rivers_bend

Title: Mr. Congeniality
Author: rivers_bend and dreamlittleyo
Pairing/Rating: Sam/Dean, Adult
Wordcount: ~20,000
Spoilers: vague for S2
Summary: When Ash points Sam and Dean in the direction of a new case, they have to go undercover in an all-male beauty pageant in order to find who or what is bent on destroying it. Based on Miss Congeniality written for the whenboymeetsboy ficathon.
Disclaimer: Miss Congeniality (and some of the dialogue here) belongs to various people you can find here and Supernatural to various people you can find here. They get the money and the fame. We just get to have fun.


Mr. Congeniality

Sam glances through the window of the Starbucks Dean just disappeared into, and settles back with a sigh. They're in for a long wait; the press of people backs up all the way to the doors. Though, funny, he can't see Dean at the rear of the crowd.

When Sam tilts his head to cut the glare off the glass, he sees the crowd shifting strangely. People are waving their arms, getting angry and clearly shouting. Sam sighs again. He'd say he had an inkling that the uproar had something to do with his brother, but really it's more a certainty than an inkling. Sure enough, in under five minutes, Dean is back with two grande cups. One has a suspicious amount of writing on the side.

"If you got me a double shot, vanilla, hazelnut, soy latte with whipped cream again, I'm going to kill you," says Sam when Dean opens the car door.

"After last time? No way. Got you a triple shot, mint-mocha, half-fat latte with whipped cream. Wasn't that what you wanted?" Dean's innocent face needs some work.

Sam glares and tries to reach for the double cappuccino he can see in Dean's far hand, but Dean licks all over the sippy-lid and all around the edges of the cup. Sam would take it anyway—he knows for a fact that Dean uses his toothbrush when he can't be bothered to get his own out of his duffle—but he can see a little speck of pork rind on the lid, and that just grosses him out. Mint-mocha can't be that bad.

"How'd you get out of there so quickly, anyway?" he asks, despite being pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

"Used the FBI badge. Got right to the front. Works every time." Dean looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Sam holds his hand out for the coffee monstrosity. He needs caffeine if he's going to put up with his brother today.

The drink's not as bad as he expected, and he's almost finished it by the time Dean finds a parking space near the post office. "Your turn to go in," Dean says. "I have coffee to drink."

Sam needs to stretch his legs anyway, and isn't going in just because his brother told him to. Besides, he likes this drop; they have a box in the top row, so he doesn't have to bend over. It takes a minute to find the right key, but when he does, Sam finds the manila envelope that Ash promised to send is curled into a U to fit inside the box, plump with information on what Dean's sure should be their next case. Though Ash was pretty sketchy with details over the phone, and Sam's not convinced.

"Just have a look at what I'm sending you," Ash had said, "and I think you'll agree it's worth your time."

Wedged next to the large envelope there's a new visa card addressed to Reynaldo Curtis—Dean's been watching too many Law and Order marathons again—and a letter from their cell phone provider. Sam tucks those into his back pocket and straightens out the packet from Ash as he heads back to the car.

"What've we got?" Dean asks.

Sam rips open the envelope. On top of the pile are a bunch of newspaper reports about something called the Mr. All-America pageant, which Sam skims. "Something to do with a beauty pageant," he answers.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Dean says, and pumps his fist in the air like victory incarnate.

Sam debates letting him hang on to the pleasant misconception. He eventually decides he's not going to get a better reaction later than he is now, so says, "Male beauty pageant."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean gives him the full-fledged nose-wrinkle-raised-eyebrow look of incredulity that says Sam had sure as hell better be kidding.

"Nope. Since 1982. This is their twenty-fifth anniversary year."

"What the hell is the point of a beauty pageant if it doesn't have girls?" Dean asks, making the left turn towards their motel.

"Apparently it's not really a beauty pageant, it's a 'scholarship program.'"

"So what does it have to do with us?"

"Dunno yet." They're pulling into the motel lot, so Sam stuffs the articles back in the envelope until they're inside and settled across the table by the window.

They spread out the papers—graphs, charts, and seemingly random clippings that Sam assumes are supposed to support the letter Ash sent, which Dean is reading.

"Omens of dark magic," Dean summarizes aloud, "some kind of cover-up conspiracy at the state finals in Mississippi, and a letter to the TV network threatening to give them a 'show no one will ever forget'. Which, isn't that what networks are usually after? Can't see them getting too worried about that."

"Does Ash explain why this isn't a job for the FBI?"

"Omens, cover-ups, and the network not feeling threatened, I'm guessing."

"Right. So what are we supposed to do?"

"I guess we have to infiltrate the pageant." Dean says, reading on. "Ash said he worked it so Mr. New Jersey's decidedly un-All-American porn career came to light, and—" Dean turns the letter over and his eyes go wide at what's next. "Wait a minute, one of us can replace him?"

They stare at each other, and Sam can read his own thoughts on Dean's face. No fucking way am I competing in a beauty contest.

Sam's about to voice his protest aloud when Dean says, "Wrestle you for it."

"I'm not wrestling you over this, jerk."

"Chicken, bok bok bok." Dean's standing already, like he's planning to throw down right here in the six inches between the table and the beds.

"You're kidding, right?" They're going to decide this like civilized people. Sam's not going to stoop to Dean's level—somewhere below intelligent human but marginally above Neanderthal—and make this some sort of physical, macho showdown.

"True. I'd have an unfair advantage in here, what with not being ten feet tall. Wouldn't want you to try and claim you only lost because I cheated. There's that clearing out towards Mercer."

"No, Dean." Sam is not going to head out to a field like they're gladiators, or extras in some twisted remake of Cool Hand Luke. He's just not.

Except it only takes ten minutes of Dean teasing and goading him before Sam stomps out to the car himself. He doesn't even need to be dragged.

Fifteen minutes later they're outside of town, circling each other in a wide patch of grass just off some dirt stretch of county road. The car glints a hundred feet or so off—bright sheen of metal making the sun seem even hotter—and Sam can already feel sweat collecting under his collar. He pauses to pull off a layer, and still feels too warm even once he's down to a thin black t-shirt.

They circle, Sam feeling stupid for letting Dean manipulate him into this, and then Dean makes the first move, lunging fast and low, almost catching Sam off guard. But Sam's limbs are longer and a little faster, and he feels the whisper of Dean's shirt across his arm as he sidesteps and trips his brother to the ground.

His advantage is fleeting, and before long he's grounded, too, rolling with Dean in the dirt. There's a whole lot of grass stain in their future, and whether or not it's his turn, Sam is making sure that Dean is on laundry duty after this.

It's not a coordinated fight. Their moves aren't regulation, the sweep of legs and arms and feet nothing but Winchester tradition.

"Dude," Sam gasps, nearly out of breath and trying to pin Dean by the elbows. "You're always saying you're the good looking one."

"You know that's just talk, baby," Dean taunts him, and it's not fair that he doesn't even sound tired. "You'll always be the prettiest girl in school."

"Fuck you," Sam says, and gets him in a headlock.

"Come on, Sammy." Dean's voice is muffled a little by Sam's elbow. "You got nothing to be ashamed of. You'll look great in that swimsuit competition."

Dean twists free somehow, slippery bastard, and they're both grabbing at each other in complete futility. Sam almost gets to his feet, but Dean takes him down hard and Sam feels the wind rush out of him. It's grabbing and rolling, Dean's muscles unyielding resistance beneath him.

"You've got the flowing locks, man," says Dean, and at last he's starting to sound fatigued.

Sam finally gets the leverage he needs and bears Dean down with his weight, snarling, "But you've got such a pretty mouth, Dean." Only it doesn't come out flippant like Sam meant it to. It comes out low and breathy, and suddenly Sam is staring at Dean's mouth like he hasn't let himself in years. Doesn't help at all that he's straddling Dean at the waist, that suddenly it's all he can do to breathe as he tries to figure out what his brother is thinking behind those wide, startled eyes.

He shouldn't be surprised when Dean takes advantage of his distraction, but he still wants to call foul when he realizes too late that Dean is kicking and shoving and knocking him aside. He lands on his stomach and doesn't have enough time to react as Dean plants a knee at the small of his back and grinds him into the dirt.

Sam gives it a valiant try, but he's stuck. His stomach lurches at what this defeat means he has to do, and he growls unhappily. "So you're saying I have to wear the bathing suit?"

Dean tousles his hair and laughs. "Yeah. You have to wear the bathing suit. But don't worry, Sammy," he says. "I'll be right behind you. Every step of the way." When he moves aside, they both roll onto their backs and lie there blinking into the sun, catching their breaths in tired unison.

"I hate you," says Sam, wondering how he let Dean talk him into this.

"I know you do," says Dean, and laughs again like he thinks Sam doesn't mean it.


— - — - — - — - —

Dean's never even heard of male beauty pageants before, but YouTube doesn't fail him. There's a metric ton of clips: talent and interview segments, swimsuit competitions, and, of course, the winner getting his crown. They all tend to look like the prom king in a John Hughes knock-off—earnest and dumb as a box of rock salt—and he's pretty sure Sam is going to need some serious coaching to pull this off.

Hitting up links and using search skills Sam doesn't know he has, Dean finds and downloads of a selection of clips, making a file for Sam to study. He can always say Ash sent them. Dean's just as happy that Sam likes to think Dean's only capable of using the laptop to find porn. Though, looking at some of those guys in their swimsuits—

"We gonna go, then?" Sam asks, duffle hooked over one shoulder. He sounds positively thrilled about getting started. Only not.

Dean hands Sam the laptop. "Keep it out," he says, "got a few things for you to watch to prepare yourself."

Sam glares, but tucks the computer under his arm instead of putting it in his bag.

Once they're on the road, Sam opens it up. "This file called Princess Samantha?"

"Yeah." Dean ignores the fact that if looks could kill his baby would be swerving off the road right now, and manages to keep his hoot of laughter inside.

Giving up on getting a reaction to his laser-death glare, Sam watches for a minute, and then scoffs. "They are so taking his crown away when they notice he has pec implants."

"Just watch. I don't think you need to worry about pec implants." Sam's pecs do just fine on their own. Jesus. Dean concentrates on merging onto the highway.

"This guy is crying, Dean. This is ridiculous. I'm not doing it."

Dean gives Sam his best determined face.

"Come on! Seriously? Dean, did you even watch these?"

"But you'll be so pretty, Sammy. We can tease up your hair a little, put some gloss on those lips—"

"You're the one with the eyelashes—"

"So we get you some mascara. I won fair and square, and you know it. Stop bitching."

Sam is scowling when he settles in to watch more video clips, volume low enough that Dean can barely hear over the rumble of road. He watches in his peripheral vision as Sam settles in and stops sulking in favor of his usual studied focus. It's easy enough to zone Sam out after that, eyes on the road and nothing to do but plan next steps.

Dean startles back to attention at a sudden flail of movement, and he glances at Sam with wide eyes. His brother is flapping his hands at either side of his face, like he just ate a fresh chili, and then he bursts suddenly into great, wracking sobs that Dean hopes to god are fake.

"Dude," he says when Sam quiets down. "What the hell?"

"What?" Sam asks, and his eyes are wide like he thinks Dean is the crazy one. "I was just practicing. Gotta sell it, don't I?"

Dean blinks at him, really needs to get his eyes back on the road, but it takes a moment to sink in. When it finally does he bursts out laughing, swerving a little as he focuses his attention back to driving in a straight line. Sam is glowering at him hard, but it does nothing to quiet Dean's mirth.

He's still laughing when he says, "See? What'd I tell you, you're a natural."


— - — - — - — - —

"You start on the outside and work your way in," Dean tells him, glancing down at the folded piece of paper sticking out from under his napkin, and Sam wants to throw a piece of bread at his brother's face. The vast array of silverware around his place setting is intimidating, but Dean is talking like Sam doesn't even know rule one. Sam had a rich girlfriend, thanks, and maybe she never schooled him in the detailed etiquette of fine dining, but she definitely taught him the basics.

"Yeah, Dean, I got it."

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"You should never say 'yeah,' always 'yes'." Dean looks up from his crib-notes and nods emphatically when he catches Sam's eye.

Sam had tried to explain that Jess taught him more than his brother could ever hope to, but Dean insisted they find a nice restaurant. So they could stop and practice. So he could use the list he got from MissManners.com or wherever, and instruct Sam on how not to make an idiot of himself.

Sam thought at the time that humoring Dean wasn't such a bad idea. Especially if he got a nice steak dinner out of the deal, a luxury they never splurge for.

He's changing his mind as he watches Dean across the table. Sam cuts his steak into manageable pieces, takes the time to swallow before he reaches for his water glass, and is probably about as couth as he needs to be. It doesn't stop Dean barking orders and instructions at him, talking with his mouth full as he points with his knife at the spoon Sam was supposed to use for the soup.

Dean's own steak is a bloody mess—bites of which he is rolling around in his open trap with unfettered contentment—and Sam's actually pretty sure he's going to be sick.

"Dude, are you trying to make me throw up?"

Dean stops chewing long enough to look at him, innocent confusion in his eyes, and Sam tries to ignore the view of half-masticated cow when Dean asks, "What?"

"You're a pig," Sam calmly informs him.

"It's good steak!"

"And the whole restaurant knows it. I'm pretty sure every single person here is staring at you in horror."

Dean actually takes a moment to look self-conscious, but it passes quickly. He finishes chewing his mouthful, makes a show of swallowing and then gives Sam his best superior smirk.

"I don't usually date girls this squeamish, Sammy." When Sam just rolls his eyes and ignores him, Dean goes back to his steak, with the same loud, open-mouthed chewing as a moment before.

For the first time since he lost that stupid wrestling match, Sam thinks maybe their current division of labor is a good idea after all.


— - — - — - — - —

By the time Dean drops him off at Make Me a Man first thing the next morning, Sam has changed his mind again and tries to explain that Dean should really be the one doing this. His brother just laughs and says he'll be back in a couple of hours. So here Sam stands, about to waste a brand new credit card in a 'full-service gentleman's boutique', whatever the hell that is. To make it worse, he hasn't even had breakfast yet.

"Mr. Jackson?" a smooth voice from Sam's left greets him as he opens the door.

"Um…" Sam forgot to look at the card Dean handed him, but there's no one else around. "Mmm hmm," he says, which he hopes sounds enough like an affirmation to make the guy happy, but enough like something else that if it's the wrong name he won't look like he's using a stolen card.

"My name is Nigel, and I will be assisting you today." The man steps out from behind a marble desk and holds out a hand. His suit looks tailor-made and he's groomed to within an inch of his life. Sam feels ridiculously underdressed in ripped jeans, a shirt that was in pretty good shape three hunts ago but is looking worse for the wear now, and with a mess of oil still ground in under his fingernails from helping Dean rotate the tires last week.

Nigel only just manages not to flinch from Sam's hand. "Your future brother-in-law called and explained everything," he continues.

"My—?"

"His sister obviously wants you looking your very best for the wedding. We'll take care of it."

"Right." Sam has no idea if this is a ridiculous cover story (More ridiculous than the truth?) that Dean spun, or if this Nigel guy has him confused with someone else, but he goes with the flow.

"I think we'll start with the manicure," Nigel says, looking pointedly away from Sam's hands, "And then we can get the tailor started before you have your facial and haircut."

"My facial?" Sam remembers Jess having a facial one day with a friend, and it didn't sound like something he was all that keen to try.

"Oh, yes." Nigel starts towards a black-lacquered door. "Right this way, Mr. Jackson."

The manicurist is about four foot two and has the tiniest hands Sam has ever seen on a grown woman. He knows she's not a child, though, because it's clear from her face that she's a hundred and ten years old.

"Sit, sit," she says, and leads him to a black leather chair with wide, high arms.

"This is Magda," Nigel introduces her. "She'll fix you right up." He slips back out the door, leaving Sam feeling like a monster next to the tiny woman.

"Sit!" Magda says again, and pushes Sam in the stomach, which is about all the higher she can reach.

He sits.

She settles herself on a wheeled stool, and picks up his hands, examining them and making little tutting noises. "Mechanic," she mutters, "I have just the thing."

Leaving Sam to wonder what the hell Dean's gotten him into, she disappears behind a curtain, reappearing a moment later with two glass bowls of bright blue, sudsy water.

"Soak," she says, placing the bowls into little depressions on the chair's arms, and nodding curtly, she adds, "Relax."

The soaking is easy. The relaxing, not so much.

It takes less time than he'd imagined for the blue liquid to soak away the grime, and when it's done, Magda wheels back and forth between his hands, scrubbing, clipping, and filing—all of which is much more painful then he'd expected—and then massaging him up to the elbows with a spice-scented lotion, which makes all the pain more than worth it.

Next, Nigel leads him across the hall where the tailor, George—who is as thin as Magda is tiny, but nearly as tall as Sam—drapes fabric next to Sam's face, asking his opinion several times but not waiting for an answer. In the end, George chooses a dark charcoal pinstripe for 'the rehearsal dinner' and a classic black tuxedo for 'the ceremony.'

"Now we measure," he says, and drops to his knees between Sam's legs, reaching for his crotch.

"We what?" Before Sam can back off the little platform in fear, George runs a tape down his inseam, muttering to himself.

Sam is sure it can only go uphill from there, but when he arrives in the next room, he's greeted by two women who ask him to take his shirt off.

"For a facial?"

"And a wax," one of the women says.

Sam is going to kill Dean.

Steam cleaned and with a freshly denuded chest, Sam is passed off to the hairdresser, Ramon. "Just a trim," he says through teeth still gritted in pain.

"We will make you look fabulous."

Sam closes his eyes and lets the man go at it, letting himself be soothed by the gentle tugging on his scalp. When he opens them again, he's surprised that he actually likes what the guy did. A lot. It's still long and wavy, but shaped to his head, and it looks more artfully tousled than towel dried and left. Ramon gives him a pot of product, and explains with much primping and hand waving how Sam can get the same look. Sam isn't convinced, but he'll try.

Finally it's back to George for a last suit fitting, and it seems like a lifetime later—even though his watch assures him it's only been two hours— that Sam is finally coiffed, primped, manicured, dressed in his dinner suit, and ready to walk out the door. Much to his relief, the card Dean gave him does indeed say Randy Jackson, and the $3,500 charge goes through smoothly.


— - — - — - — - —

Dean makes sure to time it perfectly when he returns to pick Sam up from his day of adventure at the spa and salon. There are two good reasons not to keep Sam waiting. The first involves the fact that Dean still can't quite believe he convinced Sam to do this. Why push his luck by making Sam stand around somewhere uncomfortable, probably dressed in a nice suit and feeling irredeemably girly, waiting to be rescued?

The second reason involves Dean's faith in his brother to find a creative way to ruin the salon's work if given a chance.

It's 9:55 am when he pulls up to the brick façade, five minutes before Sam is due to walk out and meet him. He could pull further forward and stop two feet from the door, but he puts the car in park about thirty feet back instead. It's not far enough to piss Sam off, but it is enough to make Sam come to him. Dean wants a good view so he can take it all in, and once this is over there is no end to the shit he plans to give.

He kills the engine and leans back in his seat, comfortable creak of old leather as he watches through the windshield. He's ready to school his features into his business neutral expression—all the better for keeping Sam calm and with the program—and to keep his inevitable urge to laugh on a secret low simmer.

He's not ready for what he actually sees when the glass of the entry glints and the door opens, because this Sam doesn't inspire anything like laughter.

Dean knows his brother like nobody else—knows the contours of his face and the line of his back and what the guy looks like in a shoplifted suit and tie. Dean has spent his whole life looking at Sam, and he's still not sure he recognizes the man he sees walking his direction.

The suit fits Sam's shoulders like poetry and perfection, and the pressed pants hang just right in a way that's more than a little bit distracting. His hair is a startling change, still nearly as long as it was this morning—Dean had wondered if they would cut it shorter—but sculpted like goddamn art. Dean can't stop staring. And from five feet away as Sam finally closes the distance, he looks… is he glowing?

Dean knows his mouth is gaping. His heart is an off-balance jackhammer of rhythm in his chest, and he doesn't know why. He just knows Sam is getting closer, is right there, reaching for the handle and opening the car door so he can slide in, and Dean can't figure out how to make his voice work. He keeps on staring, silent and useless, as Sam slams the door shut and settles back against the leather seat.

Dean doesn't know what to say.

"I don't think I've ever felt so violated in my life," Sam informs him, and it's enough to snap Dean out of that weird, tense spot.

"What's the matter, Sammy?" Dean asks, turning the key to start the car. If his delivery is a little off, maybe the engine turning over can cover it for him. "Didn't you enjoy your manicure?"

"Fuck you," says Sam, and his face settles into a familiar scowl. "You owe me like six months of laundry duty for this, Dean. And passenger picks the music."

Dean laughs and noses out of the parking lot, turning onto the street when traffic is clear. Sam is holding what looks like a dry cleaning bag on his lap, careful and cautious like he's afraid of breaking it, and Dean realizes it's a second suit.

"Why don't you toss that in back?" Dean says and reaches for the paper bag he's got stowed under the seat. "I got you some munchies."

With his eyes lighting up and his glower transforming into a smile, Sam breathes, "You're a life saver."

Dean watches from the corner of his eye as Sam twists in his seat to carefully—ridiculously carefully—lay the spare suit down in back. He hands over the bag when Sam grabs for it, and fights to hold a straight face as Sam yanks it open and immediately loses the eager smile. It's almost too funny to stand, how quickly Sam's face falls, and Dean barely keeps from snickering.

"Dean. This is a bag of celery."

"It's good for you."

"It's celery." And now Dean finally does laugh, because the look of betrayal on Sam's face is too much. Dean's sides shake, his whole face twisting with a wide, uncontrollable grin, and he should feel a little bit bad, but there will be time for that later.

"Eat up," he says, and pulls onto the interstate.


— - — - — - — - —

When Dean finally stops laughing, Sam takes one of the stalks out of the bag with enough of a flourish to get his brother's attention, and when he can see Dean's eyes on him, he chomps through it viciously, feeling a little bit better when he gets the expected wince. Not wanting to give Dean the satisfaction of seeing how much he's gotten to his brother, Sam spends the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the contestants' hotel keeping his little diatribe about stereotypes and calorie counting to himself.

The hotel's driveway is a flurry of activity: men in suits walking around—half of them with state sashes across their chests and the other half heading towards a table under a sign that says, Check In Here. There's a giant pile of suitcases and other luggage by a second table with a single, very serious bellhop standing guard, and taxis and cars try to avoid the crowds as they disgorge passengers nearby.

Dean, makes no effort to hide his grin when he says, "Can't wait to see you in that sash, Mr. New Jersey."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Yes, thanks," Dean corrects, and by some miracle, Sam doesn't punch him. Then he hands Sam a New Jersey driver's license and a credit card and says, "Or should I say, 'Can't wait to see you in that sash, Mr. Sammy Lou Freebush'?"

Sam looks at the ID and sees, much to his horror, that Dean isn't kidding about his new name. "When I kill you, it will be slowly. With lots of pain. And you will never see it coming."

"What?" Dean's attempt at an innocent look fails completely. "Lou's not really a girly name, you know. Lou Ferrigno played the Incredible Hulk."

"It's not really 'Lou' I have the problem with." Which isn't exactly true, but on a scale of 1 to 10, when 'Freebush' is in play, 'Lou' doesn't even need to bother taking the field.

"So what's wrong?"

"Freebush? Dean? Are you fucking serious?"

"Hey. Ash made all the arrangements, did the hacking. I just took what he sent and ran with it."

Sam shoves the cards in his jacket pocket and gets out of the car. "You can deal with the bags," he growls, stomping off towards the registration table.

After he's been kitted out with a sash and given a file of information, Sam and the remaining milling contestants are herded towards a trolley-car tour bus to see San Antonio's sights and attend the welcome brunch. An eager young woman with wandering eyes checks them in as they board. Sam is almost the last one on.

He hears whispered and muttered repetitions in the theme of "Who's that?" as he heads toward the back where there are more empty seats, and then as he's looking around, hears, "Hey, New Jersey, this one's empty," from over his right shoulder.

The speaker is blond and lightly tanned, with huge blue eyes and an eager grin. "I'm Tad Frasier, from Rhode Island." He scoots closer to the window, and Sam sits.

"I'm Sammy—"

"Sammy Lou Freebush." Tad grins even more widely and holds out his hand, making them bump elbows.

Sam flinches from the name (and a little from the elbow); he can't help it.

"I memorized the orientation packet."

Sam hasn't even opened his. Either this Tad has a hell of an eidetic memory, or he got his packet a lot earlier.

"I know all forty-nine guys by name and picture. Well, fifty, including myself. But your picture wasn't in there, so I knew it was you from your lack of picture."

Sam is trying to imagine what he's supposed to say to this—something that doesn't sound as rude as, And by the huge satin sash that says New Jersey draped across my chest?—when suddenly a man of about fifty claps for their attention from the front of the bus. "Now, gentlemen," he says, "let's all sing! You know the song!"

All around him, fifty voices—not including himself, but including the old guy—start warbling about Mr. All-America. It reminds him of the team bus at the Stanford v. Cal games except he's right in the middle of it, and they're singing about grace and poise instead of kicking the other team's ass. This is going to be a loooong morning.


— - — - — - — - —

Sam is almost faint with hunger and cologne fumes by the time they get to the site of the brunch. Tad has a chummy grip on his elbow and seems just as eager to get inside as Sam, though more out of excitement than starvation if the bouncing he's doing is any indication.

"Oh, look! There's our table," Tad crows, pulling Sam past a knot of service crew towards the center of the room. Several other guys are sitting down when they get there, and Tad introduces them all by name, as though they're bosom friends already.

The men return Sam's polite greetings of 'hi' and 'hey' and 'hello', but they look almost as mystified as Sam feels about Tad, which makes him both relieved and oddly protective towards the excited Rhode Islander. Then he spies the piles of bagels and pastries on the table, and he forgoes further conversation in favor of eating.

He's just stuffed half a cream cheese-smeared bagel into his mouth when he remembers Dean with the steak. Chewing and swallowing carefully, Sam takes a sip of coffee and starts again with a smaller bite. Just in time to cover his stomach's loud growl, the clipboard girl from the bus taps on the microphone and clears her throat.

"Testing one, testing two," she says, and Sam sees Mr. Let's-Sing-a-Song give her a cut-it-out gesture.

When people have quieted down, she continues, "I'd like to introduce the man who has been this pageant's director and MC for the past twenty-five years, Mr. William Bergen!" She starts to applaud wildly, and the fifty state finalists join in.

Coming up to the microphone, Mr. Bergen makes an attempt to look modest as he waves away their cheers and applause. "Thank you, thank you," he says, and then, "Has it really been twenty-five years? I get up every morning and say, 'Who is this old man wearing my pajamas?'" He pauses for their awwws, which come right on cue, and then continues. "And even though I'll be retiring this year, don't cry for me, …Alabama."

As the old guy speaks, Sam sees the top of Dean's head pop upside-down into the top corner of the window to Bergen's left.

Jumping up, Sam shouts, "Jesus Christ!" when Dean's shoulders drop into view as though whatever he's suspended from started to give way.

Everyone stares at Sam dumbly, and then they start to turn towards where Sam's looking. Fortunately, before anyone gets there, Dean has managed to haul himself back up and out of view.

"I— I'm sorry. I took a bite of my bagel, and I forgot to pray." Sam fumbles to his knees. "Dear Jesus, I thank you for this beautiful day and for this bagel and schmear," he says, adding silently, and for keeping my damn fool brother from dropping two stories onto his stupid head.

Because Dean doesn't get to die falling off a roof. Sam is going to kill him.


— - — - — - — - —

Having learned nothing from skulking around the brunch—or back at the hotel during the afternoon's dance rehearsal—Dean hopes for better luck in the evening when the contestants are given time to get settled in their rooms and roam the halls getting to know each other. The bright, modern building doesn't give him many places to hide and eavesdrop, but Dean does the best he can with charm. Mr. South Dakota and Mr. Michigan have some sort of on-again off-again thing going on, a carryover from last year's competition, according to the bellhop. Mr. Tennessee spent time in rehab a couple years ago. And the former Mr. New Jersey's porn career is exceptionally bad.

If there is someone working magic, they're being very subtle, or they haven't had time to set up shop yet, because Dean hasn't found any evidence. If it weren't for Ash's file—and the faith Dean has learned to put in the scrawny genius's intel—Dean would think there was nothing funny about this pageant. Nothing Supernatural funny, anyway.

As it is, he knows better. He's just missing something, maybe something vital. And when that's the case, the only thing to do is talk to Sam. They're supposed to meet up later anyway, but Dean figures it won't matter if he turns up early. Maybe they'll sneak out for some real food, and Dean can make up for the celery.

The hotel hallway is nearly empty as Dean moves through it, trying to look casual as he marvels at the ridiculously nice carpet, the wallpaper that shines smooth and unbroken. It's a bright contrast to his own accommodations, a pit of a place just a couple blocks down that's a lot more in keeping with their usual fare. He's counting doors, knows Sam's is the third one ahead on the right, and he stops short when he sees Mr. Rhode Island—yeah, Dean spent all day watching the guys wander around in their stupid sashes—stop and knock.

It opens, and Dean catches only snippets of a murmured conversation, something about hot cocoa. It's enough for him to recognize Sam's voice, because Dean would know it anywhere, and he waits for his brother to send the guy away.

His stomach lurches unpleasantly when the door opens wider and the man walks in instead. It shouldn't freak him out; it definitely shouldn't make him angry, but his blood hums with edgy energy as he moves further down the hall and stares at the closed door of Sam's room. He could knock and interrupt. Invent a crisis and drag Sam away.

He turns around and storms down the hall instead. He suddenly needs air.


— - — - — - — - —

Sam is frowning at himself in the mirror, mostly so he doesn't laugh out loud at Mr. Texas who is sleeping with his face slathered in a mashed-up mixture of avocado and cucumber, which he made with a granite mortar and pestle. Earlier, Sam made the mistake of asking him what he was doing, and it's not hard to extrapolate from the tone Texass answered with that he won't take kindly to any hysterics from his roommate. Sam's just about decided that he has the potential laughter under control and can head for bed when someone knocks on the door.

His first instinct is to assume it's Dean, but Dean would never tap timidly at anyone's door, particularly not Sam's, so he peers through the peep hole. It's the guy from the bus, Mr. Rhode Island—Tad. He's holding a thermos and two Alamo mugs, his head is wrapped in a towel turban, and he's wearing one of the hotel's robes. Cautiously, Sam opens the door.

"Hi," Tad says. "I hope it's not too late."

Sam was up at dawn to get to the torture spa on time, all he's had to eat today was a celery stick and a bagel, and he had to spend five hours trying to learn how to twirl and shake his ass to Dancing Queen, which was both humiliating and exhausting. All he wants to do is shut his eyes and pretend that this day never happened. Tad is looking at him expectantly, though, and the guy was nice enough to let Sam sit with him on the bus.

"Uh," Sam says, looking at Mr. Texas, whose name he cannot remember. "My roommate's asleep, but did you want to come in?"

Tad actually does a little skip of glee, which nearly makes his turban topple off to the side, resulting in his nearly braining himself with the thermos to keep it on his head, and Sam wonders, yet again, what the hell he's doing here.

"I made some of my famous hot chocolate," Tad stage whispers, waggling the thermos. Texas stiffens, wrinkles his nose and pooches his lips out. Sam ignores him.

"It's okay though," Tad continues, "it's low fat. And sugar free. With extra protein to build muscle." He's shoving a mug into Sam's hands and pouring him some before Sam can even settle on the bed.

"To world peace," Tad says, lifting his own mug and clicking it against Sam's.

"To, um, world peace."

Even Texas mutters, "W'rld peace." Those videos Dean made Sam watch didn't lie, which scares him.

Then he takes a sip of the hot chocolate, which tastes like—he doesn't even know what, and his fear increases. Not like, oh, shit, there's a wendigo after me fear, but Sam bets the liquid is scarier than anything Dean's having to deal with right now, so he's grumpy about it anyway. He tries to swallow, but ends up letting the stuff roll right off his tongue and back into the mug.

"Hot," he murmurs when he sees Tad looking at him questioningly.

"Sorry," Tad says, blushing. Then, "You're so calm about everything. I don't know how you stay so calm."

"What?" Sam's senses go on high alert, making sure that there isn't something creeping out of the closet or about to jump through the door at them. That there isn't anything (other than a roommate covered in salad ingredients and a thermos filled with revolting brown sludge) to be not calm about.

"This morning at the brunch, I would have been so embarrassed if I'd jumped up and shouted the lord's name in vain in the middle of Bergen's speech, but you didn't blush at all. You just acted like everything was normal."

Sam can feel his forehead wrinkling in confusion. Maybe he should have taken Nigel up on his offer of Botox.

"That's why you're going to win," Tad continues wistfully, "you have so much poise, and you're so strong." He reaches for Sam's arm like he wants to feel his biceps.

"No. I mean, you're—" Sam has no idea what to say or how to cover the fact that he just flinched away from this guy who is just, as far as Sam can tell, trying to be nice.

"So what's—" Tad asks, looking over Sam's shoulder at the seemingly-sleeping guy from Texas, and then more quietly, "What's your talent?"

"Um… being strong and poised?" Never, in a life filled with bizarre conversations, has Sam felt so out of his depth.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone lift weights before."

Now Sam's even more lost. "You haven't?" and What is this guy talking about?

"In competition. Usually it's singing, or dancing, one guy had a puppet once. That was kind of creepy. He—"

"Talent competition?" Ash's notes did not say anything about a talent competition. And yeah, there was a guy singing opera in one of the videos Dean made him watch, but Sam just thought the guy was some kind of opera geek.

"Sure. The talent competition. I play the trombone." He looks at Sam's face. "It's not as geeky as it sounds."

"I'm, um, sure it's—"

"I'm in the middle of a REM cycle, here," Mr. Texas pipes up from his side of the room. "Can you girls take your little tea party somewhere else?"

"Sorry," Tad says again, like someone with a salad face mask didn't just call him a girl, and he gathers up his mug and thermos and stands to go. Sam walks him to the door, hoping that somehow he'll dream up a brilliant talent while he's sleeping.

In the middle of brushing his tongue to try to get rid of the 'chocolate' taste, Sam remembers that he can't go to bed yet, he still has to meet Dean.

"This is the worst case ever," he murmurs to himself, and pulls a pair of sweats on over his boxers. He tries not to wake Sir Salad-Face up again when he sneaks out the door.


— - — - — - — - —

Dean's in enough of a mood that he doesn't particularly want to meet Sam at their intended rendezvous, but bad moods take a back seat to the mission. So he's waiting where he's supposed to, on the fire-pit side of the outdoor pool, the stone deck slick beneath his boots.

Sam is late by three whole minutes, and by the time quiet footsteps signal his approach, Dean is quietly fuming. He's carefully not pondering the why of it, but he doesn't bother hiding his glower as Sam comes closer.

Either it's too dark for Sam to read Dean's face or Sam has other things on his mind, because he doesn't so much as nod to acknowledge Dean's glare. His pace is fast, his hands already gesturing in the air as he says, "Dean, Tad says I need a talent."

"A talent," says Dean. Tad says his brother needs a talent. Peachy. "And what was Tad doing in your room, anyway? Showing you his talent?"

"What? No. He plays trombone. Dean, this is serious, what the hell am I going to do? I can't compete without a talent!"

Sam is genuinely freaked out, and Dean feels his ire start to fade in the face of stronger protective instincts. His little brother—okay not so little anymore, but still—is upset, and Dean needs to make it right; needs to get him calm somehow, which calls for a distraction.

He's still got the swimsuit he bought—okay, shoplifted—for Sam in the pocket of his coat, and he cuts off Sam's panicked tirade by throwing the fabric straight at his brother's face.

Sam is too distracted to block or deflect, and the last of Dean's irritation evaporates with an amused snort at the sight of Sam standing there with a Speedo on his head. Sam reaches up almost delicately to pick up the offending article, eyebrow quirking as he says, "What is this?"

"For the swimsuit competition," says Dean, only he's starting to wish he had chosen something more modest. The suit looks tiny in Sam's hands; it will be downright indecent when it's all he's wearing. But there's no subtle way for Dean to call do-over and demand it back, so he tucks the discomfort away and meets Sam's eyes.

"Dude," says Sam, and there's disbelief in his face. "Where am I gonna put my gun?"

Dean chokes on an incredulous laugh. "No place I want to know about."

The look Sam gives him is one of disapproval, lips twisted and eyebrow raised. Once he's sure Dean knows he's not funny, Sam asks, "Did you find anything out?" and shoves the offending article of 'clothing' in a pocket.

"Pretty much jack squat," Dean admits. "Whoever's working the mojo, they haven't done anything since we got here. But my money's on one of the contestants."

"You're just pulling that out of your ass, aren't you."

"Maybe. But come on, who else could it be? Who else has any reason to sabotage the pageant?"

"I dunno, man," says Sam, and shakes his head skeptically.

"Easy enough to check. Whoever it is will have all kinds of creepy shit in his luggage. I just need to search everyone's rooms."

"Haven't you done that already?" Sam asks, and looks downright disappointed in him.

Dean wants to smack him. "No I haven't searched the rooms," he snaps. "I tried. I was all over that hotel while you were shaking your tushies, but the bellhops didn't bring any of the pageant luggage in until four, and you losers were all done dancing by then."

"Fine," Sam sighs. "So what do we do?"

"I'll do it tomorrow during the next dance rehearsal. All the contestants are required to be there, so the rooms should be empty. I can dig around without Mr. All-State-Shmuck walking in and asking why I'm going through his stuff."

Sam nods, looks like he's maybe thinking it over too hard, but he says, "Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea."

"Yes," Dean teases, but Sam isn't paying attention. "That's settled," he continues. "Now. Back to more important things. You have plenty of talent, Sam. There's got to be something you can do."

"Sure. Breaking and entering, exorcisms, and the occasional psychic ability. Those will go over great."

"You could sing something," Dean suggests. Because sure, Sam's not great, but how hard can it be?

"Did you catch the part where Mr. Colorado is singing opera, Dean?"

"Dance?"

"Well at least I know you weren't watching this afternoon's rehearsal." Which apparently went badly, and Dean files that away under Totally Useless Information.

"Do you still play recorder?"

"That was third grade."

"Got it," Dean says with a snap of his fingers. "Dramatic monologue. You used to do theatre, how hard can it be?"

"No," says Sam. He doesn't offer any explanation, but his expression says he's serious as hell.

And much as Dean hates to admit it, that leaves him out of ideas. There's nothing but the middle-of-the-night chirping of crickets around them as he stares helplessly, wondering if google will give him more to work with. There's got to be something Sam can use, but Dean realizes his brother is right. Their talents don't really lend themselves to public performance.

"Fine," Dean finally surrenders, throwing his arms into the air. "You can just… recite pi to some ridiculous number of decimal places, and we'll pray really hard."

He's kidding. He's so far from serious that it takes him a minute to realize that there's a new look on Sam's face. A look that says he's actually considering it.

"Sam, you cannot recite pi."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not a talent."

"Sure it is." And now Sam has his stubborn face on. "And you obviously don't have any better ideas, so why not? Worst that happens is I lose the contest, right? As long as I buy enough time to crack this hunt, what's it matter?"

And he's got a point. It doesn't matter. So Dean shakes his head and sighs, wry smile tugging at his mouth. Sam turns to go, takes all of two steps before he's moving closer again. He stops maybe a step too close, and Dean feels his eyebrows go up in question.

"Dean," says Sam, and Dean does not like the quiet consideration in his tone. "Why were you pissed off about Tad?"

"I… what?" Dean swallows hard. "I wasn't pissed."

"Bullshit," Sam murmurs, and his eyes are bright. He's looking at Dean too hard, like… like something Dean doesn't want to place, and it's suddenly too damn hot out here; even though it's a cool night surrounded by easy breeze, and Dean should be able to breathe.

It feels like a monumental effort to make his feet move, but he finally takes a step back. He wants to laugh it off, but instead he just retreats. Silently, with Sam's eyes following intense behind him.

Dean's not sure why it makes him feel like a coward.


— - — - — - — - —

When Sam creeps back into his own room, Mr. Texas has added a tiger-print eye mask to his sleeping ensemble. It makes Sam uncomfortable. Not because it's any more creepy than the facepack or Texas' general dickishness, but because the bizarre sight makes Sam miss Dean like a blade in his ribs, and he just saw Dean two minutes ago. He wants to leave, follow Dean back to the motel down the road and fall asleep with the familiar sound of Dean's breathing, the smell of cheap shampoo and canvas duffels in the air, the knowledge that under Dean's pillow is a knife, and not a white-noise-and-whale-sounds CD.

And he wants to chase the look he's pretty sure he saw on Dean's face. The twist of jealousy about something a brother shouldn't be jealous over. There was something Sam thinks he might want to see again in Dean's eyes when he looked at the scrap of swimsuit in Sam's hand. A look he would have killed to see from Dean back when Sam was in high school.

Shutting the bathroom door, Sam turns on the light, and half expects to see a skinny kid with a pimple in the middle of his forehead looking back at him from the mirror. Instead, the man looking back at him towers over the vanity; his shoulders fill out the sweatshirt that Sam is sure was baggy on him last time he checked; his hair is soft and shiny around his face, and his skin glows after the ministrations of Nigel's team of torturers.

Sam smiles at the guy in the mirror. He looks the same, but not the same. Maybe Dean is seeing him in a new light. Or maybe he just thinks Sam looks ridiculous all groomed and polished, and Sam's letting sleep-deprivation and the inexplicable resurgence of long-buried fantasies give him crazy ideas.

With a grimace, Sam turns away from the mirror and takes a piss before finally collapsing into his bed for what little sleep he can get.


— - — - — - — - —

Dean sleeps fitfully all alone in his motel room, and the next day is a struggle, mostly because all Dean wants to do is keep an eye on Sam. Not that Sam needs Dean looking out for him twenty-four seven or anything, but Dean has spent his whole life watching. He's watching now, but for once he's not the only one. Everyone in this whole damn pageant has their eyes on Sam, and Dean wants to jump up and down and holler and make a spectacle because they've got no right to look at his brother that way.

But neither does Dean, and that's something he's trying not to think about too hard.

The dance rehearsal is right at the front of the schedule, bright and early so the contestants can practice themselves sweaty and then beautify back up for today's pageant events. The guys are on the main stage, and Dean hovers in the wings just long enough to confirm that Sam really is not very good at this whole dancing thing. He kind of wants to stay and watch more, but he's got other places to be.

It's not hard work, breaking into one room after another, but he doesn't know what he expects to find. Turns out a male pageant contestant's belongings are every bit as mysterious as the things he's stumbled across in his occasional search of women's locker rooms and that one very memorable time at the haunted day spa. There are hair care products he's never heard of and items he can only assume are grooming supplies. He comes across half a dozen eyelash curlers, which he recognizes because the first time he saw one he thought it was some sort of torture device, and he's since done enough research to work it out.

But, he finds normal stuff, too. Porn and address books and hiking boots. Mr. Arizona brought an extra pillow, and Mr. Maryland has a picture of himself with his girlfriend in the front of his wallet. There are a couple of PSPs and a whole lot of iPods, a cowboy hat hanging from the corner lamp in Mr. New Mexico's room.

Dean is more surprised when he finds a book on the history of Spanish linguistics in one room, a rough draft of someone's dissertation in another. There's a thick tome on the social and economic effects of World War II sitting casually on the corner of a rumpled bedspread, and Dean wonders whether it's Nevada or Oregon who has the hard-on for world history.

He hits pay dirt in Mr. Rhode Island's room—Tad, he reminds himself. There's a hex bag buried in a small corner pocket of his luggage. It's fully assembled, and there's no other magical paraphernalia mixed in with his stuff, which makes Tad a victim. Not their guy. Dean finds matching hex bags in two other rooms, mixed in with the belongings of Mr. California and Mr. New York.

He pockets them and moves on to Sam's room, last on his list. He's only got a few minutes to search, and he moves quickly; goes through his brother's stuff as well as everything his Texas roommate owns. No hex bags and no ingredients, but he finds a mortar and pestle in the roommate's suitcase, and Dean knows enough about magical ingredients for that to set off his warning bells. Mr. Texas doesn't look like one of the front runners, and that means potential motive.

Dean makes it back into the hallway just in time for the first sweat-soaked contestant to bump past him en route to a shower. The rest trickle past shortly thereafter, and Dean gives Sam a small nod when their paths cross.

He finds a deserted service area and destroys the hex bags before making his way to the pageant arena. Backstage, he keeps low and out of sight, watching for anything out of the ordinary and biding his time until he can approach Sam and fill his brother in.

The interview prelims are a joke, and Dean really wishes he could just tune them out and ignore. He watches them from the sidelines, an anonymous shadow in the wings, because the lights are down and the house is full of eager audience members.

The contestants respond with nearly identical, canned answers, as William Bergen—bedecked in what Dean assumes is a ludicrously expensive suit—asks one guy after another what this country needs most.

"I would have to say world peace," says Hawaii.

"Definitely world peace," says Texas when it's his turn.

"That's easy," says California, with a bright, cheesy smile. "World peace."

"World peace," says New Mexico, and Dean decides this is getting old.

But Sam is on stage now, New Jersey sash draped prim and proper across his chest even as he has to stoop a little to get closer to the mic. Bergen glances again at his front cue card and says, "What is the one most important thing our society needs?"

"More effective methods for apprehending the perpetrators of credit card fraud and identity theft," says Sam, and Dean just about suffocates from trying not to guffaw. Silence reigns awkward on the stage, and Sam's face—plastered with a bright, fake smile—is the only one not looking startled, confused and a little bit panicked. Dean can tell that the MC has no idea how to respond to that, and the man shuffles his cards nervously as if he's going to move on to the next one.

"And…" says Sam before the next question can hit. "World peace."

The audience erupts in applause, and a relieved smile spreads across the MC's face. Neatly avoiding any more questions, Sam waves as he moves off the stage and makes room for the next interviewee.

Dean thinks about ducking his way past the set pieces backstage to catch his brother, but Mr. Rhode Island is next. Dean's got a hunch he should be here for this, and anyway it's his job to be watching today. Watching means more than just Sam, even if it does take a remarkable amount of effort for Dean to remind himself of that fact.

Obviously burned by Sam's answer to the world peace question, Bergen heads straight for his second card, "Describe your perfect date."

"That's a tough one," says Tad, a nervous laugh escaping his lips, and Dean almost pities him. The anxious aura is visible across the stage as he finally answers, "I'd have to say April 25th. Because it's not too hot, not too cold. All you need is a light jacket."

The pity Dean felt a moment before amps itself up a hundredfold as he sees the horror spread across the poor guy's face. Dean suspects that the dude isn't an idiot, despite occasional evidence to the contrary, and his smile as he clears the stage is forced at best—evidence that he knows exactly how stupid he sounded.

Dean's brain drags him back to the hex bags he found, the first in Tad's belongings, and he suddenly wonders if this fumble relates. It doesn't make sense—he destroyed the hex bags—but when it comes to hunting, Winchesters don't believe in coincidence. He forces himself to sit through the rest of the interview prelims before ducking into the changing room in search of his brother.

He had forgotten the bathing suit competition came next—thirty percent of each competitor's final score—and there's a whole lot of skin showing as he makes his way towards Sam in the far corner.

Sam is sporting an enormous white hotel towel, wrapped tightly around his waist like a layer of protective armor, and Dean's amused snort gets his brother's attention quickly.

"Don't even start, asshole," Sam snarls with a glower. "Could you possibly have chosen a more revealing suit than this?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asks, eyes wide and puckish with pretended innocence.

Sam just keeps glaring at him, and keeps his voice low as he says, "Dean. The last time I was this naked in public, I was coming out of a uterus."

"Come on, man," Dean laughs, and maybe he's a little too daring in the face of Sam's obvious discomfort. "How bad can it be?" He makes a successful grab for Sam's towel and yanks it away, leaving his brother standing there in nothing but the skimpy piece of red fabric that Dean suddenly remembers was maybe not such a great idea after all. Sam holds his composure, but Dean can tell from the look in his brother's eyes that there will be retribution later.

Dean's not really sure he can be bothered about that at the moment, since his own higher brain function is grinding to a halt at the sight before him. He's staring outright, has to be obvious as hell, but he can't stop, and god but Sam has no place looking that good. Especially not in public where anyone could see him, and Dean is trying to figure out how he can get his brother disqualified before he goes on stage like that, in front of a zillion people. The ideas he's getting are probably not helpful ones.

"Huh?" Dean says, realizing suddenly that Sam is staring at him expectantly.

"I said, did you have something to tell me or are you just here to make my life miserable?"

"Oh. Right." They're on the job, Dean remembers now, and he grapples for his scattered thoughts. Pulls them back to the forefront and shakes away the more distracting images in his head. He steps closer and drops his voice as he says, "I found a couple hex bags when I searched the rooms. Three of them."

"Sabotage," Sam murmurs, already on the same page, and Dean nods.

"And it might be your roommate. I found a mortar and pestle in his stuff."

"No," Sam demurs. "That's to make beauty products. Besides. He's totally not sly enough for hexes."

"Damn," mutters Dean, annoyed that his only lead has fallen flat on its face. "I knew it couldn't be that easy. Back to square one on the who, but so far hex bags are the what."

"Who were they targeting?" Sam asks.

"One of them had your Rhode Island friend's name on it," Dean answers, careful and quiet. "Did you see his interview?"

Sam's eyes go wide as he connects the pieces. "Didn't you destroy the hex bags?"

"Of course I did. But maybe it's a different kind of magic. Maybe the rules aren't what we think they are. We've only seen this sort of thing a couple times, right?" Sam nods reluctant agreement and Dean continues. "It could be just bad luck, but we've gotta be sure. You have to talk to him."

"Talk to him? How? He's going to think I'm a total jerk if I just walk up to him and say, 'So what's the story with April 25th, were you cursed or something?'"

"So be more subtle than that. He's your buddy, right? Just… strike up a conversation. Girl talk."

"Girl talk."

"Sure." Dean tugs at a lock of Sam's hair.

"You're an ass. You know that right? An unmitigated asshole."

"I love you, too, baby," Dean says, flaunting his best cheeky grin as he turns to leave. He feels Sam's irritated glower follow him all the way out the door.


— - — - — - — - —

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