Characters, Dean/Miss Piggy, Sam (Gen, Crack)
Summary: Exactly what it sounds like. More of the win_non_con booty for the drac_suite team!
"He was the handsomest thing I've ever seen—and that includes Kermie," the porcine puppet said. She tossed her hair carelessly, accidentally tangling it over an ear.
"Of course, he could not resist the charms of moi." She leaned forward, batting felt-fringe eyelashes at her attentive, blue-beaked friend. "And not a moment too soon. These small-town gigs are the worst. A girl could die of boredom in a place like this."
She turned her gaze wistfully toward the window.
Dean opened the door hurriedly and swung inside, slamming it behind him and fastening both locks.
"Rock salt?" Sam asked from the table where he was doing research.
"It won't help, I’m almost sure of it. Get the rope, and one of the shotguns."
Sam dug through their stash of in-room armaments while Dean peeked nervously through the motel blinds. "What the hell happened out there, anyway?"
Dean turned away, leaning back against the door and planting his feet. "I was attacked by a Furry."
"A what?" Sam handed him the shotgun.
"A—never mind, you're too young."
"You always say that. I'm twenty-four now."
Dean backed away from the door and sat down, shotgun ready for anything that might come bursting in. "Some freak in a pig costume came onto me when I was checking out the old theater just now."
"Someone who worked there, dressed up for a play?"
"No," Dean said. "Well, probably not. It'd have to be a midget, for one thing, and how much work can there be for a midget in a pig suit?"
"Um… Animal Farm as a musical? Some sort of avant-garde production of Othello?"
"Get serious." Dean ran a hand over his face, then scrubbed more fiercely as his fingers lit on traces of fuzzy fibers sticking to his beard stubble. "This is Nebraska—they don't go for that kind of weirdness here."
"And yet, you got attacked by someone in a pig costume."
"I said there's no audience for weird here, I didn't say the area was lacking in twisted individuals."
"So, what—you couldn't outrun the pig? You thought it might overpower you?"
Dean scowled. "It wasn't like that. I just… one minute I was looking through one of the back corridors, and the next this pig-person in a silver jumpsuit was climbing all over me. It was talking in fake French in this high-pitched voice, and then—"
"It kissed me. There was tongue-fur, Sam! I'll go to my grave with the feeling of tongue-fur etched in my brain." Dean got up abruptly and went into the bathroom, running the water and gargling noisily.
"So?" Sam said. "Come on, Dean, you've been through worse—we've had run-ins with zombies, and you've been slimed more times than I can count."
"It's not the same!" Dean argued. "It's like you and that time with the tentacles—"
"You promised never to bring that up again!"
"Okay, okay," Dean patted Sam's shoulder clumsily, then paced a short path around the motel table. His eyes fell on his duffel bag, where he kept a flask of whiskey, then drifted back to the shotgun still clenched in his hand.
"It's all right, I'll get it for you," Sam said. He dug out the flask and took off the cap, holding the container out for Dean.
"Thanks." Dean downed a heavy shot, choking a little as it burned its way through his mouth.
"So what're we going to do now? I mean, we still have the case to solve and everything."
Dean kept staring at the door, his hand never leaving the shotgun. "I've changed my mind. I say this is our case for the time being—whatever came after me today isn't human, not with a tongue like that. Could be a shapeshifter, or some kind of demon."
"Are you serious? Are we really going to drop everything and head off on some personal mission to avenge your wounded manhood?"
"Hell yeah, Sammy—it's the Winchester way."
"It is not," Sam grumbled, "it's delusional and stupid."
"Whatever." Dean gestured toward the ammunitions bag with the gun. "Just set up the salt lines and shut up."
"And before you say anything else," Dean added firmly, "I call first watch."
-------- fin --------