I'm taking a dinky little time out from something quite heavy I'm working on to revisit this little antique (only the third fanfic I ever wrote) and give it a new lease of life.
The boys investigate a haunting at an art college. Now you wouldn't think Dean could get into trouble doing something so simple, would you ...
Dean tells his story.
Disclaimer: Don't own them, crossed my fingers and wished upon a star. Didn't work.
Dean snorted inwardly at the irony of the phrase.
He and Sam had ended up doing some pretty dumb things in the course of their work. Dumb, illegal, dishonest, reckless … the list was depressingly long. Some of those things he was proud of, many he wasn't; but Dean had no idea where he would categorise this particular episode.
Suicidally, gut-clenchingly, toe-curlingly, knuckle-chewingly embarrassing came close; an 'I'm-not-showing-my-face-in-public-until-everyone-who-knows-me-is-dead' level of humiliation …
The call had come from Bobby a couple of nights ago to say there were reports of a poltergeist manifesting at a small provincial art college close to where the boys were currently operating. Nasty bastard too, traumatising students and tutors alike, especially the poor cleaning lady who had jumped out of an upstairs window in panic and was now in the local hospital with two broken ankles.
He shifted the weight of the grecian urn on his shoulder with a laboured grunt and mentally cursed himself for sending Sam to the library to do the tedious, geek-boy part of the research. If he hadn't, it could have been Sam standing here wishing he was dead while Dean was holed up in a library with a whole pile of boring-as-hell books and a coffee.
At first, when the receptionist had asked him if he was the model for the life drawing class, he answered yes without hesitation.
It got him into the building without even trying; and she thought he was a model - how freakin' cool was that?
Anyway, how was he supposed to know what being an artist's model involved?
Heck, this friggin' urn was heavy …