A/N: Thanks: To On-A-Dare, beta extraordinaire. Sam and Dean Winchester are not mine, alas.

As a general rule, Dean Winchester does not have a whole lot of trouble getting what he wants from women.

Charm works on the non-evil ones. Hell, it works on some of the evil ones, too. And the evil ones it doesn't work on, or who aren't worth the effort, well, they get threatened, shot, exorcised, or salted and burned.

And, yeah, okay, there are occasional exceptions, women who require a change of tactics. Neither charm nor threatening works on Ellen Harvelle, but asking nicely is pretty effective.

But for the day-to-day stuff – things he wants from the average waitress, bartender, receptionist, secretary, librarian, police officer, etc. – Dean can usually get what he's after.

This is partly because Dean is often after something that doesn't have to come from any particular source. If Door Number One is refusing to budge, Dean can usually try his luck with Door Number Two. Or a window. And ask someone else.

But all general rules stop applying to the Winchesters' lives eventually, and tonight Dean is not getting anywhere. With anyone.

To be fair to Dean, this probably has to do with the fact that he's not after the facts of a case, a phone number, some old newspaper story, a drink, or a couple hours of company. And some requests, it would appear, are beyond even Dean's far from inconsiderable charm. He hasn't tried threatening or shooting things yet, but he's starting to think about it.

It should not be this hard to find some woman who is willing to kiss his brother. He's not even trying to get the kid laid, for Christ's sake, just kissed. And, okay, to be fair to Sam (not that Dean is in any mood to be fair to Sam), it probably wouldn't be under ordinary circumstances.

Or at least as close to ordinary circumstances as they ever get.

But tonight . . .

Seriously, how does even Sam manage to get himself turned into a frog?

Dean frickin' hates witches.


The "coven" turns out to be a bunch of bored kids who found a book they didn't understand, decided to play a game they didn't know the rules for, and tapped into something Real.

Hell, they seem more scared of themselves than of any threats Sam and Dean had made. They handed over the book without a lot of argument, and a couple of teenaged witches even thanked them.

Dean goes to get dinner, leaving Sam in the motel room, muttering at his laptop about viruses and worms and Dean's internet habits.

Dean is gone a little longer than he planned, but the waitress, Kristi, had been hot, and now that his evening is coven-free, Dean has some time to kill. And Kristi gets off at ten.

"Dude," Dean says, letting himself back into the motel room, "I got your grilled chicken sandwich, but I still think . . ." Dean trails off, looking around.

The room is empty, the bathroom door is wide open, and there's no sign of Sam.


Sam's laptop is in the middle of his bed, still open, screensaver scrolling by.


And next to the laptop, looking grumpy and put out in a way Dean has long associated with his baby brother, is a large green-brown frog.


Dean frickin' hates witches.

It take a good three minutes to catch Sam-the-Frog, because he hops out of reach every time Dean gets near. It's like Sam is four and it's bath night again. "Jesus, Sammy, do you want to stay like that or something?"


Dean finally traps Sam in a corner, scoops him up, and carefully packs him into a Styrofoam box that had held French fries a moment ago.

"Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit," comes the protest.

"Yeah, sorry about the salt. You'll live."

Dean puts the box on the passenger seat of the Impala and sets out to find a way to get Sam back to being Sam-shaped.

His first move is to try to track down some member of the coven, beat the snot out of the kid, and make him or her fix Sam.

But they seem to have gone to ground. Or maybe they've just been grounded. There's no sign of them at the abandoned tool shed they'd been using to meet, and it doesn't look like anybody has been back since Sam and Dean told them to leave. And it's not like Dean had bothered to collect home addresses, because he hadn't thought they were a threat.

Which means finding some other way to change Sam back.

The "lore" – to apply the term really generously – is pretty clear on what to do with a guy who has been turned into a frog.

Someone has to kiss him.

The problem here is the someone, because it sure as hell ain't gonna be Dean. Either it won't work, and then what was the point? Or it will work, and then Dean will have to kill himself.

But, hey, Dean can handle this. He will just get someone else to do the kissing.

And, all right, so the ethics of finding some maybe slightly tipsy chick in a bar and using her to break a spell are debatable, but it's not like she's gonna get hurt, right?

Dean picks a likely looking bar and heads inside.

There's a super hot redhead alone at the bar, and Dean gets one hell of a come on over look from her when he catches her eye. Perfect. Dean puts on his best smile with maybe just a hint of an appreciative leer and makes his way across the bar.

Turns out that, "So, how'd you like to kiss my frog?" isn't as good an opening line as it sounded like in his head.

In the second bar, he discovers that the brunette he picks doesn't think it's a great line even with about five minutes of flirting as build-up.

And in the third bar, he learns that a wasted blonde who tells you that sure, she'll kiss anything, sometimes has a thug of a boyfriend who is not going to be on board with that plan.

On his way to the fourth bar, Dean decides to stop asking girls who are that hot. Maybe it'll go better with a girl who's not so used to strangers hitting on her. Be more flattering or something.

"Anyway, it's not like you're in any position to be picky right now, are you, Sammy?"


"That's what I thought."

Dean leaves his brother the frog in the car and heads into bar number four to scope things out. There's a girl a table by herself who looks like a good candidate. She's not a total dog, just a little on the plain side. There's nothing objectionable about her, but there's also nothing remarkable about her.

Except for her aim. Because damn if she doesn't manage to get most of her strawberry daiquiri to hit Dean square in the face while walking away and without breaking her stride.

Oh, and it turns out she's the bouncer's sister.

Dean beats a hasty retreat back to the Impala. Over in the passenger's seat, a very dejected "ribbit" comes from inside the Styrofoam box. Sam has somehow managed to flip the box, and presumably himself, over.

"I can't let you loose in here, dude," Dean says, turning him back over. "You might get slime on the upholstery. Or get out, and I am not chasing your ass around a parking lot or something."


Dean sighs, and looks down at the daiquiri that has dripped onto his shirt.

He is running out of ideas.

Well, no, what he is running out of is bars. He's still got plenty of ideas, ranging from the impractical to the illegal.

Which means it's time to head back to the motel, change into something that isn't soaked in strawberries and rum, and suck it up and call Bobby to ask for help.

Dean carries the frog back into the motel room and . . .


Sam is there.

Sitting on the bed, in front of the laptop, like nothing at all is wrong.

Dean looks down at the box in his hand, and gives it a small shake.


Sam looks up.

"Dude, what happened to you?" he asks, taking in the daiquiri stains and Dean's now rapidly purpling right eye, compliments of the daiquiri thrower's brother. "You look like hell."


"And . . . do you have a frog with you?"

Dean stares at him. "You're . . . "


"You weren't . . . I thought you were . . ."


"Are you okay, Dean?"

Dean looks from the box in his hand over to his brother on the bed.


"Seriously, do you have a frog in that box?"

"I thought it was you," Dean says. He doesn't mean to, it just slips out.

"You thought I was a frog?" Sam asks. And he looks like he's trying not to laugh, which, given everything, really pisses Dean off.

"Look, I came back with dinner, I even got you your lameass grilled chicken thing, and you weren't here and the frog was in the middle of your bed and what with the witches and all, it was a logical mistake, okay?" Dean snaps.

"You were gone for, like, more than an hour, man. I figured you met some girl. The computer was busy debugging itself, and I decided to go get my own sandwich."

"Well, you should have left a note," Dean says.


"Um, I did," Sam says, pointing. "On your bag. Where I always leave a note."

Because their bags are the constant. The room may not always have a table, and hell, there may not always even be a room, but they always have their bags. Dean crosses the room and picks up the piece of paper he didn't see earlier.

Gone to get dinner. Hope she was hot. Stay off the computer. It's still recovering from wherever you took it last time. Sam

"I . . . you were . . ."

"Dude, you seriously thought that Sabrina and her friends turned me into a frog?"


"Shut up," Dean says, but Sam is already laughing.

"So, where the hell have you been, Dean?" Dean doesn't answer, because no way is he admitting that . . . "Please tell me you weren't off in a bar looking for some poor girl to kiss that frog."

Dean clears his throat.


"Oh, God, you were."

"Well, what would you have done?" Dean demands.

"Ah, checked for a note and then called Bobby?" Sam suggests.

Well, sure. It's easy to say that now.

Dean all but throws the frog in its French fry box at Sam. "Get rid of this thing," he tells him. And then grabs his bag and storms into the bathroom, the sound of Sam's laughter following him.

Ten minutes later, de-daiquiried, he comes back into the room.

Sam looks at him, obviously still amused. "Off to find a girl to wear your glass slipper?"

"Something like that," Dean says. Because he does still have that date with Kristi.

He's just not gonna take her to a bar.

"Oh," he tells Sam, pausing in the door. "We're heading for Louisiana in the morning."

"Got a case?" Sam asks.

"Nah. I'm just really in the mood for frog legs."