So, we're nearly there, one chapter to go. If you're not familiar with the piece of music mentioned, you can find a version of it at: httpCOLONSLASHSLASH wwwDOT youtubeDOT com/watch?v=Qb_jQBgzU-I and chances are you'll recognise it the minute it starts.
"If I never have to look at you with your hair in curlers again, it will be too soon," declared Dean.
"If I never have to look at you in a grandma wig again, ditto," Sam snarked back from behind him. "Hold still!" he demanded, "You'll tear your hairnet!"
"Explain to me again why I have to cross-dress to do this," whined Dean.
"It's not cross-dressing," Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, "There's a long tradition of men playing female roles in theatre and opera, in the tradition of en travesti, it's where pantomime dame roles came from."
"Aha! You admit it! It's a travesty!" Dean smugly claimed victory.
"It means 'disguised', ya idjit," Bobby also rolled his eyes. "If this is going to work, we can't go all uptight Moral Majority Fun Police don't-even-think-about-it-with-the-lights-out-or-you'll-go-to-Hell, that won't work. We gotta use the same approach that L.E.W.D. did, we gotta be light-hearted about it, amuse and persuade."
"Come on, Dean," wheedled Sam mischievously, "With that bone structure and those lips and eyelashes, you could practically pass for female anyway…"
"Bitch. So, what's the tune?" asked Dean, scanning the printed page Bobby handed him.
"Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major," replied Sam, cueing the track on the laptop. "I've edited it to give us a shortened version of the Allegro movement, retaining the repeating theme at the beginning and end."
"Allegro, mmmmmm, I love Italian food," mused Dean. "You're talking about some sort of pasta, right? Because otherwise, I have no frigging idea what you just said."
Sam stared at him. "Dean, even you must know it," he said incredulously. "And Mozart was from Salzburg, which technically made him Austrian by today's geopolitical borders, not Italian. Although at the time, it was part of the Holy Roman Empire, and that included the north of what is Italy today, Lombardy, Piedmont, as far south as Tuscany, but he spoke German, so..."
"Has anybody done a cover of it since the 80s?" Dean wanted to know.
Sam gawped at him. "Well, Muzak, possibly, or those sadistic assholes who program 'on hold' telephones with tinny noises that sound like a child's toy piano…"
"Well, I've never heard of it," declared Dean.
"Dean, it's one of the most widely recognisable classical pieces in the world!" Sam burst out.
"Not to me it isn't. 'Stairway to Heaven' is classic. 'White Room' is classic. 'Smoke on the Water' is classic. 'Paranoid' is classic. 'Highway to Hell' is THE classic. Mozart's spaghetti number thirteen?" He looked thoughtful. "Did you say something about G-strings?"
"For strings, in G major," scowled Sam with a good shot of Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). He started the music.
Dean smiled at the opening phrase. "Hey, I know this!" he chirped. "Dum! Da dum! Da dum da dum da dum! Dum-daaaaa, dee dee dee da-da-daaaaaa, dee dee dee da-da-daaaaaaa…"
"Good," said Bobby, coming back into the living room carrying a couple of boxes, "That'll make your rehearsals go more quickly."
They practised a few times while Bobby went searching for a couple of large boxes, then set up the wards in that would allow the Winchesters to don clothes in the living room for a short time.
"What's all that?" asked Dean, eyeing the boxes as he indulged in a bit of air conducting.
"Our costumes," Bobby told him, starting to pull things out of one box. "Okay, who wants the blue silk dupioni with Peter Pan collar?"
"I guess you'd better see what will fit Sasquatch first," commented Dean, gesturing to the violins for more vigour.
Bobby held up a pussybow blouse in a lovely green linen. "This might be wide enough."
Sam eyed it curiously. "Bobby, not that it's any of my business what you do on your days off, informed consenting adults and all that, but why do you have boxes of old lady clothes, and all this other stuff?"
"I once spent a fortnight playing the Widow Twankey in a production of 'Aladdin', while chasin' down an angry spirit haunting a theatre," Bobby replied, holding up the shirt to Sam.
Dean paused in the middle of waving his imaginary baton at the cellos. "Yeah? What happened?"
"During the intermission on the last night, I rescued the leading lady, found the remains and did the salt and burn, then received eight curtain calls, several bouquets, numerous autograph requests, some talent agency enquiries, three proposals for casual sex, one proposal of marriage, and the director practically demanded that I read for the part of the Wicked Stepmother for the company's pending UK tour with 'Cinderella'." He eyed the blouse critically. "I think we can do better," he muttered to himself, searching through the box, "A big ruffle like that doesn't really flatter a large chest…"
The Winchesters stared at him.
"Well?" asked Sam eventually.
"Did you go?" Sam elaborated. "Did you go tour England as a pantomime dame?"
"Nah," said Bobby dismissively, finding another blouse, "I had to mind the yard. And there were my dogs to consider. And this young idjit called John Winchester turned up on the doorstep, and left his brats with me – pair of terrors, they were, I couldn't possibly have let him inflict them on anybody else…" He pulled a different blouse with a tasteful floral pattern out of the box. "Aha, now this, I think, will work for you, Sam."
Sam pulled on the blouse. "It's a bit tight in the arms," he noted, "And I don't think I can do up the neck."
"Never mind, we'll just pin it, and dress it up a bit with a fur stole," Bobby told him, pulling out something that looked like it had been peeled off a very old, very mangy and very dead raccoon. "Here, you put this on," he threw the blue silk at Dean.
"Nice," commented Sam, "It goes well with your eyes."
"You are this close to me hitting you with my handbag," growled Dean, fumbling with small fiddly buttons. "Do I get a dead skunk necklace, too?"
"No, you get something to dress up a plain blouse," answered Bobby, handing him a long string of fake pearls. "There's a matching brooch and pair of earrings with those."
"Just great," muttered Dean, as Sam helped him with the earrings. "Ow! Hey! Take it easy! I don't want gangrene of the earlobes!"
"Sorry," said Sam, adjusting his stole.
If Dean managed to stab Sam in the scalp a couple of times with the hair pins while he pinned the pillbox hat to his brother's hair, it was entirely accidental and in no way a small and petty revenge. At least, that's what he told himself every time Sam yelped.
"I must say, you two make the most wonderful pair of Ugly Sisters I've ever clapped eyes on," nodded Bobby approvingly as he pulled on the green blouse and adjusted the large bow.
"Are we ready now?" asked Dean plaintively, scratching at the iron-grey wig pulled into a severe bun. "This is itchy."
"Nearly," grinned Bobby. "All we have to do is decide which colour eye-shadow is really you."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
The email arrived in her Inbox when she got home from her church group meeting. It was a notification from one of the 'Supernatural' fan sites she visited regularly. A new submission had arrived in a thread she'd been following, concerning whether or not Carver Edlund should write more explicitly about nudity in his stories. She hoped it wouldn't happen. If it did, it would be bound to end up with a high classification on it, then she would absolutely not be able to read it. As it was, if her parents found out she was reading even made-up stories about occult things, they'd totally wig out. She shuddered, remembering how they'd reacted when she'd borrowed a Harry Potter book from the library, then a Terry Pratchett had gotten her grounded for three weeks with threats to pull her out of college…
It was a YouTube link. She clicked it. Text scrolled slowly up the screen.
People Rejecting Explicit Winchester Descriptions
A rejection of the L.E.W.D. campaign
more graphic writing
Carver Edlund's 'Supernatural' stories.
The text cut to a living room.
Two guys dressed as stuffy old ladies – one had a wig in a bun, the other looked to have tight ringlets of his own hair sticking out from under a small severe pillbox hat – stood looking kind of sheepish under garish eye-shadow (hadn't that electric blue eye-shadow gone out in the 70s?) and hot pink lipstick. God knows where that blusher had come from, and the mascara was clearly extracted from used engine oil. Actually, she decided, they both looked kind of hot under the make-up…
She recognised the music as Mozart's 'Eine kleine Nachtmusik', and they began to sing. Their lyrics flashed up on the bottom of the screen.
"Smut, it's smut, it's smut and nothing but,
One's a moper, one's a real man-slut,
We've viewed the campaign run by L.E.W.D., we think it's far too crude, we think it's far too rude,
They ought to stop they ought to drop this quest for slop give it the chop!
Really, nobody, needs to see Winchester nudity
Really, nobody, needs to see Winchester nudity..."
The music continued to play in the background as an older man with a beard, resplendent in a green linen pussybow blouse with and a towering red wig with a trucker's cap perched percariously on top of it, popped into screen.
"Hi there, 'Supernatural' readers!" he beamed, addressing the camera. "It's your Great-Aunty Robertina here, to talk to you about a campaign to get Carver Edlund to write outright smut into his stories." The young guys behind him gasped theatrically, and fluttered their fans in horrified agitation. "It just aint right, is it?" Behind him, the two guys shook their heads and frowned. "We all enjoy readin' Mr Ellund's 'Supernatural' stories, but we don't want to see 'em over-run with explicit descriptions." The two young guys shook their head even more vigorously, muttering "tut tut", "shocking," "shame" and other sotto vocce expressions of disapproval.
"We here at P.R.E.W.D. headquarters think that certain things should be left to the imagination. Like, for instance, Sam's tush, and Dean's… talents." The young guys tittered and giggled behind their fans. "And I gotta tell ya, Great-Aunty Robertina thoroughly approves of women with imagination…"
One of the young guys cleared his throat, stepped forward, and whispered to Great-Aunty Robertina. "Oh, yeah, Nanna Deanna also thoroughly approves of women with imagination." Nanna Deanna gave the camera a sunny smile and a thumbs up, while Grandma Samantha stared at him with a bitchface worthy of Sam Winchester…
"So, we think that anyone who wants to go imagining those two boys in detail should be free to do so, in their own heads or their own stories," Great-Aunty Robertina specified, "But that's not for everyone. We say no to L.E.W.D.! We say no to Gratuitous Winchester Nudity!"
In the background, the young guys chittered "Totally", "Absolutely," "Here here" and "You tell 'em, sister!", while applauding with their fans.
"We say, leave Mr Edlund to his own devices, and let him get on with writing the stories we love!" intoned Great-Aunty Robertina. "Say no to L.E.W.D.! Say yes to P.R.E.W.D.! Become a P.R.E.W.D. today!"
With that, he stepped back, and joined the two younger guys for a final verse as the main theme of the music resumed.
"Porn it's porn, we yawn and we pour scorn,
It's crass, no class, it's more than can be borne,
No-one should pester anyone to write about someone buck naked, that's not fun,
Such nasty vice is so not nice take our advice and just think twice,
Really, nobody needs nudity described explicitly
Really, nobody needs to read that kind of shit
It's smut, it's smut, it's smut and nothing but,
It's smut, such smut, it makes us go 'tut tut',
The one in the blue blouse smiled brilliantly, and added an improvised 'Ta-daaaaah!' as the musical accompaniment faded.
The text resumed.
Agree with Great-Aunty Robertina?
Join P.R.E.W.D. today!
Pass this link on, then
Make your own video!
When she'd finished laughing, she replayed it again.
She sent it to a few friends from church group, and a couple from college, then watched it again, singing along to learn the song. She thought she might dress up too, to make her video, just for the fun of it. If she could sneak one of her grandmother's awful blouses, so much the better. She knew exactly which one she wanted, the horrible purple one with the awful ruffles down the front…
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"How long is this going to take?" grumbled Sam, poking at his breakfast. It was a rhetorical question, Bobby knew – they'd released their P.R.E.W.D. video into the wild a couple of days ago, and so far, any attempts at dressing by the Winchesters had resulted in boxers flinging themselves determinedly skywards (they had narrowly avoided another diaper view incident).
"Well, as near as I can figure it, it took the G.W.N. Song two days to reach critical mass," Bobby told him. "It was up to a million views on YouTube last night, and there are some other versions of it being posted. We'll just have to be patient."
"Yeah, I know," sighed Sam, sniffing at his blanket. "If things don't change soon, I think we really are going to have to launder the blankies, I mean, blankets." He looked at Bobby. "Do you have any wool wash?"
They were interrupted by a triumphant whoop, then the sound of Dean thundering down the stairs. He burst into the kitchen wearing a happy grin, and a towel.
"Look at me!" he yelled cheerfully, "I'm wearing a towel!" He waggled his towel-clad lower half in case they didn't understand. "And it's staying put!"
"It won't if you keep waggling like that," observed Bobby.
Sam jumped up, smiling. "This is great!" he grinned, "I gotta go try putting some clothes on."
A few minutes later, both Winchesters came back downstairs dressed.
"I'm wearing clothes!" Dean said brightly. "I gotta go outside and hug my car!"
"Look!" said Sam, waving his arms around, "I can wave my arms around!"
"Should come in mighty useful if you have to direct any traffic today," was Bobby's laid back response.
"Don't bust my bubble," Sam told him, heading outside, where Dean was indeed hugging the roof of the Impala.
"Idjits," Bobby muttered fondly to himself. He made his way upstairs, and retrieved the discarded blankets from the Winchesters' room. They were a bit fragrant; he took them down to the laundry, and put them in the machine on a gentle cycle with some eucalyptus wool wash.
Then, because he liked a giggle as much as anyone else, later that day when they noticed their blankies were gone, he told them that he'd thrown them in the trash, seeing as the Winchesters hated them so much - he let them search increasingly frantically through bags of garbage for a good fifteen minutes before he relented.
He redeemed himself in their eyes by not saying a thing when they used their blankies as bedspreads, and afterwards he always kept them clean and fresh and snuggly, ready for whenever the boys visited.
Done, it's done, that bloody fic is done,
Next I s'pose you'll want another one...
Yep, that's it for now, Denizens, until the next plot bunny comes along and whispers in my ear, or bites me on the arse... I really don't think a bunny describing Dean's stripping act is likely to come along any time soon, seeing as I am definitely in the P.R.E.W.D. camp with Great-Aunty Robertina. (I suspect, though, that the Nine Inch Nails song was either 'Closer' or 'Wish'.) Meanwhile, if anybody makes further fan art or videos, I'll put up an additional Public Service Announcement on this story. Until next the literary leporids land, tata.