This was dictated by the plot bunny that was hopping about after I finished 'The Way Of Things'. I thought it was going to be a really short one-shot, but apparently the bunnies have other ideas. I thought I'd just put up a chapter to placate them. Later, I'll see if another one of those furry little bastards tries to bite me on the arse and prompts me to continue it.

DISCLAIMER: None of it is mine, not even the towels. Especially not the towels.

TITLE: Fanservice

RATING: T. I mean, read the title, people.

SUMMARY: The thought of crazy fangirls tearing your clothes off is creepy enough - when your clothes start tearing themselves off, it's officially gotten weird, even by Winchester standards. Even Hasselhoff Disease would be better than this.

BLAME: Lies entirely with the Denizens of the Jimiverse who are all OBSESSED with G.W.N. (that's Gratuitous Winchester Nudity). You need to get help. Or possibly high def TVs. With frame by frame replay. Maybe laminated posters.


Chapter 1

It started on a Thursday, but that was purely coincidental.

The first hint that something might be wrong popped up as Sam came out of the shower, shirtless but wearing his jeans, and scrubbing vigorously at his hair with a towel.

"Gah!" he complained, "Guts! Why did the damned thing have to explode?" He hitched his jeans up, and continued scrubbing. "I've washed my hair three times now, and I still don't think it's properly clean."

"I did warn you, bro," said Dean around a mouthful of cold pizza, "Stand back, I said, this could get messy, I said."

"Yeah, well, there's messy, and there's messy," Sam grumbled, pulling a face as he picked a bit of yuck out of his hair, and hitched his pants into place. "You never warned me it was going to explode!"

"I didn't know it was going to explode!" Dean defended himself, "You were there, when Bobby brewed the stuff up. 'Be careful, ya idjits', were his exact words, 'I've had to use some dried horehound and dogtooth, because they're all I've got, and dried herbs can sometimes pack more punch than the fresh stuff'…"

"Well, you shouldn't have sprayed so much of it around," Sam was not in a mood to be placated. "If you'd used less, maybe it would just have shrivelled away tidily." He tugged irritably at the waistband of his pants.

"Or, it might just have gotten angry, and shot its quills at you," countered Dean, being annoying by being reasonable for a change. It was a new strategy, one he'd picked up from Sam, and he resolved to use it more often. "Better to O.D. it than not affect it at all."

"That's easy for you to say," sniped Sam, hitching at his pants again, "You're not the one who got covered with its guts when it exploded!"

"Well, I'm not the one who insists on wearing girly-hair," replied Dean. "Stop being so prissy. It was a successful Hunt. Bobby's killer brew worked, the Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine is dead, the carcass took care of itself, my baby bro didn't get his ass shot full of its quills, I'm calling that in as a win." He pulled a face. "Jeez, bro, pull your pants up, they fall any further down and I'll be lookin' at your junk, and nobody needs that over cold pizza."

"I thought the damned thing was just a joke that Bobby made up." Sam threw the towel onto his bed, and yanked up his trousers. "This is ridiculous," he declared, "It's like they've stretched overnight. The damned towel was doing the same thing in the bathroom..." Once again, his jeans slid down until they were barely resting on his hips. "Somebody's abducted my jeans, and left me with low riders. Fucking great."

"It's all that salad and healthy crap you eat, Sam," suggested Dean, pushing the pizza box towards him. "You're losing weight."

"I was wearing these yesterday," Sam pointed out, hitching at the offending garment once more, only to have them slide down past his hipbones again. "It's not possible for me to have lost that much weight in the space of less than twelve hours. Not without some serious gastrointestinal disease, anyway."

"Or maybe somebody's put a Homeboy curse on you," Dean waved his pizza slice expansively, "And you are now doomed to sag your pants. Bro. Or should I call you m'nigga now?"

Sam scowled at Dean, and fished a belt out of his bag. "Call me whatever you like, just don't call me late for breakfast. I am NOT eating cold pizza."

"It'll put hair on your chest," Dean told him, "And some meat on your ass. Hold your pants up."

"Jerk," muttered Sam, threading the belt into place and cinching it. "Come on, I want some… oh, for fuck's sake!" In spite of the belt, his jeans slid determinedly southwards. "I give up," he rolled his eyes, and reached for a cleanish shirt.

"It's just a manifestation of your repressed exhibitionist tendencies, bro, I mean, m'nigga," smirked Dean. "If you're going to stick with the Homeboy look, you might want to consider some manscaping, I'm told that they use a kind of wax that hardly hurts at all..."

Sam pulled his shirt over his head. "Next time we are up against a Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-EaAAAAIE!" Dean turned around in time to be hit in the face with his brother's shirt."

"Dude, what the hell?" he scowled, throwing the shirt back at Sam. "If you're on your man-period, go take some Midol and eat some chocolate cookies, I don't want to deal with your hissy fit."

"I didn't do anything!" protested Sam.

"Yeah, right," sneered Dean, "It just threw itself at me."

"Actually, yeah, I think it did," Sam agreed, sounding bewildered.

"In that case, it's probably time to do some laundry, if your clothes are moving around by themseEEEEEEEEP!" Dean's eyes bugged as widely as Sam's when his little brother's shirt kind of, well, bounced back off as soon as Sam slid it on.

"What the hell...?" Sam stared at his shirt, then tried again... it whipped itself up and over his head, and fluttered to the bed.

"Okaaaaay, shirt wants a day off," mumbled Sam, bemused. He grabbed another shirt, pulled that one on – and the same thing happened. He looked at his big brother, at a loss. "Er, officially weirded out here, now."

"Try putting your arms down," suggested Dean. Sam did, donning the shirt quickly, and clamping his arms to his sides.

The shirt tore down the seams as it flung itself off him.

"Right, so," mused Dean, "We have jeans that keep falling down, and shirts that keep falling... up."

"It is kind of unusual behaviour for clothes," said Sam slowly.

"Could it be a side-effect of getting Mutant Demonic Giant Soul-Eating Six-Legged Porcupine guts on them?" asked Dean.

"That might explain the jeans, but not three different shirts," Sam humphed, He wiggled, and hitched optimistically at his pants. "This is kind of annoying," he noted.

"Well, it could be worse, bro," smirked Dean, "At least you got the carcass to carry it off."

"I cannot 'carry it off' in public if my pants keep trying to fall off and my shirt won't stay on!" Sam complained. "This is ridiculous. Not to mention bordering on indecent."

"Okay, well, we'll give Bobby a call, then head for his place, work this out," Dean placated him. "You'll have to put your jacket on, or something..."

"Are you kidding?" Sam burst out, "I'm not wearing a jacket with no shirt on! I'll look like a total dick!"

"Never mind, baby bro," grinned Dean, "We'll tell people you've got Hasselhoff Disease."

"So not funny," scowled Sam, reaching for his jacket.

Unfortunately, it just about dislocated both his shoulders as it leapt off him.

"OW!" he yelped. "Well, I guess that even dickdom isn't an option."

"We'll just have to improvise," shrugged Dean. "Pack your stuff, and we'll hit the road."


Reviews are the Extremely Thin Towel Hanging Precariously from the Winchester Of Your Choice Of Life!