Kilt Cult

July 23, 2010

A/N – this is for Edina Clouds. I couldn't resist, it was practically a dare!

Dean sighed heavily. "You're kidding me, right?" he asked, giving Sam a look of utter disbelief.

"Hey, I don't write 'em, Dean…" Sam replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Six men found dead in the past six weeks. Cops can't find a cause of death. The only thing linking them together-"

Dean interrupted, tired, impatiently waving his hands, saying, "The only thing linking them together is that they're found wearing Scottish kilts."

"And the lipstick on their legs," Sam added, satisfied when Dean finally gave him his full attention.

"Kinky…" Dean responded with a smile. Then, more seriously, "Okay, so we're probably looking Scottish female killers. But how does that make it our type of gig?"

"Back to the cops not finding the cause of death," Sam replied.

"Off to the morgue then?"


"Did you see the smile on that guy's face?"

"Yeah. Weird," Sam replied as they walked out of the morgue.

"The other five, their pictures… same thing, Sam," Dean said. "Only one thing puts a smile like that on a guy's face."

Sam stopped mid-stride, grabbing Dean by the shoulder, turning him. "You're kidding, right?"

"You got a better theory?" Dean asked.

Sam stared at his brother, thought for a moment, and then hung his head. "Crap. A succubus."

"With a kilt fetish…"


As usual, for the Winchester brothers, Plan A didn't work quite like they expected and Dean found himself in a strange motel room, spread eagle on a bed, hands and feet tied to the bedposts. He lifted his head, woozy from whatever drug he'd been given, and looked down upon his naked, no, kilted self. He dropped his head back in frustration. "A friggin' skirt!" he mumbled angrily.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he was woken again, this time by soft singing. He opened his eyes, seeing two lovely women at the foot of the bed.

"You take the high road, and I'll take the low road," they sang, softly placing kisses on Dean's legs, moving slowly upward. "And I'll be in Scotland afore ye!" More kisses, up to his knees now.

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Dean asked weakly, loving what they were doing to him, yet… fearing them. "Ladies… untie me and I can make this soooo much better," he offered.

Still singing the Highland song, moving their kisses even further upward, toward the kilt's hem, they laughed quietly at Dean's offer.

"Sam… any time now," Dean murmured. "What am I, crazy? Asking Sam to interrupt this?" He shut his eyes tight.

The kilt was lifted, exposing Dean to the singing women, their lustful eyes meeting his, the finality of their next act showing. Dean had the common sense to be scared now.

The door burst open then, Sam firing the shotgun filled with iron at them, hitting them with true Winchester accuracy. They each let out a final scream before dying, melting into the carpet.

"Perfect timing, Sam," Dean whispered, relieved.

"You okay?" Sam asked, untying Dean's bonds.

"Yeah," Dean replied, sitting up, clearing his head. "Would've been a hell of a way to go, though, Sammy. Gotta admit that," he added with a sly smile.

"Even with the kilt?"