Undercover
I was just going through a few of my older fanfics (like you do) and I came across this little antique which was only the third fanfic I ever wrote, so I dusted it off, gave it a paint job and a bit of TLC and so, herewith, for your delectation the new, updated and improved 'Undercover'.
Because, yes, I really do NOT have anything better to do!
UNDERCOVER
Rating: T
Genre: Humour
Word Count: approx 600
The boys investigate a haunting at an art college. Surely even Dean can't get into trouble doing something so simple ... can he?
'Going undercover'.
Dean snorted inwardly at the irony of the phrase.
He and Sam had ended up doing some pretty dumb things in the course of their work. Dumb, illegal, dishonest, reckless … the list was depressingly long. Some of those things he was proud of, many he wasn't; but Dean had no idea where he would categorise this particular episode.
Suicidally, gut-clenchingly, toe-curlingly, knuckle-chewingly embarrassing came close; an 'I'm-not-showing-my-face-in-public-until-everyone-who-knows-me-is-dead' level of humiliation …
xxxxx
The call had come from Bobby a couple of nights ago to say there were reports of a poltergeist manifesting at a small provincial art college close to where the boys were currently operating. Nasty bastard too, traumatising students and tutors alike, especially the poor cleaning lady who had jumped out of an upstairs window in panic and was now in the local hospital with two broken ankles.
He shifted the weight of the grecian urn on his shoulder with a laboured grunt and mentally cursed himself for sending Sam to the library to do the tedious, geek-boy part of the research. If he hadn't, it could have been Sam standing here wishing he was dead while Dean was holed up in a library with a whole pile of boring-as-hell books and a coffee.
At first, when the receptionist had asked him if he was the model for the life drawing class, he answered yes without hesitation.
It got him into the building without even trying; and she thought he was a model - how freakin' cool was that?
Anyway, how was he supposed to know what being an artist's model involved?
Heck, this friggin' urn was heavy …
xxxxx
Sam left the library satisfied, having discovered a whole heap of valuable information about the college site's chequered history; the violent murder that took place two hundred years before the place was built and the identity of the deeply unpleasant individual who was now haunting it's cheerful, brightly lit halls.
He headed back to the college to share his findings with Dean. With a bit of luck, they could track down and waste this creepy skank tonight, and then treat their weary bodies to a relaxing day off. He smiled broadly at the thought.
As he wandered casually through the college's halls, he idly peered through the glass inserts in the various doors until he reached room 5b and froze, his jaw working it's way to the ground.
There, in the middle of the room, surrounded by an assortment of flushed women enthusiastically sketching behind a forest of easels stood his brother, on a velvet-lined plinth, butt naked and looking for all the world like a terrified rabbit in headlights, armed only with a grecian urn and his perky nipples.
Sam stood helplessly rooted to the ground; he stared and gaped.
He was completely unaware of the thin dribble of spit which was hanging off his bottom lip.
xxxxx
Gradually, the shocked gape stretched into an evil grin … oh, there was a lifetime's worth of mileage in this.
That day off was gonna be awesome!
xxxxx
end