|The Culling of the Herd
Author: silver ruffian PM
The yellow eyed demon has Dean, Meg and Sam conduct an American Idol style competition to seek out special humans.Rated: Fiction T - English - Parody/Supernatural - Dean W. & Sam W. - Words: 5,235 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 21 - Follows: 6 - Published: 02-24-07 - Status: Complete - id: 3411164
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: The Culling of the Herd
Word count: 5,054
Timeline: Later on this season, when all hell breaks loose.
Type: One-shot, AU, Supernatural spoof of American Idol.
Rating: soft R - Just to be safe. Dean cusses. A lot. (So does Mike Rosenbaum) Also, stylized violence. Minor sex talk.
Characters: Dean, John and Sam Winchester, Meg Masters, Michael Rosenbaum, Other Characters, Various Demon Minions
Pairings: Dean/Blondie (implied); Sam/Ava (implied)
Spoilers: Born Under a Bad Sign
Disclaimer: I don't own Dean, Meg, Sam, John, or Ava. I don't own Supernatural or American Idol, or the Simpsons.
Summary: The yellow eyed demon has Dean, Meg and Sam holding an "American Idol" competition in order to identify special human children.
Author's Notes: This was written very quickly in one afternoon. I have watched "American Idol" on occasion, but since this is crack fic, I did not do any further research. I take 100 of the blame for this one, folks.
Feedback is always appreciated. I don't have a computer at the lousy job I have now, but I always go to the library and get on the 'net the next day, so if you review this fractured little fairy tale and I don't respond right away, I'm not ignoring you—I just don't have ready access to the 'net—yet. So, please review!
"…and it's a beautiful spring day here in the heartland of America. I'm Michael Rosenbaum, from 'Smallville', and welcome to the first annual Golden Idols competition, not to be confused with that other Idol competition. Yep, in case you haven't realized it by now, you're watching the CW Network. We are free to be just as tacky and tasteless as we wanna be, and for the next two hours we're going to prove it to 'ya. We've got a huge crowd here today, which works out just fine. The best part about this competition is that we're looking for groups of raw talent. We pick the best from all the rest. So if you've human and you've got a special talent, preferably for causing mayhem and mischief, come on down and show us what you got. It pays to have friends in low places…"
Dean Winchester slid into his seat with his customary smirk, brown leather jacket and worn jeans, and a large Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee. His yellow eyes gleamed softly underneath the overhead lights. "Well, let's get this shit over with." He glanced at his digital watch. "I'm on a tight schedule here, folks."
Sam's pitch black eyes seemed to absorb the light. He turned and raised one eyebrow at his brother. "You got somewhere else better to be?"
Dean sniffed. "Matter of fact, I do. I got places to go, people to see."
The yellow eyes were sometimes a sore point with Dean. Sam knew better not to mention the fact that Dean wasn't even trying to hide them anymore. The day Sam turned darkside, Dean woke up to discover his own green eyes had turned a bright hellish yellow and Sam's were pitch black.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, John Winchester stood at the foot of Dean's bed, looking hale and hearty, dressed in all black, smiling at his wayward sons. John's eyes were yellow too, and he looked fondly at his eldest son and winked. "Ah, I forgot to tell you something the last time I saw you, Ace…" Demon John began.
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Son of a bitch.
Dean cursed a lot, pitched a fit of biblical proportions, and on the first day tried to blow his brains out with his favorite pistol. Three times. Nothing worked. Seven failed suicide attempts later he figured the hell with it. If God didn't care, why should he?
Sam indicated his brother's attire with a nod. "You didn't change your clothes." He sounded surprised. He also knew that his brother still drove the Impala, even though Dean didn't have to anymore.
"You don't fuck with the classics, Sammy." Dean gave his brother a head to toe sideways glance, frowned and shook his head ruefully. "You look like a fed."
Sam raised his chin up, carefully adjusted his tie with one hand. "It's Armani."
"We got about ten thousand people outside waiting to get in." Sam leafed through the itinerary and frowned.
Dean shrugged. "Well, you're the one that's gonna be working with 'em, Gilligan, so choose carefully." He sighed heavily. "I'm only here because Dad asked me."
"I bet he didn't even have to ask you." Sam bit back reproachfully. Dean was a little startled by the sudden comment, and for a moment he couldn't hide the expression on his face. Sam stared at him and shook his head. "God, Dean, you're such a tool."
Dean closed his eyes as he nursed his coffee. "Damn it, Sam, don't start that again."
"You never say no to the man." Sam shook his head in disgust. "Some things never change."
"Emo bitch," Dean muttered. He stared at his coffee and thought that it would be nice if there were five or six shots of whisky in there. The way things were going he had a feeling he was gonna need it. He was pleasantly surprised when he sipped it and tasted whiskey in with the coffee. Damn. This life did have its perks.
"Macho jerk. We're not going to work together?" Sam looked hurt, like a wounded puppy. A wounded puppy with demonic black eyes.
"Hell no. This is why Superman works alone. Anyway, I thought you and Ava were working together. Jeez, dude, cling much?"
"I thought you and I were gonna team up for the big show. So this is the way it's gonna be, huh? You turn evil and toss your family out the window?"
Dean shot his brother a puzzled look. "I'm not. Tossing family, I mean." He felt flustered by Sam's sudden mood swing. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You're way too tense, Sammy. You gotta get rid of all that tension. Keeping all that bottled up inside you ain't healthy. When was the last time you…uh….." Dean raised one eyebrow, flapped his right hand around loosely in a circle.
"When was the last time I what?" Sam said pointedly.
"Well, you know." There was that damn handflap again. They stared at each other.
"And I mean with a girl," Dean added, deadpan, with unnecessary emphasis.
Sam pretended to admire the set decorations. Nice. Black. Expensive.
Dean grinned. "See, that's what I'm talking about!" Sex was something Dean knew a hell of a lot about, no pun intended. Big brother making sure that little brother was taken care of. Dean had been doing it all his life, and he had to admit, except for those disgusting tendencies toward "normal," Sam had turned out pretty good. Because of Dean. Now that they were both evil, things still were pretty much the same as before: Take Sammy outside, fast as you can, Dean. Take care of your brother. Watch out for Sammy.
Get Sammy laid.
"Anyway, I'm no cockblocker." Dean continued. "You like Ava. It'll do you kids some good to get…acquainted."
"Acquainted." Sam laughed and shook his head. "Listen to yourself, dude."
"You're too tense, Sammy. You need some nookie in your life. Curl your toes up, unkink your back, scream until you lose your voice nookie--- "
"And I thought that's what I was here for." Meg interrupted smoothly. One minute there was empty space between the brothers, the next minute she stood at the empty seat between them, smirking. The red leather jacket and jeans she wore hugged her body, and her eyes flared to black before returning to normal. She glared at Dean, then leaned down and nibbled slowly at Sam's ear. Sam started tapping his left foot with each stroke of her tongue against his skin. Meg grinned and took the empty seat between the two of them.
"I meant quality nookie, not crazy, fucked up, rude nookie." Dean shook his head, sighed and took a big swig of coffee.
"Sometimes that's the best kind, sugar." Meg turned and stroked the side of Sam's face. Sam gave a full body shudder.
"Oh, brother." Dean rolled his eyes.
Meg winked at Dean. "What's the matter, baby, don't you love me anymore?" she purred. "Love those eyes. That's a new look for you, isn't it?"
"Shut your mouth, bitch," Dean's voice was flat, dangerous.
"I'm just trying to be civil, seeing as how we've actually been related all this time. Imagine that." She turned and batted her eyes at Sam, ran her tongue slowly, wetly, over her bottom lip. Sam gulped and turned away, pretended to admire some of the other expensive midnight black set decorations.
Dean snorted. "Sent your sorry ass back to hell once before. I could do a sequel."
"So I came back and got inside Sammy's body for a week. You gonna hold that against me?" Meg smirked.
"That not so much. Boy's way too tense. He needed a little girl on boy action." Dean chuckled. "You must be lousy in the sack, honey. You were inside his body for a week, and he hasn't loosened up yet."
Sam growled. "Hey, I'm sitting right here."
Dean quirked an eyebrow at Meg. "You said I'm like a cockroach, remember?"
Meg's eye roll towards Dean was slow and exaggerated. She reached out and walked her fingers up Dean's leather jacketed arm. "Aw, hit a nerve, did I?"
He jerked his arm away. "And my face. You hit me in the face, bitch. Repeatedly. I owe you for that, and that bullet in the shoulder. I nearly drowned because of you."
She smirked. "I kicked your ass, Dean-o."
"And hell's keeping your room hot and ready for you, bitch."
Contestant No 1 was from Nashville, Tennessee. Tall, and blonde. Nice face. Classy, with a hint of bad girl just below the surface. There was some sort of large red dragon winding over her chest and around her waist. Dean leaned forward, rested his chin in his hands and stared hard, fascinated. He couldn't tell if it was a real tattoo or just a skillful body paint job. He thought the tail of the dragon probably wound down around one shapely leg, but he couldn't see thru her clothes. Dean made a mental note to himself: next time I turn evil, arrange to get X-ray vision as part of the package. Superman was too much of a fucking Boy Scout, man.
Dean admired the way her tight black leather jeans hugged her ass; her boobs almost escaped several times from that low-cut leather vest she was wearing. That dragon was undulating all over the fucking place. Things got blurry then and Dean really wasn't paying any attention until Meg jabbed him in his side with her elbow. Then he growled menacingly at her and bright yellow flames rimmed the fingers of his right hand.
"Well? Is she going to Vegas or not?" Meg snarled.
Oh, yeah. He vaguely remembered something about Blondie being able to ghost her body thru objects. So that was what that slab of concrete on the table set up next to her was for.
He wondered what else she could ghost thru.
"Oh hell yeah," Dean drawled. "She's going." The flame around his fingers went out. Meg looked disgusted, muttered "Men!" under her breath. Sam looked dazed. He kept nodding, even thought nobody was saying anything to him. Blondie was so thrilled she jiggled even more as she bounced for the door on those black stiletto high heels. She winked at Dean on the way out, and he made a mental note to himself to find out where she lived.
Contestant No 2 strolled in wearing a black business suit, carrying a black leather briefcase, and Dean automatically felt his lip curl into a sneer. The suit said "Good morning" to everyone. Meg rolled her eyes at him, and it was all downhill from there.
"So…." Sam consulted his notes. "Lewis Taylor. I see you used to be a television executive."
"Yes, that's right."
Sam chuckled. "Didn't you decide not to pick up that show 'Still Life' with Jensen Ackles?" Lewis nodded.
Dean's eyes narrowed. He sat up straighter in his chair and stared at Lewis, dropped his glare on the poor fool like a gunsight. "So, what have you got for us today?" Sam continued. "Show us why you should advance to the next level."
Lewis pulled a phone book-sized sheath of papers out of his briefcase. "Well, I have here a twelve point plan—"
The eldest Winchester brother raised an eyebrow, muttered loudly, "Twelve point this, bitch," and Lewis and his briefcase were engulfed by murky yellow hellfire. The only thing left was a small pile of fine grey ash.
"What?" Dean failed miserably at looking innocent. "Think we're gonna win this thing with a twelve part plan on paper, Sammy?" he added mockingly, a wicked gleam in his yellow eyes.
That was pretty much the way it went.
Outside in the hallway Rosenbaum stuck his microphone in this goth chick's face. "No black ticket. So you didn't make it to Vegas, huh?" He really didn't give a damn. After four shots of tequila he was feeling pretty damned mellow. He tried looking down her dress, but this chick was flat chested, and frankly, the view wasn't worth the effort. He'd been hoping that Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki were gonna show up, so he could harass the hell out ofthem instead of some no-name jerk nobody ever heard of. They were supposed to show, but they were also known for ducking out on stupid shit like this. They used every excuse in the book---busy shooting schedule, can't get a plane from Canada in time, Harley the dog ate the letter you sent us about this. It was always something. Tom Welling didn't show up, either. Slippery bastard.
"Make it to Vegas? Motherfucker, I'm lucky to get out of there alive! These sumbitches are crazy, especially that bastard with the yellow eyes! What the hell is that all about?"
"Well, what was your talent?'
"I can see time."
"Oh. Excuse me? You…what? You gotta be fucking kidding me." Fuck it. They could bleep that out later.
"I said I can see time. Clean the wax out of your ears, bitch. What, you lost your hearing when you shaved your head, is that it?"
Oh yeah, there was gonna be a whole lotta bleeping in this segment. If this part ever made it to air.
"Well, what the hell happened?"
"I was using my mind to see time, and the dude with the yellow eyes leaned back in his chair and started snoring. They had to wake him up to ask him if I made it through to the next round."
"Oh-okay. Is that why you came back out here in your underwear?"
"Yeah! A line of fire chased me out the door!"
"Of course, he only did it because he wanted to hit this ass. He wanted me, I know he did. I've had that problem all my life. They all want me. Donald Trump, Miss America. You know even Tyra Banks on "America's Top Model" hit on me once. I don't sleep around, I'm very picky. I can tell that you want me too, baldy." She looked him up and down hungrily. "Didn't I see you on that show, 'Deal or No Deal'?"
Rosenbaum grinned wickedly, "I wouldn't fuck you with Tom Welling's dick." Hell, they could bleep that out too. Or leave it in. He didn't give a damn. Welling might. She stared at him in shock. Her eyes watered and her bottom lip quivered. He got right in her face and grinned even nastier, if that was possible. "You can see time, huh? Bet ya didn't see this coming, did 'ya?'"
She started crying, couldn't decide whether to put her hands to her face or continue to cover up that flat as Kansas chest of hers. She ran off bawling.
Mike smiled brightly at the camera. "And now we're gonna go back inside for more of the competition." Stupid Winchesters. Stupid competition. Mike waited until they were clear and reached inside his pocket for his flask.
Whoever invented hard liquor was a god.
Dean's moods swung over the place. If he was annoyed, he killed. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even flinch. If they reminded him of someone he disliked, they were gone. Even so, his moods were pretty unpredictable. He let the geeky, suspenders-wearing dude who thought he could fly thru the air by wiggling his large ears go with a stern warning: "They have medication to help you with that, dude," Dean said solemnly. "I suggest you go find some."
He even gave a break to the perky blonde cheerleader who thought she was invulnerable.
She wasn't. Dean flinched when she brought the sledgehammer down on her hand. Meg giggled as bones snapped like twigs and the cheerleader screamed like a banshee.
Sam swallowed thickly, turned away and kept staring at the set decorations. Even though he was evil, stupid still made him flinch. And this was pretty damned stupid.
Dean shook his head, scowled, and whistled up the paramedics waiting in the wings. Up to that point they were getting pretty damned bored.
Demons he understood; humans were just fucking crazy.
It was that cheerleader uniform she was wearing, Sam thought. Damn short flippy skirt. Her legs went on forever.
A few telekinetics made the grade. An alienated teenaged boy who could turn his body into stone. A young single mother of two who could generate a powerful electrical charge with her hands. There was this little old lady who could freeze things solid by touching them—Dean liked her. She was a feisty little old silver haired broad, and he winked at her (she winked back) as she left out waving her black ticket to Vegas. A few disembodied spirits tried to sneak in, but they didn't get much play—Hell was lousy with them. Dean didn't seem to be much interested in wasting the dazed hosts left behind once the spirits high-tailed it out of the bodies---except for that one guy who reminded Dean of a small town sheriff who'd hassled him and beaten him on a hunt up in Washington state last year.
That dude was a goner.
Six hours, six hundred contestants and one hundred and seventy five fatalities later Dean was ready to kill somebody. Again.
"Uh, Dean," Sam said slowly as four demon henchmen lugged the latest burned carcass out the back door. "We're supposed to be holding auditions, not public executions." He made an exaggerated gesture of fanning imaginary smoke from in front of his nose, which was a damned lie. The hellfire Dean generated burned down almost to a molecular level. There was very little smoke, and only a very faint sulfur smell, and Sam knew it.
"Hell, they knew what they were getting into when they showed up for this gig in the first place. No mercy, Sammy." Dean drained the coffee from his cup and watched with satisfaction as the cup filled back up again with coffee. Coffee with shots of whiskey in it. The only downside was, with his new fiery metabolism, he burned up the alcohol as fast as he consumed it, which probably meant no more hangovers. It also meant he had to work a hell of a lot harder (no pun intended) if he wanted to get shit-faced drunk. Oh well.
"It's the culling of the herd," Dean drawled as he took a sip. "Lassie should've left Timmy's sorry ass down in that well the first time. Natural selection. I'm just helping Darwin prove his point. This is six hours of my life I'm never gonna get back."
Sam looked startled. Darwin? Up until that point he'd thought the only thing Dean had paid attention to in school (besides the cheerleaders) was Schoolhouse Rock.
"You're pretty good with that fire," Meg remarked.
Dean smirked. "Yeah, I am." Yellow flame rolled over his fingers and the palm of his hand, caressed his skin like a lover's kiss.
Meg's tone was casual. "Doesn't it bother you that your mama died like that?"
Dean had this look on his face that said that frying her would be a pretty damn fine idea.
"Careful, golden-eyed boy." Meg said scornfully. "Daddy wouldn't like it if you wasted another sibling."
Dean snapped his fingers and put the fire out. "Let's get on with this shit so I can get out of here," he growled.
Contestant number 601 strolled in, and Sam knew he was trouble the moment he laid eyes on him. He was slick, he was swarmy, and ---Sam stared at his notes – he was a pre-law student. Sam flinched.
Crispy critter walking.
"Uh, Mr. Winchester – Dean—can, can I call you Dean?" Dean just stared at the guy.
"I must say those yellow eyes really go with your skin coloring."
"Uh huh..." Dean scowled at him. "So you're a suck up. I'm underwhelmed, Captain Obvious. What else ya got?"
Apparently not much. A minute later a bored demon minion humming "Nausea" by Beck idly ran a cordless Dustbuster over the spot where Contestant 601 stood.
Oh nausea, oh nausea,
And we're gone...
"Dean, this is getting out of hand."
"I'm bored, Sammy. That's never a good thing."
Number 602 reminded Dean of the Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons. A cartoon character is always funny; seeing someone who looks like that in the flesh is just…sad.
And somewhat disturbing. He was from Tallahassee, Florida and he claimed to have the power of mind control. Dean asked him to demonstrate, and his eyes got wide and his pupils rolled up into his head. Only the whites of his eyes showed. He had a large black silk scarf and he raised his arm up, nose level, draped the scarf over his arm so that only his eyes showed. He wiggled his fingers at them, commanded them to let him advance to the next level.
Jaws dropped. Even the demon minions were staring in disbelief.
"Oh, God," Dean groaned. He got a headache from just saying the word, a sharp spike of agony right between his eyes, but it was worth it just to see the pained look of shock on Sam's face, and Meg's pissed off expression. All the minions flinched. The weakest one burst into flames. No great loss.
"You're not supposed to be able to say that," Meg snapped, grimacing. She turned and watched the minions extinguish the blaze before it spread to the set decorations.
"You need some help shutting your cakehole there, skank?" Dean snapped.
"I don't see why we can't all just get along here." Sam moaned, rubbing at his aching temples with his fingers.
"Gee, Sam, once a girl, always a girl." Dean grinned. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the table.
Meg reached out with her mind and slammed the Comic Book Guy wannabe into the far wall so hard the wall cratered underneath his body. Just before he died his eyes fluttered open, and he shakily stuck his arm up, pointing at them. He announced in a loud quavering voice, "Worst….judges.…ever…." Then he shuffled off this mortal coil, his arm raised, his head reared back in the best death pose ever, like Lorne Greene in Battlestar Galactica.
One of the demon minions slouched over whistling "Carry On My Wayward Son" dragging a body bag behind it.
"M-Meg?" Sam sputtered.
" 'Bout time you joined in, girl," Dean drawled. "I was wondering why you were hanging back."
Dean leaned over and eyed Sam. "You gonna let a girl beat you at this? You're not gonna go on a rampage? A killing spree? Come on, Sam. Ya know ya wanna."
"Dean!" Sam huffed. He actually sounded outraged.
"Now why the hell are you yelling my name?" He jerked his thumb at Meg. "She just whacked this guy, not me. And why the fuck are you being so prissy about this, anyway? Pull the stick out of your ass, Sammy. They come in here and torture us with this shit. If they suck, they deserve whatever we decide to do to 'em!"
The newly turned yellow eyed dude made sense.
Sam took out the next fifty people with his telekinesis.
He snapped necks, stopped hearts in mid beat, and caused brain aneurysms. As soon as Sam determined that they had no real usable talent (like the preppie chick who claimed she could move things by pointing her boobs at them) they were gone. Done. Sam even used his TK to fold one dude up like a used Kleenex. Then he picked up the wad of crumpled flesh with his mind and made a three point basket into the trash can the minions pulled out. Dean stared at him in awe.
That's my boy.
Meg muttered something about "compensating for male shortcomings" and Dean glared at her.
As soon as Rosenbaum saw the dude with the yellow eyes, he knew everybody outside was probably going to die. Tall, dark and dangerous looking, this guy had a wicked smile which those yellow eyes only accentuated. Fuck this, Mike thought. Better alive and sued for breach of contract rather than dead and buried. Or worse.
Anyway, what were they gonna do, fire him? He backed up, turned and walked away quickly. Very quickly.
God, he missed the WB.
Minutes later John Winchester strolled in, yellow eyed and grinning. "Boys. Meg."
Dean took his feet off the table, squared his shoulders. He clasped his hands on the table in front of him, sat up straight. So did Sam.
Meg nodded. "Sir," all three said politely.
"So how's it going?"
"Um, we've got some promising candidates—" Meg began.
I don't think so, you brown nosing bitch, Dean thought. He shook his head. "We got the dregs, Dad."
Meg looked startled.
"We're scraping the bottom of the barrel here," Dean finished. "Got a few good ones, that's it."
Demon John smiled. "Well, don't worry about it, kiddo. I just came from outside, and I already picked thru the ones I needed. Sent the rest of 'em home."
"Oh." Dean sat there for a moment. He looked confused. "You sent them home as in home and hearth by the fireplace-home, or home as in killed horribly dead and gone to heaven-home?"
Demon John cocked his head to one side, made one eyebrow climb. "Evil, son, remember?" he rumbled.
Dean nodded. "Yes sir, that's what I thought."
"Anyway, that wasn't really the point of this whole thing." John gave a meaningful glance at Meg and both brothers picked up on the look.
"There have been rumors that the two of you really weren't dedicated to our cause. That you were just pretending go darkside. After what I saw today I don't have to worry about that anymore."
Dean shot a baleful sideways glance at Meg as she squirmed in her seat. Oh, you're dead meat, bitch, he thought darkly. Then he grinned brightly at Demon John. "Yes sir."
"And after today I am not going to tolerate any more sibling rivalry. We're a family now, and we're going to act like one. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir," all three said smoothly.
Of course, everybody knew everybody else was lying their asses off.
Five minutes later the day was over, which made Sam grateful. He and Dean ditched Meg, left her standing there on the sidewalk grumbling as they pulled away in the Impala.
Demon John disappeared in a flash of hellfire. He had meetings to go to, people to see. Kripke, Singer and Manners had some explaining to do. Kripke especially.
Mike Rosenbaum walked by, saw Meg from behind, and liked what he saw. He strolled over. Nice ass, he thought to himself. Meg caught the thought and smiled to herself.
She turned, looked him up and down, and licked her lips. Always did have a thing for bald guys. Meg arched one eyebrow. "Hi yourself, Rosenbaum."
He watched the Impala smoothly maneuver its way into traffic. "They ditched you, huh? Lousy bastards. Don't worry about it. I've heard rumors they're gay for each other, like Ackles and Padalecki. And that damn Jeffrey Dean Morgan," Mike shook his head, made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. "Don't get me started on him. Grey's Anatomy my bald ass."
"That was a nice segue. So tell me," she smiled, hooked one arm around his. "You shave regularly or are you bald like that all over?"
Rosenbaum grinned wider. It was gonna be a good night.
Sam and Dean went to a local bar for a few hours. Dean ate shrimp and fries; Sam had the baked chicken and a salad. They had a few beers and Dean allowed Sam to have one of his dreaded chick flick moments. It had been a while since the last one. The topic of this one was: The Feelings I've Had Since I Turned Darkside. Dean figured he'd throw the kid a bone, because really, the last week or so, he had been neglecting Sammy, and it didn't matter if they were hell bound, quick fast and in a hurry, Dean still loved his freakishly tall little brother with all his newly darkened heart. The more things changed, Dean thought as he watched Sam gesture with those big-ass hands of his, the more they stayed the same.
Take Sammy outside, fast as you can, Dean. Take care of your brother. Watch out for Sammy.
Get Sammy laid.
Afterwards Dean dropped Sam off at Ava's place, which pissed Meg off to no end when she found out about it later. Ava was so happy to see Sam she grabbed him and pulled him inside. That Armani suit jacket was the first thing she pulled off. Dean laughed to himself as he pulled away from the curb. There was no downside to this, none at all.
And the blonde with the dragon tattoo?
It was real.
And they were spectacular.