything he could insert in Sam’s mouth, but came up empty-handed. He considered waking him, but decided against it. Sam needed his rest. He was still recovering, after all. It’s tough getting over being dead-Dean knew. So Sam was allowed to sleep, unmolested.
Two hours ago they’d been in Plymouth, celebrating the demise of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, in the best way possible-Metallica playing on the jukebox, a round of drinks for the house courtesy of Ian Fleming, and, for Dean, a quickie in the alley with a sweet young thing with violet eyes to die for, and a very, very talented mouth. It had happened so quickly that Sam didn’t even notice he and the girl had slipped outside. Of course, that may have been due to the large amount of tequila Sam had consumed, and was currently sleeping off.
Dean got out of the car and decided to hit the facilities before filling up. He walked around the side of the small station, found the typically grimy men’s room, and took a long, leisurely leak. Then he went to the sink to wash up, splashed cold water on his face and reached blindly for a paper towel. He stood, looked in the mirror, and dropped the towel.
The mirror was empty.
He stepped up closer, rubbed what should have been his hand over the glass, thinking it was dirty and blurred, but nothing changed. There was still no reflection.
“Huh. That’s weird. The mirror is not working,” he said aloud, then frowned, tapped the glass with an invisible finger. It was solid. Nope. Not broken. He touched his face, could feel his nose, his cheeks, even the cut he’d gotten from the YED. He ran his invisible hand over his invisible lips.
“Huh.”
For one awful moment, he thought the Crossroads cunt had cashed him in early. He leaned in again, bumped his nose against the glass, unable to gauge the distance. He huffed out and his breath fogged the mirror.
“Huh. Must not be dead.”
Then he noticed that he could see his shirt, and jeans and boots, and wondered how he’d missed his invisible dick while he was pissing. He cupped himself through his jeans, just to make sure all his important parts were still there. They were.
Confused by this odd turn of events, he pulled out his cell and dialed, which was harder to do with see-through digits than you’d think. He called the only person he could think of who might have an answer for him.
After eight rings, Bobby answered groggily.
“Whoever this is, you’d damn sure better be up to your ass in zombie alligators.”
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said, trying for cheerful, but it came out sounding a little bit hysterical.
“Dean? You know what time it is?”
“Sorry, Bobby. I…uh…I got a little problem here.”
“What’s wrong?” Bobby sounded awake now.
“Ummm. I’m…well…I’m invisible.” He laughed nervously. “You know of anything that would cause that?”
“Hmmmph,” Bobby snorted. “I’m invisible to women-so, I’d say being short, bearded and middle-aged. You ain’t any of those are ya?”
“Funny, man. I’m serious.”
“I take it you’re speaking in more literal terms here, huh?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“You still breathing? Got a heartbeat?”
Dean felt at his neck for a pulse. “Yep, on both accounts.”
“Hmmm. You anywhere near Plymouth, Montana?”
Dean pulled the phone away and stared at it. “We left there two hours ago.”
“And you picked up a girl with purple eyes? Name of Christina?”
“Didn’t catch her name, but the eyes, yeah. What is she? Some kind of witch?”
“She’s fae, actually. Has a taste for humans. A pretty specific taste…likes the yang energy. A lot.”
“Oh…” Dean sighed, remembered how she’d damn near sucked him dry. Shit.
“So, is there any way to...?”
“Don’t worry. It wears off in about twelve hours.”
“Son of a…”
“Take advantage of it. Your Daddy sure did.”
“Whaa? Dad? That Hoover chick?” Dean nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Hell, he used to go to Christina when he needed to get into someplace without anyone knowing. Came in mighty handy, he always said. I’m surprised it ain’t in his journal…”
“I think I would have noticed the chapter on “fairy blow jobs that cause invisibility”,” Dean said curtly, pissed that Dad hadn’t passed on THAT little bit of useful information.
“I’m going back to bed now, Dean,” Bobby said and hung up.
Dean flipped the phone shut, and stared into the empty mirror. Take advantage, huh? Oh, HELL YES! He pumped an invisible fist, then left the john and went inside the station.
The clerk, who looked to be about a hundred and fifty years old, was watching Family Feud, and barely looked up. Dean walked around, headless and armless, picking up cookies, chips, jerky, candy and a couple cans of Red Bull, since the coffee pot had nearly bubbled dry. He sat the lot on the counter, said, “I need ten gallons on pump two,” and waited for the clerk to look up, and faint. He hoped it wouldn’t kill the old geezer.
The man rang up his purchases, put the lot in a plastic sack, looked straight at his missing head and said, “That’ll be $38.53.”
Dean hesitated for a moment, wondering if the clerk was blind. He almost waved a hand in front of the man’s eyes before remembering that would tell him nothing.
“$38.53, “ he repeated. “Or are you deaf and invisible?”
Dean sputtered, pulled out his wallet and threw his card on the counter.
The clerk ran it, pushed the receipt and a pen across the counter, and watched as the pen signed, “Ian Fleming”, all by itself, then the sack floated up, and the empty suit of clothes walked away.
“You ain’t the first invisible customer we’ve had, ya know. But nice try,” the clerk said and went back to watching his show.
Dean stomped to the Impala, pumped his ten gallons, and thought about the best way to capitalize on his new found transparency. He wondered if there were any college sororities nearby, or female locker rooms, but he wasn’t actually a perv. No, there had to be a way to cash in on this…and he realized that Nevada was only about eight hours away. Had to be a way to work this angle.
He opened the door, and the dome light shone on Sam’s still snoozing form. In the meantime, there was another way to take advantage of his insubstantial state. Dean grinned, toed off his boots, dropped his jeans and BVD’s, and slipped his tee-shirt over his head. Then he put his boots back on, because he hated driving barefoot. He put his clothes in the backseat, got quietly into the car, started it up, and pulled onto the highway, headed towards Nevada.
About ten miles out, on an empty ribbon of highway, Dean pressed the accelerator to the floor. He was doing eighty, when he reached over, poked his brother in the ribs and yelled, “SAM!”
Sam shot up, looked over at the empty driver’s seat, and let out a high-pitched scream that Dean would remember with pride and hilarity until his dying day.
After Sam regained his composure, Dean upped the ante by eating a bag of chips, a sack of Skittles, and drinking a Red Bull. He made Sam follow their path through his digestive tract.
At one point, Sam looked down at Dean’s boots, and groaned. “Dude, do not tell me your naked ass is on the seat.”
Dean just grinned. It was the best blow job ever.
It was almost midnight when Dean pulled the Impala into Columbia’s only open gas station. Sam was slumped in the passenger seat asleep, mouth hanging slightly open, lightly snoring, like a ginormous kitten. Dean took a quick look around the car to see if there was anything he could insert in Sam’s mouth, but came up empty-handed. He considered waking him, but decided against it. Sam needed his rest. He was still recovering, after all. It’s tough getting over being dead-Dean knew. So Sam was allowed to sleep, unmolested.
Two hours ago they’d been in Plymouth, celebrating the demise of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, in the best way possible-Metallica playing on the jukebox, a round of drinks for the house courtesy of Ian Fleming, and, for Dean, a quickie in the alley with a sweet young thing with violet eyes to die for, and a very, very talented mouth. It had happened so quickly that Sam didn’t even notice he and the girl had slipped outside. Of course, that may have been due to the large amount of tequila Sam had consumed, and was currently sleeping off.
Dean got out of the car and decided to hit the facilities before filling up. He walked around the side of the small station, found the typically grimy men’s room, and took a long, leisurely leak. Then he went to the sink to wash up, splashed cold water on his face and reached blindly for a paper towel. He stood, looked in the mirror, and dropped the towel.
The mirror was empty.
He stepped up closer, rubbed what should have been his hand over the glass, thinking it was dirty and blurred, but nothing changed. There was still no reflection.
“Huh. That’s weird. The mirror is not working,” he said aloud, then frowned, tapped the glass with an invisible finger. It was solid. Nope. Not broken. He touched his face, could feel his nose, his cheeks, even the cut he’d gotten from the YED. He ran his invisible hand over his invisible lips.
“Huh.”
For one awful moment, he thought the Crossroads cunt had cashed him in early. He leaned in again, bumped his nose against the glass, unable to gauge the distance. He huffed out and his breath fogged the mirror.
“Huh. Must not be dead.”
Then he noticed that he could see his shirt, and jeans and boots, and wondered how he’d missed his invisible dick while he was pissing. He cupped himself through his jeans, just to make sure all his important parts were still there. They were.
Confused by this odd turn of events, he pulled out his cell and dialed, which was harder to do with see-through digits than you’d think. He called the only person he could think of who might have an answer for him.
After eight rings, Bobby answered groggily.
“Whoever this is, you’d damn sure better be up to your ass in zombie alligators.”
“Hey, Bobby,” Dean said, trying for cheerful, but it came out sounding a little bit hysterical.
“Dean? You know what time it is?”
“Sorry, Bobby. I…uh…I got a little problem here.”
“What’s wrong?” Bobby sounded awake now.
“Ummm. I’m…well…I’m invisible.” He laughed nervously. “You know of anything that would cause that?”
“Hmmmph,” Bobby snorted. “I’m invisible to women-so, I’d say being short, bearded and middle-aged. You ain’t any of those are ya?”
“Funny, man. I’m serious.”
“I take it you’re speaking in more literal terms here, huh?”
“Yeah. You could say that.”
“You still breathing? Got a heartbeat?”
Dean felt at his neck for a pulse. “Yep, on both accounts.”
“Hmmm. You anywhere near Plymouth, Montana?”
Dean pulled the phone away and stared at it. “We left there two hours ago.”
“And you picked up a girl with purple eyes? Name of Christina?”
“Didn’t catch her name, but the eyes, yeah. What is she? Some kind of witch?”
“She’s fae, actually. Has a taste for humans. A pretty specific taste…likes the yang energy. A lot.”
“Oh…” Dean sighed, remembered how she’d damn near sucked him dry. Shit.
“So, is there any way to...?”
“Don’t worry. It wears off in about twelve hours.”
“Son of a…”
“Take advantage of it. Your Daddy sure did.”
“Whaa? Dad? That Hoover chick?” Dean nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Hell, he used to go to Christina when he needed to get into someplace without anyone knowing. Came in mighty handy, he always said. I’m surprised it ain’t in his journal…”
“I think I would have noticed the chapter on “fairy blow jobs that cause invisibility”,” Dean said curtly, pissed that Dad hadn’t passed on THAT little bit of useful information.
“I’m going back to bed now, Dean,” Bobby said and hung up.
Dean flipped the phone shut, and stared into the empty mirror. Take advantage, huh? Oh, HELL YES! He pumped an invisible fist, then left the john and went inside the station.
The clerk, who looked to be about a hundred and fifty years old, was watching Family Feud, and barely looked up. Dean walked around, headless and armless, picking up cookies, chips, jerky, candy and a couple cans of Red Bull, since the coffee pot had nearly bubbled dry. He sat the lot on the counter, said, “I need ten gallons on pump two,” and waited for the clerk to look up, and faint. He hoped it wouldn’t kill the old geezer.
The man rang up his purchases, put the lot in a plastic sack, looked straight at his missing head and said, “That’ll be $38.53.”
Dean hesitated for a moment, wondering if the clerk was blind. He almost waved a hand in front of the man’s eyes before remembering that would tell him nothing.
“$38.53, “ he repeated. “Or are you deaf and invisible?”
Dean sputtered, pulled out his wallet and threw his card on the counter.
The clerk ran it, pushed the receipt and a pen across the counter, and watched as the pen signed, “Ian Fleming”, all by itself, then the sack floated up, and the empty suit of clothes walked away.
“You ain’t the first invisible customer we’ve had, ya know. But nice try,” the clerk said and went back to watching his show.
Dean stomped to the Impala, pumped his ten gallons, and thought about the best way to capitalize on his new found transparency. He wondered if there were any college sororities nearby, or female locker rooms, but he wasn’t actually a perv. No, there had to be a way to cash in on this…and he realized that Nevada was only about eight hours away. Had to be a way to work this angle.
He opened the door, and the dome light shone on Sam’s still snoozing form. In the meantime, there was another way to take advantage of his insubstantial state. Dean grinned, toed off his boots, dropped his jeans and BVD’s, and slipped his tee-shirt over his head. Then he put his boots back on, because he hated driving barefoot. He put his clothes in the backseat, got quietly into the car, started it up, and pulled onto the highway, headed towards Nevada.
About ten miles out, on an empty ribbon of highway, Dean pressed the accelerator to the floor. He was doing eighty, when he reached over, poked his brother in the ribs and yelled, “SAM!”
Sam shot up, looked over at the empty driver’s seat, and let out a high-pitched scream that Dean would remember with pride and hilarity until his dying day.
After Sam regained his composure, Dean upped the ante by eating a bag of chips, a sack of Skittles, and drinking a Red Bull. He made Sam follow their path through his digestive tract.
At one point, Sam looked down at Dean’s boots, and groaned. “Dude, do not tell me your naked ass is on the seat.”
Dean just grinned. It was the best blow job ever.