Title: The Product of Boredom 5/?
Genre: gen/ humor
Rating: PG-13 (a couple of naughty words)
Summary: The prank war escalates ....
The building manager stared back and forth between Sam and Dean suspiciously. Not that either brother could really blame the guy for looking at them askew; they had to be an odd sight for two supposed FBI agents.
“Have you heard any strange noises in the building that you can’t explain … lights flickering or anything that seemed out of the ordinary?” Sam asked, trying very hard not to appear uncomfortable about his and Dean’s outward appearance. Even after spending an hour and a half dying his hair the other night, it was still green enough for Dean to draw comparisons between him and The Incredible Hulk and crack jokes about not making him angry.
Sam however, despite the situation with his hair and explaining to Dean how the Hulk actually had black hair, was still quite pleased with his own counter-attack and couldn’t resist doling out more than a few jabs about his brother looking like the great pumpkin. No amount of scrubbing his brother attempted during the hour-long shower he took last night nor that morning had been able to wash away his unnatural, orange hued tan and Sam counted any blow to Dean’s narcissistic belief that he was the handsomest thing to come out of the womb since Gregory Peck a major coup.
“If by strange noises you mean the couple in 208 that keeps going at it like ferrets in heat? Then no … nothing like that really happens areound here. Why would the FBI want to know about that?” The guy asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“A man died here under unusual circumstances last week, so any information you can give us would be helpful.” Sam explained.
“Yeah … poor Mr. DeLeo. I thought the police considered his death an accident?” He questioned.
“We’re still trying to determine that.” Sam replied, not going into detail. He himself still wasn’t sure if this was their kind of case -- Dean had caught wind of it from reading the local newspaper after Sam's first idea that they were after a lamia hadn't panned out and he needed something to hunt to alleviate his insatiable boredom.
The victim had died, charred into a crispy piece of jerky as the result of a fire that was strangely contained to just the dead man and the chair he had been sitting on while the rest of his apartment had been untouched. Dean immediately jumped on the spontaneous human combustion bandwagon, but Sam wasn’t going to entertain that notion until they had more facts. Sam hadn't ever heard of anything supernatural that could make a person suddenly burst into flames, so it was more than likely that the man had just fallen asleep in his chair with a lit cigarrette.
But Dean, being bored and stuck in the stuffy motel room for the past few days had been insistent that they check it out and interview a few witnesses anyway despite the chances that someone might tip off the FBI to their location.
The manger made a face that was difficult to distinguish between thinking and constipation, “I dunno … it’s a normal enough place I guess.” He said with a shrug, “We had the sewers back up on the first floor about a year ago – that was probably the crappiest thing I’ve ever had to deal with here.” The manager chuckled and seemed to expect Sam and Dean to join in, “Get it … crappy?”
Dean and Sam shared a withering look at each other and both rolled their eyes simultaneously while the apartment manager continued to laugh at his own lame joke.
Dean attempted to get the conversation back on track, “Yeah … that’s real clever.” He said, unable to hold back his sarcasm, “So … you sure there hasn’t been anything else that sticks out in your mind as odd – maybe anybody hanging out around the place that doesn’t belong?”
The manager looked up as if to access that rarely used portion of his brain which stored important information, “Nah … but you should go up to 309 and see Mrs. Metzger – she knows everything about everybody in this place.” He suggested with a wink.
Sam and Dean thanked the manager for his help and made a quick retreat from him. Both he and Dean had been far too polite to mention how much the man smelled of cabbage and rank B.O. when they had been near him, but now that they were both out of earshot and away from his almost visible cloud of stench, they both let go of the breaths they had been holding and took in deep gulps of fresh air.
“God … he said the sewers backed up a year ago?” Dean quipped, pulling a face that looked like he had been sucking on lemons, “Smells like he’s been swimming in it since then.”
Sam couldn’t agree more as he followed his brother up the stairs to the third floor to find the apartment the manager had mentioned. Truth be told, he just wanted to get this over and done with – it was bad enough that Dean was out in the open and exposing himself to anyone who might recognize him from all of the various news segments on television that showed him as a fugitive on the run from the FBI, but what was worse was the fact that Dean hadn’t yet made any attempt to retaliate for Sam’s switcheroo with his moisturizing products.
It had been nearly ten hours since Dean began resemble an Oompa Loompa on steroids and Sam was uptight and hyper-vigilant waiting for the moment when his brother was going to get back at him. Knowing Dean, he probably already had a plan for revenge in motion and given what Sam had done to his brother’s skin, the stakes were definitely going to be raised this time.
As soon as they reached the door, Dean lifted his carrot colored hand up to the doorbell and rang it. Sam had had a picture in his mind of what Mrs. Metzger was going to look like since they’d had to interview nosey neighbors many times before. Nine times out of ten they tended to be a lonely, old, grandmotherly type of woman who was more than eager to share her opinions and stories about her neighbors.
However when the door opened this time, Sam was taken aback to see a tall, bleached blonde woman in her mid to late fifties (or older given how much botox she must be injecting to keep her face so unnaturally smooth and motionless). She wore a tight, black, leather mini skirt and low-cut tank top that left little to the imagination which gave Sam the clear impression that she was not your average housewife, but more of a cougar on the prowl for younger flesh.
“Well hello there,” She greeted them with a coy smile, appraising each man with hungry eyes, “Something I can do for the two of you?”
Sam almost had to snap Dean’s mouth shut for him.
He swallowed hard and cleared his throat so he could address the woman in as even a tone as possible. “Are you Mrs. Metzger?” He asked. If his voice cracked a little as he spoke, she didn’t seem to take much notice as she kept her eyes fixed on a certain portion of his pants that made heat flood his cheeks.
Finally her eyes came back up to meet his, “Yes … but please – I’m Ms. Metzger now – I’ve been divorced for years.” She stuck out her hand, “You can call me Brenda.”
Dean and Sam both flicked out their FBI badges and introduced themselves and explained why they wanted to speak with her. If anything, the mere mention that they were FBI agents only heightened the sense of lust radiating off of the older woman.
“Please … come in.” She beckoned them into her home, making sure to swing her ample hips back and forth as she led them inside, “I’ll get us some coffee and we can talk.”
And talk she did.
Sam got now why the manager said she knew everything about everybody – most likely because she had done everybody in the building, including the dead guy who happened to be more than twenty years her junior. Apparently anything with a pulse was fair game to her and she went in depth about her sexual exploits – so much so that Sam felt he would need at least a couple of showers after all of this to ever feel clean again, especially when her eyes continued to roam freely up and down his body.
Given the amused looks Dean kept shooting Sam all through the uncomfortable conversation, Sam had the ridiculous notion that all of this was somehow an elaborate set-up created by his brother just to embarrass him and get back at him for the fake tan.
Despite Brenda’s very detailed and descriptive verbal diarrhea, she didn’t offer up much information that was actually useful to their investigation and Dean, who was probably starting to feel left out because she apparently only had eyes for Sam, stood and offered an excuse for them to leave.
“Are you sure you have to leave so soon?” She asked, pouting.
“I’m afraid so, Ma’am. But, thank you for your time.” Sam said as he stood up and handed Brenda back the empty coffee cup he had been drinking from, desperately ready to leave this awkward situation.
“Too bad … I was having such a good time talking to you.” She cooed at Sam just before she took a step towards him and ‘accidently’ let the coffee mug in her hand slip from her fingers and fall to the wooden floor where it shattered into several pieces.
She painted on as much of a shocked face as she could without being able to move the majority of her paralyzed facial muscles, “Oh poo … look what I did. I’m such a klutz,” She stated sheepishly as she deliberately turned around and bent over to pick up the shards of the broken mug, taking care to ensure that Sam had a good view of her curvy rear end.
Off to his side and where Brenda would not be able to see him, Dean snickered silently at Sam and made lewd comments with just his facial expressions.
All Sam wanted to do was bolt and get back to the motel, but he just couldn’t help but feel compelled to help the older woman clean up the mess that had been made. “Here … let me get that for you, “He offered.
He bent over and began to crouch down towards the broken pottery when suddenly the room was filled with the sound of ripping fabric. Sam froze in place as he felt a cool rush of air hit his backside.
Oh dear God …
Sam didn't have to see the damage to know that this was really bad. His jacket wasn't nearly long enough to cover his exposed skin, so slapping his hand against the gaping hole that had just been created, he was quickly on his feet and heading for the door.
All thoughts about politely exiting vanished; he had to leave – NOW.
Quickly fleeing the room, Sam didn’t bother with saying good-bye to the man-eating cougar as she stared after him, appreciation for his inadvertent exposure written all over her face. He moved swiftly, ignoring the stares and giggles of other people he passed along the way and he didn’t stop until he was safely within the car and sitting on the huge split in his pants.
Fuming, he waited for Dean. He knew right away that his brother was behind this and as soon as he saw him approach the car, laughing so hard he could hardly walk in a straight line, he knew for certain that Dean was to blame.
Still hysterically giggling, Dean opened the car door and climbed in, “Oh Sammy … your timing … that was … perfect.“
“How’d you do it, Dean?” Sam asked angrily, wondering if steam could actually come out of his ears like they did in the cartoons.
“Last night when you were in the bathroom on your date with Miss Clairol I loosened a few threads in your pants. All I had to do was wait for you to bend over. I just – I’m sorry man – I had no idea that you would be …” Dean started chuckling uncontrollably again, “going commando.”
Dean dissolved into a fit of laughter and snorts so hard that Sam worried for a moment that his brother might burst a blood vessel.
“I didn’t have any clean underwear left.” Sam shot back defensively, “You’re such a childish ass, you know that? You’re buying me a new pair of pants.”
Dean started the car, wiping tears of glee away, “Yeah … I know, but it was soooo worth it.”
“God … let’s just get out of here.” Sam grumbled.
Dean steered the car onto the road with a smile plastered on his face. Obviously pleased and happy with himself, he reached over to his box of cassettes and popped his favorite tape into the stereo.
But this time it was Sam’s turn to smile as Dean’s face quickly turned from smug mirth to shock and finally to anger as he realized that it wasn’t Metallica blaring from the speakers, but something else entirely-- something unspeakably horrific.
At the Copa … Copacabana …
The hottest spot north of Havana …
“What the hell is this shit?” Dean shouted above the ear-splitting music. “What’d you do to my tape!?”
“What? You don’t like that I recorded Barry Manilow over it?” Sam asked in mock innocence, enjoying his moment of glory. “You’re not the only one who can mess with someone’s crap while they’re in the shower, Dean.”
Sam laughed long and hard while Dean ejected the tape, opened the window and tossed it out of the moving car, his jaw clenched tight in deadly anger.
“You're dead to me, Sam. You hear me? ... Dead.”
Sam just kept on laughing.