AN: This is in a response to a challenge. The prompt was: Sam finds some very, very disturbing pictures, which involve a cowboy hat, shirtless Dean and some pretty homoerotic poses, if you know what I mean…and I think that some of you do.

Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural or Supernatural related, they are the property of Eric Kripke & Co., though I do hope to get my Season One DVD next Tuesday (Hallelujah!)

Un-beta-ed Crack!Fic!


"You got something you need to say to me, Sam?" Dean's voice radiated annoyance.

"N . . . no . . . I mean, I . . . I . . . why?"

Dean threw his brother an exasperated look out of the corner of his eye as he tossed the Glock down on the bed next to him, reached into the duffel and yanked out the Taurus 9mm pistol. He removed the magazine, pulled back on the slide and locked it, checking to make sure there wasn't a bullet still left in the chamber.

"I dunno, Stuttering John. Maybe because you've just been . . . standing there, staring at me and clearing your throat . . . looking like someone sunk your battleship . . . for . . . what . . .10 minutes?"

Dean released the slide catch and pulled the slide forward off of the frame and removed the barrel.

Sam cleared his throat again.

"You do that one more time and I'm gonna have a pretty gruesome accidental shooting scene to explain and believe you me, I'm in no mood to deal with the cops right now . . . so knock it the fuck off, dude!"

This time Dean didn't look up, when he spoke. He just snatched up the wire brush and pushed it through the barrel a few times, before putting a large patch on the end of the cleaning rod, dipping the patch in solvent and pulling it through the barrel.

"Uh . . . Dean?" When Sam finally spoke, his voice seemed unnaturally timid.

"What, Sammy?"

"Okay, so maybe there is something I need to talk to you about." He admitted.

"And?" Dean prodded.

"And, what?"

"And . . . am I gonna have to beat it out of you? Cause, you're really starting to creep me out here, with all the standing and the staring, dude."

Sam took a second, seemed to steel himself and took a deep breath before speaking, "Okay, so, you know when I went to the car, to get the duffle and the other stuff?"

When Sam paused, Dean pressed, "Yeah, it was like 10 minutes ago, of course I remember. I look like Ronald freaking Reagan to you?"

"Like you've been dead for two years? No . . . actually, not really, Dean."

"Reagan's dead?"

Sam slowly shook his head, "Yes, Dean. Reagan's dead. Sometimes your utter . . . ignorance about current events is just . . . mind blowing."

Dean threw up half a grin and pointed the wire brush at Sam, "Nuhn uh. Two years ago. You said it yourself. Not so current there, Sammy my boy."

Sam opened his mouth as if he were going to argue the point, then closed it again and stood, watching his brother go through six or seven patches, before moving on to the gun's handle.

"I found something." Sam suddenly blurted out.

"You found something." Dean repeated.

"Yeah, Dean . . . when I went to the car . . . I found something in the trunk . . . something . . . uh . . . "

"Something . . . uh...what...?" Dean dropped another dirty patch on the pile and lifted the gun's handle to his eye, to better inspect it. "You know, you'd'a been a real force in the courtroom, a regular Matlock, what with them there verbal skills."

"Yeah, well, this is kind of hard to talk about...this something's pretty damned disturbing."

"I'm listening." Dean looked up and focused on Sam for the first time.

Sam pulled something from behind his back and handed it to Dean, "It''s these."

Dean quickly leafed through the stack of pictures Sam handed to him.

"Yeah, so?" He said, pulling down the corners of his mouth and shrugging, before casually tossing the pictures next to the Glock and starting to reassemble the Taurus.

"So?" Sam's mouth gaped open and closed a few times in surprise.

"So . . . .what, Nemo?"

"So . . . are you . . . are you . . . " Sam kept wildly gesticulating, as though his hands could complete the thought, even as his words continued to utterly fail him.

"Am I what?"

"Are you..." Sam closed his eyes and lifted a knuckle to dig into the side of his forehead, as if trying to speak was causing him physical pain.

After a few moments passed, Dean frowned in concern, "You okay, Sam? You're not getting all shiny on me right now, are you?"

"No, Dean...I'm not shining. For Christ's sake, I'm trying to ask you if you're gay?"

Dean's eyes popped wide open in surprise, "Dude, c'mon . . . seriously? Seriously? You . . . you of all people are asking me this?"

"I . . . Dean, did you see the pictures?"

"Of course." Dean lifted his right shoulder and briefly dipped his head down towards it in an exaggerated shrug, the frown pulling briefly at his lips again.

"Well, if you're not gay . . . do you mind explaining to me why . . . how . . . "

"They were for a hunt." Dean explained, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"A hunt?"

"Yes, a . . . hunt . . . which one of those words you having trouble with, college boy?" Dean threw the reassembled Taurus on the bed on top of the photos and pulled out the bowie and the sharpening stone, unsheathed the knife and started drawing the blade across the stone.

"Dad got a call about a job while you were doing that . . . " Dean waved the hand holding the bowie dismissively, "that talk-off thingy."


"Talk-off . . . you know . . . when you went off to Denver for the weekend . . . back in high school . . . you and a whole bunch of other geeks trying to out-geek each other."

"The Regional Debate Competition?"

"Yeah . . . talk-off . . . debate . . . whatever. Dad got a call about a poltergeist out in Wyoming . . . he thought the pictures would help."

"Dad knows about those pictures?"

"Of course. He took 'em."

"" Sam sputtered, "Our dad took those pictures?"

"That's what I said, Sam." Dean continued to hone the blade. He looked up and caught his brother's eye—couldn't quite read the expression—a strange mixture of shock, confusion, and—well, queasiness, quite frankly.

"Dude, what? It's no biggie."

"No biggie? Dad taking homoerotic pictures of you . . . is no biggie?"

"Homo..." A brief look of confusion passed over Dean's face, before it hardened again..."Aw, c'mon, Sammy! I said it was for a hunt."

"How, Dean? How could those pictures possibly be connected to a hunt for a poltergeist in Wyoming?"

"The poltergeist was a slippery little shit...Caleb was out there a full week and the sucker kept going to ground...wouldn't acknowledge his presence in the called us in to help. Since it first manifested shortly after some dude was bludgeoned to death in...some...I dunno...some lovers' spat or whatever, Dad thought the pictures might help lure it to out...and once it was out, we could work on getting rid of it."

"I'm still not following you here, Dean." Sam said, shaking his head slightly.

"Dead dude was a cowboy." Again, like it was the most expected answer he could have given and like Sam was being incredibly slow on the uptake not to have picked up on it.

"A cowboy?"

"Yeah . . . well, actually both of them were. Cowboys. Dudes. Gay cowboy dudes. Dad thought that if the poltergeist was connected with the death, we'd throw out a little bait . . . leave the pictures out for a while . . . then introduce it to the real deal . . . let curiosity take care of the rest."

"So . . . you were the bait?"


"Gay cowboy bait?"

"I . . . uh . . . " Dean's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed as Sam started to cackle.

"Oh . . . oh . . . man . . . that's...that's just . . . " Sam gasped, struggling to talk and laugh at the same time.

"What?" Dean's voice was sharp with the annoyance that had returned with a vengeance.

"Dude, why, why in the name of God do you still have them?" He rubbed at a tear that had formed in the corner of his eye.

Dean shrugged, "They worked. Figured if we ever ran into the same situation, we might need them again."

"We might need them again? You really think there's another poltergeist out there with a . . . with a . . . hard-on for gay cowboys?" Sam was finding it impossible to stop laughing. Not that he was trying much. Or really, at all.

"I dunno. Maybe." Suddenly, Dean didn't sound as sure of himself as he had just a few seconds before.

"You really, really have never, ever . . . like ever said no to Dad, have you?"

"Of course not. It's called being the good one."

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He held it out and waggled it in Dean's direction, "Dean, Dad's on the line . . . something about a ghost preying on folks boinking chickens up on Brokeback Mountain . . . he says you'll know what to do."