Multimedia: Superbadfic (1/1)
Multimedia: Superbadfic (1/1)
Story by: Pen37
Photos by: Oxoniesis art.
Summary: Sam and Dean find something new to hunt
Author: pen37
Beta: lyonza
Fandom: Supernatural
Classification: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
pairings: None
The rest of the superbadfic series is here.
Rating: G
Warning: There are photos. May not be dialup friendly.
Dean could barely see Sam's head over the stack of case files that his brother had piled onto the rickety motel table.
“Here you go, princess,” he said as he put a coffee mug on the table next to Sam. “One half-caf, extra skinny mochaccino. And next time you can order the girly drinks and I'll sit there surfing porn while pretending to do research.”
Sam grunted at that. Which was more verbose than his normal bitchface. Out of curiosity - or perhaps for the sheer entertainment value, Dean poked his head around the stacks of case files to peek at his brother.
Underneath the shaggy emo bangs, Sam was staring, transfixed, at the screen.
“Midget strippers again?” Dean jabbed.
Sam merely grunted.
“Am I talking to myself? Hello?”
“Huh?” Sam looked up and blinked at Dean. “Where did you come from?”
The older Winchester frowned at him. “You haven't heard a word I said, have you?”
Sam's eyes took on the hazy cast of thoughtfulness as he replayed the last few minutes in his head. “Something about . . . strippers?”
“Never mind,” Dean rolled his eyes. Then he looked at the stack of folders. “So what have you got? Poltergeists? Demons? Chupacabras?”
“Worse,” Sam said.
“What could be worse than demons?” Dean narrowed his eyes.
“Fanfiction.”
“Buzhuh?”
“Badly written fanfiction,” Sam reached for the top file. “About us.”
“People write stuff about us?” Dean asked quietly.
“On the Internet,” Sam nodded. His face was set in a solemn expression. “Badly spelled. Badly plotted. Badly written. Some of it just stops in the middle. Some of it, we don't even act like ourselves. The only way you can recognize us as us is by the names.”
Dean shrugged. “Why are you focusing on this instead of something we could hunt?”
“I thought we could hunt this.” Sam said.
“Hunt . . . bad fiction?”
“Uh . . . yeah?”
“And what? Salt and burn it?”
“If it'll get rid of it,” Sam said. “Exorcise it right off the Internet.”
Dean frowned. “Sammy, this isn't our gig. We hunt evil.”
“Dean, this stuff is evil.” Sam huffed. “Look! Here's one where you're seduced by a Mary Sue.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Dean grinned.
“To the tune of 50 Cent's In Da Club.”
Dean froze in place, with one finger in the air and his mouth open as if shot-down in mid-rebuttal.
“We gon' sip Bacardi like it's your birthday.” Sam deadpanned.
“I'll get the salt,” Dean growled.
