Let's Dance
Here's a little bit of fun with the boys. Dean, Sam and cursed ballet slippers; what could possibly go wrong?
Great big humungous spoilers for 7.16 - Out With The Old.
LET'S DANCE
Rating: K+
Genre: Humour
Word Count: 300
xxxxx
In hindsight, I guess those cursed ballet slippers magically appearing in the Impala's back seat just minutes after we'd locked them in the trunk was a warning sign we should have taken more notice of; and then I guess I should've realised that Dean admitting the urge to put them on and dance was pretty much defcon one as warnings go.
To be fair, though, I was too busy trying to bleach my brain of the disturbing mental images that remark created to be able to think straight right then.
But whatever; the slippers are gone; and so has Dean!
xxxxx
We'd only stopped for gas. Two minutes, that's all it took; two minutes with my back turned for Dean to wedge his stupid great size twelve feet into those slippers and disappear.
Some poor girl danced herself to death in those things; dancing for hours and hours until she ground her legs to bloody stumps.
The thing is, we both know how many ways there are to die in this godforsaken job; but of all of them, I would imagine the last way Dean would want to be remembered would be arabesquing his way into eternity down a busy main street.
xxxxx
Dean's not even a good dancer. I mean; yeah, he's fit, strong and fast I suppose but, really, he's got all the poise and elegance of a badly-stuffed sack of turnips.
I've got to get busy and find him before those damn slippers give us an action replay; he couldn't have gotten too far, surely.
Wait; I can see some bewildered-looking people standing over there.
Yep, they definitely look like they've seen something disturbing and ...
Oh, holy crap!
I think I'm gonna hurl ...
It's far worse than I thought.
WHERE THE HELL DID HE GET THOSE FREAKIN' TIGHTS?
xxxxx
end
Great big humungous spoilers for 7.16 - Out With The Old.
LET'S DANCE
Rating: K+
Genre: Humour
Word Count: 300
xxxxx
In hindsight, I guess those cursed ballet slippers magically appearing in the Impala's back seat just minutes after we'd locked them in the trunk was a warning sign we should have taken more notice of; and then I guess I should've realised that Dean admitting the urge to put them on and dance was pretty much defcon one as warnings go.
To be fair, though, I was too busy trying to bleach my brain of the disturbing mental images that remark created to be able to think straight right then.
But whatever; the slippers are gone; and so has Dean!
xxxxx
We'd only stopped for gas. Two minutes, that's all it took; two minutes with my back turned for Dean to wedge his stupid great size twelve feet into those slippers and disappear.
Some poor girl danced herself to death in those things; dancing for hours and hours until she ground her legs to bloody stumps.
The thing is, we both know how many ways there are to die in this godforsaken job; but of all of them, I would imagine the last way Dean would want to be remembered would be arabesquing his way into eternity down a busy main street.
xxxxx
Dean's not even a good dancer. I mean; yeah, he's fit, strong and fast I suppose but, really, he's got all the poise and elegance of a badly-stuffed sack of turnips.
I've got to get busy and find him before those damn slippers give us an action replay; he couldn't have gotten too far, surely.
Wait; I can see some bewildered-looking people standing over there.
Yep, they definitely look like they've seen something disturbing and ...
Oh, holy crap!
I think I'm gonna hurl ...
It's far worse than I thought.
WHERE THE HELL DID HE GET THOSE FREAKIN' TIGHTS?
xxxxx
end