Prompt/Prompter: Lolaann1 requested this way back for Wishlist-fic 2011.

Warnings: Light language, mentions of adult entertainment but no graphic details

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or CSI. Written for fun, not profit.

Author's Note: Setting for Supernatural is season 2, likely before "Tall Tales," as that's when the Busty Asian Beauties site is mentioned first (I think); setting for CSI is non-specific, but likely early season 7. Not much of a crossover, so you can probably read it, even if you don't watch CSI.


"How can you be so…cheerful?"

Sam waited until the uniformed cops passed by, a haggard and handcuffed drunk dressed as ET in tow, before he let the annoyance show on his face. His brother, practically skipping a step ahead of him, was far too smiley, especially considering they were currently standing in the Las Vegas Police Department, posing as federal agents.

Dean paused to give the hallway a quick check—though it was by no means empty, the general low hum of chatter and equipment seemed to all but announce that that the rest of the department wasn't paying attention. In fact, Vegas' finest seemed to be keeping their distance from the "imposing FBI," which was convenient. His gaze stopped on the glass window beside them.

Just beyond, in a pristine looking workspace (minus the bloody sheet laid over the table), a tech and one of the older crime scene guys they'd briefly spoken to early stood next to a microscope, both clad in matching blue lab coats. As if feeling eyes on him, the gray-haired one glanced up over his rectangular glasses, giving them a curious look. Dean smirked back, nodding his head in polite greeting—still overly pleasant for Sam's taste—and then fully turned back to his brother.

"Dude, Vegas," was his short reply.

Sam huffed in amazement. "We're on a job, not vacation."

"No, Sammy—we were on a job. In case you snoozed through class, our bad guy—or chick, as it were—is now in the hands of Clumsy Dave, the coroner's assistant. Without us actually having to do a thing. Making this the easiest friggin' case we're likely to have for a while." Dean slapped his brother's arm fondly. "I think we've earned ourselves a night at the tables."

Sam raised a brow. "Dean, you've spent both nights that we've been here at the tables."

"Someone's gotta bring home the bacon. Which reminds me—I'm starving."

"Are you serious?" Sam made a sour face. "We just finished looking over the pictures for the case. How can you eat after seeing the remains of another guy's—"

Dean raised a hand. "No saying it aloud. These lab geeks are way too fascinated by the specifics." He shivered, shaking off the memories, a spark of disgust turning his grin into a frown. "It's bad enough that crazy bitch destroyed the sanctity of porn, much less…" His voice trailed off, as if he were too angry to continue.

Sam nodded in agreement. "And the coroner said COD was a heart attack, which means they were alive when their junk—"

Dean gagged a little. "Sammy! No talking about it!" He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the crotch of his suit self-consciously. "The lab report was bad enough with the explicit details."

"Still, something about this case is bothering me." Sam shook his head, as if he hadn't heard his brother. "Are we sure Mrs. Rogers was the one responsible? I get her motive, nutty as it was, but…"

Dean snorted. "People are crazy. We've got Mrs. Rogers, a devout Church leader and part-time wackjob. She finds out her timid hubby and teenage son both have subscriptions to the same porn site and decides that praying about the problem just won't do it this time."

Sam lowered his voice, leaning in. "But she jumped straight to witchcraft just to teach the adult entertainment business a lesson? It doesn't make sense."

"We've seen it happen before." Dean sobered a moment, which Sam realized wasn't because he was reminiscing. No, his brother was simply indignant. His porn had been screwed with—which apparently ranked up there with driving the Impala through the mud. "And it wasn't to teach Busty Asian Beauties a lesson," Dean corrected. "She was getting back at who she was really pissed at: the audience. But, she couldn't face taking out her family, no matter how angry she was at them, so she decided to blame all the other patrons of the sexy arts." Dean paused, collecting himself. "Friggin' disturbed is what she was—looks like black magic wasn't quite working fast enough for her, either."

Sam grimaced. "Think the cops will ever put together that their knife-wielding suicide-by-cop at the sex toy shop is actually the notorious 'Man-Meat Mangler'?"

"Doubtful. But it's not our problem." Dean frowned, swiping a hand over his mouth. "And, someone needs to seriously beat the hell out of the journalist who came up with that nickname and linked the murders to Busty Asian Beauties. They're costing the site major cash—how are all those chicks supposed to pay off their med school loans if their jobs go under because of bad reporting? Well, I won't stand for it—I'm using some of our winning to pay for a Platinum membership. Can't let the bad guys win, dude."

Sam groaned, ready to snap at his brother, then saw, out of the corner of his eye, that the CSI guy was still watching them through the wide window. Only now, the man's mouth was slightly open in surprise. "Dean…"

Dean followed his gaze. "Yeah, that's the bug-worshiping king of the geeks. That Sanders kid who was spouting out the Vegas history lesson told me about him. Grissom, I think was his name—he greeted us at the crime scene, remember? Got on our cases for stepping on the carpet? Kinda anal, if you ask me. Don't worry, he can't hear us past the glass."

"You sure about that?"

Dean did a double take. Grissom had moved to the door to his lab, slowly gesturing for a dark-skinned guy still wearing his CSI field vest. He said something, and they traded nervous glances, sudden tense. A cop walked over to join them, pulling up her radio a second later.

Sam swallowed. "Uh, you don't think he can read lips, do you?"

"Nah…" Dean let out a nervous laugh, his fingers tightening on the sleeve Sam's jacket, pulling him down the hallway at a brisk walk. "You know what—on second thought, let's skip the craps table and hit the road."

"And maybe stay away from Vegas for a while."

"Agreed."