Title: Double Oh Dean (or 'Keep Calm and Fake a British Accent')

Disclaimer: All belongs to the mighty Kripke Co. But if he's gonna keep killing people off, I am gonna start stealing characters. Oh, I also don't own James Bond (who rightfully belongs to Sean Connery), or Vespa (drink or fake person).

Summary: A love story of blame, potato chips, dial-up internet service, and bad British accents. Also known as: a very off day for the Winchester Bros.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer

Notes: the idea is sponsored by blackat_t7t at livejournal and 'I should be sleeping' via insomnia. What else… oh yes, this is complete crack!fic and utterly OOC, but aren't those the best? Dedicated to everyone at spn_deanw. Enjoy!

Words: 1065

"This is all your fault," Dean grumbled from the hotel bed he'd been stretched out on for the last two hours, pouting like a child and eating stale potato chips.

Sam, who had been furiously attempting to research via their motel's frustratingly slow internet service for the same amount of time, looked up in a frazzled sort of shock.

"What? How is this my fault?"

Dean sat up much too fast, potato chip crumbles falling his shirt front. He pointed an accusing, corn-oil stained finger at his brother.

"You're the one who wanted to see the new James Bond movie!"

"But I'm not the one who told that cop we're MI6!"

Dean huffed. "I panicked."

"And that's the first thing that came to your mind! Not the FBI, who, I remind you, we've impersonated a hundred times and actually have badges for instead of, what was it you said, 'left our idents in the loo'! Seriously, why would you say that?"

Dean scrunched up his face. "Well…"

Sam couldn't wait to hear it. "'Well…' what?"

His brother grinned wolfishly. "I was thinking about that hot Vespa chick. The cop kinda looked like her, huh?"

Sam couldn't believe it. Wait, yes, he could believe it. He threw up his hands. "Dude, you seriously need help."

Dean scowled and jammed his hand into the chip bag. "Whatever. You were thinking it too."

Sam shook his head and turned back to the half-loaded page on his computer screen. "No, I was thinking about my idiot brother."

"Bitch," Dean grumbled from the bed.

"Idiot," Sam repeated.

There was a pause, filled first with the silence of someone trying to find the perfect comeback and, when the right words evaded him, became instead a silence punctuated occasionally by the crinkle of the bag and loud chewing. Meanwhile, Sam plunked with growing impatience at the now-unresponsive keyboard until Dean sighed and mumbled:

"Well, what are we gonna do?"

Sam heaved a similar sigh and shut the laptop with a meaningful snap, moving the fingers that wanted to throw the device through the nearest window to the safety of his temples and the headache blossoming there.

"I don't know," he confessed. "I haven't got the first clue about this secret service of the British government you've recruited us into."

"Bobby?" Dean offered hopefully, ignoring the obvious dig from his brother.

Sam shook his head. "I called Bobby and he's got nothing either. I'm betting that the local five-0 don't know a MI6 badge from a cereal box replica either but that doesn't mean they won't settle for something less than seemingly authentic, which I can't even attempt… with dial-up." He passed a murderous glare to the sickly-yellow cord dangling uselessly from laptop to outlet. What a great time to be stuck in the stone ages.

Sam turned to Dean who was looking off rather ponderously at nothing in particular. "Got any ideas?" He ventured, hoping on hope that some piston might fire usefully in his brother's brain.

"Polo," said Dean.

Sam wasn't sure he heard right. "What?" He asked.

"Polo," Dean said again and then attempted to clarity. "All those British guys in magazines, right? They play polo and wear tight jeans and look like a bunch of pansies."

Sam pinched himself. Nope, this was really happening.

"And?" He pressed, only sounding incredulous because he was.

"Well, we wouldn't have to wear any of those polo clothes, would we?"

Sam looked at his brother hard. In fact, he practically stared. If his eyes had the potency of Superman, he'd have burned holes into the next county.

He shut his gaping mouth. He opened it again. Then he shut it once more.

What he wanted to do was address the fact that Dean was missing the entire point: there was no sense in looking like British agents, tight pants or no, if they didn't show up at the police station in the next hour with proper looking identification, because (and this is where he would use really small words and speak very clearly and slowly) if they didn't have really solid identification to show the police officers (the ones with the guns and the shiny handcuffs and the aggressive attitudes) those same were going to get the wrong idea about finding two men at the crime scene of a very sticky corpse and decide to use said guns and handcuffs and aggression to forcible detain them (possibly forever) in a cell with bars and public urinals and orange jumpsuits. This was the only scenario and it was the worst of them all. But Sam didn't say anything he wanted to say. Instead he said:

"I don't think so. I doubt skinny jeans are a part of MI6 daily wear."

And Dean looked genuinely relieved.

"Oh good," he said. "I don't want to look like a douche." He moved to take another handful of chips and paused. "But what about the accent?"

"What about it?" Sam asked. Why was he encouraging this?

"We'll need an accent," Dean said. Oh, of course.

"Why would we need an accent?" Wait, did he really just ask that?

"Because we're from England!" Dean exclaimed, as though it were the most normal rationale in the world and he just couldn't understand why Sam just wasn't getting it.

"Plus," Dean added in the blisteringly-shocked silence of his brother, "chicks dig accents." He winked.

Sam snapped. "You cannot be serious!"

"What?" Dean looked the picture of innocence.

"Tight jeans! Accents!" Sam felt his face turning purple. "WHO ARE YOU?"

Dean gave his brother a long stare and then rose to his full height, potato chip crumbles plummeting to the dingy carpet.

"Winchester," he said, a bright smile adorning the most crap British accent ever uttered. "Dean Winchester."

. . .

They left town before the next hour was up, leaving whatever monster had regurgitated Marvin Redmayne to Paducah's unsolved.

Speeding to Bobby's, Sam eventually consented to Dean's incessant and annoying demands. They stopped off at a dive bar just outside of Omaha where Dean ordered a dry vodka martini. Shaken not stirred, of course.

One sip was all it took. Dean promptly proclaimed (utilizing every expletive ever invented) it to be the worst thing he'd ever tasted, growled for Sammy to take shotgun, and drove the Impala the rest of the way in silence.

They never spoke of the incident again.

the end