This is actually a bunny that has been lurking under my laptop for a long time, but it's always been too shy to come out and tell me the details of what was on its mind. Then, recently, knivespast sent another one very similar, and together, they were a bit more courageous, and hopped out and whispered the beginnings of what might turn out to be a plot. So, maybe if I can write a first chapter, that will give them a little bit of confidence, and more inspiration will follow.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em, I just cover them in cappuchino froth and chocolate sprinkles for others to lick off.

TITLE: You Gotta Be Kidding

RATING: T. Until such time as Dean joins a monastery, and frankly, I can't see him handling the whole vows of silence and chastity very well.

SUMMARY: She was a very dangerous witch, Sam said. Her grimoire is a very dangerous book, Sam said. Don't touch it, Sam said. Trouble is, Dean's been thinking with his Downstairs Brain again. Now Bobby is using the word 'idjit' with extreme prejudice.

BLAME: Standard disclaimer applies: this fanfic, along with all the bumf that dribbles out of what passes for my mind onto this site, is ENTIRELY THE FAULT of the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers, and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse, ESPECIALLY knivespast, who sent the extra plot bunny for moral support.

Chapter 1

"They all hate me," moaned Dean, holding the ice pack to the side of his head. "God, the Fates, Karma, the Universe, Lady Luck, Random Chance, every single one of them. They all hate me."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's true, Sam!" Dean insisted, raising his voice, then wincing. "It's totally true! They hate me. They mock me. They take every opportunity to have a laugh at me expense. Why? Why? Why do they toy with the Living Sex God?"

"It serves you right, for letting Little Dean use all the oxygenated blood so often, instead of letting your upstairs brain drive," Sam told him.

Dean turned a reproachful glare on his brother. "I had hoped I might at least get some sympathy, bro," he said with a small grumpy pout, "After I trawled myself as bait for a bloodthirsty, relentless monster that's killed at least a dozen guys we know of, and probably hundreds before them, risking my wellbeing for the good of the Hunt, putting myself on the line to save more guys, not to mention my baby bro, whose safety is my first and last concern at all times..."

"You got caught up in having sex with a hot woman, despite the fact you knew she was a seriously old, seriously powerful, seriously dangerous, seriously evil, seriously in-need-of-ganking witch," Sam pointed out. "Just consider yourself lucky. You ended up with some bruises and a concussion. The other guys she took home, they ended up with the remaining years of their lives sucked out..."

"Ohhh, yeah, the sucking was definitely powerful," mused Dean, a vague cross-eyed smile on his face.

"... Until they died as shrivelled, elderly, dessicated husks, so she could keep herself eternally young and beautiful," finished Sam, with a generous dose of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "You knew she was screwing men to death for her own amusement and personal gain, Dean. Maybe they died happy, but the point is, they died."

"Dat ass, Sammy, dat ass," sighed Dean, adjusting his ice pack, "Dat ass, dat rack, dem legs, dat whole totally hot package. Why couldn't she have the decency to look old and evil? Old, evil, dangerous witches should look like old, evil dangerous witches! They should be bent, and wrinkled, and grey, and warty, and smell bad, and dress like a cross between a scarecrow and a Goodwill collection bin!" He sighed. "This is how I know that God, and Fate, and all those other nebulous assholes hate me – evil witches should not be allowed to walk around with the legs of Maria Sharapova, the ass of Pippa Middleton, the rack of Raquel Welch, a face that's a combination of Audrey Hepburn and Michelle Pfeiffer, the lips of Angelina Jolie, and the suck power of a Hoover..."

"The whole point, here, Dean," Sam interrupted before his big brother could detail any more of the witch's more desirable attributes, "Was that she was using seriously evil juju to maintain that. She was at least 400 years old! And you knew it! But you just couldn't help yourself, could you? Nooooo, you just had to get drawn into the lair of the evil life-sucking witch."

"It was all part of the plan, Sam," protested Dean. "Including the sucking. Dat sucking…"

"The plan was to kill her, Dean! Kill her, not drill her! Blow her brains out, not screw her brains out!"

"She probably used some evil spell, combined with her feminie wiles, to take advantage of the Living Sex God," Dean told his brother. "I mean, look at this book." He poked at the witch's grimoire, which Sam had nabbed before they'd torched the house. "It even looks evil. What's the cover made of?"

"Human skin, I think," theorised Sam, suppressing a small shudder. The grimoire gave him the creeps; it radiated a tangible menace all of its own, even though its owner was now dead. "I'm telling you, bro, it's got a really, really bad vibe to it DON'T TOUCH THAT!"

"What?" asked Dean, inspecting one of the bookmarks wedged between the yellowed pages. It was made of leather, and intricately carved with the realistically detailed form of a voluptuous naked woman. "I just want to check out the bookmarks. Look like some really fine craftsmanship there..."

"We're not touching a damned thing, Dean," Sam told him assertively, "Until Bobby can get a look at this thing. I'm not kidding, it's giving me the creeps. The spell book belonging to a witch that powerful, it's a dangerous artefact. It has to be dealt with carefully. Like it's an unexploded bomb, or something. I really don't want to mess with it, until Bobby checks it out, and comes up with a plan to deal with it without anything blowing up in our faces. So, leave the erotic bookmarks alone, and go find some porn to jerk off to."

"Not really an option, since you won't let me use your laptop," grumped Dean.

"Use the other one," Sam told him shortly.

"It's not as good! It takes so long to load! It crashes too often!" complained Dean.

"That's because you jam it up with questionable porn from questionable sites of questionable content with questionable security," Sam said. "I'm sick of cleaning it up every time you manage to download a whole bunch of viruses with your latest viewings from Large-Breasted Women Rubbing Themselves With Honey In Front Of Midgets, or Near-Naked Ladies Stuffing Jelly Down Each Other's Bikinis, or Blonde Bumbling Bewildered Biker Biochemist Bimbos Being Badass, or What's Your Perversion? Depravity Of The Week..."

"I had no idea you were keeping tabs on my favourites list," leered Dean, the leer turning into a wince as his head throbbed. "Ow. I'd only make the headache worse looking at a screen. Can't I have a bookmark? One little smutty bookmark?"




"I promise, all I want to do is look at it, you know, not get it, er, soiled, or anything..."


"What if I promise to put it in a ziplock bag?"


"What if I promise not to use any lotion, just in case?"

"DEAN! SHUT! UP!" Sam threw his brother Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "Do NOT touch the witch's book! Okay? Just don't. Leave it for Bobby. I mean it." He started to get ready for bed. "Just go to bed, Dean, and we'll head for Bobby's tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am, Mother Superior Sammy, ma'am," snarked Dean, nonetheless feeling that bed was what he needed. "See? God, the Fates, Karma, the Universe, Lady Luck, Random Chance, AND my baby brother, His Samness The High Priest Of Killjoy, they all hate me." He sighed as he toed his boots off. "The life of a Living Sex God is paved with difficulties. It's lonely at the top."

When he was under the covers, Jimi the half-Hellhound Rottweiler jumped up onto Dean's bed, as he usually did any time his Alpha was injured. "At least my dog loves me," he grinned, stroking the big square earnest head that snuggled against him.

"G'night, guys," said Sam, turning off his bedside lamp. "Oh, and a warning, Dean: if you start to have Happy-Time dreams and start feeling up the dog, Dean, I reserve the right to throw a bucket of water over you."




...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"Holy shit and Satan's toilet tissue, Sam," breathed Bobby, as he gingerly examined the intricate and faded inscribings on the cover of the large grimoire when they'd handed it over the next day, "This is some seriously nasty mojo you found here."

"She was a really powerful practitioner," Sam told him, relating the details of their last job (which Dean had taken to calling The Case Of The Smiling Stiffs). "I wanted to bring this straight to you, figure out what to do with it. It just gave me a really, really creepy feeling."

Bobby snorted with laughter. "I don't know whether to pat you on the head for being sensible, or kick you in the ass for bringing this within shouting distance of my house," he grinned ruefully, eyeing the old book warily. "It's too dangerous to keep. We'll have to... defuse it. Kill it. It'll take some time to set up some protection wards before it's safe to even try to open it. And your idiot brother just waltzed into her home to confront her?"

"Actually, he did the horizontal hula into her bedroom to confront her," huffed Sam.

Bobby looked appalled. "That boy is an idjit," he declared. "He's lucky he didn't get his head blown clean off. Or his life sucked clean out of him."

"You know what he's like," shrugged Sam. "Caution is something that happens to other people."

"How is he, anyway?" asked Bobby gruffly.

"He'll be fine in a day or so," Sam reassured him, "The bookcase hit him in the head, so it's not like it damaged anything vital. He just needs to sleep it off for a while."

"Idjit," repeated Bobby, shaking his head. "I'm gonna need some coffee before I tackle this. And some help with the inscriptions for the protection runes. I may have to make a couple of calls, talk to some ladies I know who may be able to offer some insights into this thing." He glared at the book. "God's tits, I'd swear the damned thing is glaring right back at me. I've got this urge to lock it in the panic room."

Bobby and Sam had retired to Bobby's study to consult his references when Dean came wandering down the stairs in response to the smell of coffee. He'd woken up with his Upstairs Brain feeling better, and his Downstairs Brain feeling awesome. One of the perks of being the Living Sex God, he grinned to himself. In fact, he was thinking about getting out the second laptop, and trying to find a new and interesting site. Ever since Sam's rant a couple of days earlier, he'd found himself wondering if there was actually a site with Large-Breasted Women Rubbing Themselves With Honey (midgets would be a bonus). He poured himself a mug of the nectar of the gods, then wandered into the living room.

Sam's laptop sat on the table, but the screen was locked. He tried some possible passwords – Deansajerk, Shampoorules, Ilovesalad, Paisleyissexy – but none worked. Damn you, Sam, he thought, just because I may have inadvertently downloaded the occasional tiny little bit of spam while looking at hot women, that's no reason to lock me out of your computer. It really wasn't fair; just because his little brother's dick had probably shrivelled up from lack of use by now, why would he want to make his big brother suffer?

With a disappointed sigh, he noticed the witch's book sitting on the table, the intricate fringed bookmarks still wedged between the pages.

He frowned thoughtfully. They really were interesting bookmarks. The artistic rendering of well-proportioned young ladies, in a state of undress, was striking, realistic, and very very interesting. It was craftsmanship. The one nearest the top depicted a frolicking female form, wearing a come-hither smile and a little bit of ivy in her hair – her generously endowed chest just peeked out from between the pages. Dean's Upstairs Brain noticed a resemblance, and wondered if they were meant to be self-portraits of the witch. Dean's Downstairs Brain wondered if the artist's eye for detail extended all the way down the figure...

He was pretty confident he could pull a bookmark out of a book without accidentally reading anything, let alone reading anything aloud – Sam was such a drama queen. The way he'd talked about the book, it was as though he thought it could actually bite him, or something.

So, he took a careful hold of the inscribed strip of leather, and pulled...

He'd swear later that as he did so, the damned thing had growled at him.

He didn't see the look of complete horror on Bobby's face as the old Hunter and his brother made their way back from the study, armed with notes and books. He didn't see the flash of bright blue light as the pages sprang open as if of their own accord, because as he pulled out the bookmark, Bobby charged across the room, throwing Dean to the ground. All Dean really saw was the carpet coming up to meet him, really, really fast...

"Oof!" he grunted, all the air coming out of him as he hit the floor full length. "Ow!" he complained, sitting up and rubbing at his still-sore head, "Ow, I really didn't need that. A little bit old to decide to start training for a new career in football, aren't you, Bobby?" He sat up, and looked around, but he didn't see Bobby. All he saw was Sam, staring at him in bewilderment. He grinned, and held up his quarry. "Got my bookmark," he smirked, "And look, nothing happened to me!"

"Not to you, no," Sam told him. Dean realised that Sam wasn't actually looking at him, but past him. He turned around.

In the middle of the living room stood a kid, with a heap of oddly trouser-like fabric at his feet, wearing a plaid shirt that came down to his knees, and a trucker's cap that came down over his ears. He pushed the cap back out of his eyes, and glared suspiciously at the Winchesters.

"Who the hell are you idjits?" demanded the boy.

"Oh, holy shit," groaned Dean.

"And Satan's toilet tissue," added Sam, dropping his face into his hands.

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