A quick drabble for a good friend of mine, who resented the fact that I dragged her to an art gallery.
I apologize, dear. And thank you for being such a good sport. :)
Dean does not care for art in general- if you could even call this shit art. He doesn't really like the bass that is flaring against his eardrum. And he isn't exactly fond of how all of the things he doesn't like is inspiring the monstrous headache building right behind his eyes.
This is absolutely ridiculous.
Why the hell had he allowed Sam to drag him here?
He pauses at a piece that no oneelse is crowding in front of, just so he can pretend to be absorbing whatever the hell motivated these people to just stare at some globs of paint smeared across some fabric.
"Do you like the piece?"
A woman is smiling at him, shouting over the music. Dean turns his attention to the mass of paint splatterings and boobs. "Is this like artistic porn or something?"
The woman's smile suddenly turns cold. "It's an abstract self-portrait."
"Well, the abstract is hard to grasp- if you don't have plans later, I wouldn't mind seeing that self-portrait in realism. Might help me understand it."
The woman stalks away, and although he's technically just been rejected, Dean feels a little bit invigorated by knowing that he has poisoned the atmosphere of this circus with a fraction of his annoyance.
Sam is walking towards him, looking right at home and perfectly content to just wander around and talk to these people all freaking night.
Oh, God. This thing can't be all night, can it?
Dean suddenly finds himself kind of wishing he was back in hell.
"Are you bored?" Sam means to whisper, but he has to shout in order to get Dean to actually hear him. In his defense, he did shout very quietly.
"Sammy. This isn't even art."
"What are you talking about?"
Dean waves his hand towards the wall of art he has been standing in front of. "Dude. That's a freaking bicycle that someone painted."
"Dean, it's abstract."
"It's a bicycle that someone painted."
Sam sighs. "So forget the damn bicycle."
"Okay." Dean gestures to a painting hanging above the monstrosity that is the painted bicycle. "Dude. Splattered pain and some random boobs. Not that I have an objection to boobs, but still-"
"Dean- it's abstract. It's not supposed-"
"Out of curiousity- is abstract just another word for bad?"
"Or maybe it's just another way of saying that these people have absolutely nothing better to do than waste paint."
"Hey, I could be an artist here, Sammy! I still have some of my fingerpaintings from preschool."
A man with pink and aqua-blue hair teased into a mohawk coughs and casts a dark look of doom over to Dean. Sam shoots him an apologetic look before seizing Dean's arm and dragging him out of the gallery.
"Dude, what the hell? You don't trash art in an art gallery!"
"Yes, you do."
"No, you don't!"
Dean shrugs. "Got me out of there."
"Dean-" Sam shakes his head. "You're such a jerk."
"Yeah, yeah, and you're a bitch." Dean smiles widely. "Can we go back to the motel now?"