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.

.

"Now, where's your mother?"

"She… uh, she passed away last week."

Sam's heartstrings twinge at the response, his throat clenching up at the obvious sadness in the other man's face.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he mumbles out.

Scott nods a little, giving back a mildly exasperated look of I've heard it all before, man and then stops. He stares confused at the table behind Sam.

"Question?" he asks, eyebrows bunching together. "Uh… did your partner take the shoes with him?"

"…no."

The dread already mounting in Sam's gut decides to tenfold at the sudden fear in Scott's eyes. "Then where did they go?"

.

.

.

With his younger brother interrogating the shop owner, Dean moves towards the back storage. He's getting major creepy vibes, being surrounded by shelves of dusting antiques and — jesus christ, there's more curse boxes. Carefully, he pops open the latches of two of them to discover both are empty. GREEEAT. Sam's gonna be real happy to hear about this.

His skull feels funny. Too heavy. Kinda like it's buzzing. Or humming.

Dean's fingers dig hard into his temple, maybe attempting to get rid of the sensation, and his eyes pin down on a third curse box on the floor, already opened for him.

With a now dreamy expression, Dean drops into a cross-legged sit and tugs off one of his work shoes, peeling away a hideous gray sock. The creamy pink slipper fits comfortably, despite the size thirteen WIDE (and the fact that his big toe is ridiculously sensitive to being confined); the canvas and leather cushions the arch of his left foot. The melodic, noisy humming inside his head carries on, and on, and on as Dean shoves up his pants leg to tie the pink ribbons around his naked ankle and up his calf.

Oh crap ohcrapOHCRAP — might have been Dean's thought process provided if he hadn't been friggin' hypnotized and busy reaching for the other ballet slipper in the box.

Sam bursts into the shop's backroom, yelling for him. He gawks terrified at Dean's composed, thoughtfully euphoric look before taking action and wrestling the older man down. The pink, oversized slipper flies across the floor, harmless, as Sam's jacket-elbow knocks it away.

"Dean!" Sam calls out again, belly and chest pushing against Dean's side, teeth gritting.

With a grunt of effort, he cracks his fist across Dean's face, stunning him long enough to stop reaching for the abandoned slipper. Sam maneuvers himself to kick the cursed object further from reach. "Dean! Stop! Think for just a second—!" He cries out, jolting back and face stinging like hell as Dean lands a solid punch on him, army crawling to the slipper.

Throwing off his suit jacket in record time, Sam covered up his own hands before grabbing for the one already on Dean's foot, yanking for it to come off. Managing to loosen the unraveling ribbons, Sam gives one more persistent yank before they tore apart from their seams.

"Get them in the damn box!" he yells at Scott running in. "Don't touch them with your hands, you hear me!"

Sam gathered up Dean's legs, pulling him back, crawling over him to pin down his wrists.

"Dean, Dean, it's me," he pants, struggling to restrain his brother making no audible signs of distress but shaking violently underneath him, "stop, just stop."

A lock-click from the now shut curse box. Scott held up his dark sweater in one hand. "They're in," he said, timidly.

"Dean," Sam tries again through another panting breath, watching Dean's shoulders tense, "…I'm letting go, okay?" He makes good on his word, kneeling up and holding his hands in the air, but still on defense. "You with me?"

"The hell…" Dean says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "God, I feel violated," he complains. Sam rolls his eyes.

Can't take him anywhere.

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.


Because Dean and the ballet slippers deserved more screen time, ahaha. The title is a term invented in Russia in the nineteenth century to mean "ballet enthusiast or fan". SPN is not mine. Never will get the hilarious image of Dean dancing en pointe out of my head. Did anyone see Black Swan, by chance?